Chapter 5

Despite the fear the storm of ravens struck within John and the others, he went back alone to the gravestone the next day while the sun was just beginning to rise, meaning he could avoid the noisy traffic of rush hour and walk the streets alone. He wanted to mentally relive the event and see the flash of blue pale eyes he was certain he saw. There were a few ravens, crows and other black-feathered birds he spotted amongst the spindly branches of the cemetery trees, about eleven in total as he walked towards the dark slab.

A familiar sight was presented to him from last year. Flowers and several candles from believers, but there was more. There were sealed envelopes from people of varying ages judging by the handwriting and quality of stationary, most likely containing either thanks or requests to solve a case that would now go unread. Then, in the dissolving darkness, he saw the glint of metal buried underneath the items left. It was two metal cylinders, vibrant yellow packaging and a dusting of daisy yellow specks at the top of the cylinders, leaking onto blades of grass below.

Spray cans.

It brought a smile to his lips and even a silent laugh. Little did any of them know the bravery he saw in them all for even looking at his grave, one of few to know about the murders occurring to silence noisy believers.

"I thought I might find you here." John looked up to see Lestrade walking over, a sealed cup of coffee in his hands.

"Then we know each other too well," joked John for what seemed the first time in a long while. Lestrade smiled back, standing next to him and looking down at the golden letters, his empty hand in his pocket.

"I'll know you too well when I figure out why you put up with Sherlock all those years," he said quietly, and despite where he was, John's smile simply grew. "Fair to say we spent equal time trying not to punch him."

"Can I admit something to you?" John asked, looking at the DI from the corner of his eye. Despite his personal promise to tell no-one of what he saw, he couldn't hold on to it, and furthermore, Greg Lestrade seemed the only trustworthy man to tell. In Sherlock's death their friendship grew and an air of trust had grown between them, alongside a similar look in both their eyes that showed their belief in Sherlock Holmes.

The belief he was true. And the belief he wasn't dead.

"Surprise me. If it's about yesterday though, pah, I have no explanation about whatever that was." He sipped his cooling coffee and subtly looked around for any large flocks roosting in a nearby tree.

"Did you see anything in the swarm?" he asked. He didn't want to say what he saw immediately, he knew it would throw Lestrade off.

"That wasn't a bird?" There was a small pause and Lestrade didn't look John in the eye. "No…" John looked over this pause despite how much it bothered him. Lestrade began picking up on his question. "Did you?" John gave a small shuffle on the spot.

"Yes… I saw something." He stood straighter and held his head high so that he didn't clam up when he would finally admit. He saw Lestrade looking round at him worried.

"What?"

"Eyes… I saw human eyes." Lestrade coughed a little and didn't look at him, not even a glance in his direction, now even looking at John's reflection in the gravestone. "They were his eyes… Pale blue, serious, and looking down at me. Of course, if you don't believe me that's fine." The silence carried on too long for John to feel safe, certain Lestrade was judging what he just said and considering the army doctor was beginning to lose his mind, or had already lost it. He moved to leave, his back to the gravestone, when Lestrade finally spoke, quiet and suddenly ashamed.

"Wait." John stopped, but did not turn to look round at him. "I confess. I think I saw something. Not necessarily someone, but something hidden among the ravens, in front of you."

"So at least I'm not going mad…" John said straight away, quiet and blunt. The desperate need to lighten the mood hit him. "Or we both are." Lestrade's laughter broke it, and John felt himself smile too, turning back around to spend a few more minutes with his friend… Friends.

"I owe a lot to him you know. Annoying as he was among other things, he helped." Lestrade's eyes glazed over with memories, probably to do with how the consulting detective had helped the DI rise further in his career.

"I too. But the 'London battlefield' went with him, and I lost so much with it…" John said, reminiscing running through the streets to chase down serial killers and taking down a Chinese smuggling gang. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like if he came back?"

