Lighting Fires
Thanks for all the reviews – really nice to get positive comments!
I have to make a confession here – I know very little about crime scene procedures, or about spray painting, which may become fairly clear in this chapter! I apologise in advance for any technical inaccuracies.
Also, I mention John's birthday here, and I'm not clear exactly when it's supposed to be, but I've seen some sources that suggest July, so that's what I've assumed. If I've got that wrong, do let me know and I'll change that bit.
Inspired by the song Fires by Ronan Keating.
Disclaimer : not mine, no money
I Believe in Sherlock Holmes.
John sprays the message in smallish, firm letters, in the unique style that Raz has helped him develop.
He started out with much bigger, bolder letters but learned very quickly that if you draw too much attention to a piece of graffiti, it's much more likely to be painted over. This way, with just small messages in unlikely corners, there's more of a chance that the message will be preserved. The more people that see it, the better.
John finishes with his usual flourish. He's got pretty good at this; he'll never be much of an artist, but he's learned from Raz that everyone has their unique style and that it's not considered polite among the street artists to copy some else's style. And this is his style. After the 's' of Holmes, he finishes off with a small triangular shape. The left side curves outward and the right side curves inward, to give the impression of a single flame.
He doesn't know why he does that. Partly, he supposes, to make his contribution look more unique. Perhaps because it was that wintry night, ages ago, after Lestrade had left, that John had gazed into the fire at 221B, and the thought had occurred to him…
After that, it was surprisingly easy to track down Raz, get some advice and pass the message on. And the phrase started to appear in random places, all over London.
John prides himself on his ability to recognise which individual is responsible for each message – in most cases, at least. There are some he doesn't recognise, but then there are still members of the Homeless Network he's not sure of, even though he knows most by name by now. He's even come across people spraying the message, and will share a private smile with them as he passes.
He knows it's driving Lestrade crazy. The phrase now turns up regularly at crime scenes. John has to swear blind that he's never been anywhere near the scenes – which is absolutely true. He has no idea who can be leaving those messages. John feels a little guilty sometimes, especially as he's mellowed towards Greg, but then he can say, quite honestly, that he's not responsible for any of the messages the DI comes across. Even if he is for many others.
John stands back, peruses the letters and the flame symbol, and gives a satisfied nod. He stashes the can in his backpack and slips away.
He gazes up at the dark roof of Barts and shudders. It has taken him a very long time to come back here. Three years, in fact.
He slips away, quietly, his booted feet making very little sound on the tarmac. It's getting on for 2AM and deathly quiet. He wonders briefly whether Molly is on duty tonight, and the thought sends his mind slipping back to The Woman, who faked her own death that cold, winter night. He remembers Mycroft's revelation of her eventual demise and finds himself wondering, not for the first time, whether she'd been able to fake it that time too. Unlikely she'd escaped a Taliban murder squad, but then he'd believe anything of Irene Adler.
He wonders what she'd do if she was still alive. How would she have reacted to Sherlock's death? Would she have seen through the fakery immediately? Would she have seen something that he, and Greg - and even Mycroft - hadn't?
Would she have been on Sherlock's side?
He feels the familiar pain of betrayal going through him. It doesn't seem to get any better; as time goes by, he just grows more bitter.
Initially, when he'd first realised Sherlock was alive, he'd felt elation and a grim sense of purpose. The months of trying to find clues and track down the Homeless Network had been frustrating, but at least he'd had a reason for getting up each day.
Since his unlikely rescue of the girl at Regents Canal - Bex, as she's known - the Network has made it clear that he is one of them. He's accepted - he's useful. They still come to him for treatment; that hasn't changed. It's all progress.
But, beyond that, he feels himself to be in a state of limbo. He goes to his now part-time job at the surgery, comes home, takes tea with Mrs Hudson from time to time, has Greg over for a meal occasionally or meets the DI at a pub instead, does his regular hours at the voluntary health clinic for homeless people, and checks up on his contacts in the Network from time to time. And that's about it. He hasn't been out on a date since The Fall – can't be bothered to spend the time getting to know any women. What's the point, when there's only one person - and one issue - that matters?
