A/N: Gotta contribute to the movement. If you don't know about the movement Google 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' or on Twitter I think it's #believeinsherlock. Don't quote me on that though cause I don't have a Twitter. There's also a ton of stuff on Tumblr and DeviantArt. Keep it rollin' guys. ^-^
The phrase was simple and short, but prolific. If Lestrade hadn't known any better, he would have sworn it was following him; it seemed that everywhere he went, the graffiti was there too. I believe in Sherlock Holmes. There were others too: Moriarty was real, Richard Brook is a fraud… Lestrade knew that, as a cop, the tags should have annoyed him, but they didn't. They couldn't, really.
After Sherlock had jumped, Lestrade couldn't help but feel that he had been a large factor in the detective's (because, yes, he was still a detective in Lestrade's mind) decision. Of course, he knew that it wasn't just a feeling. He really had played a part in the chaotic events leading up to Sherlock's death, and a major one at that. He had turned on Sherlock, and had gone along with orders instead of standing up for his friend.
Still, doubt lingered in the back of his mind; had Sherlock been innocent? Or had he really played them all? Lestrade wouldn't claim to know that much about the man, but he just didn't seem like the type to do something like that. But if that was the case, and Sherlock really had been telling the truth, then that meant the police and the media had literally hounded an innocent man to the point of suicide. That idea made Lestrade's head turn and put a deadened feeling in his chest.
He was torn; part of him wanted to believe that the detective really had been some sort of criminal mastermind type, even if it meant Lestrade had been played for a fool, just to get the guilt off of his chest. The other part, however, reminded him of every time he'd spoken to Sherlock and reminded him that there was no way those could all be lies. But that meant accepting the fact that he was at least partly responsible for another human being's death at his own hand.
He was staring off into the distance so heavily that he didn't notice the pedestrian crossing light until it had switched off. Now he was going to have to wait until the traffic had all passed, something that seemed to take forever in London. He scowled at the light, figuring it was just his luck. Finally, the signal switched on again and Lestrade made his way across the busy street. He was passing an alleyway, still deep in thought, when he caught sight of two people out of the corner of his eye.
They were remarkably young, a boy of about ten and a teenage girl about six years older. They were staring at the alley wall, on which was spray painted, in obviously fresh bright yellow letters, I believe in Sherlock Holmes. They sensed his look and turned to face him. They met each other's gazes calmly, each trying to guess the other's move. Finally, Lestrade broke the impasse. He gave the two kids a smile and nodded once, then continued on his way.