Chapter One: Whispers of a Movement
"Justice can sleep for years and awaken when it is least expected. A miracle is nothing more than dormant justice from another time arriving to compensate those it has cruelly abandoned. Whoever knows this is willing to suffer, for he knows that nothing is in vain." Mark Helprin, Winter's Tale
As far as the rest of the world was concerned, the tragedy that was the fraudulent life of Sherlock Holmes had already played out in the press, most of whom had moved on to other topics.
Sure, it was still occasionally debated by co-workers at the office or by people frequenting pubs and restaurants. But it was quickly becoming old news.
For most people, the world continued to spin.
But there were still those who continued to feel the aftershocks of what happened that day.
For Kitty Riley, reporter for "The Sun", there was a chance to get additional fame. She was already writing a book about her investigation into Sherlock's life, which she had already titled, "Exposing a Fraud." An account on how she single-handedly exposed Sherlock Holmes as a con-man and possible psychopath who committed crimes so that he could solve them. She was already getting offers from several publishing companies.
Her star was on the rise, and her future never looked brighter.
For Greg Lestrade, Inspector at Scotland Yard, it was a time of angst. His wife finally left him, to run off with her new boyfriend. He was not greatly surprised by this, although the knowledge still hurt. It was sad to learn that those who professed to love and comfort you for better or for worse decided to jump ship at the first opportunity.
In addition to his woes, he was suspended without pay from the force, pending an investigation. It was a poorly concealed rumor that after the inquest was complete in a few months, Lestrade would be asked to pack up his personal belongings and leave his badge and gun behind.
Yet in many ways, Lestrade felt he deserved it. All of it. How could he not? He was the one who had found Sherlock on the streets, a drug addict with a genius mind. A mind that brought many criminals to justice and saved countless innocents.
The man was not a fraud.
And yet Lestrade committed the ultimate betrayal because he listened to his underlings. He abandoned Sherlock for the sake of the Yard.
It seemed only right that he would be deserted by the Yard too.
For Sergeant Sally Donovan, it was a time of confusion. On the one hand, she was proud to have been proven right after all this time.
Sherlock was a psychopath, a fraud, a monster, and a freak! No one could be that clever and figure things out on so little evidence! And after seeing the little girl scream upon seeing Sherlock?
Well, that clinched it for her.
But at the same time, she certainly didn't want to see the man dead.
And she certainly didn't want to see Lestrade sacked.
Even worse, Greg absolutely refused to talk to her and Anderson. The way he glared at them. How he refused to answer her texts, emails, or phone calls. When that Freak jumped off the building, he took a piece of Lestrade with him.
Damn that fraud!
Then Sally started looking over the interview notes again, and a seed of doubt crept into her mind. She spoke briefly about her doubts to the new kid, Sergeant Hopkins, who had just been hired on by the Yard. He agreed with her that something wasn't right, and said that he would look into it.
She didn't feel she could confide in Anderson, as she knew he hated Sherlock. Besides, Anderson was dealing with his own problems.
For Forensics Expert Sylvia "Sil" Anderson, it was a time of reflection. He hated, loathed, and despised Sherlock Holmes. There was no denying that. And he certainly wouldn't lose any sleep because Sherlock was dead.
But Anderson was also a man of pride as well. No matter how brilliant Sherlock may or may have not been, forensics didn't lie. The day after Sherlock's funeral, Anderson opened his files and spent every spare minute pouring through all the evidence. Every witness statement, shred of fiber, spot of blood, trace of dirt, and DNA evidence was checked and re-checked.
And then was checked again, just to be safe.
It wasn't hard to find the time, as he and his wife were finally getting a divorce. Their mutual affairs had finally made them admit that their marriage was a lie and had been from the start, and for once, Anderson was tired of living the lie. So between being stuck at desk duty and no home life, Anderson had plenty of time on his hands.
He didn't speak to Donovan about his research, though. She would have thought he was trying to clear the Freak.
And he wasn't!
He was just rechecking evidence, as a good forensic pathologist would do.