He shivers slightly, hunching his shoulders in his inadequate jacket. It's been a damp, chilly June, and right now it feels as cold as any autumn in London. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks on doggedly, now desperately tired and in need of his bed. Thank God he's got tomorrow off.
He feels… old. That's it. He'll be turning forty in July after all. It's a milestone, anyway, even if he'll be even more lonely this year than he was when he turned thirty.
Unless, by some miracle…
But John doesn't believe in miracles any more. He used up all his miracles three years ago, when he begged Sherlock for just more one.
And, OK, Sherlock did grant him that miracle… but what difference has it made?
Yes, Sherlock is alive, but he might as well be dead for all the difference it's made to John. The doctor is as lonely as he was that day in the cemetery. He knows he's lost weight, that his hair has gone prematurely grey – and that he cuts a pathetic figure with his limp, and the cane he occasionally resorts to, and the tremor in his hand. He knows that Sarah and the other doctors - and even his bloody patients sometimes - look at him with undisguised pity. He knows exactly why Mrs Hudson makes her regular trip up the stairs with a plate of biscuits or a cake that she 'just happens to have', and why Greg Lestrade texts almost every week to arrange dinner or a drink.
He also knows why he occasionally spots one of Mycroft's black cars following him along the street. Of course, he strenuously refuses to get into any of them – and rather surprisingly, he's never been coerced – yet. In fact, he's not spoken to Mycroft since the burial. Even the name still makes the bile rise in his throat.
He knows that he looks like a widower. It's small consolation to know that he isn't one.
He knows exactly why it hurts so much. Sherlock fooled him, his best friend – his only friend – because he knew he could. He knew that good old John Watson would believe the evidence of his own eyes. He needed John to be fooled. It hurts - really hurts - that he didn't trust his friend with the truth...that he so clearly didn't believe that John would be a good enough actor.
John gives a cheerless chuckle that echoes in the silent night time street. Ironic that, since he's been giving the best performance of his life for a very long time now.
He's better at it than Molly, anyway. He knows perfectly well why she avoids him. He can't find it in him to feel any anger, though – at least Sherlock had someone to help him. And he knows that Molly would have done anything for the detective. He can understand that feeling, even if he doesn't quite share the same motivations.
It's not that he resents the efforts he's been making to help Sherlock out, in some small way. He knows he's doing something positive in providing care and supplies to the Network, and that he's doing his best to keep Sherlock's name and reputation alive. And he's always staunchly defended the detective against any allegations. It's just that...it would help if he knew it was actually making a difference.
He feels even more alone now than he did when Sherlock jumped off that building. He doesn't know where Sherlock is. He still doesn't really know why he had to disappear, although he has his suspicions. And he doesn't know for certain whether he is really helping, or whether the detective knows of his efforts. He never hears anything; he doesn't ask and his contacts don't volunteer anything. He's always told himself that this is the best way to keep Sherlock safe, but he doesn't know.
He cuts up Great Russell Street, past the silent British Museum. As always, his feet take him automatically in the right direction – the magnet that is 221B Baker Street. He's been asked a few times over the years whether he'd consider moving somewhere less expensive, but he's never dignified this question with an answer.
In fact, he hasn't struggled with the rent. He knows that Mrs Hudson has an arrangement with Mycroft, and he's never challenged it. It's the least Sherlock's brother can do – and it means that he can still afford his flat, even on his reduced salary. He couldn't move now anyway. Where would his homeless patients go when they needed informal treatment?
He wonders whether Sherlock ever feels that same magnetic pull – whether, when he's not thinking properly, his feet start to move him automatically in the direction of Baker Street. Does he ever have to steel himself to pull his feet back? John doesn't know if Sherlock ever felt quite the same way about their flat as he did. He'd probably sneer, make some comment about sentiment. John doesn't give a damn. Baker Street is home; will always be home.
Has John ever seen Sherlock and not known it? Has Sherlock ever been in the vicinity of Baker Street in some disguise or other? Has he stood across the street and gazed longingly up at his old home?
He doesn't bother to wonder whether Sherlock misses him – whether he feels the same aching need that consumes John. Why would he? Sherlock has never needed anyone – any friend - or at least, has never acknowledged any need. Why expect him to change now?
