This chapter is short, I apologize. It's chock full of theories, all mine.
Again, no Beta-reader, so if you see any glaring mistakes or anything that makes you cringe, please let me know.
Thanks to those who have fav'd.
Half an hour later, after deciding that they needed more privacy, John and Greg were walking to the small park that was near the Coffee Nook. As they rounded a corner, a flyer on a lamp post caught John's eye.
"What the hell," he said as he approached the lamp post. The flyer had Sherlocks profile all in black and a yellow spray painted line through his eyes. On the yellow line, the words 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes' were stenciled. "Those were the last words I wrote on my blog."
"You haven't seen those posted all over London?" Greg gestured at the flyer with his coffee.
John looked at the other lamp posts on the block and saw a similar flyer on all of them. He reached out and let his finger tips run over the flyer. He could feel where the spray-paint was applied; it was a strange texture, like his coat...
"John?" Greg laid his hand on the doctor's shoulder and John gave a start. Greg raised his eyebrows. "You okay?"
"Yeah," John sighed. "I haven't noticed these until now. How long have they been up?"
Greg took his hand back and took a drink of his coffee as he thought. "About five months or so."
John looked at Greg. "That's how long he-"
"I know." Greg interrupted.
John looked back at the flyer and contemplated the meaning. "Is there any other propaganda?"
"No- wait, there is a mural down on Borthwick Wharf."
"The...Wharf?" John cocked his head.
"Yeah, it's really good. I haven't made mention of it and we haven't received any complaints over it. The quality of the piece is rather impressive."
"Hmm..." Was all John said as he placed his hand on the flyer again. With the bright yellow spray paint, he had a fairly good idea who did the flyers and possibly the mural. He gestured at Greg and they continued toward the park.
"So, you mentioned a note?" Greg said as they approached the park. They took the covers off their coffees to let them cool.
"Yeah," John dug in his jacket pocket for the note and handed it to Greg who read it as he blew on his coffee.
"Jesus, that's his handwriting all right." The detective-inspector turned the note over. "What's all this?"
John leaned over even though he knew what his friend was referring to. "It's a dream I had last night. That coupled with the fact that stuff keeps disappearing after Molly comes over to visit is-"
John stopped himself and Greg looked over at him.
"What's that?"
"I think Molly might be harbouring Sherlock." John said, a thoughtful look crossed his face.
"Oh no, there's no way, I would have-" Greg stopped himself, but not in time.
John looked at him eyebrows raised, then shook his head.
"Well that explains why I had to meet you at the Nook!"
"I only slept on her couch, that's it. Nothing happened."
"Uh-huh, I'm sure."
Greg narrowed his eyes at John. "What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"
John chuckled and took a drink of his coffee. "I might have been depressed the past few months, but it doesn't mean I'm blind, Greg. You two flirt like two school kids."
"We do not!" Greg leaned back a little.
"Whatever you say!" John chuckled even louder. "Anyway, I think it's great. You are two good people that would be great for each other."
Greg looked at his friend in a new light. He never thought John as the philosophical type.
"Thank you." He took a drink of his coffee. "So anyway about this dream..."
"Oh, yeah, Sherlock was there, in his disguise, in the kitchen and he said a name-"
"Moran." Greg gestured with the paper and John glanced over and shivered.
"I have the feeling that I'm not supposed to be in that flat anymore."
"Where would you go?"
John sighed. "I don't know, Greg. I just don't know."
They sat in a comfortable silence for a beat as they watched people go about their Saturday business.
"Why do you think Molly might be harbouring Sherlock, if he's alive?" Greg sipped his coffee.
"Well, every time Molly visits me, I find something of Sherlock's missing. It's quite eerie actually. The last time she visited, his skull went missing."
Greg choked on his coffee. "His...skull?"
John smirked, then sniffed. "It was something he kept on the mantle."
A rumble of thunder could be heard and they both looked up at the darkening grey skies.
"Let's get to my office." Greg said as he stood as John nodded and followed.
xXXx
"So, in your dream," the detective inspector said an hour later. He was settled behind his desk with the note beside his computer, hand clicking away at the mouse. "Moran was mentioned, a spiders web, and Moriarty shot himself. I think you need to lay off the pain meds John."
John chuckled as he listened to his friend talk his way through the bizarre dream. The blogger was pacing around the office, taking in details he never noticed before. The starkness of everything; a lack of pictures or even a magazine rack, which was absurd, now that John thought about it. The bleakness bothered him now for some reason. Maybe after being in such colorful settings, the office seemed sterile, almost defeated, like it's owner. John glanced at Greg. He looked defeated, tired, beaten down. Like John felt.
John drew in a deep breath. "What's even more strange, was the realness of the dream. He touched me, and he was so...cold." He shivered.
