Chapter 7
As the surprisingly hot summer went on, John was able to enjoy it when he wasn't stuck inside the stuffy walls of the clinic, since he quickly developed a 'habit' of spending hours a day in the summer sun, sat at the wooden bench staring endlessly at the black slab of rock. Questions flying through his head, wishing someone would answer… And sometimes someone would.
Hallucinations still phased into existence in the summer heat. The sharp return of nightmares for John after the pursuit had caused him to lose sleep again, which aided in fuelling the return of the normally silent images of his friend. When John asked himself simple questions, ones he knew the answer to somewhere in his mind, his tall friend would appear before him, sat next to him, before the gravestone and even sat atop it. Sometimes he'd be wearing his coat, sometimes just his smart suit, whatever he wore it usually fitted with the weather. Sometimes he would be playing tunes on the equally transparent violin, going over the calm birdsong in the trees. He'd give John the answer, quick and simple.
Although on some days, when John had very few questions running through his mind, he would see the same black raven from the pursuit on the gravestone; a large body, two small scars, and wise eyes. All this would be disturbed when, from what seemed far away, John would hear a familiar tune, once composed in the walls of 221B, mainly by the window. What John couldn't figure out was whether someone, somewhere was playing a tune similar to Sherlock's pieces, or insanity was quite possibly kicking in. If hallucinations could seep into his mind, why not music too?
After a while, when the questions didn't roll through his mind, or when he felt like too many beady eyes were looking at him within the cemetery, John went to try and find the source of the questions and answers himself. He'd walk the streets of London, just walking around with no purpose or significant destination to head to, looking for a sign somewhere in the city. He would look round for hooded black figures or even the graffiti of a believer. He discovered breath-taking pieces in the process, hidden in the real darkness of alleys so that they lasted longer with only the weather trying to remove the masterful paint. But nonetheless, this proved to hold no success for John. Occasionally he would spot someone similarly dressed, but a swift turn of the person showed a completely different body and soul.
In the search, few food stops were made, not because of John's lack of money, but because he couldn't bear to eat alone, it brought back more memories than he would like when unprepared. His search filled hours of the day, walking streets on the other side of London, crossing at least one of the bridges on a weekly basis and losing a lot of money on cabs. Public transport still hadn't taken his interest. With little sleep always creeping up and looming over him, everyday John grew hazy and tired in his travels. Sleep was becoming a desperate need which he couldn't achieve.
The others began to notice, the walking of London and the staring of the gravestone had alerted their attention. Luckily no-one knew the extent of the sleeping. Naturally Mycroft found out first, most likely due to John's face appearing on his security cameras on an almost daily basis. He was surprised to find Sherlock's brother sat in his armchair after he returned from a stroll round the cemetery. Mycroft immediately suggested he stop, that it was a ridiculous thought to think Sherlock was alive, let alone state to have seen him in the street and chase him through London.
"What more do I have? If you were in my shoes you'd be doing almost exactly the same thing as me, possibly more because he's your brother! Surely you of all people hope he's alive somewhere, somehow!" argued John, refusing to sit in the black armchair and standing above the other Holmes. "Too much has happened for it to be coincidence. If Sherlock's alive then everything would become a lot clearer!"
"The fact remains, John, that we both saw him be buried in the ground, the coffin lowered and buried," said Mycroft solemnly. "There's no point in planting hope for something that is impossible. He is dead and that is that. You shouldn't be drowning yourself in empty hope and impossible theories. You're better than this."
"Perhaps I don't want to," mumbled John.
"May I suggest you book some sort of session with your therapist or a new one and resolve this issue before it gets out of hand. You need to end this nonsense now before it poisons you." Mycroft's mention of the word poison reminded John about the dream and he tried not to break eye contact from the memory washing past his eyes.
"It won't help…" John wanted to argue that he doubted he would find a therapist happy to listen to his story, a therapist who was a believer. So many people act like they would hiss at the sound of his name, who's to say that even the people who are meant to listen to problems no-matter-what would somehow get the message across that they don't care. "How about you just leave?"
"I am not leaving until you tell me, here and now, that you will go and see someone. That you will no longer chase ghosts and believe the impossible." Mycroft's stare turned dark, cold and piercing. John felt like he was being stared straight through, but stood his ground, not shaking, not gulping, and not even blinking. He shook his head.
"No." His grasp on the armchair showed a sign of Mycroft's fuming anger, a simple man disobeying his orders disguised as advice.
"You will stop this!" He stood, levelling the eye contact, even changing the stakes so he was looking down at John. "He is dead and there is nothing you can do about! Now you stop this-!"
"Mycroft!" Both turned at the barking voice from the doorway. Mrs Hudson was hiding round the doorframe, but Lestrade was glaring at the older Holmes. Neither had heard the two coming up the stairs, too focused on intimidating the other. "Back down, would you?"
"You are not agreeing with John's ludicrous idea of my brother being alive, are you?" he exclaimed, glancing back at John. Lestrade stayed silent and sighed.
"No… But that doesn't give you or anyone else the right to be shouting him down like this! How you've coped with your brother dying I will never understand, I don't think any of us do, but the fact you're taking this hidden anger out on John is wrong, and it most certainly isn't in your power to tell him what to do!" There was a suddenly tense air in the room, like Lestrade was ready to attack Mycroft, and Mycroft to attack John. A tension, a fear, a mixture of views on the truth.
With a huff, Mycroft gave John a forced nod and barged past Lestrade, smiling at Mrs Hudson and quickly leaving. Mrs Hudson also disappeared down the stairs. The inspector rubbed his eyes and sighed.
"What are you doing, John?" he asked, meaning more than he meant. Why are you spending so much time by the grave, John? Why are wondering the streets, John? Why are you so sure he's alive, John? Why did you have to attract Mycroft's attention, John? Why are you bothering, John? That's what he was really asking. How could he answer all these questions in one go? "I know you're upset, and down, and tired, and all of that, but Mycroft's right. This needs to stop, or at least go down a notch. You're being over the top. The gravestone visits were fine, this wondering round London looking for the man you apparently believe to be Sherlock isn't good. I'm always on your side but just for your own health… Just stop."
He left shortly after and John sat alone, thinking alone. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he now wished he'd stayed quiet, or not been so obvious in his longer hours out in the graveyard or searching for, as Mycroft clearly put it, a ghost. Was belief really giving him this much trouble…?
Should he change his view and throw out everything he believed?
The answer was no.
Belief was the ultimate weapon.