Title: We Believe (2/3)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for all of Sherlock, up to and including RBF. Some language, 'Supposed' character death, mentions of depression, angst…Oh the angst.
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade, Raz, Kitty Reilly, mentions of Jim Moriarty, mentions of Sebastian Moran, mentions of Mycroft Holmes, mentions of Missus Hudson, various OC's
Pairings: Mild John/Sherlock, but it's mostly implied/pre-slash/YMMV, until the very end at least. Throw on your goggles.
Notes: My first Sherlock fic, part two of three. Fic is still dedicated to princess_aleera, because she's awesome.
Disclaimer: Sherlock, John, all of their friends and the many places the visit do not belong to me. If they did, I wouldn't have to write fanfiction, now would I?
Summary: Post-RBF. He writes one sentence, and while it's not enough, it starts something. A movement.
Part Two—The Movement
The knock on the door comes early in the morning. John moans softly and buries his face further into the pillow. He isn't sleeping, he's not even close, but he doesn't want to get up and go to the door.
He thinks about the qualities of the knock in what he thinks might be a deductive manner. Light but sharp, three raps— that probably means more personal. Slight hesitation right before the third, indicates uncertainty about the relationship. The little voice that speaks up every now and again that he has always thought of as his 'Inner Sherlock' seems to approve.
'Very good, John. Now get the door.'
John sighs and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. His pyjamas are red flannel and he feels comfortably warm, so he forgoes the housecoat for this little adventure. The stairs squeak softly under his feet.
When he opens the door, it's not who he expects.
"John. Hi." Greg Lestrade is standing on his doorstep with a very sad smile on his face.
"Greg." John takes him in for a minute. He's wearing older clothes, casual. A pair of jeans that look a little too big for him and an old brown jacket. There's a pale green duffel bag on the ground next to him with the end of a pair of slacks poking out of the zipper. Packed in a hurry, then.
"Can I, uh…" Greg looks as if he's considering just leaving, so John steps aside for the Detective-Inspector. Lestrade's expression becomes one of silent thanks. He picks up the bag and slowly walks up the stairs.
John closes the door and locks it before following.
"What happened?" John asks. Greg doesn't say anything for a time. He's sitting on the couch with the bag propped up next to him and John has dragged his chair over to face him. Lestrade's head is lowered; one hand rests on the back of his neck.
"She ah… She decided she didn't want to move out, this time." He rubs at his neck some more, not lifting his gaze. The kettle on the stove starts to whistle and John gets up to turn it off. The only sounds in the apartment are clinking glassware and bubbling tea.
He sets a cup in front of Greg, but isn't surprised when the inspector makes no move towards it.
"…Did you get sacked, then?" John doesn't think that's what happened, because Greg would have said that, but he asks anyway.
"No, ah…" More quiet. The inspector finally raises his head and drops his hand down to dangle in between his knees. "Exact opposite, actually. Turns out I've got a friend with a minor position in the British government; he was quite keen to see me reinstated." His smile is genuine, but tinged with gloom.
John sips his tea.
"The wife rather fancies this P.E. Teacher of hers." Greg picks up his cup and swears as some splashes over the lip onto his fingers. He puts it back down and sticks the scalded digit in his mouth.
John sips his tea again. There's nothing to say to that, really.
Eventually Greg manages to pick up his tea and drink some without sloshing it all over the flat, and John counts that as improvement. He considers going to sit next to Greg, but the bag is in the way and while he might not be Sherlock Holmes, he knows what that means.
"Think you can fix it?" John asks. Greg snorts into his cup.
"Not sure I want to this time 'round, if I'm honest. I know how it's going to go." Lestrade bites his bottom lip. "In six months she's going to get tired of him and come running back, claiming she made a mistake."
"How many times has this happened?" John suddenly feels stupid. He and Greg have gone out for drinks and talked more than enough times, but his wife had always been something skirted around; an issue neither man has felt comfortable enough to tackle. John regrets that now, seeing the Detective sitting on his couch looking miserable.
"Twice. Once a long time ago, but…" It is still something that hurts him. John doesn't need to hear Greg admit it to know that. Old wounds are sometimes the worst ones, and if anyone knows that it's John.
