Author's note: This is about Raz from "The Blind Banker". The guy who Sherlock consulted about the spray paint. Yes, I am suffering through Sherlock withdrawal.
I don't own anything, please review.
Even if it meant he would have to spray every wall in town, he would make sure to get his message across.
I believe in Sherlock Holmes.
It was simple enough, and he had enough practice to do it in three minutes; he needed a bit longer if he wanted to make it especially big or colourful. Which he usually did.
Sherlock Holmes deserved people to notice him. Even after his death.
True, Raz hadn't always thought like this. When they'd first met, he'd been convinced he was insane. Not to mention that he would be dead within months judging by the amount of cocaine he used.
He had been sixteen and just run away from home, starting to get to know life on the streets and working on the style of his paintings; Sherlock had been almost twenty-six and it was obvious he had been homeless for some time, although Raz had never asked.
He had been busy spraying a wall in the East End when they'd first bumped into each other, or rather when he'd suddenly felt a presence behind him and turned around, already wondering if he could run faster than the copper.
Instead of a police man, however, he saw a young and incredibly thin man in an old and dirty coat. He was shivering, although the night was warm; and by now Raz had seen enough to recognize the symptoms. The guy was obviously an addict who had gone a little too long without his drug of choice. At least Raz didn't have to worry about being robbed; he only had five pounds, and he valued his spray paint collection far more than the money.
Then another suspicion entered his head. The guy was looking up and down Raz' body, and for a moment he feared he would get asked how much he took for an hour at a cheap hotel; it wouldn't be the first time.
The man said nothing, though, and finally after a minute of silent staring he had enough.
"What's your problem?" he asked, admittedly not in a friendly manner.
The man's eyes narrowed and he replied, "I was just deducing how long it has been since you ran away. About a month, I'd say."
"It's none of your business" he shot back, and the other man shrugged.
"Trust me, I am not interested in you in the slightest".
With that he turned around and left. Raz looked down at the spray can in his hand. He hadn't realized how hard he was clutching it. He didn't like to be reminded of home. Home for him had never been something different than an alcoholic father who used him as a punching bag.
He shook himself and resumed spraying the wall. It was unlikely that a police man would show up, but one could never be sure. He better be quick.
He didn't think he would ever see the man again; if he thought about him at all, their encounter seemed almost... unreal. Who would suddenly appear behind someone only to be an annoying sod and then walk away?
But just as he had convinced himself that either way – real or unreal – he would never see the man again, their paths crossed once again.
He was strolling along the river at night. He always cherished his walks; he could pretend he was the only man left on earth, that everything was clean, pure, safe.
He had never met someone else during his many walks.
Raz was convinced that most, if not all people preferred to be home in the night; scared of the soft darkness he loved so much. He was happy to be alone, though. After growing up in a broken home loneliness was a gift he was determined to enjoy.
And then the man he'd met months ago appeared before him.
He recognised him immediately; how could he not. He'd never seen such a skinny guy before. Or someone who insisted on wearing such an ugly coat at all times – even if he lived on the streets. At least he wasn't showing any symptoms of withdrawal this time; he must have got a fix a short while ago.
The thought didn't make Raz comfortable, but at least the guy seemed to be high enough to walk right by him without recognizing him or even being aware that he existed, so he simply walked on.
He thought he'd made it – but then, when they had already passed one another, the voice he remembered called out from behind him, "Yes you should".
He walked on, his heart pounding. How could he have known that he'd been debating whether or not to call his mother, let her know that he was alright? He couldn't have. And why, even if he did, should he tell him to begin with? The guy was an addict and years older than him. Why would he be interested enough to give him advice?
No, that wasn't right. The real question was: why should he care? So a stranger – a druggie – had shouted after him, but he'd probably not even remember what he'd shouted and it had most likely only been the drugs anyway.
And yet he called his mother a few days later, pretending it had nothing to do with the stranger. He didn't tell her where he was; he couldn't; she would tell his father and he would be dragged back into the hell he'd barely escaped from. But she was glad to hear from him, and it was wonderful to hear her voice.
He might even have been a little thankful to the weird addict; without his remark, he wouldn't have called her as soon as he had.
Sometimes, he wondered what had become of him.
He continued to paint whenever he could; already there were many walls he'd decorated. One night, he only realized what he'd done after he'd finished spraying and was staring at a thin figure in a long coat surrounded by lights.
Maybe he was losing his mind.
And then a few months later he met him once again.
It was one of the coldest winters London had ever seen, and he was desperately trying to get a blanket or at least something warm to eat at a charity handout. But he got pushed further and further back by the other patrons. He would never get to the end of the line.
He'd finally come to the conclusion that he might as well leave when a blanket was shoved into his hands. He looked up and the thanks died on his lips when he recognized the stranger.
He obviously recognized him too, because he simply said "You looked cold" making sure to sound as neutral as possible and started to walk away.
This time, however, Raz sprinted after him.
"Wait!"
And, inexplicably, the man stopped and turned around.
Raz found that suddenly he didn't know what to say so in the end he settled on "Thanks".
The man looked at him like he'd never heard someone thank him before, and for all Raz knew he hadn't.
"I'm Raz" he finally added because he couldn't stand the silence.
The stranger nodded.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes".
He turned around again and was gone in the next moment.
Naturally this wasn't the last time they met either. By this time Raz had come to expect that they'd run into each other again.
True, he hadn't expected Sherlock to show up out of nowhere while he was spraying and demand information about a certain type of paint. He didn't give a reason.
He told him and declined the money he wanted to give him even though he could use it. Later he found it in his pocket anyway.