And Anderson came to the conclusion after the first fifty or so files that no one could have fabricated that much evidence, even someone like Sherlock.
For Mycroft, it was a time of regret. Outwardly, he went about his business as though nothing affected him, but deep down, his conscious smote him.
Without meaning to, he had led to his brother's demise.
He, of course, knew his brother was not a fraud. And the idea that Sherlock killed himself out of grief? Preposterous! His little brother's stubbornness was matched only by his intelligence. As long as there was breathe in his body, Sherlock would never admit defeat.
Mycroft had long deduced that somehow Moriarty had induced his brother to commit suicide, probably by threatening to kill John Watson. He could not prove it, of course, and he wished that John would speak to him, if only so that he could share his deductions and silence any doubts the doctor may harbor about Sherlock's legitimacy.
But would that knowledge cause John to finally abandon himself to grief and despair?
If only Sherlock had approached Mycroft and let him know what was going on! Mycroft would have helped his brother. Perhaps they could have devised a way to fake Sherlock's death and gone after Moriarty's empire.
Sometimes, at night, in those rare instances when the British Isle was safe from all threats, domestic and foreign, Mycroft pondered the situation in private. In several brief instances of whimsical hope, Mycroft entertained the notion that Sherlock did somehow survive.
But Sherlock was logical to a fault. He was a Holmes, after all.
Had he faked his death for the purpose of going after Moriarty's empire, Sherlock would have known that he needed resources to destroy Moriarty's criminal web. Without them, it would take almost a decade to infiltrate Moriarty's organization.
And Sherlock would not want to do that, because every moment one of Moriarty's underlings were free was one more moment that John Watson was in danger.
So Mycroft knew that his dear younger brother, whom he had wronged, was gone forever, never to return.
The worst part of it all was explaining his baby brother's death to Mummy, who still loved her sons and hoped that one day the two could be reconciled. Now, of course, it would never happen. So when Mummy broke down and cried, something she rarely did, Mycroft felt an uncharacteristic pain resonate from somewhere deep within his chest cavity. His heart, perhaps?
He, Mycroft Holmes, who had worked from the shadows and protected the interests of the government in the name of Queen and Country, had failed.
And the guilt was slowly devouring him.
For Martha Hudson, it was a time of great sadness. The elderly lady viewed Sherlock as the son she never had.
So when he died…well, a part of her died with him.
Every chance she got, Mrs. Hudson would sneak into the flat in 221B Baker Street, but only when John was not there. She bravely trudged up the stairs despite the pain in her hip, and then spent hours just standing and looking around, tears streaming down her face.
Sometimes she would hold one of the things that belonged to her dear boy. The violin. The laptop. Even that dang skull that she spent so much time hiding.
The world had taken her boy from her (for that is what Sherlock was), and now she was left to mourn in silence.
If only the world saw Sherlock as she saw him. Not the cold machine or the fraud that the fools in the media made him out to be, but the lonely boy who pushed the world away because it was so much easier to do that because he was tired of being pushed away first. The brave young man who ensured that her abusive husband was put behind bars forever.
On that day, she felt she regained her life. Not only that, but Sherlock also protected her and even threw one of her attackers out of a window. Several times. And while his actions were a bit extreme, his intentions were noble.
When Sherlock died, her life was taken away from her again.
The world was cruel. The world killed her boy.
And that knowledge caused her unbearable grief.
For John Watson, it was a time of death.
What other way was there to describe it?
He would wake up late into the night, drenched in sweat and crying as he jerked into consciousness with new nightmares of Sherlock's broken form splattered all over the pavement, over and over again. By day, he would mostly stay in the flat that he shared with the most brilliant man he ever knew. Submerging himself in memories and wallowing in his pain.
He wanted to leave, but he saw the state Mrs. Hudson was in. Could he really leave her alone right now?
He knew that the landlady-not-housekeeper looked on Sherlock as a son.
John understood.
In many ways, Sherlock was like a brother to him. He couldn't abandon Mrs. Hudson now, not yet.