"Well…you can stay here, if you like." He says it mildly, but the offer is firm. "Until everything is sorted. I've got the space."
Greg meets his eyes properly for the first time since showing up at 221B. He looks tired. John knows he doesn't look much better. "You're sure?"
"I wouldn't offer if I wasn't." John puts his cup down on the table, nudging aside a stack of papers.
"I can help with the rent, go in for half," Greg starts, but John's already waving it off.
"You think I pay rent?" Greg's surprised look is easily ignored. "I haven't been to work in two months."
"Then how—"
"I've got a friend with a minor position in the British government… he was quite keen to see me stay here." John shrugs. "Paid the rent for the next year. And money keeps showing up in my account for food." Not that I eat, he adds silently.
Greg chews on his bottom lip. "You're sure you'd be okay with me living here, after everything?"
John thinks about it. If he's honest, he never really blamed Lestrade. Not seriously. And any blame he had for anyone has faded over the past two months. There's really no point, especially when the death of his friend lies squarely on John's own shoulders.
He shakes his head. "I forgave you a while ago, Greg." John manages a smile, and Greg looks relieved. "Just let me move my things down here, and you can take the upstairs bedroom. I'm sure Missus Hudson will be delighted to have someone else to force her baked goods on."
John doesn't say that the thought of anyone sleeping in Sherlock's room besides Sherlock makes him feel physically ill, nor does he tell Greg that he can't bring himself to move any of the consulting detective's clutter.
The look Greg gives him says he knows these things anyway.
Living with John Watson is not like Greg expected.
For one, the other man seems to always be awake. When Greg comes down the stairs in the morning John is there in the kitchen, reading the paper, two cups of steaming tea on the table. Usually there's some sort of breakfast made too— one plate sitting near John and his ever-present cane and the other across from the army vet— but there is always tea. When he comes back late from a crime scene, trying to pretend he didn't just see Anderson and Donovan whispering to one another as he walked out of the office John is sitting in his usual chair. Sometimes he has his laptop resting on he knees and is reading one of his many emails (the movement hasn't died down yet, and John has a lot of 'fans'). Other times he's just staring straight ahead, fingers gripping the handle of his cane until they're bone-white, and that always worries Greg.
He never sees John eating, though it's not like he's around twenty-four seven. There are cases to solve and divorce lawyers to meet with (It looks like Katherine is going to get the house, at least, and she's trying to get spousal support). The doctor has gotten so thin it's almost painful to look at; his clothes seem to drape around him like robes. He looks like he's swimming, sometimes.
John goes out for a lot of walks (though it has to hurt him with his limp), and sometimes he comes back smelling like an ashtray, but Greg knows he doesn't smoke so he figures it must be someone he's meeting. He's proven right when he returns from a crime scene early and finds a young kid in a black hoodie slouched at their kitchen table, a kid that seems very familiar. John seems to have found an actual ashtray in the flat, and the kid taps the end of his cigarette into it. There's a pile of grey ash already staining the glass, and three butts linger on the edge, forgotten.
Greg is struck by how fancy the thing is; it looks bloody expensive.
"I got milk." He opens the fridge door and puts it in, then turns to John. "Who's this then?"
"Don't matter pops, was just leaving." The kid stands up and gives John a brief nod, but John gets up with a grunt and walks the kid to the front door, leaning on his cane as he does. Greg tries to pretend he isn't paying attention, acts as if he is looking for something in the cupboards, but in reality he's straining his ears to hear what the doctor is saying.
"…Out of trouble, alright?" John's voice is soft, but somehow commanding.
"You worry too much, mate." The kid's accent is thick, and he seems barely a step above the thugs Lestrade had to deal with when he first started his career.
"Maybe, but I don't want to get a phone call saying I need to come bail you out. You really can't afford…." He loses what John's saying, but the kid seems to agree, he's nodding.
"Thanks, Doc. And thanks for lunch."
"Anytime, Raz. I'm always around."
They don't hug or shake hands or anything, but 'Raz' claps a hand on John's shoulder roughly. John smiles and jerks his head in the direction of the door. "Go on, get out of here. I can see you worrying."
"Ain't my fault you decided to move in with a copper." Raz smirks and lets himself out.