He sometimes wonders whether Sherlock even received the clothes he packed for him – the warm jumpers and that new coat John bought him, shorter and less flashy than the dangerously familiar Belstaff coat. He's never asked Bex what she did with that bag, but he hopes it reached its target. Certainly, he's never seen Sherlock's distinctive coat since that day in the cemetery.
Will he have changed? John knows that he himself has aged considerably in just three years – he only has to look in the mirror to see his silvery hair and the new lines on his face. He certainly looks far older than forty. And Sherlock must surely have disguised himself in some way…but John can't imagine his friend without the black curls and those sharp oddly-coloured eyes in that pale face. The friend he remembers was a young-looking thirty-four year-old, all planes and angles, and dramatic gestures, and light on his feet. He can't visualise an older Sherlock. The thought of the man without that youthful, restless energy seems laughable.
He sighs as he cuts up Gower Street. Time was he could do this route in half the time. He's begun to realise that Barts is a bloody long way from Baker Street and he's knackered. He must have been mad to have gone all this way tonight. It seemed like a good way of marking the three-year anniversary, and he desperately wanted to get rid of this last demon in the hope of moving on.
But it hasn't helped.
He'd travelled by Tube, but had found he was unable to approach Barts at first. He'd spent a couple of hours lurking around St Pauls before he could summon up the courage. And then, when he'd got there, he'd found that his legs wouldn't work and he'd had to sit on a pavement and concentrate on his breathing just to dispel the memories of that most terrible of days. It was interesting to note how many people stepped around or, almost, over him, without comment.
And then there'd been a spate of evening emergencies, and he'd been unable to approach the wall that he'd intended to decorate until the area had quietened down a bit – he hadn't wanted to attract attention.
It was the wall that Sherlock had made him stand near before The Fall. The wall that, no doubt, was intended to block John's view of the detective's trick. It seemed vitally important that John mark this wall, of all walls, and that no one tried to stop him. That was why he'd had to wait until the early hours.
Oh well. It was probably a better way of spending the anniversary.
Certainly better than the first anniversary, on which he didn't venture out all day, just sat in his chair downing too many bottles of beer before sinking into a morose stupor. The following day, he'd endured a miserable hangover while chucking out all the other bottles in the flat. With his family's history with alcoholism, he knew the score – if he started going down that route of drinking alone, there'd be no hope for him. Since then, he'd been careful to limit himself to a couple of pints, and always in the presence of others.
On the second anniversary, he'd kept himself deliberately busy, putting in extra hours at the voluntary health clinic, and then walking the streets of London, spending hours checking up on his homeless contacts, until he could hardly walk on his bad leg.
Talking of bad legs… he hesitates, trying to make up his mind which way to go. He could keep to the major roads – continue up Gower Street and pick up a taxi that he can ill-afford these days but which will save him from the inevitable stiffness and pain that he will otherwise experience tomorrow. Or he could cut into the deserted back streets…
…And perhaps, that way, he will finally draw out the individual who has been following him almost since he left Barts.
He checks his step slightly, listening carefully – and there it is again. An almost-silent footfall, just out of time with his own footsteps. Still there, then. About fifty yards behind him, he judges.
He doesn't look around; just keeps walking on, his eyes firmly forward. Whoever it is either doesn't want him to see them, or doesn't want anyone else to witness any contact between them.
Not an assassin. Anyone wanting to attack him has had plenty of opportunities between Barts and here, and in much quieter spots of the city. Someone from the Homeless Network? Maybe, but then why follow him? They know where he lives and, in any case, usually have no problems being seen with him.
Whoever the person is, he or she is clever enough to be able to imitate John's slightly uneven gait accurately, but not clever enough to predict exactly when John might stop suddenly. So, not Sherlock, he's sure of that. Sherlock, knowing John as he does, would realise that the doctor was aware of his shadow, and would definitely predict his hesitation. But it's someone almost as clever as the consulting detective.
