Sherlock was everywhere. John wasn't sure what to make of it. At first, it was just the posters. Then the graffiti. "I believe in Sherlock

Holmes." The first time he saw one, it made his throat clench up and his chest go all tight. But then, suddenly, they were everywhere. Where were you before? He asked silently. Where were you when he was being slammed in the papers? Fat lot of good they were now that he was dead. After a while though, he grew to like them. They wouldn't have had time to have any sort of movement before, it had only been about two days total after all, and people got slammed in the press all the time. They probably figured it would pass, and if it didn't, they'd still have time. There was no reason to protest Sherlock's bad treatment by the media. But then he died, and it was as though Christmas had come early for the papers, and so the opposing groups had risen. It was all anonymous, John had never seen anyone putting up a poster or spray painting a wall or chalking a sidewalk. The messages just appeared. And they began giving him small thrills when he saw them. He wasn't alone after all. But now…

People were saying that Sherlock wasn't dead, that he'd been seen. People were quite positive of this fact, saying that he had faked his death, but now he was back in town, ready to start up his business again. At least three different people, all of them strangers, had approached John in the street, telling him that "You know that detective, Sherlock Holmes? The one what died? He isn't dead. My sisters friend saw him near the eye the other day, swears up and down she did" and similar stories. He'd heard several people discussing it too, on the street. Always in a different part of London, always wearing something different, never seen by the one passing the story on, but London was positively buzzing. These people didn't know John, hadn't known Sherlock, but he didn't care. It made him furious. Who the hell were they to talk about Sherlock that way? They hadn't seen the body. They hadn't seen…They hadn't been there when…

So John was angry. And now that Sherlock was back in the news, back on everyone's lips, it was like the wound had been torn back open, after it was half healed, making the pain of it even worse.

He was at work, of course he was, he was always at work these days, when Sarah poked her head in. "Hey John."

"Sarah, hi. What's up?"

"I wanted to know if you'd heard? About Sherlock?" John glared. "I'm not saying it's true John, but I did want you to hear it from someone you knew first. Apparently, I'm too late. But it was in the paper today. The rumors."

"They don't know anything. I saw him Sarah. These people…there is no reason for this...this ridiculous….it's cruel. And wrong." Sarah nodded.

"I'm sorry John."

"Wait, Sarah, who told you anyway? Did you find out from the paper?"

"No, Steffie told me." Steffie was one of the new receptionists.

"How'd she hear it?"

"It's complicated. I think she said she'd heard it off her brothers girlfriend's brother. Or his friend or cousin or something. He's a tech at the mortuary at St. Barts. One of the morticians told him. She said it was Megan or Mellie or something."

"Molly?" Sarah shrugged.

"I don't know. It was a complicated trail. I don't know how accurate it was." She smiled sadly. "I'm truly sorry for all this John. It isn't fair to you to put you through it all again. If you need to talk, you know where to find me." She left.

John sat back in his chair, frowning. Why the hell would Molly be telling people Sherlock was alive? It didn't make any sense. He grabbed his coat. He was going to pay a visit to St. Bart's mortuary.

***Meanwhile, across London in a cheap hotel***

Sally was uncomfortable. Sherlock was standing next to her, which was uncomfortable in and of itself, but they were at a crime scene, the site of a murder. The only reason he was there was because he had been at the Yard when the call had come in, and he had insisted on coming with her. He was in his Adrian Beck persona—brown contacts, slight stubble, jeans, tennis shoes, and a windbreaker. He still didn't look like himself, his hair was still a ginger color, and Adrian stood entirely differently than Sherlock did. She was still amazed at Sherlock's ability to act like a normal human begin, mostly, as Adrian Beck.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" Anderson had just seen Sher….Adrian.

"Research," he said quickly, but in a tone that still seemed to scream fuck off. He still had no patience for Anderson.

"He was already at the Yard when the call came in. He asked to come for his book, and Lestrade said yes," said Sally.

"So, what happened?" Sherlock asked, as naturally as possible. One of the officers that had been the first response glanced at Sally, who nodded for him to continue. Sherlock had his notepad out, every inch the interested author, and stared expectantly at the officer.

The officer began reading off of his report. "We were already here. Robbery in the row behind this one. We heard shots, told the family to call the Yard. We radioed it in as well of course, and ran over here. Man was dead, two gunshots to the chest. No sign of the gunman or the weapon. No sign of anything stolen. No family." Sherlock peered around the crime scene. There was a bed in on corner of the room. A few feet away was a kitchen table with two chairs. Across from the kitchenette, was a fridge, a counter. There was an armchair next to a window perpendicular to the bed, facing a television set. The dead man was being zipped into the body bag. The ceiling…he saw it immediately. The ceiling was made out of the tiles that when pushed, are very easily moved, as is fairly common in cheap motels.

