Chapter 6

The dream had without a doubt shaken him, but John remained calm. He was catching up on his sleep all of a sudden, which would hopefully stop any more mind boggling dreams to occur, but he secretly hoped it wouldn't stop him seeing the bearable hallucinations when he was awake.

The world felt like it was spinning at a rate neither his mind nor body could keep up with. He couldn't be the only one suffering this way.

Yet a month after New Year, long after the dream had occurred, one thing stayed with him. Parts of what Sherlock had said… When he occasionally couldn't sleep at night he would look at the final section of the transcript of the scene. The strange passage that only Sherlock Holmes would say, yet he was dead. He was sure he had figured out one section, the first, simple sentence in a matter of months. Yet the rest left him uncertain, sometimes scared or enthralled, wondering if the impossible had happened or leaving him clueless in every possible way.

Yet all that was a lie, a secret he kept well hidden from the others. There was another secret, one quickly growing to be a problem, and a now shady part of his life. The dark embodiments of knowledge appeared wherever he went, following him like the plague. It still agitated him when he heard the shrieks and cries of the knowledge birds or their lesser species, but he quickly accepted the creatures as just another silent part of the scenery every day.

Wasn't this too much? Wasn't he driving his friend to the brink? Would the lights in the air and the voices in his head eventually fade forever? Was the reflection he saw at night of a blackened soul and living ghost really him?

Why had this ever happened?

Why was he so special?

Why?

Late August, the British weather bleak as ever, and leaving London in its usual grey overcast. The summer had been the warmest and the brightest after the past three years. Perhaps the world was lighting up. It was the sign John wanted. Despite the freaky dream many months ago and the stalking flyers, the weather had proven to be a little boost to possibly start looking on the positive even more.

A smile was more present on his face as Lestrade pointed very quickly that day, spending the free Saturday afternoon in the pub with the army doctor. Mrs Hudson had been congratulating John on the regain of his lost sleep, not just the final recovery from John's troublesome limp. Though he still had the nightmares on a never-ending basis, he dedicated a week's holiday from work resting. The man was a rejuvenated figure, the best he'd been since…

In death, friendship is born…

"I was just glad to see the kids that week. No matter how many times I buggered up," finished Lestrade, telling John about his week off during the summer, also improving in life despite his own blow from the Fall and the hellish divorce. A nice week away in the pleasant summer with his family was what the DI had needed, for he too seemed to be more positive as well, influencing each other's improvements. A roar of cheers from a group of fans broke out from the corner, holding their pint glasses high at a football game they were watching on the tiny pub television, all huddled round wearing the colours of their team.

"Reckon you'll see them again?" John asked. Lestrade shrugged with a smile.

"Dunno. Hey, have you seen your sister lately?" John lowered his head.

"I haven't really talked to her much. Communication sort of broke down after, ya know. But as far as I've heard she's doing well," he answered, having to raise his voice a little over the mob of men.

"Life's finally turning around." They shared a small toast over another loud, roaring cheer from the crowds of the pub.

A while after half of the pub had left including most of the celebrating men from the match on the T.V, John and Greg exited the pub, waiting for a taxi to drive by and watching the drunken football fans wobble away in fits of laughter. John found the almost normal scene quite pleasant; the grumpy fans of the losing side in the pub and drinking away their team's failure, the happy groups wondering the street among the simple passers-by and the darkening sky, a the glow of the city growing very far away, despite the last few hours left of the sun's light. Darkened alleys, scavenging pigeons, growling cars, it was an almost cliché scene of London.

Yet among this entire scene, stood a beady-eyed shadow, which would have blended in as John's brain had recently become programmed to do, but this shadow stared. No noise, no movement except an almost undetectable breeze ruffling its feathers. It was perched on the edge of a window railing, next to a dark alley on the street opposite. The strange air and stare of the raven would have kept his full attention, allowing him time to figure out why he recognised this particular bird, if not for the silhouette in the alley next to it. As he began to make out what the figure was wearing and what he was doing, John attempted to make a joke of it to take his mind of the bird's stare.

