It had all started on a bus. John usually walked wherever he needed to go, since the last time he hailed a cab he opened the door, stared at the back seat, and then found himself waving the cabbie off. So he walked. He walked to get the shopping, he walked to go to the pub, and one unruly morning he walked to 221B to get his stuff. He'd been staying at a small hotel on the other side of London for a whole week when he finally had to throw in the towel and get a clean change of clothes, but that certainly didn't mean that he had to like it. It was a dull day, sun hiding behind clouds and the city seeming oddly still. Maybe it was just him. The weather reflected how he felt, he thought.

He rounded the corner of Baker Street and slowed his pace when he saw Speedy's red overhang. He took a breath. It felt like hours before he finally reached the front steps, nearly getting run over by another cyclist when he crossed the street. It felt like even longer before he decided to sod it and open the door.

The inside smelled the same. He was sure if he'd walked into the main room he'd smell old books and science experiments and spraypaint and cigarettes, but he didn't want to smell it. He couldn't. So he passed right by the door, which seemed odd when it was closed, and up the stairs, to his room. In as little time as possible, he shoved most of his clothes into his bag that'd been sitting near his bed. He swung the bag over his shoulder and hurried out the door, passing Mrs. Hudson on his way out of the flat. He muttered a quiet "Hello," before he shut the door behind him.

And that was when he felt it. A cold drop of rain that landed on his head, and soon the drops started pattering down onto his jumper. He felt himself groan. The weather definitely knew how he was feeling.

So, he waited in the so-very London weather until a bus finally showed from around the corner, deciding to board it before his jumper had been completely soaked through. He walked down the aisle and took a seat near the back. There weren't many people aboard, and John took advantage of the fact that most of them were gathered at the front. He let himself relax into the seat, let his head lean against the window and even let himself look out at the world outside. He caught a glimpse of the golden letters of 221B before the bus pulled away, and he felt his heart sink in his chest.

And that was where it all began. He stared out the foggy bus window at the bustling streets passing him by, the view made unclear through the condensation. He stared for what very well could have been several minutes before he reached a hand over and stopped, his finger hovering above it. He didn't write anything on the clouded window, but simply sat there. Stared. Thought. And he wrote out his thoughts with his forefinger on the window of a bus. They were small letters, already starting to drip and become unreadable, but they were powerful. In the window he'd written out, "I Believe In Sherlock Holmes".