"Sergeant Donovan. Can I ask you a question?" Sally, who had been doing a secondary search for any weapon, walked over. He lowered his voice. "They didn't see him leave." She shrugged.

"He probably ran away. People do you know, after they've killed someone." He glared at her.

"Don't get snarky." He gave the ceiling a significant glance.

"What…" she followed his eyes. Her own eyes widened. "You think he never left," she whispered. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her.

"Thank you for explaining," he said, louder. Sally walked over to DI Jemman.

"Sir, I was thinking. If he had run off, the officers would have noticed, they would have seen him running away at least. What if he never left the room?"

"In case you haven't noticed Donovan, it's a bit small in here," he said impatiently. Taking a leaf from Sherlock's book, she looked up at the ceiling. He didn't seem to get it, so she pointed. He rolled his eyes. Sally gave Sherlock a look—what now? He looked exasperated, and jerked his chin toward the ceiling tile in question. It could have been taken as a questioning motion, but she knew that he was saying 'take care of it.' Sally wasn't sure that it was a good thing that she could read Sherlock as well as she could by this point. She sighed. If he was wrong and she lost her job over this…Sally grabbed one of the crappy kitchen chairs and stood under the tile that Sherlock had indicated. She swung it upward, smashing it into the tile. It snapped in half, falling to the floor. As did the young man that had been hiding there. She stepped backward, choking on plaster, and almost stepped on Sherlock's foot, as he had moved forward without her noticing. "He started on the bed. Crawled toward the middle of the room when the tile started buckling. He stopped just as the police entered the room." DI Jemman stared at the man lying curled up on the floor. The gun had skittered away from him, landing somewhere near Sherlock's feet. He kicked it away from the shooter. The man burst into tears.

"Please," he begged, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Alright, get him out of here," snapped Jemman. "Donovan, I'll expect your report on exactly how you knew how to look there. Someone get that body down to the morgue." Sherlock touched Sally's wrist.

"I'll take care of it sir," she said, ignoring the furious look Anderson shot their way when Sherlock touched her.

"Since when do you take bodies to the morgue?"

"Since Adrian is shadowing me today. He wants to get the full experience of what happens after a crime." Anderson didn't look like he believed her. She ignored him. Surprisingly, so did Sherlock.

***At the Morgue***

"Molly, I need to speak with you." Molly glanced up at John. He did not look pleased. Oh dear, she thought. Which was probably an understatement.

"Now? I'm expecting a body to come in here any second John."

"Yes," he replied firmly. "Now." Molly sighed, and put down her chart. "Are you telling people that Sherlock is alive?" Molly froze. Shit. Sherlock hadn't covered this. What was she supposed to do if John asked her about Sherlock. You have to lie said the cold voice in the back of her mind, the voice that sounded like Sherlock. But she didn't like lying. She was tired of it.

"John," she said carefully, "I don't know if you know this, but…I was the one who did the post mortem. On Sherlock." He hadn't known that.

"And?"

"I'm sorry John. If you don't believe me, it's all in the paperwork. But let me ask you something." And the BAFTA goes to' she thought; she frowned at him, the hurt obvious in her eyes, "He was my friend too. What kind of person do you think I am that I would spread lies about him being alive? Do you have that low of an opinion of me?" She saw the shock register on his face. He hadn't thought of it like that.

"Sorry Molly. I…sorry. The story in the paper got me all…and Sarah said that a tech here at the morgue heard it from you." Molly shrugged. She had told the tech. That was true. She glanced down, glaring at the floor. If it looked like she was holding back tears it's because she was. Molly Hooper, she thought, you have been spending too much time with Sherlock Holmes. It didn't matter that technically she hadn't lied to John. She had never lied about Sherlock being alive. She'd lied about his death, but that hadn't been John's question. And now he felt bad, and she felt terrible for making him feel guilty. Of all of them, John deserved it the least.

"Sorry," he said again. "I'll just, leave now." He turned and headed out of the mortuary. He walked almost straight into Sally Donovan and Adrian Beck who were pushing in a wheeled stretcher with a body bag on it.

