Title: We Believe (3/4)
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, Henry Knight, 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, Which is now four parts, because seriously… Part four would've been giant. Still dedicated to princess_aleera, because she's awesome, and Jademac2442, who betaed this section for me (with a few cackles of laughter).
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 Three- The Case.
Ginger hadn't been too bad of a change, really. In fact, he'd been rather fond of it. But blonde is really, truly offensive to his eyes. He doesn't like it. His skin seems pale and washed out, and sometimes when he catches sight of himself in a shop window or the mirror in Molly's apartment, he can't help but jump.
Logically he knows it is a good thing; that he can barely recognise himself. It lowers the chances of being documented and keeps his profile so low it is barely noticeable. Not even a blip on big brother's radar, and if he can avoid Mycroft's extensive web he can slide around London unnoticed. Mostly unnoticed. Sound logic doesn't stop him from hating it, though.
Moriarty's web is being disassembled piece-by-piece, strand-by-strand, and Sherlock Holmes is the one responsible. An assassin here, a bit of bank fraud there, all around Europe and in some of the most delightfully inconspicuous places. Jim Moriarty was very good at what he did, which provides Sherlock Holmes with a rather exquisite challenge.
Sherlock leans back on Molly's sofa and presses another neutral, skin-toned patch to the inside of his right arm. A deep breath floods his lungs and he squeezes his eyes shut. Molly's gone out with Lestrade and John; apparently there are talks of making their first pub night a weekly occurrence. He is alone in her apartment, which is obsessively neat. It's bordering on sterile. All of the furniture is excessively comfortable, however. When company comes over she clearly wants them to stay. Every time he stops in it is clean and tidy, and he makes an attempt to keep it that way, for her sake.
He fixes his eyes on the ceiling and tries his hardest to resist the little voice commanding him to walk through the rooms of the flat and figure out how she's been doing. He does not care for social niceties— they're dull and keep him from easy answers—but he does understand to concept of 'owing' someone. If he owes anyone (other than John, of course), it is Molly Hooper. Fabricating legal documents, lying to his brother, to John… Everyone, really. Molly has been superb at subterfuge, which is not something he would have guessed she had in her. The talent seems natural, and he wonders what else she's been hiding. Perhaps her ability to blend in was helpful; the way no one really notices Molly Hooper on a daily basis gives her an innate aptitude at deception.
But because he 'owes' her, and because he knows she wouldn't like it, he stays on the couch and tries to deduce his next move. Which string he should sever next. The obvious one stands out in his mind as a silvery cord, taunt and glimmering, leading him through different doors and rooms of his mind palace. In places it becomes tangled and seems impossible to follow, in others it beckons him in a way reminiscent of The Woman.
Sebastian Moran.
The assassin that, by all accounts, held a special place in Moriarty's heart and a place of honour at his side. The other pieces of Jim's web hum with fear whenever the name is uttered, vibrating with unspoken energy. If Jim Moriarty was the spider twitching the strings, then Sebastian Moran was the central hub where he sat. Unfailingly cruel, astonishingly efficient, and over all, abidingly loyal to the madman.
Sherlock has yet to see him, but the few descriptions he has been given paint a disturbing picture. The main adjective used is big, which does not surprise Sherlock in the slightest. Jim had been the kind of man who would have been delighted to show his dominance over a man that is at least six feet tall and built like a barn; to wield that power like the weapon that it is.
No matter how much he wishes to, Sherlock has resigned himself to leaving Moran for the time being. The web is still too strong, even after all of his work. Unfortunately, when he isn't thinking about Sebastian or his next plan of attack, his mind is consumed with one subject: John.
John. Sherlock hasn't seen the good doctor since his fall because the risk always seems too great. The only allowance he gave himself was a brief glimpse at the grave right after the funeral, when he watched John break down in tears with an odd pang in his chest. He does not check in, does not skulk outside 221B waiting for even the slightest hint of movement from the window.
He cannot be sure there are no longer assassins watching John, and he is even less sure that John would be fooled by the changes to his appearance. Recognition, at this point, is the worst possible thing that could happen.
Because John would insist on following him.