Greg doesn't mention it further, because he's seen the newspapers and he's seen the tags on the bottom of the now-infamous 'We Believe Street Mural' (which was left up for a little over two weeks; more help from the British government). He remembers the one 'signature' that was bright yellow and figures if he doesn't ask he doesn't know, and his obligations to the law will be satisfied.
Little things seem to be changing with John, though. No, the doctor doesn't eat or sleep as far as Greg can tell, but things that have been sitting around the flat slowly start to move and vanish, like shadows in the fading light. One day the pile of sunflower seeds on the mantle (Why exactly were those there?) are gone. Then a stack of papers that have been haphazardly stuck on the desk are straightened and tucked away in a drawer. The harpoon vanishes. The skull moves to the top of the fridge, where it grins down on them, and is surprisingly fun to make comments about.
Greg doesn't know if this is John getting better and moving on, or if it is purely out of consideration that the doctor is no longer alone in the flat. He stills seems surprised sometimes, when Greg wanders into the living room with a yawn. Greg doesn't take it personally.
It's a blow when Molly Hooper walks into her apartment and finds Sherlock sitting at her kitchen table, nibbling on some baby carrots, because he's been gone for over a month and she hasn't heard from him.
In that month so much has changed, though you wouldn't know it to look at Sherlock. Molly has been on more dates this past month then she can ever remember having before, but she thinks it might be in part to her newfound celebrity as 'that girl who fancied Sherlock Holmes'. She's cut her hair a bit shorter, time for a more grown-up look. Most of all, though, she's begun visiting John Watson on her days off.
Sherlock, though, seems mostly the same. She takes in his gaunt look, how he's wearing a black business suit with a dark grey tie that's been loosened and hangs limply down his chest. The jacket is thrown carelessly over the back of her couch. He's eating by only the light from her stove, which is horribly depressing. Molly flicks on the kitchen light.
"You're home late." He stares at her in that unfathomable way, and she rolls her eyes.
"Thank you for that, mum." It's been a bad day. One of the newer interns screwed up some paperwork that she spent most of her day re-doing, and her date had been more than a little disappointing. He'd been a nice man but very bland, talking about sports and stocks and something else that she had practically ignored. There is bland, and then there is comatose. Even Molly can see this, and though he'd been one of her more attractive dates she hadn't missed the way his eyes glazed over when she'd had an opportunity to get a word in.
She doesn't miss the look of surprise on his face but she refuses to acknowledge it.
"You're upset." Yet another obvious statement, and a little redundant for someone as observant as Sherlock Holmes. "What's the matter?"
"Do you care?" She drops her purse on the table. He raises an eyebrow, which is still tinged with ginger, though she can see the beginnings of dark roots in his hair.
"Yes." Just like him, one simple word and she suddenly feels a rush of guilt. Molly sighs.
"It's been a bad…week." It has. Just all around stressful, and she feels like she should just give up on men all together. Or a social life, for that matter. "Nothing for you to worry about."
He's still looking at her, one eyebrow raised. "Bad date?"
"Atrocious. But…" She shrugs, and he seems to get the hint that she's not interested in talking about it. He picks up another carrot and takes a tiny bite.
"I hope you don't mind, I've been here awhile," he admits, and his grey-blue eyes are flicking around her apartment. It hasn't changed very much, except for a framed picture she's put on the table of John, Lestrade and herself. It was taken last week at a pub; John had called her and invited her to come out with the flatmates. Each one is raising a pint in the direction of the photographer.
Sherlock picks up the photo as if he hasn't seen it before, which she knows isn't true but decides to let him have that defense if he needs it. She turns and walks into her bedroom, furiously rubbing off the makeup she'd slathered on to impress Stanley the investment banker, frustrated that it was all for naught.
When she strides back out wearing a pair of pink pyjamas (They have cats on them, and were a present from her mum) and with her hair back in a ponytail he is still holding the picture, staring at is as if it holds the answers to every problem he has ever encountered.
"They moved in together, you know." She slides onto the stool across from him and tiredly plops her chin in one palm, eyeing him. "Not together together, I don't think. Not that there's anything wrong with—" She stops, takes a breath. "Into Baker Street. About a month ago."