"You mean aside from the obvious hook to the face?" Lestrade joked. "I'd stand by his side more. I know you'd be with him every step he took but I'd make sure he didn't go to the dogs like last time, no matter what anyone says. I'd be content just to be there to hand him a gun if necessary, protect lives like he did. He did more than we ever thanked or credited him for. I fell into the trap of mockery and hate towards him, not stepping back and looking at what was becoming of him in those last few days, what Moriarty and the world was pushing towards him. I was blind to see that he was always a good man…"

"Stand by his side till the last day. No better person to fight alongside."

"Damn right… Sadly that chance has been and gone with him…"

Sadly they had to part, the dawning hours of work calling both men. John didn't feel the same after he left the graveyard though. Not from his conversation with Lestrade, not from his growing certainty he saw his eyes in the storm of birds… But the horrid feeling he was being followed. It continued on throughout the days, eyes watching him from afar during work. A brisk walk home to the safety of Baker Street didn't diminish this feeling and when he was within the safe walls of 221B, the feeling clung on. He looked out the window, down into the darkening street below. No living human was there, except a small shadow atop a railing opposite. The shadow flew and landed on the railing in front of the window. A crow, beady eyes looking round at him every few seconds, perched.

Coincidence.

The next morning, John sat down in his armchair with yesterday's paper, the cold morning light illuminating the room. A small sound of movement. Feathered movement. He spotted larger black eyes outside, that of a young raven.

Bloody coincidence.

He resisted the temptation of throwing his mug at the window to scare the bird away, but he could sense this bird would be persistent. It was silent anyway, just sitting at the window railing and looking round the room or street, sometimes staring at John for several minutes at a time, while he hid everything in front of him, including the raven, behind his newspaper.

"Ignore them," said an unclear tone, yet the unmistakable voice of one man. John knew what was happening from how distant the voice sounded.

"As I shall ignore you," replied John, looking over the top of his newspaper and into the eyes that was the figment of his imagination, sitting in the armchair opposite, the complete, translucent body unable to block the view of the silent observer out the window, whose eyes now remained fixed on John. The only solid colour on the hallucination was the crimson dried on the skin and hair of his face.

"Was it me you saw, or has my lack of presence somehow, yet finally, poisoned your perfectly healthy mind?" asked the unreal Sherlock. John slammed his paper down and stared at the dead white eyes. He was lucky Mrs Hudson wasn't around to hear him having a conversation with, technically, himself.

"I believe so. Now do me a favour and make your unreal-self disappear," he grumbled, preferring for the images of Sherlock to drift out of existence into mist on the spot or when he left through the door, like he would eventually return. Not disappearing after a long blink where John's brain had cut off the unknown part of his conscience causing the unhealthy hallucinations.

"Why, when I am real?" he asked causally, brandishing a violin and bow out of black mist.

"But you're not! My mind is playing cruel tricks on me when doing this. Leave now or I'll cut you out myself…"

"You could try." The smirk on his face was hidden. "Maybe your distinct lack of sleep has caused you to develop extreme micro-dreams?" John was about to take the long blink and end the conversation, but was occupied registering what had just happened. The hallucinations never questioned him this way, and nor had they ever, ever, deduced something about him…

"You must miss me, to wait that long to blink…" John nearly growled at Sherlock but the almost clear indication of pain in his voice drew him back. Not wanting to deal with any more unreal talk, he slammed his eyes shut.

"Well?" He opened them in shock to see the ghost still sitting. Ghost? No, they didn't exist, surely not. John asked himself questions with his astonished gaze fixed on him.

"You're in my head!" John exclaimed. The image rose from the seat, black and white mist swirling with him, parting and joining him, flicking away into nothing as Sherlock waved the bow about and played the violin, but with no sound being made from it. "Wait, what were you saying about dreams? Micro dreams? Is this one?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Whichever this may be for you, it is not what I'm here to talk about it," he answered bluntly, his back to John as he looked out into the suddenly darkened street. The army doctor stood, refusing to feel intimidated by a false image.

"So you're just here to mock me? As you've always done." He wasn't happy with what he said last, but the irritation that a simple hallucination was causing him made him blurt it out.

"I would never mock you, John Watson. I said talk, not mock," he corrected. The strange guilt and pain in his voice at the first words became abundant.