Every time he leaves the relative safety of Molly Hooper's flat, it is with the knowledge that it might be the last time he ever sees the inoffensive paint colour and pristine surfaces, along with the surprisingly steadfast woman whom he has grown to respect, perhaps even admire. He knows—when crouched in the bushes outside a dilapidated house in Dublin or trying his hardest to melt seamlessly into the shadows of an alley in Venice—that each moment might be his last. He has come to accept that. If death is necessary to destroy as much of Moriarty's empire as he can, then he will die with his chin raised and a smile on his lips.
What he cannot allow, as much as it confuses him, is John's death. Steadfast, trustworthy John. The Moran to Sherlock's Moriarty. If Sherlock were to show up in 221B with a smirk and a request for assistance, he knows John would acquiesce without hesitation, because that is John. And this is the main reason that he avoids the doctor.
Sherlock snarls softly and jumps off the couch. This hopeless pining is getting him nowhere, and wasting valuable time. He should be thinking, plotting his next move. The sooner he is finished with this, the sooner he can get back home, back to—
"Never mind that now." He says it out loud to the empty apartment. He finds that talking to himself is much harder than it was before, because he is always expecting a huff of exasperation or a mild comment about something or other. When they don't come, he has to push away one of those pesky feelings that have bubbled to the surface since meeting John Watson, though this one is at least easy to identify. He is lonely.
He snorts, slightly disgusted with himself.
He gazes at the photograph sitting on Molly's kitchen table and finds himself striding towards it, and grasping the cold wooden frame in his fingers. He looks at it again, trying to figure out as much as possible, though it's doubtful that he'll see anything he hasn't seen before and he's aware how mad it is to expect anything different. Still, he finds he cannot help himself.
John is in yet another of his ridiculous sweaters; a grey and pale blue one that appears to be a series of interlocking diamonds. The lighting in the pub leaves much to be desired (and probably gives the place an air of mystery, if one is intoxicated enough), but the flash casts enough light for Sherlock to pick out the smile that does not quite reach the doctor's eyes. Pale blue eyes that have dark smudges beneath them, like dual bruises, and seem sad. Sherlock tries to remove the subject from his observations at all times, but this seems to be one of those few instances where he can't, so he just accepts that he believes John Watson's tired, searching eyes look sad. His cane rests next to his right leg; the limp has returned in full force then. He has an arm slung around Molly's bare shoulders and is squeezing her close to his side, a show of genuine warmth.
John has lost a lot of weight; his face is gaunt and drawn. But his colour isn't too bad. His leg is bumping into Lestrade's when it doesn't need to be, so he's comfortable with the relationship he has with the DI.
Sherlock's deductions are tempered, however, by the knowledge that an instant is easy to fake. Is that genuine warmth, or counterfeit? Are the bumping knees a show of comfortable companionship or a random accident? All the conflicting signs play havoc with Sherlock's natural curiosity (perhaps the loneliness, too) and he makes a rather rash decision.
He's going to see for himself how John is, observe the data first hand and make his own deductions.
He knows exactly which pub, of course. Molly had mentioned it before leaving for work and he finds himself deleting very few of their conversations these days. They aren't always exciting, but they are something.
It's called 'The Globe Tavern', and it's on Marylebone Road just off of Baker Street. The building has a pub on the first floor and what is probably a dining area on the top two, and front is a deep red topped by a creamy off-white. Plants hang down over the brass letters, but don't block out the name completely.
Sherlock has thrown on a black hoodie and a pair of large sunglasses, and finds himself slouching in the back of the cab feeling like a fool. The jeans he's picked have holes at the knees and tattered hems, and none of them feel comfortable on him, but when he glances at himself in the mirror at Molly's house, he thinks the disguise will stand up to scrutiny. The blonde hair and lighter eyebrows complete the look rather nicely.
He walks into the tavern with a wary eye on the booths. That's where they would sit, the extra privacy is what these three particular people would crave.