"Shouldn't you be arresting him?" joked John, grinning as he pointed towards the alley, the artist idly defiling the public wall with bright yellow paint, the idle hand tucked in the pocket of their black jacket pocket. The artist was hooded, face completely hidden, clothes dark and hard to see in the shade of the alley, the only colour truly visible were the tattered, dirt covered, blue converse shoes the person wore, the stitching were holes had been fixed rather clear. John wasn't sure why, but he was glad they couldn't be seen easily.

"I would if I wasn't so solidly on his side," answered Lestrade, casually leaning against the wall, nodding at the artist's work. John tilted his head to see round the alley better. A member of their side, they were a believer spraying a copy of the original message drawn three times in London, two years back. "Brave lad, especially being out at this time of day."

"I forgot to ask, been any particular cases recently to do with believers?" asked John a little more quietly. Lestrade shook his head.

"A few assaults but nothing major. It's like believers know they should be quiet, so that nothing bad happens," Lestrade explained. The topic died, and observing the obvious law-breaker, Lestrade spoke up. "Did I ever tell you about this one guy I arrested during a case with Sherlock because he threatened to graffiti Buckingham Palace?"

"What!?" John exclaimed with a laugh and Lestrade recounted the humorous tale. During this, however, trouble emerged. The shadowed artist had nearly finished his handiwork. The new drunken fans of the losing team stumbled out, cursing loudly and crossing the street. They were a mixture of young and middle-aged men, tall, strong, the kind of guys to start a bar brawl. Not friendly after a few pints. They were pissed, in both ways. They each had a secret history of convicted assaults they somehow escaped. Tonight was a night to vent their anger through someone's pain. The poorly placed artist was their target.

"Oi, asshole! Why not stuff that spray can up your ass!?" one joked, staying in the light of the street. "Or do you want me to come over and do it for you?" His threats were loud and the street could hear his slurred speech clearly. John and Lestrade's attention was quickly drawn to the scene, able to see both sides from where they were standing.

The artist, suddenly cautious, put the can in his pocket and made to walk away, picking up his scruffy, black backpack from behind a bin bag in the process. One of the drunken bastards looked at the artist's work; his muscles tensed, fists became clenched and a hate burned in his eyes.

"He's a believer of that fake dickhead!"

"He is!?"

"Fuck him up!"

"Self-centred fucker!"

The thugs shouted in rage, pointed and charged. The artist turned, before trying to make a run for it. He was too late. They grabbed his jacket and pulled him to the floor. Fists flew and specks of dark red began showing against the black clothing. John was running and halfway there before Lestrade.

"Oi! Leave him alone!" John pulled two of the thugs away, who stumbled and swayed from their intoxication. Lestrade pulled a third one away who had just let out a powerful punch on the graffiti artist's abdomen and began threatening the men with immediate arrest. John grabbed the fourth, toughest thug by the collar, spun him round and punched him square in the face. He stood taller than John and quickly retaliated, striking back and busting the army doctor's bottom lip. He swung his fist round with his entire body and sent him to the ground with the certainty the thug would have a black eye by the next hour. The other free had sprinted away in a drunken flurry. John and Lestrade pushed the fourth assailant into the street and cursed at him, sending him well on his way.

By this time, the hooded target had lifted himself from the ground, bending over to regain the breath beaten out of him, his backpack flung just a few metres up the alley, but for now he was spitting blood until he could escape to whichever place he stayed. Judging by his state John had an idea he didn't sleep under a proper roof. He went over, patting the target's shoulder. Tall, lean, but seemed fragile, starved.

"You alright?" His hand was brushed away by a thin, cold, fingerless-gloved hand and the artist breathed heavily, leaning against the wall, trying to recover with what little strength he seemed to possess. John, slightly angered by the target's lack of response after he and Lestrade just saved him from a severe beating went over and spun the artist around. He immediately grabbed the arm the artist tried to use to hide his bloodied face, and John was met with the face of… not an artist.

In the two steps he took back with shock, he got a two second glimpse of the face that had been seared, scarred, sealed into his memory. Pale blue eyes, prominent cheekbones, dark hair and skin paler than anyone he knew that wasn't dead.

This man, however, was meant to be.

Gone, fleeing, grabbing the rucksack handle and flipping it over his back, the clanging of more spray cans and other items inside the bag was loud. His stunned faze ended and John, without thinking for a split second, started a pursuit.

