Chapter 2)
The everyday bore of work, but the desperate need for money in the day's current economy meant he had no choice but to follow through with the dreary hours. Patients walking in and out with coughs, colds, aches, pains and pale children, all slowly tapping away at the medical knowledge the doctor possessed. He could have a better job, longer hours, something to take his full focus. He could never bring himself to do it, to take on a full time job, for his full time job was killed along with him. However, the visit to the gravestone had left him in a better mood, smiling a little more around each patient, but over the next two days he noticed that the smiles weren't always returned.
Some patients scowled at him behind their eyes. John would have let it go unnoticed, thinking it to be some fear or anger at doctors. But at the same time patients who walked in to ask for medication or be diagnosed sometimes looked a little as they smiled at him, some sort of hidden wonder and respect. A young girl who was only eight, unaccompanied by her parents simply walked in and walked out, leaving a small rose alone on the table. John barely had time to question the young girl, before she even left the clinic.
With no-one to say a friendly 'Good night' to after Sarah had left for a different hospital and replaced with a grumpy overweight lady, he continued home that Friday evening still bemused by the differing reactions of people over the past few days.
The bitter afternoon wind caused him to leave the group of strangers huddled round an enlarged article in Speedy's Café window unnoticed, heading straight up to his lonely flat and going about his normal routine. A cup of tea, the telly on low and the entire evening to read through newspapers and catching up on the events of the past few days, always reminding him of when he'd be searching through for interesting cases for his friend to solve that he could then blog about.
Nearing the end of Wednesday's headlines, he skimmed over pages for any interesting stories that could leave a smile on his face or containing a possible warning of the future. It was dull, meaningless, until he saw a photo that made him choke on a sip of his tea. He looked over the other images and had to lay the paper out on the coffee table to stop it staining with specks of tea.
"Mrs Hudson!" He stared at the article for a few moments as the old lady walked up the stairs, seeming happy and content but now worried at his outburst.
"Is everything alright, dear?" John was breathing sharply and stood up, completely ignoring his limp and handing the paper to her. She smiled before looking down. "Have you read the papers recently then?"
"Why wasn't I told about this? You read the papers, why not leave it out for me to see? Did you even know this was out for the whole of the London, no, the whole the country to read?" John snapped slightly, trying to hold back his angered breath at the friendly landlady. She simply looked at the article more closely and gasped.
"I'm don't know what you're talking ab- Oh!" She exclaimed, beginning to read through the article silently, looking up at John now and again to see if he was still there, but he stood and looked at her like a stone statue. Knowing he also wanted to read it, she went over and laid the newspaper out fully on the desk, both focusing on the tiny article barely readable in the corner of the right page and the images just recognisable from the shrunken quality.
In Memory of a True Genius
By Jane Milton
People always tell me, even after a year, that he was never true. Even after a year people still tell me that the man was a fake, that the two men who were the two separate sides of the spectrum were fakes. Even after a year I still answer that nothing will change by belief in that true fact neither of them were fakes in the slightest form. The only fake attributes to these two men were whatever their immediate images portrayed.
At first-hand experience I saw the man who everyone judged, everyone eventually began pointing the finger at because they themselves couldn't process his abilities or because it gave the 'trustworthy' press a nice story to mould by taking the side of the man who was genuinely evil. The man I believe to be the genius he was, forced into his suicide was far from fake, after watching him help solve a case involving the disappearance and then murder of my uncle.
A mind and man that should have been respected and cherished was torn apart and thrown away, but I stand believing that the man was genuine, a shadowed hero there to help those who are lost in the mess of life, even if he shows the complete lack of interest in it. Everyone is different, but sometimes the difference can be so great that modern society can't cope with it. It was modern society that brought this man down but I will stand, along with anyone who stands with me that we believe.
I say it now:
I believe in Sherlock Holmes.
But what's more, is that I do not just believe in this great man, I believe in his enemy. But the man who committed the 'daylight robberies' all in one, the man who held contacts with organisations and gangs whom he could easily provide the power to hurt us, is our enemy too. We simply had no way of fighting him. Only one man knew how. While out greatest enemy may be dead, a man with a mind almost parallel in the superiority to the first, it doesn't change the reality that he was the reason that so many crimes happened, why so many people were taken from their homes, or even killed. The enemy I speak of is more genuine than local gangs living round the corner from your house. He and Sherlock Holmes were the two most real men the world will have ever known.
James Moriarty was real.
These two were real, both real and nothing will change the views of me and the people by my side. Never stop believing, in them and those around you.
It's been one year, and I leave you with this.
Sorry, and thank you, Mr Holmes.
John sat, reading through the article through several times and looking at the three pictures bunched at the bottom of the article, their captions small and short. The first picture was his old friend walking away from a case they'd solved, looking away from the camera and hidden anger at the impolite press, the simple caption of 'The great Sherlock Holmes' underneath. The second picture, the court case photo of Moriarty, with his smug grin spread across the skinny photo, 'Jim Moriarty, once our enemy.' But the last picture, the famous picture, and the reason he had been given the funny looks or the sympathetic smiles. The famous first photo of his friend in the deerstalker and John himself hidden behind wearing a worn down hat, trying to hide their faces with failure, and the longest caption, 'The consulting detective Sherlock Holmes and his assistant/blogger John Watson.'