"Then what? Just tell me because you're causing me more pain being here than being dead in the ground." He cursed himself at the poor choice of words, holding back every curse towards himself. Every time he saw images of Sherlock it ate away at him, seeing what could be the living man. It made the hope he was alive grow and diminish when he left, when John went back and saw the gravestone.

"I do not have much time left, so I will say what I can." Sherlock's voice was becoming more distant. He began turning, first seeing the plastered crimson and then the dead eyes, several shades darker than before. The violin and bow had disappeared from his hands in curls of mist. The mist began swirling much more, white mist trailing around the room up to John's ankles, while the black mist curled around the back of Sherlock. In the growing mist, black mist formed similar sized shapes and darted round the room. John immediately guessed them to be black feathered birds. He kept his unease at bay, standing tall, fists clenched.

"Well, what do you have to say, after so long?"

"In death, friendship can be born. The truth is rising like the darkened dead and the dead refuses to fall back. The web I know is collapsing and soon I will no longer be a ghost to you. War is soon to consume this world, and you will be part of it, for the voices have spoken…"

"Voices? What voices!?" John exclaimed. Time was up. Sherlock continued to talk but his voice was too distant to hear. The sorrow in the dead eyes was how John knew Sherlock wished he could hear each other speak. As the noiseless speaking continued, the black mists birds began cawing in unison. It grew louder with each round and the mist began growing thick from the ground until John could barely see the black of Sherlock's hair, clothes and strange eyes. The cawing grew to a deafening level. It all ended when the glass shattered, wood turned to flying splinters and the mist of air, birds and Sherlock disappeared in the unseen explosion.

"SHERLOCK!"

There was silence, and then a single caw, awakening him abruptly from the scene of white. His eyes darted open just in time to see a black shape disappear from the window, just hearing the flapping wings.

"Are you alright, dear?" John flinched round as he turned in surprise, but letting out a sigh of relief to see Mrs Hudson at the door. "I heard a clatter." Quickly looking round he saw his mug of tea that had been resting on the side of the armchair, now spilt on the floor.

"Sorry, I'll clear that up," mumbled John, sorting himself and standing up. Mrs Hudson simply looked at him with concern.

"You really must catch up on your sleep, it's not good for you…" She left as John didn't give any sign of speaking.

When the landlady had left and John had cleared up his mess from knocking the mug in his dream, he went to his desk and opened his laptop. At first he stared at the desktop screen going over the dream he saw in his head, a dream he refused to believe. The sight of Sherlock in his mind, how real it had been mixed with the blood on his face and what he said nearly caused John to start sobbing as he trembled. He chose to stop himself, by typing up what Sherlock had said to him, the apparent 'message' he needed to pass on.

He read through the message, sure he had everything down. Then he remembered the cawing and felts his fists clench till his knuckles turned white.

This left him thinking. Ravens at the cemetery and seeing Sherlock's eyes, ravens made of mist in the dream, a raven and a crow following him home. Birds with black feathers everywhere, ravens leading the way wherever he went.

The sudden epiphany led him to researching the very bird. Scrolling through pages of information, at first stating the nature of the birds, feeding, surviving. Yet nothing on swarms flying around people or following single people home.

Then he narrowed his search; the symbolism of ravens. Many spirit sites showed up, some stating links to certain personality traits in people if a raven was their supposed spirit animal.

No, among the pages of opinions linking ravens to being omens of death and the evil in black magic, there was one thing that caught John's full attention.

It spoke that unknown to many, in the depths of history; ravens were not always symbols of negative aspects in life, despite being the preferred symbol. Ravens, in the past, were once the positive symbolism for one thing.

Knowledge.

No other black feathered bird shared a meaning as powerful. Despite childhood memories about the 'wise old owls' or any other intelligent animal, never did John ever think ravens once, and possibly still do, stand to represent 'knowledge'.

And only one man with the almost physical relations to the bird would suit to its meaning, to possess great knowledge, and in death cause the strange acts of ravens and birds seen alongside it.

Sherlock Holmes.