Greg looked up at John, one eyebrow raised. He often wondered about the relationship between the consulting detective and the military doctor, but never dwelled on it until the suicide. Sherlock never had any friends, none that Greg knew about anyway. Just his sweet landlady. So when Sherlock was accompanied by John Watson at the abandoned apartment house with the Pink Lady, he was surprised, and shocked.
Greg turned his attention back to his computer. Too many hits on James Moriarty and Moran as separate search names. Searching the names together narrowed the results to under a thousand.
"Did you catch a first name, by chance?"
John chewed his bottom lip. "No, just...Moran."
"Hmmm..." Greg decided to take a different approach. He searched the last name with an initial in front, in alphabetical order. Nothing significant, until he reached the letter S.
"Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty." Greg said slowly.
"Sounds...ominous."
"Yeah, but I think I found your man." Greg made a couple of clicks and printed something out then showed it to John. The picture looked like it was taken from CCTV, but it was clear enough that John could pick out the details. Blonde hair that was gelled into a mini-Mohawk of sorts, expensive aviator sunglasses, black leather jacket with a 'Black Flag' shirt underneath, cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Greg printed out a couple more pictures. One was from a popular news website. It looked like an eight by ten glossy photo that an aspiring actor would have in their folder. The man had a dazzling smile, bright green eyes, and his blonde hair was cropped short into a Caesar style. He was wearing a black button down dress shirt and was in a very relaxed pose. Another photo was from a popular film database and it was of Moriarty and Moran on what looked like a movie set. The hairs on John's neck rose and his palms became damp as he realized what he was looking at. There were captions on the pictures.
'Richard Brooke and Andrew Adair rehearsing on the set of an undisclosed movie.'
He pursed his lips and swallowed hard.
"Did you say you were in Piccadilly Square yesterday?" Greg was typing again.
"Yeah," John said slowly as he looked up at Greg.
Greg sucked in air. A couple of mouse clicks and keystrokes later and another picture was printing out. He grabbed it from the printer, nodded and mumbled, "Just what I thought."
"What?" John started before he saw the picture. It was similar to the first one that John had, only it was zoomed out. It was Moran, blending in well to a crowd of London Punk Hipsters, at Piccadilly Square at one-ten in the afternoon. The date stamp was yesterday.
"How...How did that camera pick up on that person on that time?"
"I guess Scotland Yard has been looking for him for quite a while." Greg glanced back at his screen. "Somehow that camera picked him out of that crowd. It is strange..." His voice trailed off.
"What are you thinking?"
"Someone else must be looking for this man."
xXXx
Across town, at the Diogenes Club, Mycroft Holmes' phone vibrated on his desk. He glared at it, not expecting anyone to bother him. However when he saw the number he immediately picked it up and read the text.
'They've found him.' Was all it read.
'Damn,' Mycroft mumbled under his breath. He pushed the call back button as he got up and shut his door.
"What exactly were the words that were entered?" Mycroft's voice was terse.
"Moran was the first word, then Jim Moriarty as a separate search. Then the two together."
"How did he know to search those two names together?"
"I don't know sir, but the inquiry was made inside Scotland Yard's offices."
Mycroft pursed his lips. 'Greg Lestrade.' He thought. 'But why was Lestrade searching and not John? Unless John is there with Lestrade...'
"Thank you -"
"There's more sir." The voice on the other end interrupted.
"Go on."
"I've retrieved a record for four commands sent to a printer. I'm sure they've printed his picture."
"Damn," Mycroft muttered. "Thank you."
He hung up and dialed another number. He left a very brief voice message and his phone almost immediately buzzed.
"I would advise you to move away from London. He's found Moran. I'm not sure how. You haven't contacted him have you?"
"I might have found his sister, and I might have met them for lunch yesterday."
Mycroft closed his eyes and pursed his lips.
"Piccadilly Square?"
A pause on the other end.
"I didn't realize you were going to take on the role of 'Big Brother is watching' so seriously." Another pause. "How long have you been watching us?"
"That's none of your concern. He is safe as long as you don't go any where near him. I advise that you leave London without delay. I am not the only one watching."
Mycroft hung up and turned to his laptop. A few clicks and keystrokes and Scotland Yard was on his screen. A few minutes later, John could be seen exiting with Greg Lestrade. Mycroft watched as they bantered back and forth before Greg hailed a cab. The two men got in and the cab exited the picture. Mycrofts attention was pulled to a man standing at the top right of his screen. He was leaning casually against a lamp post and smoking a cigarette. He had bright blonde hair that was styled in a Mohawk. He was dressed in black cargo pants and a red plaid flannel shirt with a black shirt underneath and a worn out leather jacket. He threw the cigarette in the street and flagged a cab. Just before a police man approached him he hopped in the cab. A few seconds later another man flagged a cab and with a couple of keystrokes he was zoomed in on his brother getting into a cab.
Mycroft let out an exasperated breath and leaned back in his chair.
'...the joy of redemption...give him a puzzle and watch him dance.'