Sure enough; he can see the back of Molly's head in a booth nestled in the back corner, and Lestrade is sitting across from her with a half-empty glass in his hand. John is nowhere to be seen, but he's there; a second glass sits next to Lestrade. Sherlock slides into the booth behind Molly, facing the other direction. He can hear them perfectly from here and there's a mirror on the wall in front of him that gives a good view of Lestrade in his seat.
"Well he's looking better, but I'm not sure, to be honest," Lestrade is saying, and Sherlock gestures towards a waitress that happens to be wandering past. He orders quietly and lays his accent on a little thicker.
"Has he been eating, at least?" Molly. Sweet Molly, who is probably finding out so she can report back. How quaint.
"Not that I see. But he's up all hours, could eat when I'm not up." Lestrade is already a little drunk, the tips of his ears are flushed pink. He looks tired, too. Sherlock tries to peer over the sunglasses to see better and takes in a few new wrinkles near the DI's eyes.
"Well he is—" She stops and Sherlock scans the bar area behind him. John is there. His limp is more pronounced then Sherlock has ever seen it, and the weight loss can only be described as dramatic. If Lestrade looked tired, then John looks downright shattered; the dark smudges in the photograph are much deeper then Sherlock had estimated.
The waitress sets his beer in front of him (The brew is one of the cheaper ones, to match his new persona), and he takes a second to thank her before watching John slide into his seat with that soft smile of his. Unassuming, hushed John, who looks appalling.
"…Miss anything interesting?" John takes a mouthful of his drink. His cheeks are inflamed; he's already had a few.
"Naw, just catching up on Molly's week." Lestrade lies.
"There was a man in just the other day, missing a hand!" Molly says. "It was dreadful, no idea how it happened, but Stacy—the night shift girl—was making lots of jokes about it and I couldn't help but laugh." She trails off when neither of the men comment, then sighs in that embarrassed way. "…It was funny. Anyway."
John grins, and it's a sincere one from the looks of it. "I bet it was."
They talk of inconsequential things for an amazingly long time. Sport, the latest political scandal, how work is (Lestrade's underlings don't understand how he wasn't fired, Molly's peers keep hiding her things. She thinks it's all in good fun but John and Lestrade exchange a worried look), Nothing of import. Sherlock takes the time to scan the bar for any familiar faces; the possibility of being followed is a small but pressing one. Not a one sticks out, though he's amused to see the bartender is having an affair with his waitress.
"To excellent divorce lawyers!" Lestrade says behind him, and Sherlock flicks his eyes to the mirror. The DI is much drunker then originally assumed. "She can take the house but she doesn't need money from me." Lestrade laughs. Molly and John grin and clink their glasses to his, then drink. Molly merely sips but John downs a good third of the glass.
This is where Sherlock begins to worry that John has turned to alcohol for comfort, but there are none of the tell-tale signs. His skin is healthy, not jaundiced. He does not seem desperate to drink and while his hand shakes slightly when he lifts the glass it's the same hand that shook before they met, the left one. He elects to keep an eye on it either way.
Lestrade and Molly start talking about the most recent string of murders to plague London (It's an elaborate cover up for the third murder, and working rather well considering Lestrade's obviously baffled expression), and John falls silent. He doesn't seem to be interested in injecting his opinion. Lestrade has his eyes fixed on Molly and is nodding emphatically.
Because Sherlock has his eyes fixed on John he sees the switch. The smile drops of his face gradually; his eyes lower to the table. His shoulders slump. He seems astonishingly wary in those seconds.
Sherlock considers an interesting idea; did he himself look this bad when he thought John had his eyes elsewhere? Is this what Molly saw when Sherlock himself was unaware of her gaze? He decides that he'll reflect on it more later, when not gathering data. He already has much to think about. He also notes that his earlier assumption is correct—John is sad.
He watches the waitress bring them more drinks and set them in front of the three, and John's smile is back in full force in less then a second.
They go back to chatting, but it dies down slowly and they seem to be sitting in companionable silence. Sherlock really only has his own experiences with John to go on when it comes to this, but they all appear comfortable—no bouncing knees or nervous fidgeting.
"I miss him." John. He isn't looking at them, staring down at the table and slowly rotating his glass. Lestrade glances at John with concern and drops a hand on the veteran's shoulder. A sign of consolation, perhaps regret?
