Weeks flew by and her hair grew fractionally longer in the inconsistent serenity of Salander's Baker Street flat. Watson started staying nights but spending much of the daylight hours away from his old digs. Mary was more understanding of his grief than Salander, and Lisbeth found herself slipping into those secondhand shoes more often, whether Watson was around or not. She found that after a long enough time she quite liked being Mary; Mary Morstan had more patience and understanding than Salander, and even if she did have a temper that couldn't be changed no matter how she tried, Mary had a kindness to her that Salander's past had stolen away. In London she had no past to haunt her.

She knew the six-month anniversary of Sherlock Holmes' death was looming at the same time that she learned indefinitely that Watson was one of the main players putting up the "I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES" graffiti she saw nearly daily on her walks. The shade of yellow coincided perfectly with the spots she always found in places Watson tried to hide: under his fingernails, in the wrinkled spot on his outer elbow, once even dusted across his eyelashes. She had thought that his quick appearance the night of the burglary had been because he was staying nearby, but the next week he'd mentioned staying with his sister on the other side of town, and he had already been dressed - in all black - that night.

Salander spent an entire day researching the rise and fall of Sherlock Holmes, smiling crookedly at Watson's romantic blog entries and carefully storing away the information on Holmes' website in case she needed it someday. She read the police and news reports following his death with a scowl; how quickly the media changed their allegiance once the waters grew murky. She knew that much firsthand, though to be fair the media had never been on her side in the first place. She was always just a defect.

Still, even if Holmes' death had been in an unfavorable light, there were still people who believed in him and that he was real. It was a whole movement of rebellious youths and graffiti artists across the brickwork of London and the internet. Once she knew what she was looking for, there were signs of the movement in almost every forum Salander knew. Someone had even developed a benevolent computer virus, where all it did was open the basic Paint program and draw in yellow a smiling face and the words "JohnWatsonBlog .co .uk Was NOT A Work Of Fiction!" that would erase themselves to be replaced with other messages such as "Moriarty was REAL!", "Rich Brook is a SHAM!", and last, "BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK." She wanted to do something for Watson, but didn't know what he would notice or deem appropriate. In the end she looked up a few instructional videos on YouTube and emailed a young man named Raz for pointers before her mind was made up.

Watson stayed in Baker Street the night before the anniversary, but left very early in the morning, as was his custom. He wouldn't be back until the twilight hours, so once he had set off Salander was on the move. It was going to be more difficult to pull off in the daylight, but she was prepared and her hip was feeling much better.

She left a can of yellow spray paint just inside the door to 221B with a note that read "Follow me." As Salander walked to her destination she left arrows painted on the walls, each one in plain view of the arrow before it, until she reached her destination. It was in a rare CCTV blind spot off of 8th street, a decent trek away from Baker Street but not too far for Watson to believe it a practical joke. She opened her bag and set to work, only stopping to pull the handkerchief off of her face and take a drink of water or eat a snack around midday. It wouldn't be perfect, far from it really, but the message was enough to sustain her through the day of labor.

What Salander had not anticipated was that on the anniversary of his friend's death, John did not intend to be out until nightfall. He spent some time with his sister, took flowers to the cemetery, visited Sherlock's brother at work, stopped at Bart's for a chat when he heard that Molly Hooper was in town for a few days (had fled to the country after Sherlock's death to escape the memories of her unrequited love), and was back at Baker Street by late-afternoon. He opened the door to his flat and kicked over a can of spray paint. Frowning because he knew he hadn't left his supplies lying around, John picked it up, saw the note, and felt his heart begin to race. He knew that there were others out there spreading the message, but for one of them to try to lure him into the open? Was this some sort of trap?

Still, it wasn't as though John didn't know how to protect himself, and if he were about to be cornered by the media or the police he had already developed a battle strategy against them. ASBOs be damned, he would continue spreading the word of Sherlock's innocence until his last breath. He refastened the zipper on his jacket and retreated back into the swell of people returning home from work. Right across the street from 221B was a yellow arrow painted on the wall, pointing to the right, obviously for him to follow. So follow he did.

Salander was just beginning to add the final touches to her masterpiece when she heard the approaching footsteps. It was not the first time that day for someone to interrupt her, but usually after some choice Swedish phrases they backed off. She continued spraying the wall without a care until the footfalls stopped. Then she called, "Bite my ass!" in Swedish at whoever was watching, only noticing that they didn't move from their place some ten feet away.