Besides, Mrs. Hudson was the only other person who truly mourned Sherlock's passing with a pain that matched his own.
Others had tried to visit him, but he wouldn't bother talking to them. Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, Mycroft. He slammed the door in their faces, ignored their texts, emails, and phone calls, and otherwise did everything he could to let them know they were not welcomed in his presence.
As far as he was concerned, they could all go to hell!
At night, when he couldn't sleep, he sometimes wondered what he would do if he came across one of them and they were in dire need of medical treatment.
Would he provide it?
He could only hope that he would never be placed in that situation.
He knew that Lestrade was hurting like he was. And he knew that the only reason he was not being prosecuted for punching the Chief Superintendent was somehow pulled off by the intervention of one person with a "minor position" in the British Government.
But it didn't matter to him. None of it would have been necessary had they not betrayed Sherlock.
But he had betrayed Sherlock as well.
After all, didn't he yell at him back at Bart's? Didn't he call him a machine? Didn't he imply that Sherlock was not human?
Did his unfeeling words finally push Sherlock over the edge?
"I don't have friends." Sherlock once said. At the time, John felt hurt by the comment. But considering what ultimately happened to him, John could no longer blame Sherlock for his belief.
His own brother sold him out.
The people at the Yard betrayed him.
And John failed to protect him from his own despair.
The despair that finally caused him to end his life.
Such was the state of things for one week after the funeral of Sherlock Holmes. Had things went the way they were supposed to, he would have become a mere footnote for most people, a disgraced fraud for others, and missed by a select few.
But there were those who believed in Sherlock Holmes.
Former clients. Readers of John's blog. Various other people that Sherlock had helped, directly or indirectly, over the years.
And they would not let the story die.
It was a secret movement, to be sure. But as time passed, more and more people joined.
But every movement had to have a beginning. And as with all movements, it began with one single act of defiance.
That and several cans of spray paint.
In the early morning hours, exactly one week to the day of Sherlock's burial, the citizens of London woke up to learn that several buildings had been vandalized during the night. No one could locate the perpetrator or perpetrators of these acts, but whereas tags were a part of urban life, this incident was different because of the message itself. The luminous yellow paint practically shouted it out to all who saw it.
"I Believe In Sherlock Holmes."
Officials were quick to dismiss the incident as the criminal act of a single individual who cared nothing about the value of public property. But the next day more messages appeared. And then more the next day. And the day after that. And so on.
Then the messages spread to other cities. Edinburg. Manchester. Liverpool. Bristol. Cornwall. Birmingham. Camden. York. Greenwich.
There was not a day that went by where a new message was not written somewhere.
Then the messages began appearing in other locations. Paris. Oslo. Berlin. Rome. Venice. Moscow. New York City. Los Angeles. Houston. Tokyo. Hong Kong. Mexico City. Sydney. Toronto. Ontario.
With each passing day, more and more cities were added to the list.
Almost simultaneously, the internet community got involved. Several forums were created, where people could debate whether Sherlock Holmes was who he said he was, or if he was a fraud. Former clients began posting their own stories. And as more people communicated, the quicker the truth spread.
Former clients did not stop with the internet. Some began contacting newspapers to share their stories. And then several members of the media, spearheaded by investigative reporter Violet Hunter of Channel Ten News, began writing columns and doing live television debates, casting doubt on Kitty Riley and repeatedly asking about her "source."
Ms. Hunter even went so far as to track down several of Sherlock's teachers who instructed Sherlock he was young. They all told similar stories on the air about his unique powers of deduction.
As Ms. Hunter pointed out, "If you believe that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, then you have to believe he had been planning to fool the world since the age of six! That seems highly unlikely. So we are left with only one other possibility. He did in fact have the ability to see what we cannot. Which scenario makes more sense?"
For many people, it was the latter.
Meanwhile, the Yard found itself under attack from the most unlikely source.
The homeless population, who were often ignored and belittled by the rest of society, became outright hostile to any Yarder who dared to come in contact with them. At crime scenes, the Homeless Network, who considered Sherlock to be one of their own, would gather around and verbally harass the officers sent to investigate. Cries and shouts of "Bastards," "Murderers," "Traitors," and "Freaks" echoed in the officers' ears as they hurried from the areas.