"WAIT!" The living ghost was already halfway through the alley as John started running, kicking an empty spray can out the way as he ran and hearing Lestrade's shouts of protest, confusion and then his heavy footsteps following behind.

John stopped at the end of the alley, adjusting to the light of the street and then immediately turning left as he saw the man sprinting down the quiet street, weaving between the small number of people with ease and able to run across the road due to the lack of cars. John caught up, hearing Lestrade being not so elegant behind him judging from the infuriated calls of people as the detective inspector barged past. The extra pint was not doing any good for either of them. He caught up to the hooded ghost and sprinted down another alley, much larger, and unaware of where it was leading to. The figure turned the corner and John was sure when he reached the panel of light he'd quickly regain sight of him. He stopped at the end of the alley and was met with a horrid view.

A busy main street in London, roads swerving about with various street crossings all around, a mixture of green, red and amber lights everywhere along them, and among it all was hundreds of wondering people. Lestrade halted behind John and took an even deeper breath as he took in the view. John's eyes scanned down the street the way the target had turned, concentrating over the horns of buses, taxis and business men in their oversized cars, chattering groups of people young and old, anyone out of place. Anyone…

A large, double-decker red bus moved out the way as a light turned green, and just running from the crossing platform in the middle of that road, heading for the other side of the street, ran a figure coated in black. They knocked into someone, scrambling to their feet in a panicked flurry and glancing back to see where John and Lestrade were. That's what gave him away, and the two were in pursuit again. People shouted in protest as they cut through the crowd, elbows and shoulders moving people out the way, sometimes pushing harder than meant. Lestrade slowed down as he neared the road but John had no intention of slowing. Vehicles halted, horns blaring in anger, brakes screaming against the tarmac. Lestrade caught up after waving away the flood of rude hand gestures and appalled shouts, no time to wave his police ID about to get them to calm down slightly.

The crowd was slightly split as they ran for the alley the black ghost had exited the main street through, the civilians turning their confused heads as they rushed past. They were in another section of darkness, taking sharp turns in this darker alley, with just a few lights above abandoned back doors to light their way and not crash into a wall or trip over pile of forgotten rubbish. With the sun now descending rapidly as this pursuit went on, the empty street they came to would have been as dark as the alley they just exited, if not for the bright overhead street lamps. The hooded figure was sprinting up the street, something flowing in the air from the person as they ran, black as night and difficult for John to properly look at, so he sped on, letting the light, floating object get swayed in the wind past him. John could barely keep up and Lestrade was just able to keep John in sight, let alone the target.

Predictably, the figure took a sharp turn, this time into a wider alley. There was a clang of metal and something hitting against railings. John turned to see no fence at the end, only a closed dumpster to the left, a metal fire escape and just a short sprint to the next street. A rattling footstep, from above him. A shadow had jumped from the fence and was going in circles up the stairs. The living ghost had jumped the fire escape from the dumpster!

"Shit." John could barely mutter his curse from his rasping breaths. He grabbed the side, pulled himself round to the front of the stairs and began running up. The figure was much further ahead, and when John was halfway up his ascent, he disappeared. He finished his sprint up the stairs, and stood in the middle of the roof, looking round, unsure whether the hooded ghost was in front, behind, left or right. He could have headed in any direction. The clanging metal of Lestrade starting to climb the stairs at a slightly slower pace echoed from below.

A yell from ahead, between the hidden roofs ahead, and when John ran over he saw the figure just able to pull himself up from a nasty fall into a narrow alley below. The gap was small, but misjudging a jump at sprinting speed could have easily caused him to miss, and thus left hanging from the edge. John wanted to help now, more than chase them down and find out if it was really him. He didn't want to see someone else fall again. And not possibly the same person.

With the man nearly on his knees at the edge of the building, John began running to jump the gap safely. The figure was stumbling, all strength lost in heaving himself up and breath knocked yet again from his chest from swinging against the wall while holding onto the edge. Just a few steps away from what John had chosen to be his launch point; he readied his balance for jumping. That's when it dived for his face.

Small, agile, loud and snapping at him, rustling wings and small talons, the tiny bird cawing at him loudly, almost screeching. He covered his face in panic, stopping on the spot, fearing his eyes might get scratched out or his skin torn by a small yet currently deadly creature. He peaked between his fingers as he ducked down to see where the hooded man was, seeing his shrinking silhouette two rooftops away. John began flailing his arms, trying to scare the bird away. The raven was at first persistent, but then it stopped flapping wildly, it stopped screeching and cawing, it stopped trying to scratch him with its talons and it flew away into the dark sky.