"Mary, is that you?"

The paint can fell from her cramped hand with a clatter. She turned her head and saw that Watson must have gotten home early, or else happened to be passing by to see her working. Her intention had never been for him to see her in the act, but to see the message and no messenger, and so the very first reaction that sprung to mind was run you fool, run!Skidding on her heels, Mary sprinted for the other end of the alley, leaving the portrait of Holmes in aubergine and blue to go unfinished, but the words "WATSON! DO NOT LOSE HEART!" continued to burn the backs of her eyes even as the bright spectrum of colors was replaced by the city's dull gray.

Watson was not only taller but faster than her, and caught up before she could even reach the mouth of the alley. With her arms in his hands (though showing extra care for her left side) she was pulled back and cornered against the wall. Though still short for a man he loomed over her just as anyone did, but there was no trace of hostility on his battle-weary face. Instead his jaw was slack with shock, eyes shining and pulse quick in his throat. He tried several times to speak and only succeeded on the third attempt. "You... I mean... Thought you hated me, Mary."

Mary Morstan was coated from head to toe in multiple colors and stunk of pain fumes. Her skin was sticky with sweat despite the bite in the winter air and her growing hair akimbo. She didn't have to reply for him to put the pieces together from her appearance alone. After a moment's hesitation he brought a trembling hand from her shoulder to her cheekbone, then ducked his head and kissed her softly, a whisper of thanks against her lips. When he began to draw away she looped her stiff arms around his neck and pulled him back down.

They nearly didn't make it back to Baker Street.

Being in love with Mary Morstan was like trying to approach a wild animal, John mused as he watched rays of sunlight dance across the scales of her dragon tattoo, or perhaps a slow burn. They were sprawled in bed on a Sunday morning; it had been four weeks since the Wall. Drawing this strange and wild woman out of her shell was proving even more difficult than it had been with Sherlock Holmes as a best friend. She told no tales of her childhood nor recollections of her parents besides telling him that they had died within a year of one another. She would not reveal how she had got her many scars, though encouraged him to lavish them with attention in bed. She wore a blonde wig in public and played with her breasts in the mirror as though in a constant state of surprise over them. John watched carefully and took metaphorical notes, but made sure not to be too hasty with his curiosity or it would set them back several milestones.

And yet he did manage to draw her out. Gently, like in biology class when they dissected fragile flowers, he managed to open up the folds of Mary Morstan's heart, and god, he loved her with a fire that could only be brought on by his addiction to danger. She was a whisper in a darkened side-street, a loaded gun with no safety setting, a breath of poisonous gas underwater. In so many ways John was reminded of his lost friend when he watched Mary sit down and think for hours, but in several other ways they were polar opposites. Sherlock Holmes did not believe in love; Mary Morstan merely fought tooth and nail not to experience the misfortune of falling.

She had fought hard, it seemed, and was exhausted by the long battle.

John glanced at the clock - 9.15 - and gently buried his nose in Mary's short red hair before taking a deep breath in. It was only when she squirmed, ticklish in the oddest way, that he felt the puckered scar tissue rub against his cheek. When Mary was still he carefully combed his fingers across her scalp, keeping his touch light, and felt his pulse quicken when he found the spot again, just behind her left ear.

A hand closed around his and pulled it down to her breast. He smiled at her surly look and kissed her forehead. "Morning. Tea?"

"Coffee."

"Right. Breakfast?"

"Mm."

With one last ruffle of her hair - he really couldn't help it when it was shorter than his - John crawled out of bed and shuffled downstairs to the kitchen.

When John's footsteps had gone Mary sat up, tangled in the sheet.

Mary ran her hands over her face, her arms, her breast and navel and waist. She looked into the mirror hanging on the wall and stared at herself.

Mary's hair was growing out a dark auburn color.

Mary touched her face again, pulled back her eyelids, tugged at the hair that was now long enough to tickle her ears.

She felt like Mary. No longer was she just a girl with a dragon tattoo; she was a grown woman newly healed and newly in love, nearly twenty-eight years old. Never again did she want to hear the name Lisbeth Salander. It wasn't that she had changed, so much as everything around her had changed and she was adapting. There was no Erika Berger this time around, and Mary was determined to do things right.

Pulling on one of her boyfriend's jumpers along the way, Mary Morstan went downstairs to the smell of breakfast cooking on the stove.