For some Yarders, especially Donovan, the situation was becoming unsafe, and they were thus regulated to desk duty.
As spring gave way to summer, the movement continued to grow.
Several groups began walking around London, dressed entirely in black. They called themselves "Sherlockians." Mostly teenagers and young adults, to start off with. They would gather in groups and stage protests all over the city. At Scotland Yard. At Bartholomew's Hospital. At various newspaper agencies.
It was just a few people at first, but then the groups began to grow in size and numbers.
Most officials opted to ignore the growing movement. They believed that once enough time passed, the "We Believe in Sherlock" movement would simply die down and fade away, just like all fads do. This was just something that young people did when they decided they wanted to rebel against the status quo. It was nothing to worry about.
That decision was a mistake of unspeakable proportions.
As days became weeks, and weeks became months, a secret organization formed. Their mission was simple. To expose the truth. The word was discreetly sent out that something big was set to happen in London. Then more people were invited. The ranks of the organization swelled in numbers, and the rest of the world did not have the first clue.
And then, on November 4th, exactly six months to the day after Sherlock's alleged suicide, the fiction that Moriarty had worked so hard to perpetrate had completely and utterly fallen apart.
November 4th. Six months after the fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.
"So, is everything ready for tonight?" Skylar Simmons asked the people in front of her.
"Everything is set at our end," replied Nina Somoto. "My groups are set and ready to go. So far, we got almost three hundred people and counting."
"We got a problem in West London, if you can call it that." Chase Douglas said, grinning. "A whole bunch of Americans came over at the last minute. Our numbers are almost four hundred right now, enough for two or three more groups."
"Same problem in us. We have a whole bunch of people, much more than we had anticipated. Groups from Germany, Spain, Portugal, Italy, France, Russia. Hell, I even saw some people who had come all the way here from Japan, China, and even Australia!" Kenneth Duncan stated, his face ablaze with excitement.
"My teams are ready to go for now." Lawrence Duncan, Kenneth's older brother reported calmly, even though his face also betrayed the wonder he was feeling. "Over three hundred people. Probably will be closer to four hundred by the time that this is over."
"Brilliant!" Skylar breathed. "This is better than we could have hoped for."
Skylar paused, briefly considering exactly how she needed to state what was on her mind. "Now, remember. The purpose of this protest is to let the world know what is really going on and what happened to Sherlock. The main thing we need to do is to avoid violence. Tonight is about exposing the truth, not to indulge in acts of vengeance. The Homeless Network understands this, so they will keep order within their ranks. We must do the same as well. The minute this march becomes a riot, we lose everything we stand for."
The other members nodded.
They all understood what was at stake tonight.
Skylar took a moment to push a strand of hair from her eyes as she considered what she would say next. A lifelong resident of London and a former member of the Homeless Network herself, Skylar Simmons was the de-facto leader of the movement and the primary architect of tonight's little "operation."
Skylar always considered herself to be "ordinary." She was a medium height and build, with long brown hair that she habitually wore in a ponytail and piercing brown eyes. The freckles that covered her cheeks and nose gave her the appearance of being younger than she actually was. All in all, there was nothing particularly striking about her or her appearance.
But after Sherlock died, she was infuriated with what the Yard and the media did to Sherlock.
Well, she could not sit back and do nothing, now could she?
She was one of the founding members of the "We Believe in Sherlock" movement and she discovered, to her great surprise, that she had a gift of leadership. When she spoke, people listened.
It was both an empowering and humbling experience all at once. She could only hope that she did not fail when the time came.
"But what do we do about all the late comers?" Nina muttered fitfully. "Most of them don't have the proper attire!"
Chase chuckled. "One word of advice, Nina! Don't tell Americans what to wear! We may march around in the buff just to annoy you!"