"Who did?" Like he hasn't already figured it out, but she appreciates him continuing the conversation.
"Greg and John. Greg's wife left him for the P.E. teacher you mentioned at the Christmas party, and John offered to let him stay." he looks momentarily surprised. "I think it's good for John. He seems…Better."
"He doesn't look better." Long, pale fingers ghost over the glass. She's not sure how to respond to that but tries anyway.
"He misses you a lot. We try not to mention you around him, 'cause he gets very sad, and sometimes he'll just stare off into space like we're not in the room, but he's doing that a lot less now and I think that's an improvement, don't you?" Sherlock stares. She stares back and feels herself flush. "I mean, not a big improvement, but still…"
The clock ticking fills the silence, which Molly is thankful for. She can't stand the quiet. Even in the morgue, surrounded by the husks of what used to be people, she finds herself whistling or humming while she works.
"Are you coming back, then?" She tries to stay nonchalant, but hope breaks through just enough to make her hold back a flinch. Sherlock pretends not to notice and gently (so gently it makes her wonder if he's pretending the picture is John, somehow) puts the framed photo back in place, pushing one corner with his pinkie until it's sitting exactly where it was.
He shakes his head. "I can't. Not yet… I just wanted to—"
"—It's all right, I understand." Her smile is just a little too bright. "You should just… I mean, John is…" What is John, exactly? Before Greg moved in she would have said dying. Or heartbroken. Now… "He misses you."
More silence, and Molly struggles not to fill it with more meaningless chatter. Sherlock gives the smallest of smiles.
"You wouldn't happen to be able to change my hair again, would you?"
The Movement has not slowed in the slightest, something that makes Rhys Sheppard undeniably happy.
At first, when the story of Richard Brook and Sherlock Holmes broke, he was reluctantly roped into writing it. Rhys had always been a fan of Holmes, but always in an unassuming, non-public way. Sheppard has seen a few of his deductions at crime scenes, watched the consulting detective at work with an admiring eye. No, the gangly whirlwind didn't seem to have any discernible social skills, and yes; Rhys had been on the receiving end of more than a few snide remarks about reporters. That didn't stop him from being a fan.
Rhys knew that with brilliance came arrogance, and honestly held no ill will towards the detective for the insults.
So when Richard Brook had come forwards he was sent it interview one Kitty Reilly about her source and report that Jim Moriarty had been a fake all along, an actor, Rhys had been more than a little pissed. He bit his lip through the entirety of the interview, a nervous habit. If she had at least tried for some modesty he might not have found her so revolting, but her demeanour was one of self-satisfied smugness and value. And unlike Holmes, Rhys saw no reason she should feel that way. She was a reporter who'd gotten a lucky break, no more, no less.
He ground his teeth while writing the article his editor wanted, to the point that his jaw felt stiff and tired when he was done. Even then, Dick 'My name is Richard' Shelter (who was a fantastic bastard, and liked being as offensive as possible) had sent it back, claiming it wasn't harsh enough on the detective. Rhys had been forced to throw some subtle digs in. It only pissed him off more. But Dick, whose favourite thing to say was 'I'm the editor and you do what I say' had been very pleased.
When the first bit of graffiti had shown up in the form of yellow spray paint on Scotland Yard, it had been a struggle to hide the glee he felt. He dutifully wrote a scandalized piece that Dick had immediately put through, missing the understated notes of approval Sheppard had slipped in. It was one of the advantages of having an editor that was dumb as a sack of rocks.
When the Baker Street mural had appeared overnight he was one of the first on the scene, thanks to a text from one of his old college mates. He'd laughed a little in his chest and snapped a picture to use as a desktop later, then made his way to 221B Baker Street with a spring in his step. A spring that had faded the second he spotted a familiar red-headed woman already lingering outside the door.
The spring had returned after John Watson's splendidly demeaning quote. Kitty had looked rather distraught, but that just made Rhys happier.
The article had come easier than any he'd written previously. Short, sweet, to the point. When Dick sent it back with a bright yellow post-it note that said 'It sounds like we like Holmes!' scribbled on it, Rhys had glowered and attached a post-it of his own 'I do.'