No time to figure out what just happened, and the gap widening between him and the hooded ghost, John did the best run up he could to the gap, barely making it with such little speed and distance behind the jump. Navigating the new territory at the best speed he could, the gap between each person involved in the pursuit stayed the same. It was turning into an almost meaningless chase, if not for John's need to have questions answered fuelling him with the energy he didn't really possess. There was a sudden close in the gap, but quickly diminished when the hooded figure jumped up a high wall and pulled their-self up more easily than before, completely cutting off John's view.

The adrenaline rushing through his body made him spring from his feet and just grab the edge of the wall, despite his usual inability to do anything of the sort. His feet scrambled against the wall, struggling to figure out how to help him up. He flung one of his arms over the tiny roof wall and gripping his hand under it, able to get a stronger grip to pull himself up with. Heaving his body up the side, he gripped the under-wall with both hands and finally pulled the top half of his body over. Wanting to keep the target within eyesight, he looked up to see which direction they had gone.

It was in that moment, and the other side of the roof.

The man jumped.

John felt his breath leave him and his heart lurch into his throat. His feet scrambled faster and when he reached his feet, he stumbled along head first with no balance. Looking over the edge, he expected to see a draining body at the bottom of a fairly deadly drop, or the figure stumbling away with a possible broken leg, even the miracle that they had somehow grabbed an open window on the drop down and climbed inside. None of these things were present, not even the slightest hint, not a small flicker of a shadow to go by.

Nothing. The man with the possible answers to John's nightmares was gone.

Disappeared into the pitch black of the night and not a single star visible between the swift clouds could point the way.

Lestrade was bent over panting, hands on his knees. John took quick breaths when he reached him, after climbing back over the roofs to find Lestrade at the gap the figure had misinterpreted. Yet he stayed ready, just in the hope that maybe there might be another chase if he saw the unmistakable face.

"Are… You out… Of your bloody mind?" asked Lestrade between breaths, unable to get his anger through.

"It was him, I'm sure," said John confidently with his breath regained, already making his way down the metal fire escape, footsteps quieter now that neither of them were running when Lestrade caught up.

"Who, John!?" Lestrade asked angrily, kept somewhat in the dark about why he'd just run across several streets of London.

"Sherlock! I swear it was him, you must have seen his face too, right?" They headed through the wide alley to the street.

"How can you be so sure? It was dark, it was late and we'd both had a lot to drink! Why did you bloody chase him!?"

"Don't tell me you don't think he's alive, and do not tell me you're not the only one who wants questions answered!"

"If it was Sherlock then why chase him, would you really chase him across London!?"

"You tell me why he ran in the first place…"

They ended their argument swiftly, Lestrade unable to come up with an answer to John's quiet response. John retraced the steps of the chase while Lestrade went off, saying he'd had enough for one day and just wanted to go home. John wished him a good night and even tried to joke about recovering from the running, to which he got a quiet laugh echoing down the empty street.

During this time, the objects that had swayed into John's track had disappeared on the empty street. His curiosity of what they were, since he was sure that they had fallen from the mystery man's bag or pockets, kept him looking for them as he retraced his steps. He could find none in the sharp and very dark alley, any on the main street had probably been kicked away. He checked the next alley and the quiet street. None.

He passed through the final alley towards the pub, able to see the bright yellow paint in the passing night. He stood and admired the simplicity, wondering why, if it was Sherlock he saw, was writing a message about himself. Did he start the messages that New Year? Was he behind the war of graffiti artists? Many more questions began forming in his head, and he didn't have the mind power like his good friend to discover the answers.

There was a sharp breeze of wind and something catching on his ankle, something light but noticeable. He looked down, and at first thought it was a piece of black plastic. Two or three of the slim object, completely identical, swayed in the wind like they were floating on the ground if it had turned to water. The sheen on the sides, the distinct shade of pure black… John bent down and picked up the one against his ankle, not needing much time to realise what was present in his hand and what he was also sure had flown past his face.

A Black Marker.