"Me too. Bloody git." Lestrade is looking at Molly, who says nothing, but her hand slides across the table and covers John's.
Sherlock decides he has to get out. Not that he's feeling anything in particular, but now is a good a time as any.
He decides that John, while not 'all right' by any means, is being looked after.
"If you're going to be tromping around London, you should be more careful." Molly growls when she spots Sherlock on her couch, feet dangling over one of the armrests. She takes off her coat and considers throwing it at him, but instead hangs it up in her closet. When she looks back he's staring at her.
"What?"
"In the pub. I saw you Sherlock." She tries her best to glare, but she's really not all that angry. She knows she can't give him the information on John that he needs to make his deductions, she doesn't know where to look. She wonders if Sherlock saw what he needed, if he is convinced that he needs to come back now.
He doesn't appear to. He's playing dumb, which is about as unconvincing as it is funny. "I don't know what you mean."
"You're lying to me." She sighs. Sherlock swings himself into a sitting position but won't meet her eye.
Molly kicks off her shoes onto a rubber mat for catching snow, and then straightens them with her toe. Her night has been rather brilliant, all things considered. John and Greg are perfectly lovely men…And Greg is rather foxy, though she would never, ever say that out loud.
"Do you have a sexual attraction to DI Lestrade?" Sherlock stares at her, and she feels heat creep up her neck. "I saw you continually going out of your way to brush against him, and your reaction to his jokes was disproportionate to the humour value they presented. John told me—" He stops. Molly feels a strange mixture of relief and sadness, and finds herself sitting next to the fugitive detective.
She puts a hand on his shoulder that he doesn't shrug off, which she counts as a step forwards. "Sherlock… I know you miss him." He snorts, but she ignores it. "Maybe more then you even realize. Just…Please. Stop this."
He doesn't respond, which is nearly unprecedented, so she decides she's on the right track. If she weren't, he'd be making fun of her by now. "I know you care about him… More then anyone, really. Maybe you even love him. And the longer you stay away the harder it's going to be." She forces the next bit out, but she is not bitter. "Love is hard, Sherlock. Especially when you don't know how to make them see."
He is quiet for a long time, eyes shut, light playing over his face and bringing out every change in his appearance. The skin that is just a touch too pale, the tired circles beneath his eyes, and a light scar on the curve of his jaw that wasn't there before. She can practically hear the whir of Sherlock's thoughts.
"I'm not…" He stops, opens his eyes, but doesn't look at her. "I'm not in love." His nose crinkles a little, in an almost-grimace. "I can't be in love, I'm a sociopath." But there is no conviction in his voice; in fact, he sounds defeated.
"Obviously you were wrong about that. Most sociopaths don't fake their own death to stop a madman from killing their friends." She squeezes his shoulder.
Today is a day for miracles, it seems, because Sherlock Holmes turns towards her and wraps his long arms around her in a clumsy hug.
It lasts about two seconds (she doesn't even have time to hug him back) before he's gone, off the couch and walking towards the spare bedroom that she's set up just for his random, unexpected visits.
The door shuts, leaving her alone in her tiny living room. But Molly Hooper thinks that tonight has indeed been a rather brilliant evening.
Henry Knight's girlfriend is a pretty little thing, who doesn't at all seem to mind the mess of the flat as she perches on the couch next to her boyfriend, fingers laced with his. She looks at Henry like he is the most amazing thing in the world, which makes John smile a bit.
Henry has been chatting with John about how life is going, his new dog (a small one, Henry confides. Big ones still worry him) and the place he's thinking of buying, along with some of his more lucrative investments. John has nodded and listened intently, but there is something about today's visit that sets him on edge. Maybe it's the way Alisa is holding her massive purse close to one side, or how Henry is sitting on the very edge of the couch, but there's definitely something going on.
Finally Henry stubs out his cigarette and claps Ailsa's hand in his own.
"I've got news." He says. John puts his saucer on the table with a feeling of reverence.
"Oh?"