It was the first real look he had ever gotten of Adrian, the first time he'd seen him up close. Upon seeing John, he froze, and stared at him a moment, before coldly pushing past him without even a second glance. John pushed the thought that he looked almost identical to Sherlock out of his head as fast as it had entered. You are just out of sorts because of the papers and the rumors. Stop it. He instructed himself. Usually, he listened to himself, but this time a small part of his brain grumbled and muttered, and refused to let go of the idea. John decided to go back to the clinic. He would force the idea out of his mind with work.

Sherlock, Molly, and Sally stood around the body. "Adrian," began Molly. Sally was still a bit astonished at how well Molly could pretend. Granted, she had been doing it for almost 3 years, but Sally had never thought of Molly as particularly bright. Which was a bit unfair of her, she supposed.

"Not important," snapped Sherlock, cutting her off. Sally decided to break the tension by getting back to the matter at hand. They could discuss John later.

"So spill. Why did you want in on this? It seems pretty obvious how the guy died." Molly unzipped the body bag.

"Obviously. I am not interested in how he died. I am more interested in the why. Though I think I have worked it out." Molly and Sally shared a glance.

"Well…what then?" asked Molly.

"Meet Eli Robbins," he said, gesturing at the body.

"You know who this is? And you didn't say?" Sally was angry.

He gave her a withering glare. "And how was I supposed to explain how I knew who he was? Adrian isn't involved. Eli was a middling member of Moriarty's web. He did however have direct contact with Moran. He was supposed to be under protection still. Which is a euphemism for Mycroft was supposed to be keeping tabs on him. So this was a hit."

"A hit," said Sally, incredulous. "Really. And how do you figure that? They think it's either passion or convenience." By 'they' she meant the police officers in charge of the case. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh come on. Think for a second. Nothing was stolen—there was nothing on him, so not a robbery. Robbins didn't walk in on the man stealing something or breaking in, or doing anything of the sort. So it wasn't a killing of convenience. Not a crime of passion. The killer wouldn't have hidden for one thing, he would have taken his chances and run. Or killed himself. Plus, Robbins obviously has no family or significant other. The only thing that makes any sense at all is that he talked. So Moran has something over the killer. He's married, so maybe Moran threatened his wife or children, so he wasn't a professional killer. Confirming that is the frankly alarming positioning of the shots, and the fact that he didn't have an escape route planned out, hadn't cased the surrounding area, and hence didn't know the police were around, and the fact that he panicked and thought he could hide out in the ceiling."

"How could you possibly know that Robbins wasn't involved in some sort or affair with the killer's wife?" Sally didn't question the idea the man was married, she'd seen the ring. She wasn't as unobservant as Sherlock made her out to be. Plus, Sherlock was clearly freaked out by running into John. Just this once she would allow him to belittle her.

"Please. Did you even look at him?" Here we go, thought Sally. "He is grossly overweight, poorly shaved. There is the remains of last nights chicken dinner—see the grease—in his double chin. His clothes are stained and mismatched, his hair is greasy; no one with a lover would ever allow themselves to look so shabby. Affairs almost always involve spur of the moment meetings, which means you should always look your best—you should know that Sally." She flushed, partially with embarrassment, partially with anger. She definitely should have seen that one coming. But Sherlock was coming out of his…whatever it was that he had fallen into when he had seen John up close, and John had looked right back at him, for the first time in years. "Also, he had a heart problem. Clubbing on the fingers. He worked at a convenience store or at a department store. He didn't get much excitement. An affair would have been much too intense for him. All he did was fence stolen property for Moriarty, and that in a more managerial capacity, making sure the right people got the right information.

Eventually, Mycroft and I caught up to him, and he gave us the information. And Mycroft is going to have to be much more vigilant, if we don't want any more murders. Robbins shouldn't have been able to escape Mycroft's watch at all. Anyway, obviously Moran in some way forced our killer's hand."

"So is Moran here, now then?" asked Molly. "Did it work?"

"I don't know. It's possible. Or he might be working from afar. All that I know for sure right now is that you should probably check on the family of our shooter. And that if Mycroft lets any more people slip through his fingers we are going to have a lot more deaths and unfortunate people implicated in the crimes."

"So what now?"

"Keep spreading the word. It was in the paper this morning. That's good. The more people talking about it the better. We need to draw Moran into the open. Soon, there will have to be a real sighting, not just a fabricated one. We might give it to Lestrade. For now, Molly, I'll let you do your job. I'll see you tonight. Sally, we've got work to do. Go back to the Yard via the long way. Molly, call me if you find anything odd."

