Chapter 3
A few weeks later, the revealed case of the journalist died down, the case left unsolved. While it was obvious the sheer blood loss was the cause of her death, there was no evidence what-so-ever to lead the police to the killer. Tiny holes lined her neck enough for string to go through, her wind pipe ripped to shreds within her and her last few breaths replaced with coughing up pints of blood. Editors broke out into a brawl over their own theories and sublimely messaging who's side they were on; the dead journalist and Sherlock or the supposed 'general public' and the murderer.
John ignored the rising number of scowls aimed at him by miserable patients, trying to take interest in absolutely anything but the looks. The distinctly secret rise in crime was one of them, only appearing before John after Lestrade's own words. Sadly, the interest caused him to start looking through newspapers more than usual, and did not realise what he was doing until suggesting an interesting case to an empty chair at the end of the room.
Christmas came and went, though this year was slightly more enjoyable than the last with it being so soon after the suicide. This year, he spent hours talking to Mrs Hudson, seeing Lestrade at the pub and for once smiling. Even Donovan and Anderson's scowling presence from the table in the corner couldn't stop the two good friends and co-workers of Sherlock Holmes having a laugh.
Stranger things were yet to emerge.
"Ain't you meant'a be dead?"
"Raz's friends I presume? Here to assist me in a little project?"
"Just so you know, we're to'ally on your side!"
"Your friend doesn't seem so keen."
"What?"
"You do know I can easily tell who's lying and who's telling me the truth?"
"So you can say I'm tellin' the truth!"
" And like I said previously, your companion seems to disagree."
"He just hates smartass pricks, that all."
"So be it. Now my patience is wearing thin and we're running out of time. Ready to go give London a New Year message?"
"Lead the way, Lord Smartass…"
"Don't make me demonstrate how to knock a man unconscious with a single punch, there really aren't enough nearby volunteers present."
An 11am starter was impossible to wish for, 10 am a miracle, 9am rare and 8am uncommon. Despite the main signs of a distracting hangover and only falling asleep by 2am, possibly later, John could never help waking up as early as this when the nightmares returned. 5 or 6am starts left him tired, cranky and beyond emotional unstable.
Nearly breaking into an argument with the toaster when the toast wouldn't come out, and the jam jar because the lid got stuck, finally sitting down to watch the news was a relief. It certainly wasn't the best start to New Year. With a steaming cup of tea beside him and toast burnt around the edges with jam on the top, the morning was so far allowing a decent recovery rate from the effects of last night's nightmares. John refused to see a specialist.
Sometimes the nightmares were the only things that helped him remember what his best friend looked like.
The early morning was bland, uneventful. An overlook of New Year celebrations, updates on the economy, the government, weather and the general nonsense occurring in London. With a bitter cold in the air while the frosty sin rose over a snowy London, John lit the tiny fire and decided to finally start taking down the few festive decorations and ornaments, placing them carefully back in their boxes. My midday he had put the boxes away in a storage cupboard among the boxes filled with scientific equipment he'd never use, dare not touch. The flat was back to its usual state, empty yet cosy from the mess of papers, books and the small fire crackling away.
He heard the knocker of the front door clatter as it was slammed shut and footsteps tapped on the wooden stairs.
"Oh, you've taken down the decorations by yourself?" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, placing a bag of shopping on the table.
"It's kept me occupied this morning…" answered John quietly. Mrs Hudson was the only one who knew that the nightmares were causing him lack of sleep; in fact she was the only one who knew John was suffering from lack of sleep in general.
"You poor thing… If you're not too tired could you put the telly on?" she asked kindly while putting away some of the shopping she'd got for John.
"Something happen while you were out?" he asked, finding the remote. The news started as Mrs Hudson stood by him while he sat in his armchair.
"There was some commotion by a wall as the taxi drove past, very strange-" She was cut off as the news story appeared on the television. At first it was just a reporter in front of an observing crowd, and then it cut to what was on the wall. What had caused so much attention, such a large crowd?
John couldn't believe his eyes.