"The appeal I put out online, it's gotten a huge response." Henry grins at Ailsa, who reaches into her purse and pulls out a thick folder, which she hands over to John with a tiny smile. He takes it and opens the first page, which is a sort of index. Cases are listed on the left with the dates lined up perfectly on the right.
"This girl, she lives in Cardiff," Henry poked a finger at the file. "Sent this over three days after I put out the video. All of it's legal; it's a timeline of the cases Sherlock took matched up with his known whereabouts when they were committed. It's got everything here, John. Cold cases he solved twenty years later, a trip to Scotland during a triple murder… Everything he's done matched up with where he was."
John could see it. And he couldn't help but grin. "And all of this is the evidence?"
"Copies of receipts from the hotel he stayed at, the airline tickets, everything." Henry wrapped an arm around Ailsa's waist and squeezed her close, and John felt a difficult to dismiss, horribly familiar pang in his chest. "Sherlock would have to be in three places at once, for some of them. It'd be impossible."
John glances up at the couple, who are beaming at one another. "You've got copies?"
"We made you one." Henry nods to Ailsa, who pulls a second folder out of her dark purple bag. "We're headed to Scotland Yard right after this."
"Give it to Greg Lestrade." John switches the folders, so that Greg will get all the original files. The tiny blonde slides the folder back in her bag.
"We were going to," Henry nods. "We're going to fix this, John. You'll see."
Greg has been working non-stop for three days to clear Sherlock's name. The information Henry brings in all matches up perfectly with information they already knew. It's basically a timeline some internet-savvy fan has put together of Sherlock's whereabouts at the times of different, separate murders, combined with electronic footprints that prove Richard Brook isn't a real person. It's bloody fantastic.
But everyone is resistant. He's shown it to three different higher-ups who took copies and never called him back. Anderson won't even glance at the thick file and Donovan just sneers every time he tries to show it to her. He's made phone calls and written emails and done all kinds of work on this, but no one will balk. The case is closed in their eyes.
So Greg does something… Drastic.
Rhys thumbs through the file left sitting on his desk with a smile that continues to grow with each new page.
Dick had been pissed before. This will make him livid.
The article runs on a Friday, and John sees it because somehow Greg has gotten to the Daily Planet before him. He's got it propped up in front of him as he devours the breakfast John made (sausage and eggs, with a cup of coffee and dry toast). Greg's always liked his cooking.
NEW EVIDENCE CLEARS THE NAME OF SHERLOCK HOLMES. WHERE IS THE YARD?
John reads the headline twice, notices who wrote the actual article and finds himself grinning. "And where is the Yard, Greg?"
Lestrade silently holds up his phone, which is blinking. Six missed calls. "Seems they want to talk to me, now." The DI smirks, and John chuckles a little.
"Odd, how Rhys Sheppard just happened to get the file, of all the reporters in London."
"Isn't it though? I think Henry must've photocopied the files before he handed them over to me. Insurance, you know." Greg pops the last sausage into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. "Kid's smart." He pulls on his coat, folding the Planet shut before handing it to John with a grin. "You should read this. I think you'll like it."
The huge amount of phone calls Rhys is getting makes him want to laugh, but he only ever does when the blinds are pulled shut and no one can see. He spends all day Friday answering questions. The least pleasant phone call he gets is from the Chief Superintendent, who berates him for an hour about his source and then gets downright rude when Rhys tells him, flat out, that he has no idea who it was and that it was an anonymous tip. He takes great pleasure on hanging up in the middle of a stream of curses.
He has a good idea who the package came from, but it's just an idea. There's no proof. And Rhys Sheppard is not the kind to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when the resulting story made Dick turn a lovely shade of plum.
The most delightful phone call he gets is put through right away by Lisa, which is a notable event in itself.
"Hello, You've reached Rhys Sheppard. Journalist extraordinaire." He grins and makes a little flourish with his hand, even though no one's there to see it. He likes a bit of the dramatic.
"Hello Rhys," The voice on the other line is amused. "It's John Watson."
Rhys nearly sputters, but manages a choked laugh instead. "John! It's nice to hear from you." He feels like an absolute moron, but John can't see the red rising in his cheeks so it's all right. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
"Is it really that unexpected? You've run a rather interesting piece today." Rhys grins at that.