***Bus Stop***

Mrs. Trotta was caught up short by the young man at the bus stop. He was glaring rather angrily at a poster. It was one of the 'I Believe in Sherlock' posters. She wasn't sure why he seemed to wish to light the paper on fire, when he commented, "I don't see why they had to use a picture with that hat. It's a bloody awful picture. And it is a frankly ridiculous hat." She started, she hadn't thought he'd noticed her. He sent her a glance, then returned to the picture. "I mean, there are plenty of other pictures, why couldn't they have used one of them? The papers managed to find other pictures."

"I'd imagine it's because this one is the most iconic dear," she replied. He looked at her again, a bit confused, as though he hadn't actually expected her to answer.

"Yes well," he said, "it doesn't change the fact that it is an appalling hat. I mean, who even invented a deer stalker? It's an ear hat. And how could you stalk a deer in that anyway? They'd see it a mile off, and dash off laughing at how absurd you look." Obviously they wouldn't really, but almost three years of being Adrian and an even longer time spent hating the hat had left Sherlock a bit out of sorts and not at all himself. Seeing John hadn't helped, though getting to put down Sally had been fun. Mrs. Trotta smiled.

"My brother bought a deerstalker because of that man," she said.

"Then your brother has no taste," replied Sherlock, bluntly.

"No, that's true. You're not a part of the movement then?" He blinked.

"The movement?"

"The 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement." He rolled his eyes. He hadn't considered it a movement, just a bunch of nutters using his name to vandalize things.

"It's not a movement. It is a small group of petty vandals motivated by either good intentions or a wish to be infamous, by associating themselves with a famous person. They stay in the shadows, but eventually, they'll come out into the open and try and get what credit they believe is due them."

"So you believed the papers when they said he was a fraud?" She sounded disapproving. Sherlock looked at her again, and this time, didn't look away.

"I didn't say that. I just don't know that random posters and spray paint on walls is how you should go about spreading a message. It took nearly three years for anyone to do enough research to put some doubt on the idea he was a fraud, or at least, for that research to make it into the papers. Seems to me a better option would have been to try and get that information out much faster. And I don't know who these people are trying to tell they believe in him anyway. He jumped off a building, so what's the point?"

"Well," she said, her eyes sparkling, "I suppose some felt a bit guilty. Or maybe they wanted his family to know that they supported them. And it isn't such a small number of people either, there are thousands of people. Even people in America, the case went…viral, I believe the term is, a year or so back. The teenagers really went to work on it. And then of course, the people he helped would believe in him. Though haven't you heard? The rumor is he survived." Sherlock grinned. He had gotten better at grinning on command as Adrian, and he looked less like a skeleton when he did so now.

"So I've heard. Are you a member of this…'movement' then?" She paused, then nodded.

"He saved my family." Sherlock frowned, he didn't remember this lady at all. He was quite sure he had never met her.

"Oh? How?"

"That killer, a while back, who went about killing widows and widowers who had remarried, because he thought it was wrong to marry twice, and thus those who had done it must pay the price?" Sherlock nodded. He remembered that case. No connection between any of the deaths—not age, sex, religion—except the fact that all of them had been remarried. "Remember that list he had, of people he was going to go after?" He nodded again. The list had creeped John out, he recalled, and had been rather horrified that Sherlock had merely thought it organized, though he had been disappointed that he had left it out in the open the way he did. "My brother was the next name on that list. His wife had died nearly twenty years previous, and was only just getting remarried, but the killer was going to kill him just the same. So I believe that Sherlock Holmes saved my family, and I do not believe he was a fraud of any kind." Her eyes shone. "I wish I could tell him the gratitude I feel. Do you think he is alive? Like the papers say?" Sherlock gave her another grin, a genuine one this time.

"I think he's alive as you or me," he replied jauntily, and turned and sauntered off. He hadn't been waiting for a bus anyway, he'd just gotten a bit distracted by the poster.

Mrs. Trotta watched the young man walk off. He had seemed mighty pleased with himself as he'd left—had he been making fun of her? Young people today could be so disrespectful. She looked at the poster for real. It was the best quality one she'd seen. She paused. She looked at the poster again, and at the receding back of the young man. She pulled the newspaper clipping out of her bag. They had used the deerstalker hat as well, but also a photo of Sherlock Holmes without the hat. She glanced back at the rapidly disappearing man, managing to catch one last glimpse of him, profile, just as he rounded a corner, still smiling to himself, though it had turned into more of a smirk by that point. She may be older than she cared to admit in public, but she still had better than perfect eyesight. She studied the newspaper picture as well as the picture on the poster again. When the bus trundled around the corner, she got on and took a seat, closed her eyes and pictured the young man again in her minds eye. Then she smiled. Sherlock Holmes was alive. And she had met him.

