John made his way through the piles of posters which spread on the ground of the living room, trying not to spill the tea. They were all similar:''Believe in Sherlock Holmes'', ''Moriarty was real'' and ''It was all the Truth'' were written on them, and many had texts on them as well: Texts which explained that Sherlock Holmes had been real. A real genius, a real human - only fooled by the world's greatest criminal. Some of the posters had Sherlock's face on them, but all of them were crossed out by a thick yellow line: It had been Raz's idea to design the posters like that: ''In memory of one of his greatest cases'' he had said, definitely remembering the part he had played in it, but John had another reason to choose the design over the others: This way he didn't have to see the eyes again, these light eyes that seemed cold to everyone who had not known Sherlock well, these eyes that would never observe anything ever again.
Sighing he sat down in front of his laptop: He had not used his blog after he had posted the last message, which ironically had become the slogan of the movement. Movement. He grinned. Most of the people participating were homeless, the other ones slightly criminal teenagers who mostly helped for the thrill of breaking the law. Because they were breaking the law a lot: Distributing flyers, putting up posters in public places and spraying all kinds of walls was not something the police supported. Well, most of the police anyway. John had not talked to Lestrade since Sherlock was gone, but it had to be Lestrade and Gregson who held their hands over him, because somehow there had not been a single arrest (only small fees) among the ''believers''. Not even John was traced, even though his ''leadership'' of the movement was quite obvious, especially because he ran the ''I believe in Sherlock Holmes'' website which was well visited, despite so few people actually speaking about the subject in public. Most of the people had moved on to new things to hold their attention. But John didn't. He couldn't.
He checked the site for comments and noticed that Mycroft still refused to react - John had posted a lot of comments refering to ''serious information leaks in the British government'' that had led to Sherlock's desperate situation, but even though he was sure that Mycroft had read all of them, no message ever entered his inbox. He wasn't sure what he expected from him, he was certain that Mycroft did everything he could to hunt down Moriarty's organisation in secret (which was a lot), but wasn't he somewhat interested in whitewashing his brother's name? John didn't get him. The only thing he knew for sure that Mycroft was just as stubborn as his brother. ...had been... Nearly three months and John still had to correct himself. The tea went cold beside him as he browsed through the pictures that some of the followers had posted. Most of them showed plastered or sprayed buildings, but there were also many unsprayed ones. Places they wanted to spray but were not sure about, and asked John for his opinion. It made him happy and sad at the same time that he was the one leading Sherlock's defence. It should have been him. Sherlock should have been the one to restore his name... His thoughts were interrupted by the next picture he saw: building couldn't be...
''RAZ, CALL BACK YOUR FRIENDS; YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS ABOUT BIG BEN, CAN YOU?'' he typed as fast as he could. Not even Mycroft could help them if they dirtyed these symbols of British pride and dignity. John yawned and checked the time: It was already far past 12. He quickly scrolled through the messages, glad to read that there would come somebody the next day to pick up the piles of posters: Finally a little more space...in this empty room where the most important thing is missing.
''John, I know there are not many pictures of him, but we do need some new designs. And I'm not talking about the kind of pictures that you find in the papers or on the web. He never changes his expression on those, the posters would look like ''Wanted'' posters, and that is something we need for Moriarty, not for Sherlock. I'm sure you can find something useful somewhere - Raz''
John stared at the screen. Sherlock had never been very fond about people taking pictures of him - even Molly couldn't succeed: One day at Bart's she had tried taking pictures without him noticing, but she didn't even get one before he did. Then she had asked him kindly if he would allow it - he said yes, but he looked either ridiculously bored or was pulling such a fake smile that she deleted all of them. John looked through his folder entitled ''pics''. But he knew that it was hopeless.
...Don't try to fool yourself, already know the perfect picture...
He decided to stop for today. Standing up he nearly stepped over the cold cup of tea. Another sofa night... It had become some kind of pattern: Staying up as long as possible and then falling asleep in a rush. That way he could ensure sleeping dreamless, nightmareless. But somehow, it felt more as the start of a nightmare then anything else every morning he woke up.
...he was gone...
John coiled up, a position of security. But he couldn't fall asleep. He had to decide now, not tomorrow. He stood up again, walked over to the fireplace, lifted the skull, his new best friend, up and took it and the picture beneath it over to the sofa. Placing the skull on one of the poster stacks he sat down. He looked at the picture.