"I like to think so. You've read it then?"
"Of course. I read all your articles."
Okay, yeah, maybe that makes Rhys idiotically happy and maybe he can't help but bounce a little in his chair. "I'm flattered." He is.
" 'Scotland Yard seems to think the case of the fraudulent detective is better left alone then worked on. Perhaps they really are as stupid as they seem.' " John Watson is quoting his article. John Watson is quoting his article. "You know I live with one of them, right?" But he's laughing.
"Tell him thanks for me, by the way." Rhys smirks.
"Of course."
They chat amicably about nothing for a while, and Rhys enjoys it more then he thought he would. John even offers to go out for a pint with him later. The conversation is just wrapping up when John asks an odd question.
"Do you think people still care?"
Rhys thinks for a second about all of the phone calls, about the Chief Superintendent and his tirade of curse words and threats. Of the rather crass young man who told him he was 'bloody fantastic' and the old woman who told him that she herself had painted a little something on Baker Street. Rhys thinks about all of this and considers his completely full email inbox.
"Oh yes, John. I think people care quite a bit."
Greg shrugs.
"Don't give me that, Lestrade!" The Chief Superintendent looks rather ruffled. His hair is sticking up in the back in odd-looking spikes, and his face scarlet with rage. Greg has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. "The reporter whose started this bloody vigilante campaign just happens to get his hands on the file you've been waving about for three days, and you expect me to believe it's just coincidence?" A curled fist slams down on the superintendent's desk.
"I'm not sure what to tell you, sir." Greg pops open the clasps on his briefcase and removes the folder, all two hundred and forty-seven pages of it. He sets it on his boss's desk. "I've got the whole thing right here. Best I can figure, Henry Knight made copies and sent one to Mr. Sheppard when we did nothing with the information." He shrugs again.
"You expect me to believe that?"
"Look, sir, I've got the original file right here." Greg taps it, as if the Chief were blind. "It's the only explanation I can come up with."
"I'm not an idiot, Lestrade. You could've copied the file yourself and sent it to the bloody reporter." But the Superintendent looks deflated. He takes his glasses of and pinches the bridge of his nose.
Greg doesn't say a word, and bites his cheek even harder when the man across the desk reaches forwards and yanks the file folder close, angrily flipping the front open. He scans the index with tired eyes. Greg snaps his suitcase shut.
"And this'll clear the detective's name, will it?"
"It won't just clear his name." Greg is amazed by how much he sounds like John in that second, mild but still dangerous. "It'll prove what an incredible person Sherlock Holmes was."
He leaves without permission, but he finds he's a lot less intimidated by his coworkers these days. Especially when it comes to matters involving the younger sibling of the British government.
He does wait till he's well on his way home to let the grin split his face, though.
Sherlock doesn't require mementos or scrapbooks or the like. Everything he truly cares about can be stored in one of the rooms of his mind palace; anything of importance is locked into his hard drive.
Which is why, as he sits in a tree outside a rather ramshackle apartment in the early hours of the morning, high-powered camera hanging about his neck, he brings up the articles as if they are sitting in front of him.
Rhys Sheppard. A reporter who, when he thought back on it, had been at more then a couple of his crime scenes. Ginger, freckled, rather tall. Dressed professionally every time he lingered just beyond the police tape. He was single, and rather intelligent, from a lower-middle class family. A small dog perfect for apartment living. Reformed smoker.
The headlines seemed to float before his eyes.
Richard Brook Exposes the 'Holmes Fraud'
John Watson finally makes a comment- And what a comment it is!
The Baker Street Mural; Two weeks of tribute
Scotland Yard appeals to members of The Movement!
JOHN WATSON ON 'THE MOVEMENT'-"BRILLIANT"
Sherlock suspected that last title had been courtesy of the editor, the all capitals and quotes around The Movement pointed to a different author, one who wasn't quite 'on board' with what had turned into a revolution.