Believe in Sherlock Holmes
Three locations, three different walls. One message. The media exploded and an editorial war broke out. The side John wished was winning… wasn't. So many papers stuck with their views from last year and so disapproving the messages graffitied on the walls of such busy areas. Few papers spoke out for the dead genius; it was proclaimed the graffiti was both a 'tribute to Sherlock Holmes' and 'a sad memorial to Jane Milton, the journalist recently murdered and the possible cause of these messages'. That one woman had sparked something among those who were on Sherlock's side, but then that spark was quickly diminished. It was that very murder that was keeping the 'believers', as they were now called, in the dark. It seemed even more likely to John that was what the murderer wanted in the first place.
It left the disapprovers of Sherlock Holmes to share their outrage in ten second interviews with members of the public, bias articles cleverly warped to seem completely in line with publishing rules. No-one wanted to be seen, to be heard, all in fear of being hunted down and shunned by society.
By the end of January, the only one of the first three sites had survived, the last one standing strong, secretly re-painted at night when it began to fade. There was little coverage, but it some channels reported about the message being painted throughout London in back alleys and popular graffiti sites. The nameless, faceless artists who dwelled in the shadows and were the current hope for the believers.
John was sure that the silent war would be won, but then who was he to predict the future. Yet if he made any attempt to utter a single word in his quietest tone, the world would stamp him out like a flame with the believers simply watching on in the crowd they didn't want to be among.
By the early days of June, the stories and coverage had long been forgotten. Yet the war continued, the main forces being the faceless artists of the London night and the unrelenting power of the media. Then there was John, silent, ordinary, trying to avoid any mix-up in it and completely bitter at times.
As the months had passed when the New Year started, he slightly wished the graffiti had never started. It gave the wrong message, breaking the law made it look like all believers in Sherlock were law-breakers, hooligans, unwanted members of society. He was happy more that there were others who believed, people fighting for the truth, yet seeing the graffiti made him tense up and bite his lip.
His reaction varied; simple messages like 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes', the original message or similar messages were enough for him to deal with on bad days, but fully blown scales of art, some with attempted portraits or silhouettes of the man plucked at his memories and left him fuming. But that was bad days. On normal days he ignored. On good days a smile may appear on his face.
Back in mid-March, not only had the war nearly fully taken to the shadows, but a war was happening within the force of the believers, however they luckily continued to fight the media, whatever their belief. It was the battle of those who believed in Sherlock, Moriarty and both men. 'Moriarty was real', taken from the Milton article, was the message that sparked the feud. At first John was unsure what to make of the believers in Moriarty but he had met that man. He was as real as his best friend. His reactions to the graffiti were similar to that of Sherlock's, but a smile never went towards the believers of Moriarty.
Sherlock was the true genius fighting the twisted mind of Moriarty.
The equal and opposite of each other.
March always seemed like a quiet month, few parties, holidays, and not many illnesses going round. The clinic was quiet, calm, and somewhat peaceful. Days were long but relaxed; his mind could work at a nice pace to keep up with the lack of sleep.
Though it wasn't a quiet month for someone else, for during the last hour of a Thursday work-shift, the last one John was having for that week, his phone vibrated and a text appeared.
Drink at the pub tonight?
Can catch up on life.
-GL
They met up at a nearby pub to Baker Street, Lestrade waving from a small table in the corner, two beers already at the table. It was a generally still night, the general background noise of clanking glasses, heavy footsteps and muffled chatter. John sat down calmly, smiling at his old friend. Conversation grew quickly, John mentioning the average days at work, the regular visits to the gravestone, Mrs Hudson making him feel less lonely at 221B and dealing with life, not mentioning the nightmares. Lestrade replied with occupying himself at work, still getting over the reality of the divorce. Despite his best efforts, Lestrade didn't quite hide the horror Sherlock's death brought to him, leaving a hole in career, and secretly his life. His shaky inability to know where to take his next step in a case reflected badly on that very fact.
Due to their similar friendships, conversation of the graffiti incident arose, but it didn't last long. They were both on the same side, they nod need to disagree or argue.
"So, how's the secret rise in crime going anyway?" asked John, taking his final down of his second pint as Lestrade came back with two more. Lestrade was soundless at first, intentionally taking a sip before answering.
"Staying the same," he answered, but lowered his voice, raising suspicion from John. "Despite the rise growing with every incident related with Sherlock, especially murders, we've had, and been able, to keep them away from the press…"
"I don't understand," said John blankly, keeping his voice very quiet though. Lestrade looked around, trying to decide whether it was safe to talk or not.
"I want to tell you, but it could jeopardize my whole career if the wrong person hears."