Skylar grinned. The idea of a bunch of people walking around naked would definitely be newsworthy. However, they needed this march to be taken seriously if they were going to achieve their goals. "Everyone has to wear clothes, Chase! But as far as I'm concerned, if they are here to support us, I don't care what they wear!"
Turning back to the rest of the group, Skylar cleared her throat before continuing. "Ok, let's go over everything again."
Skylar left the table and went over to the huge map hanging on the wall depicting the various parts of London. "Chase's groups will march until they get to Scotland Yard, where they will engage in a sit-in. Tell everyone to be loud and annoying, Chase, but no violence or acts of vandalism!"
"Loud and annoying." Chase said, counting off the requirements on his fingers. He shrugged good-naturedly. "It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it!"
"And Chase, remember you are not allowed to drink coffee." Lawrence reminded him.
Chase looked at Lawrence, shocked. "But how can I be loud and annoying without my caffeine?"
"I didn't know you needed caffeine for that!" Kenneth joked.
Skylar rolled her eyes. "Chase, the last time you drank coffee, you sang songs for thirty-three hours. Straight! If you must, at least keep the coffee drinking limited to one cup."
"Fine!" Chase pouted. "I got it! Limit on caffeine!"
Skylar grinned before turning her attention to the raven haired woman at the table. "Nina, I want your groups to split up and have half of them meet at Buckingham Palace, while the others meet at the Parliament Building."
"No problem." Nina said, nodding once in accent.
"Kenneth, Lawrence, I want you to divide up your groups and station them outside of all the media stations. Here, here, here, here, and here." Skylar said, pointing to the stations which were marked on the map with red marker. "I also need smaller groups at each of the major newspaper buildings."
"Already done." Kenneth beamed. "We are just waiting for the party to get started."
"Good." Skylar said. She walked back to the table but remained standing. "Once night falls, we will gather at our designated locations. If we do this right, then we can focus on the next step, but not before."
"At the very least, we can force the government into going after Moriarty's organization." Nina muttered. "They won't even admit the bastard existed! Richard Brooks! Ha! What a load of crap!"
"How about the internet group? Is that ready?" Lawrence asked, glancing at Chase.
Chase grinned and pulled out his laptop. "Our friends at the Fan Fiction website are all set! They will be ready when the time comes. No worries!"
"What about the other matter? Is it still ready to go?" Kenneth asked, hazel eyes viewing Skylar quizzically.
"Almost. I actually have to talk with our man in an hour. I'm meeting him at Angelo's." Skylar replied.
"Good! I just hope he goes through with it." Nina sneered, her almond colored eyes narrowing.
"Hey, give the man a break! He could lose his job for doing this." Kenneth snapped. Unlike his older brother, Kenneth was more impulsive. "And besides, he came to us!"
"He'll do it. I know he will." Skylar said firmly. "He's known about us and what we have been planning for a few weeks now, and none of us have been arrested yet, have we?"
"Unless they plan to ambush us tonight." Nina shot back, clearly uneasy about putting their faith in the hands of one man.
Especially one wearing a badge.
"This is precisely why he doesn't know where we are going or how many of us are planning to participate." Skylar answered, her voice calm. "Believe me, I don't blindly trust the authorities either. Besides, he has his own reasons for wanting tonight to succeed. Don't forget that."
Nine reluctantly nodded, conceding the fact. The group stayed in a state of uncomfortable silence for a moment before Chase decided to lighten the mood.
"So, we got, what, three more hours?" Chase asked. "I'm starving. Who's hungry?"
"I'm sure Angelo will oblige you." Skylar said. "Why don't we all go and take a break? I'll meet you all back here at seven o'clock. We have a long night ahead, so we might as well rest up."
"Thanks for coming to see me, Stan." Skylar said. "I appreciate you taking the time."
Sergeant Stanley Hopkins gave an exasperated snort as he rolled his eyes. "After tonight, I'm sure I'll have all the time in the world I need!"
Angelo grinned at both of them. "What would you like to order, Mr. Hopkins? It is on the house today."
"What?" Hopkins exclaimed. "Oh, no! Mr. Angelo, I can't do that to you!"