***Clinic***

John had gone back to the clinic after he had left the morgue. He'd already had two patients, one who had a cold, and the other had turned out to be pregnant. He sighed, preparing himself for the next patient.

"Ah, Mrs. Trotta, how are you today?" She smiled at him.

"Quite fine Doctor Watson. More than fine now."

"And how's the knee?"

"Oh, a bit still, but nothing too bad." She saw the paper in the bin.

Holmes Alive!

it proclaimed. John followed her glance and scowled. "Wasn't it bad enough the first time they made up lies about him?"

"Oh, it's not a lie," she said pleasantly. "He's alive. One of the ladies in the bridge club said that her niece told her she'd seen him. An honest girl."

"She saw someone that looked like him." John didn't want to talk about it anymore.

"Maybe dear. But I saw him today. Just before I got on the bus to come here. Nice man. Bit gruff." John almost laughed.

"Mrs. Trotta, I promise you, if the man you met was nice, it wasn't Sherlock Holmes." She glared at him.

"I saw him. Right next to one of those posters. He was quite cross about it, because he said they'd used a terrible picture. Went on for quite a while about how much he hated the hat. He had some very colorful ways to describe it," she chuckled. "He also thought the 'I Believe in Sherlock' movement to be attention seeking, and thought that if it were anything else, people would have tried to clear his name ages ago. Thought people were a bit too slow on the uptake with finding holes in the story I suppose."

"Mrs. Trotta, I think you just ran into someone who happened to look a bit like him and got excited what with the rumors and all," he said firmly.

"Don't you treat me like I'm insane, Doctor," she said, shaking her finger at him. "I was a police sketch artist for years, before they started doing everything with computers. I notice the details about people. The things they can't change—bone structure, shape of the eyes, the lips. Oh, his hair was a distinctive ginger, and whoever did it made it look very natural, but when you've dyed your hair as much as I have, you know when someone's hair color is false. He is in disguise, that much is certain, ginger, brown eyes, an awful windbreaker, instead of that nice coat he was always in, in the pictures before, but it was him." She laughed, thinking of his diatribe about the hat.

"Why don't you let me in on the joke?"

"Just thinking about what he called that hat. 'An ear hat' he said. I don't think I have ever heard such venom in two words describing a piece of clothing before, why Doctor Watson, what's wrong?" for John had gone deathly pale and had to sit down.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Trotta. I…I can't do this. I'll send someone else in to finish." He hurried out of the room, choked something or other to Sarah about sending someone in to Mrs. Trotta, and stumbled into his office. He locked the door, and slumped on the floor in front of it. Was it possible? He had never heard someone else call a deerstalker an 'ear hat' before. And her description…his mind flashed back to Adrian Beck, and then to the four checks at the restaurant that one night. Adrian and Molly were dating, living together…so why had he not paid for her meal? Molly wasn't the type to insist on paying for her own meal, not if a date was willing to do it for her. And there had been four checks…But she had said that she had done to post mortem, she had said she wouldn't spread lies, and she was right, she wasn't the time of person who would say Sherlock was alive if it weren't true…So what if it was. It was true, and Molly knew. She wasn't spreading lies that Sherlock was alive. She was telling people the truth. But why deny it? The voice that he didn't want to listen to was back. Because Sherlock told her to. He doesn't want you to know. God. But why? If Sherlock had been alive this whole time, and Molly had known—suddenly her aversion to him made more sense, a secret like that would have been hard to keep, and even more so in front of John, especially for an empathetic person like Molly—why did Sherlock not trust him? Why wasn't he allowed to know that Sherlock wasn't dead? He didn't know. He didn't know and it hurt. It hurt worse than when Sherlock had been dead.

***Scotland Yard***

Sally was pleased. She had spoken with 9 people on her way back to the Yard. Of those 9, 3 of them were already involved with the 'I Believe in Sherlock' people, 2 of them had already heard, 2 of them hadn't, but had believed Sherlock a fraud, but decided that they'd check into it further, and 1 had told her that Sherlock was alive. Then, she had gotten onto a bus, and talked to the man next to her about it, and his voice had been so loud and carrying, that soon the entire bus had been talking about it.