Rhys Sheppard was, without a doubt, 'on board'. The notes of disapproval in the first article about Kitty Rilley ('Kitty smirks a little and crosses her legs primly, her nose turned towards the ceiling as she speaks'), the blatant admiration towards John ('The question just makes him laugh, and it's a rather inviting sound.' 'This was where John Watson shows what may have endeared him to Sherlock Holmes in the first place; his spine.'), and the glee at the whole 'We Believe' counter culture ('The talent shown by the people who believe in him would shock even Sherlock Holmes himself!', and that wasn't entirely wrong) pointed to someone who would happily defend Sherlock and his supporters in every day conversation, who would be downright proud to.
This always made Sherlock smile, which was a rarity for him on nights like this. Alone in the cold, waiting silently for something, anything to happen… It was nearly too much for his mind to handle. Boredom, absolute and complete, threatened. And while it allowed him time to think, he very rarely came out of it with anything productive. Mostly he thought of that night, the strange feeling he'd gotten seeing John so depressed, the way his chest had constricted when Molly had brought up a startling possibility, one that he'd never thought to consider before.
Love. He snorted and bit his bottom lip at the very word. A previously ridiculous idea that was slowly but surely becoming more and more probable. The biological signs of attraction were there, as were some of the less clichéd emotional aspects to infatuation, but was that love?
It was definitely closer than anything Sherlock had previously experienced, even with The Woman. She had been interesting, mentally engaging, different. Using her sexuality as a weapon instead of an excuse and completely unapologetic about it. Sherlock had saved her life mostly because he didn't like the idea of the world losing one more interesting person, and partly because of the attraction he'd felt.
John, however, was different. For one, Sherlock Holmes actually minded what John Watson thought about him. This was commonplace and trite but true, and that always made the doctor something unique. John also put up with a great deal, to the point that Sherlock had begun doing his more outlandish experiments in the flat to see just how far he could stretch the former army captain's nerves. Quite a bit, as it turned out. Anything short of testing chemical explosions in the living room appeared acceptable, and even then John had returned to Baker Street after a single night spent with the girlfriend he'd had at the time. The boring one. Or was it the freckled one? Sherlock couldn't be bothered to waste space remembering.
Laughter from the apartment shakes Sherlock from his musings, and he raises his camera to snap some pictures of three very refined men walking towards a very decrepit car.
These thoughts are better left for safer locations. Emotions only clouded the mind, and he cannot afford that now.
He must be very, very careful, for Sebastian Moran grew ever closer.
A case worthy of Sherlock Holmes
-Article by Rhys Sheppard
A flurry of activity around Scotland Yard has had the media in a bit of a feeding-frenzy, but as always, yours truly has the inside facts.
A rather inventive insurance fraud scam has been thwarted, thanks to an anonymous source and their very expensive camera. Pictures were dropped off at the desk of one Detective-Inspector Lestrade, who regular readers will applaud as one of the primary lawman involved in the ongoing investigation into 'Richard Brook' and the debatable guilt of a certain consulting detective.
When called for information, DI Lestrade was more then helpful.
"The photographs were taken by an anonymous source of our three primary suspects, Jude Park, Terrance Morgan and Kerion Connors, outside a residence in Cardiff." Lestrade explains. "The source managed to capture pictures of incriminating documents. The subject of the documents is classified, but I can say they point to involvement with one 'Jim Moriarty'. The photographs were very clear for a night time shot, so we believe the photographer to be a professional, with professional equipment. Other then that, we have no leads as to the identity of our good Samaritan."
Photographs linking a man many claim to not exist to three known criminals, dropped off to the one DI who has openly supported the late great Sherlock Holmes? Could this be yet another supporter of our favourite consulting detective?
The information provided by one Henry Knight has been pivotal in re-opening the cases on Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes, by providing concrete proof that much of what he was accused of by the media would be almost impossible for one man to accomplish.
Knight, an influential investor, offered ten thousand pounds to the person who could bring him solid, legal proof that Sherlock Holmes was innocent and Moriarty was real. Having seen the file provided by an internet-savvy Cardiff native (and shared a fair bit of it with all of you, I'm a rather generous guy), I'm more then confident that… (Continued page two)