That had earned him a trip to the office, where he managed to convince Dick that this would make more of a splash, sell more papers. The editor had grumbled and griped but eventually fit it in, page three, next to an ad for cosmetic surgery and squished underneath a rivetingpiece on how the cabinet reshuffle was going to destroy Britain. Ho Hum.
But the response had been explosive. Overnight his inbox was filled to the brim with anecdotes of the great Sherlock Holmes, notes of thanks, hate-filled letters of all-capitals rage and slander—it was magnificent. Not only had he started discussion, but it was heated discussion, and that was the best. Even the poorly spelled emails that seemed to be a wall of text made him grin from ear to ear.
Rhys grins as he recalls all of this, leaning back in his chair. He has an office now, which is novel. He has a secretary too, which his hysterical in his opinion. Why does he need a secretary, exactly? But he doesn't complain.
What he does do, however, is report favourably on the 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement. It starts with the Baker Street mural and explodes from there. Fliers plastered on telephone poles and streetlamps, buttons worn on jacket lapels, more murals on buildings that matter to those who know the story of Sherlock Holmes.
Saint Bart's gets a rather touching rendition of Sherlock's face painted on the loading bay doors. The spot where he jumped seems revered and remains untouched, but someone does paint 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' in giant yellow letters on the roof of the building. The Yard is the subject of clever 'attacks' ('FUCK YOU SCOTLAND YARD, SHERLOCK HOLMES 4EVA' And 'SHERLOCK WAS SMARTER THEN ALL OF YOU PRATS' Are two particular favourites of Rhys's), until he gets a phone call from DI Lestrade asking him to kindly write something in the paper discouraging the Moverment from spraying paint all over the Yard. The DI does two things right. One, he never once says the vandals are wrong. Two, he asks. He does not demand or yell, or threaten. Lestrade is actually very polite about the whole thing. So Rhys does what he asks.
It works pretty well.
So Rhys is in his office, staring at the wall with a content expression, trying to decide what would be the best angle for this week's column when his intercom buzzes. He jumps a little at the sound (he's still not used to it) and clicks the button.
"Yes?" He draws it out, trying to sound smooth, because Lisa and he have a bit of a joking flirtation thing going on and she seems to enjoy his sense of humour.
"Mr Sheppard, I have a Doctor John Watson here to see you." Lisa's voice is all professional and sharp, which makes Rhys's eyes widen and his jaw drop. He's very glad that his blinds are shut on the glass wall of his office, because actually letting his jaw drop while John-Fucking-Watson is standing outside would be really, really embarrassing.
He snaps up the phone and clears his throat. "Sure thing, Lisa. Could I see you in here for a second?"
"Yes sir." And she clicks the phone down. When she opens the door Rhys catches a glimpse of doctor Watson standing near her desk, gazing around the room with a mild expression.
"What is he doing here?" Rhys asks her, and he feels genuine panic. Lisa, with her pretty blue eyes and her mousy brown hair, has one of the most reassuring personalities he's ever encountered. She shrugs.
"He doesn't seem upset, he just asked if you were busy and had anything coming up in the next while. Said he wanted to see you."
Rhys fiddles with his tie nervously, trying to decide if he should tighten it up or leave it loose. "How do I look?"
"How you look doesn't matter, Rhys." But Lisa is fixing his dress shirt collar with a frown.
"It does, Lisa. This guy practically made my career." He takes a deep breath, and Lisa's firm look startles him into holding it.
"No, Rhys. You made your career. You wrote a good article that just happened to feature him. Now, shall I send him in?"
Rhys smiles at her. "How do I look?"
"Ready. Give me a second." She leaves, and Rhys moves behind his desk. He shuts down his untouched game of solitaire a little self-consciously.
The knock at the door is sharp and professional, and Rhys grins a little. "Come on in."
John Watson looks much like he did last time they'd been face-to-face, outside his little flat on Baker Street, if not a little healthier. He's skinny as hell but his eyes seem to have an odd spark to them. Rhys stands and holds out a hand, which John takes and shakes. The clasp is firm, professional. Rhys smiles wider. "Please, Doctor Watson, take a seat. I've just got to finish this up"
"Please, call me John." Watson sits, taps his cane against the carpet a few times while Rhys pretends to write the end to an email.