There were more out there who were on the side John would always stand firmly on, after one year of believing he was alone with the few friends he had in holding this view, and after one year drowning in the pain he sees this. It could never have been published straight after, not with the papers roaring on about how it was all one great lie, nothing was true, just an act for childish attention involving the lives of others. Even now this article must have been just published, what with such a large article shoved into the dingy corner of the last few pages. Deep down John hoped, even prayed, that he would not be the only one to read this.
He looked out the window, the sun beginning to set over the city. He still had nearly three hours before the darkness of the night would become a threat if he walked round the city, so decided he needed to make his trip fast, but calm. He needed to go to the cemetery, to go and sit at the bench, to look at his friend buried in the ground.
The bitter air made no way to stop him, trudging along with his crutch tapping against the ground or splashing in a puddle. Three ravens squawked at him from the cemetery fence as he started along the path towards the bench. He remained quiet, taking his seat, staring at the ground, recovering while still letting fragments of the article waver through his mind. He looked up, wanting to let the worries and memories of the past few days wash over.
The gravestone he looked to told a different story.
Slowly approaching through the damp grass, the shiny, black tombstone still in place still engraved with the familiar gold letters, but there was colour. A small bunch of flowers had originally been placed by Mrs Hudson and Molly at the anniversary, but now there was more, more colours, more flowers, even two candles, their flames extinguished after burning for hours.
There were believers, whether they had read the article or not. He was not alone. A lump formed in his throat, seeing the true belief that people actually possessed in his friend, hiding that opinion from society. He walked over and placed his hand on the grave, trying to find the words to quickly tell his friend how he felt, what the other believers felt, in just enough words before he choked on his own tears.
A single, deep breath.
"We still believe in you Sherlock, always have, and always will. The others and I, friends and believers alike, miss you…" He gulped; knowing though-out words were going unheard. He looked at his reflection in the stone, his hand resting against the top. "And I'm still waiting for that miracle…" He scoffed at himself, before walking away for an immediate trip home, unable to spend another second there without wanting to cry till the sun rose the next day. A raven on his spot on the bench kept its beady eyes firmly on him as he walked home.
John Watson was a lonely believer.
Joy and sorrow, two emotions he rarely experienced at the same time and not ones he was sure were right at the present time. The very next morning, after watching repetitive Saturday morning TV and unable to talk to Mrs Hudson as she was out at a doctor's appointment for her hip, John searched around for his battered mobile phone. Texts weren't going to be enough for what he had to say. With a quick speed-dial he held the mobile phone to his ear, hearing the dialling tone while looking at the news article in his lap. In the seconds he'd waited he'd skimmed over the article several times and always ending with his eyes on the picture of him and his old friend.
"Hello, is that John?"
"Greg!" John exclaimed at the answer. "Listen, have you got some time to talk?" He kept himself calm, so that he didn't splutter gibberish in excitement or mumbling from memories returning of the good days.
"I'm currently heading to a crime scene, but I have minute or two if you're quick. What's the problem?"
"Have you been reading the newspapers recently?"
"If you knew the truth about the amount of work I have right now you'd know why I haven't…" The mumbled tone almost painted an image of Lestrade walking along with stress enveloping the detective inspector's eyes.
"Have Anderson and Donovan been whispering lately? I think I could give you a reason why."
"When they're not talking about their heated love affair? Be a bloody miracle!" The laugh from Lestrade sounded like he needed it.
"They might try and keep the paper away from you, because I'm currently looking at a memorial article for Sher- Damn it…" John mentally cursed himself more harshly. He was so close to overcoming this stupid inability to say the man's name. "You know who I mean." He could almost hear Lestrade stopping in his tracks as his brain repeated what John had said over and over again.
"Someone wrote a memorial article on him!?"
"How many times do you want me to say it? Someone called Jane Milton wrote it an-"
"BLOODY HELL!" Lestrade shouted through the phone, though John clearly heard the hissing on Greg's lips as he stopped himself from cursing worse. "She wrote that!?"
"You know her?"
"Not until now," answered Lestrade, his voice lowering, almost mourning. "The crime scene I'm heading to… It's a murder scene. She's dead, John. The journalist is dead."
"You sure?" Unknown as to why, John felt empty. Yet it was plainly obvious. A voice brave enough to speak for Sherlock was now dead. They had been silenced for life.
"Let's just say I now know why my two 'colleagues' were more than a little interested when I said the women's name," he quietly hissed. "I have to go. Stay strong, Watson."
"Talk to you soon…"
Carelessly, he let the phone drop into his lap as the silence fell and some subconscious hope faded as it came forward. Murdered, all because of someone trying to hold a voice for Sherlock Holmes, the genius lying dead in the ground, the very thing that killed him. John tried to tell himself, convince himself, it was coincidence, or for a previous article written or even for mentioning Moriarty! They were outweighed by the first reason, the sheer meaning it held above all the others.
Someone wanted no voice of Sherlock Holmes to be heard, and whoever they were, wherever they were, they were willing to kill for it.