"Then we can go back to 221B to talk…" Lestrade sighed, nodded at the suggestion and downed his pint.
"Fine, but you go ahead. I need to get something from the car."
Later in the evening, after exiting the pub and heading through the dark streets of London, they were back at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson seemed occupied and the flat was dark when they headed upstairs. John made tea; Lestrade turned on the lights and placed a small pile of brown files on the desk. Eventually they were sat opposite each other at the desk, John waiting for Lestrade to talk.
"Well?"
"I said the crime rate increase has been linked to incidents with Sherlock right? It's this bloody 'war' going on!" started Lestrade, still quiet but slow, trying to decide how to explain. He occasionally looked up at John who was patiently looking on at him with a cup of tea in his hand, making him looked wise beyond his years while Lestrade looked back at the scratches on the wood.
"How can all this crime possibly be linked to a war?" asked John in disbelief. He couldn't imagine people being harmed due to a non-existent war.
"When that article was printed last year Jane Milton was found dead the next day. That's not it. After the graffiti on New Year, one of the three supposed artists behind the stunt was found dead, in a dumpster on the outskirts of London. We continued that investigation on for well over a month among other cases linked to the rising 'alley war'. Believers in Sherlock and Moriarty, civilians and graffiti artists alike were being mugged, some even murdered if they had strong beliefs or ties with Sherlock."
"I presume all he murders were solved?"
"No, but this is where it gets strange," started Lestrade, opening the top case file, showing the murder file on the graffiti artist, a photo of the young man's body in a dumpster, blood surrounding his body. John didn't have time to read how he died. "We were in-undated with cases. Some murders and assaults we could solve thanks to CCTV and because they were by drunken bastards, extremists and gits. Some were just too easy. Sadly, two cases of manslaughter because three drunken lads beat up a woman who mentioned Sherlock to a friend she was walking with. Beat her till she bled to death while her friend got away. The other was a bunch of kids picking on some young boy who claimed to know Sherlock because of his parents. They ran away when a punch to the head stopped him moving. It's been tragic these past few days. However, some cases we couldn't get our heads around, just like the Milton murder and this one…" The manslaughter cases left Lestrade a little choked up, especially the one with children, bringing up a deep fear for his children come to light. John wished he could say something sympathetic, but what could he say?
"But?"
"Just as we were about to close up the artist case, I found this." Lestrade turned the page of the file, took away the plastic wallet clipped there and handed the contents to John.
It was a sleek feather longer than the length of his palm and black as night, with a few clips round the edge from where it had gotten battered.
"Is this a raven's feather?" John exclaimed. Ravens were the only the black bird he thought of now, the only bird that seemed to be present in the graveyard. Lestrade shook his head.
"I had it examined by a specialist after we found the artist's murderer. It's of no bird or any creature for that matter."
"Wait, this helped you find the murderer!?"
"It had been placed on the desk. I thought at first it was some sort of assassins mark, you know, like the Black Lotus origami flower?"
"I see what you mean. Is it?"
"It would have been if this wasn't underneath it," Lestrade answered, sliding the profile of a middle-aged man to him. "We found out the same bloke was a highly trained assassin who killed the artist. There are theories he had old connections with Moriarty. The point is when we asked him about the feather he knew nothing."
"So what is this?" asked John in confusion, waving the feather slightly. Lestrade finished a sip of his tea and laid back in his chair.
"A godsend. A miracle. The first of many." He spread the rest of the case files out, all with different amounts of the same black feathers, slightly varying in size, but certainly from the same creature. "As the cases related to the war rose, more of the feathers began appearing at murder scenes, either when we got there or when we checked the next day. They've helped solve some difficult cases that we would possibly have never solved if not for their existence. As you can imagine, Donovan, Anderson and a lot of other officers believed them to be the mark of an assassin or some serial killer."
"Why so many for each case?"
"Because they usually form some sort of trail. A trail leading us to a piece of evidence that helps us locate the killer, or sometimes it even forms a trail leading us straight to the killer! We dare not make any case public which contains these Black Markers."
"And these 'Black Markers' are simply these feathers?"
"They've turned into a good omen for murder cases. Always get us to the killer."
"Sounds like something Sherlock would do…" mumbled John, staring at the sleek feather in his palm.
"My thoughts exactly…"