He turns with what he hopes is a winning smile. "So, John. How can I help you today?" John's wearing nice clothes, but not overly expensive ones. Jeans and a brown sweater, with a black coat over top. Smart, but distinctly non-committal. His eyes are fixed on Rhys with interest.
"I've read your article, you know." So it was the roundabout way, then. Rhys figures he can handle that.
"Did you?" He tries to sound nonchalant, but on the inside he's bouncing with excitement. "What'd you think?"
"Very…Compelling." John taps the floor again with his cane. "One part I liked in particular, though. I wanted to ask you about it."
"Go right ahead." He's pretty sure he already knows which part John's talking about, but lets him say it himself.
"'However, one must wonder which is more impressive: rattling off your entire life story like a laundry list, or starting an Internet revolution with a single sentence?'" He says each bit carefully, like he wants to get it perfect. Rhys doesn't say anything. "You think I started an Internet revolution?"
He leans back in his chair with his hands splayed on the table, studying John. No, he still looks perfectly normal, ordinary. A man with problems, definitely but nothing exceptional. And yet, he is just that.
"Actually, you started an Internet revolution with one sentence and a smear campaign with three words." Rhys smiles a little. "Kitty Reilly is twice as hated now that Sherlock supporters know you don't like her. I hear she's on the edge of losing her sanity." Maybe Rhys shouldn't be quite so pleased about that, but she is a bitter, spiteful woman, and he knows if anyone deserves the hate directed at them, it's her.
John's smiling ever so slightly. "So you think I can…Change things, do you?"
Rhys nods. "Without a doubt. Words carry weight, Doctor Wat—John. And your words seem to have a habit of sticking with people."
"What if I said I was interested in giving you an exclusive, on my views of the 'We Believe' movement?" Rhys sees what this is now. Not a guarantee, but throwing out feelers.
"I'd say that if you knew anything about investigative journalists, it's that we salivate at the sound of the word 'Exclusive.' It's a Pavlovian thing." Rhys grins. John grins back. "And I would be more than happy to tell your side of the story, Doctor Watson."
"John," The doctor corrects.
"John," Rhys concedes, and tries to hide his utter joy.
"Well then, Mr. Sheppard…Would you be available to do that now?"
Dick is going to be so pissed.
It's quiet tonight, and that's a welcome feeling for him after so many nightmares and feelings of despair. Ailsa is fast asleep next to him, looking beautiful in the soft light that fades in from his window, and he presses a soft kiss to her forehead before untangling himself from the sheets. He met her in a little shop on the edge of London and had happily gone through the steps of a serious relationship with the pretty blonde and her cute nose.
Henry Knight can't help but think on how much his life has improved since the whole mess with Franklin. Pretty girl, a dog (a small one, baby steps), giant leaps forwards in his therapy and a distinct lack of suicidal thoughts. Things are going so well for him that it's hard to remember how miserable he'd felt when ringing Sherlock Holmes's bell.
But he does remember Sherlock Holmes. It's hard to forget that the man had saved Henry's life, his sanity, and proven his father right.
He walks quietly from the bedroom to his study, pulling on a sweater to warm himself. It's bloody cold without Ailsa curled up against him but he has an idea in his head that won't go away, and he might as well do it now so he can get back to bed. He flicks on the light and the luxurious room is suddenly blazing in light.
Soft cracks echo though the quiet as he arches his back and feels the vertebrae pop one by one, and he gives a tiny groan of satisfaction.
Henry opens his laptop and turns on the web cam, trying to get himself in a good light. When he's satisfied with how he looks he clicks 'record' and starts talking.
"Hi." Lestrade watches the kid's face intently. John's out with Raz, probably eating something, and Greg has the flat to himself for now. He stares at Henry Knight and takes in how good he looks compared to the last time he'd seen him. The screen shows Henry's face and a large window.
My name is Henry Knight. Some of you might know who I am, more of you probably won't, but that's all right. Who I am doesn't matter."
The kid takes a deep breath, and a tiny smile lights up his face. "When I went to Sherlock Holmes this past March, I was at the end of my rope. I thought—" He looks down for a second, clearing his throat. "I thought I was going insane. Sherlock Holmes saved my life by showing me what had really happened to my father, clearing his name. It's because of him that I'm still alive today."