"Nonsense, Mr. Hopkins." Angelo fussed as he pulled out a chair for Hopkins to sit in. "You have a very busy night planned. Best to get a full meal while you are able to, yes?"
Hopkins sighed as he settled into the chair. "Fine. I'll have some tea please. I need to look over the menu."
Angelo smiled and left the couple at the table. Hopkins picked up the menu and began reading over it. "Alright. Now…what can I eat so that I can get sick in front of millions of people tonight? Decisions, decisions!" He said sarcastically. He looked at Skylar. "What are you planning on having?"
"The fettuccine alfredo. It's my favorite." Skylar said.
"Then I guess I might as well try that." Hopkins said flatly.
Angelo appeared with Hopkins's tea and took their orders, promising to bring them the food the moment it was ready.
Hopkins watched Angelo scurry back to the kitchens. "Angelo must have really liked him. Mr. Holmes, I mean."
"He should." Skylar replied, calmly sipping her tea. "Sherlock helped Angelo many years ago, and Angelo's never forgotten it."
"Too bad I never got a chance to meet him before he was…" Hopkins trailed off.
"What? Murdered?" Skylar asked Hopkins, raising an eyebrow.
"Considering what happened, I guess that's the best description for it." Hopkins muttered irritably. Realizing he sounded harsh, he turned an apologetic eye to Skylar. "Sorry. I'm just nervous about tonight."
"Don't be, Stan." Skylar set her tea down. "You'll do great. I know it. And you know Violet. She's not going to grill you or anything."
"I'm not worried about that!" Hopkins sighed. "Ok, forget that! I am worried, but I am doing this because you promised me that this is the only way to save Greg!"
"And this has nothing to do with exposing what really happened?" Skylar asked, her brown eyes studying Sergeant Hopkins with frank interest.
Hopkins took a deep breath. "Look, I care about the truth as much as the next person! And what happened to Holmes is nothing short of despicable, if you ask me. But Greg is caught up in the middle of all this, and he is about to lose his job!"
Hopkins paused, trying to think for best to frame his thoughts. "Look, Skylar, I know Lestrade. He was with my father when he was gunned down and he has always been there for me. If it wasn't for him, I may not be in the Yard today! I owe him so much!"
"I know you do, Stan." Skylar said softly.
Hopkins sighed. "I know some of your group really hates him because they think he betrayed Sherlock. And I know they are hoping he gets sacked after the inquest. But he didn't have a choice!"
"Stan." Skylar replied, her voice soothing. "We have gone over all of this before. I give you my most solemn word that when this is over, Greg will still have his job. Although I can't promise that other heads won't roll." Skylar winked at Hopkins, who gave her a weak smile in return.
"But I wouldn't worry too much if I were you. I think tonight is all it's going to take. Just make sure to do your part, and let me handle the rest." Skylar finished resolutely.
Hopkins shook his head. "I must be bloody crazy to have agreed to this! I should probably get committed to Bedlam! But I don't see that I have much of a choice." Hopkins smiled thinly as he raised his glass. "To tonight, then."
Skylar nodded and raised her own glass. "To tonight."
Author Note: Thank you ravenoak21 for my first review. And thank you to all the readers who took the time to read the prologue of my story.
Disclaimer: No, I don't own "Sherlock." I don't own Fan Fiction either. If I did, I would be rich.
A few quick notes. I have no idea what day Sherlock took a nose dive off of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. So I decided to pay homage to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and make it May 4, because he (allegedly) killed off the original Sherlock Holmes at Reichenbach Falls on May 4, 1891.
As if anyone couldn't guess, I am American, and I apologize in advance for the Americanisms in my story. You will see several American OCs interacting with the "Sherlock" characters later, and some interesting commentary will result, but no offense is intended to any American or British readers. It's all in good fun!
Well, the stage is set, and the Sherlockians are planning something! Why are they preparing to take London by force? What role will Sergeant Hopkins play? And how is Fan Fiction involved?
Reviews equals chapters being posted quickly! So please review!-Peaceful Defender