Sherlock, his hands in the position he used when he was concentrating looked back at him. It had been a lucky shot, taken in happier times. John had helped Mrs. Hudson with clearing out and, in lack of a case, even Sherlock had helped a little. In the end John had to stop him from ''saving'' all the rubbish that Mrs. Hudson didn't need any more. Sherlock was in a good mood after getting an old microscope for free, and walked upstairs while Mrs. Hudson stopped John. ''Here: Sherlock already got his gift - now it's your turn.'' She pointed at a box filled with all sorts of stuff. ''These are the things I don't need any more - I'll try selling them on the flea market, but you get to choose first.'' John refused, but was persistent. ''Does it work?'' John lifted a chunky camera out of the box. ''It did, but that was a long time ago...'' John tried pushing the big button, but all the camera did was to make a loud ''clunk''. ''I think it's stuck somehow, but I'll take it anyway.'' ''Are you sure?''she asked ''Yes. Maybe I can fix it, !'' He followed Sherlock upstairs. ''A camera that doesn't work. You should have let me take the pipe instead - that would at least have been useful...speaking of which - where did you hide my tobacco?'' ''Not telling.'' John answered, placing himself in the armchair opposite to him. He ignored Sherlock, who eagerly searched for his tobacco, and cleaned the camera. ''Basics of mechanics: Cleaning'' he said after a few minutes. John didn't expect anyone to listen. He lifted the camera and looked through the lens: And pushed the button by mistake - this time the camera buzzed. ''Sherlock, don't shock me like that!'' It was typical for Sherlock to run around in one minute and be absolutely calm the next one, but this had been a new extreme. Sherlock, sitting just opposite to him smirked, his chin still resting behind the triangle formed by his slender fingers. ''You got better at hiding, but I will find the tobacco sooner or later.'' he stood up and picked up his violin. John laughted, glad that Sherlock had found a less unhealthy activity ''Not greensleeves for the hundredth time Sherlock, that's too much! Stop it...''
...Stop it...
John was coiled up again. Whenever it had been hard for John to fall asleep (After especially hard days at work, when memories of the war haunted him or after the pool hijacking when all John could think about were small red dots, bombs and Moriarty) it had been Sherlock who played on his violin until all the worries had gone away. They never really talked about their feelings or fears in front of each other, but Sherlock always knew whenever John needed the lullabys, and always played him to sleep.
John stared at the picture. It was nearly dark around him, but John had looked at the picture so often he could see it as clearly as in bright sunlight. This was the way he would remember him. Sherlock, sitting in his armchair, a look of both concentration and amusement on his face, his hands in that typical Sherlock position, his eyes fixed on the beholder of the photo. A photo. Not real life.
...I know it's egoistic of me, but I don't want anyone else to see this. Shit...
He didn't want to share it. This side of Sherlock only few people had ever seen.
...I will just wait till tomorrow...
He fell asleep, sure that the success of the ''believe'' movement was far more important than his own feelings. The first thing he would do in the morning would be to scan the picture.
John hadn't dreamed since Sherlock's death. But this night he did. It started as a nightmare. Sherlock was standing on St. Bart's again and John could hear shooting and people screaming around him, even though the city seemed empty apart from Sherlock and himself. They were not holding their phones, but John somehow knew they could talk to each other despite the distance and the sounds of war. ''What are you doing?'' John asked, looking up at Sherlock who already stood on the edge. Sherlock didn't answer. Instead he smiled, spread his arms and fell. Every sound stopped, and it seemed as if time had stopped as well. But it hadn't, and the moment John screamed his name Sherlock changed. It was as if he suddenly trembled in mid air and the next moment he was gone. Instead there was a flock of pigeons. No white doves. Dirty, grey pigeons, the kind that inhabited every square inch of London. Sound hadn't returned, and John still screamed at the top of his lungs in silence. The pigeons flew in a circle three times. Three circles was the time it took John until he couldn't scream any more. He fell on his knees, unable to hold himself up. It was like a signal: Each of the birds turned and flew into a different direction. They were out of sight soon. Slowly the sounds returned - not the sounds of war but, the sounds of peace: John could hear a child giggling, people were talking and even the noise of a car engine sounded friendly. Sounds of a typical weekend on the streets of London. John drifted away into a deep, dreamless sleep of oblivion just before he could notice the pigeons that moved among the pedestrians.
John woke up, a bitter taste in his mouth. Reality hit him fast, and it hit him hard. He sat up , folding back the blanket. The blanket that he couldn't remember having the evening before. He blamed it on his tiredness and started searching for the picture, eager to scan and sent it before he could change his mind. Not on the sofa. Not on the floor. Not under the sofa. He searched, but couldn't find it. Somehow he was glad it was gone - this way it wasn't his choice any more. And he couldn't tell why, but he knew deep inside that the image in his head would never vanish. It had been a long time since he had felt this easy. He hummed as he walked into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.