Sherlock would appear periodically over the next few months, always with one question or another. No matter whether he could answer or not, Sherlock would always give him money. More often than not he would be high. Raz never said anything. What the strange sod did with his life was his business.
Then he stopped coming and Raz found to his surprise that it bothered him. They had never talked, not really; he hardly knew the guy; and yet he couldn't help but worry.
Most likely Sherlock was lying in a ditch somewhere, finally having taken too much, and no one cared.
No one expect a kid who sprayed pictures on walls.
Ironically enough, things were finally starting to look up. He'd found a job in a supermarket and was saving money so he could eventually get a small flat; until then he had a place at a shelter. And in a few months he would be of age and no one could force him to return home, which was really the only thing he was afraid of. His mother was always happy when he called but had stopped asking him where he was.
And he was getting better and better at spraying. Yes, life looked good, for the first time in a long time.
If only he wouldn't have worried about Sherlock.
He shoved the thoughts away, worked, sprayed, lived until he finally turned eighteen. He found a flat only a few weeks later. It was small but it was his, and the first place he had ever felt at home.
He'd almost forgotten about Sherlock. Almost. Not quite.
He was working on a wall in the East End when he felt a familiar presence behind him.
He turned around and looked at Sherlock.
He was still thin, but he was wearing better clothes and he wasn't shaking. In fact he looked –
He looked clean.
Raz was surprised at how happy this made him.
His thoughts were interrupted when Sherlock said, "You've got better".
For a moment he was confused then he realized Sherlock was looking at the wall and felt ridiculously proud.
"Thanks. It's called "The Monotony of Urban Philosophy"."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
"So – " Raz broke the silence "you got clean?"
Sherlock nodded. "And you got a flat".
"How do you know all of this?" he asked, exasperated.
Sherlock waved a hand in the air. "I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the World".
He nodded as if this explained everything, and probably for Sherlock it did.
T hen he surprised himself by inquiring, "What do you need?"
As it turned out, Sherlock needed information about a certain sprayer who'd been working in the wet of the city. This was easy enough; Raz knew him quite well. He was, however, somewhat reluctant to tell someone he barely knew.
Sherlock assured him that he wasn't a suspect. So apparently "consulting detective" meant working for the police. Solving crimes. Well, if Sherlock could figure out that he wanted to call his mother by their second meeting, he was bound to be good at it.
This time, he declined the money vehemently.
"And don't you dare put it in my pocket. I don't want it".
I don't take money from friends, he silently added, although he didn't know when he'd started to think of Sherlock as such or if he'd even understand what the word meant.
Sherlock accepted his refusal and left.
They continued to see each other now and then, mostly when Sherlock needed to know something about paint or sprayers or –
Sometimes, Raz had the feeling that he was simply lonely, but he never said anything.
He was glad when John showed up, though. Because it was good to know that Sherlock wasn't alone anymore.
Which was one of the reasons he found himself in front of the court on Tuesday morning, prepared to own up that he'd been the one to spray the wall, when a text on his phone from an unknown number told him that the "matter had been dealt with".
He had long ago learned never to ask questions as far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned, so he shrugged his shoulders and left.
He followed John's blog, of course, as well as the stories in the newspapers.
At first he was convinced that soon enough people would realize how utterly impossible it was that Sherlock had invented all the crimes. He'd seen the man; seen him deduce him with just a glance. How could anyone be so stupid?
And then it didn't matter because Sherlock jumped and was gone, and Raz couldn't shake the ridiculous feeling that he'd just lost the first friend he ever had, even though they hadn't really been friends. Or maybe they had. It was difficult to say. Everything with Sherlock was difficult to say.
He went to the funeral, standing at the back, unnoticed.
Until John suddenly appeared behind him just like Sherlock used to and thanked him for coming.
And it was then, standing at his open grave, looking in John's empty eyes, that Raz decided to let the city know just what it had lost.
In every free minute – he still had his job, and he couldn't quit, he needed the money – he sprayed the words on any free wall he could find.
I believe in Sherlock Holmes.
I believe in Sherlock Holmes.
I believe in Sherlock Holmes.
After a few weeks, others started to do it too. At least he wasn't alone in his belief.
One night he was spraying the words at a wall opposite of 221B – having carefully sprayed over the strange "IOU" that had been there before – when suddenly someone tipped him on the shoulder and he turned around to find a motherly-looking woman with a cup of tea in her hands.
"I thought you'd like something to drink" she said softly before adding "Good work" and shuffling away. He stared after her and only understood what was going on when he saw her enter 221B.
On another occasion, he was spraying his message in the vicinity of Scotland Yard. He knew it was dangerous, Sherlock would probably have called it stupid, but they were the ones who had arrested him. They had to see that there were people who believed in him.
Plus, he could feel a copper coming from a mile away by now.
Or maybe not, because he had barely finished and was walking down the street when the police man he recognized from the newspapers, the one who had first consulted Sherlock and then arrested him, walked around the corner. He was walking fast and looking at the pavement, and Raz couldn't prevent them bumping into each other. His bag of spray cans slipped out of his hand.
The DI looked up when he saw what Raz had dropped. His eyes landed on the wall.
He looked Raz in the eyes and bit his lip.
Then, before he could say anything, his bag and a fifty pound note where pushed into his hands and the DI hurried off. Raz looked after him, wondering what he must feel.
He couldn't answer this question, but he could continue to spray.
And he would. For Sherlock.
Even if all he could do was trying to make a city that forgot too quickly remember.
Author's note: Another one. I know.
I hope you liked it, please review.