Lestrade watches him shift in the seat, then frown. "All of these people, telling me he was a fake, a liar…I don't believe them for a second. I saw that man in action and it was one of the most amazing things I've ever witnessed. I owe him everything." Henry is glaring at the screen, as if he could see the people who don't believe. "So I'm taking a stand."
"I'm offering a reward to anyone who can bring me actual, legal proof that Richard Brook was Moriarty, and Sherlock Holmes was not a fake. If you can show me the evidence that Jim Moriarty was a criminal mastermind, if you can clear the name of Sherlock Holmes in the eyes of the law? I'm offering up to ten thousand pounds."
Greg let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
"But the information comes to me, and it's first come first serve. If you want the money? Show me." The guy smiled. "My name is Henry Knight, and I believe in Sherlock
Holmes."
Greg texts John with a grin he hasn't felt in awhile. 'Get back to the flat. You need to see this.'
JOHN WATSON ON 'THE MOVEMENT'-"BRILLIANT"
-Rhys Sheppard Exclusive
John Watson seems more at home than most while sitting in my office. He is relaxed and laughing, his legs crossed, dressed causally—A jumper and blue jeans are all he seems to require and this makes it difficult to picture him in full military uniform. When I tell him that, he chuckles—"I've got pictures back home, if you'd like. It'd be a bit of a trip."—A bit of a trip indeed, for he still calls 221B Baker Street home.
Do you plan on leaving?
"Eventually, I suppose. I'm in no hurry."
Talk turns easily to the 'scandal' of becoming flatmates with one Detective-Inspector Greg Lestrade, whose surprise reinstatement caused a sensation in law enforcement circles. "I'm not sure what the fuss is about, honestly." He shrugs the smallest amount. "I'm not sure if it's because I've moved in with another man, or if it's because that man is Greg. The whole thing doesn't seem newsworthy to me, but I suppose that's just my opinion."
Is there any truth to the notion that you're together?
The question just makes him laugh, and it's a rather inviting sound. "No. Greg and I are good friends, and he needed a place to stay at the time. I had the space." He pauses, then leans back a little in his seat. "And the answer to your obvious follow-up question is no. I don't hold a grudge against him for what happened to my friend, or for doubting him. Greg is a good man who had a job to do, and while I wish it hadn't turned out the way it did… I don't hold it against him." He is dead serious throughout, and his tone takes on a deadly edge when he next speaks. "There are one or two people in the Yard who I blame whole-heartedly, but Greg isn't one of them."
So do you blame the Yard?
"There are quite a few people who played a part in it. The fault isn't with just one person. Though if I were forced to pick someone to blame, it would be Jim Moriarty."
Questioning whether or not he means Richard Brook earns me a half-glare. "No. Richard Brook was a creation, someone designed by Jim Moriarty. Moriarty was real."
I mention that that quote will probably end up splashed all over London, and that ears a grin from the doctor. "This 'Movement' is… Well, I really think he would've loved it. Found it downright hilarious, in fact."
Hilarious?
"Watching Scotland Yard dashing about, trying to scrub his name off half of London?" Watson chuckles, with a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Bloody right. Hilarious."
When I admit to him that what I'm really interested in is his view of The Movement, he looks more than a little surprised. "I still find it odd," he confides, "people caring what I think. That was never my…" He trails off, collects his thoughts. "I'm not encouraging illegal activity by any means, but this Movement, it's absolutely brilliant. People keep sending me buttons, posters… I walk down the street and I see flyers taped to streetlights. It's like all of the people he helped are speaking up to save his reputation. It's marvellous."
Further conversation reveals that John is aware of his detractors, but he seems mostly unfazed by them. "Oh, you mean the people who seem to think I'm defending my friend because admitting he's a fraud means admitting I'm an idiot?" A smirk steals over his face. "Or do you mean the conspiracy theorists who think I was 'in on it' the whole time?" He rolls his eyes as if to say 'Oh, the dramatics'. "I'm not trying to force anyone to believe, in me or in him. I'm just trying to make people think."
It isn't hard to see why the doctor is amused at…(CONTINUED PAGE 3)