John makes his decision, cutting left up University Street. To any onlooker, it seems like a sensible route – he can eventually divert onto Great Portland Street, which will take him almost all the way home. But it also leads to University College London, the grounds of which are slightly familiar to him. He's fairly sure he can shake off a pursuer in the deserted campus grounds if he needs to or can find a dark quiet corner if the person is an informant needing anonymity.
He walks slowly, with a heavy limp that is only partially feigned. He's giving his shadow the chance to catch up with him. Again, there's the slightest of echoes as the individual's footsteps go out of sync with his own.
Up ahead, by UCL, there seems to be some activity. He squints at the faint flashing lights, trying to make out individual figures. As he approaches, and the nature of the lights become clearer, he realises with a sinking heart that he's approaching a crime scene.
He stops and starts to turn away, planning to cut down another road.
"John!"
He stops dead. As he turns his head back towards the university campus, he catches out of the corner of his eye a slim figure slipping away in the shadows. He has an impression of considerable height and a certain feline grace, but he doesn't dare look more carefully and draw attention to the shadowy figure, with Greg approaching him at some speed. But, just for a moment, he fancies he's seen that figure before… years ago… not in London, but -
"John, what the hell are you doing here?"
Greg's voice drives out the half-memory forming in John's mind, and he curses silently.
The Detective Inspector's face is grey with fatigue, his eyes sharp and worried.
"I was –," What? Taking a walk? In the middle of the night? "- on my way home," he concludes, rather lamely. "What's happened here?"
Greg sighs. "Another random murder. Another gang member – drugs this time. We got a tip-off – untraceable, as always. And the usual message."
"What message?" he responds, rather dumbly.
Greg gives him an unimpressed look. "I think you know what I mean, John. Come and see."
John resists the hand pulling at his arm. "Is that a good idea? Thought you'd tightened security these days – strictly no unauthorised people."
Greg sighs again. "You know what? I don't give a shit."
Raising his eyebrows at the DI's rather frank response, John allows himself to be escorted to the scene. There's a young woman at the police tape, not Sally but possibly a clone of her, judging by the suspicious and unfriendly look she gives the doctor. He hopes like hell she doesn't insist on searching his bag, particularly if he's about to see what he thinks he is.
"Here it is."
John spares a quick look at the figure on the floor. A small, rather ratty-looking man, late forties, possibly Eastern European. But his main focus is on the message scrawled on the nearby wall.
I Believe in Sherlock Holmes
John looks closely, trying to recognise the style. Usual white spray paint (the can is his bag is red, fortunately), letters a metre high. The letters are very bold, but there's no particular style. No individual 'signature' that he can recognise. The painter was working quickly, but not so quickly that he/she wasn't able to make sure that each letter was completed properly and didn't run into the next letter. And it didn't happen that long ago either – he can judge that without approaching very closely.
"Paint still wet," Lestrade comments, as if he's read John's mind.
"Mmm," he murmurs, trying not to catch the DI's eye.
Greg says nothing for a minute. Suddenly, he puts a firm hand on John's arm again and pulls him away from the scene. By mutual consent, they walk further into the dark campus, cutting along the pedestrianized walkway behind the science block.
As soon as they are out of sight, Greg moves away and turns to face John, folding his arms in a no-nonsense manner.
"OK, what's going on, then?" he demands, in a return to the impatient mood he often used to have around Sherlock.
John turns to him, unconsciously imitating his stance. "Don't know what you mean, Greg."
The DI snorts his disbelief. "Yeah, course you don't. C'mon, John, I know you've been going out at night, decorating the walls with that fucking message."
"You don't –"
The DI explodes, suddenly. "For fuck's sake, John, I've seen you!"
There's silence. John's mind is working quickly. "When?"
Lestrade sighs, running his hand over his face in a weary gesture. "Last October. You were under Hungerford Bridge. I was on my way back from a case on the Embankment – I was gonna call out to you, but you didn't look like you wanted company. You went up to a beggar under the bridge, spoke to him for a moment, gave him something – money? – and then you started spraying the wall right by his head. Then you left. Couple of minutes later, the bloke moved off too in the other direction, at a surprising speed for someone with a gammy leg. I had to hide round the corner of the steps. I've seen your handiwork since then too. I recognised it by the symbol – what does that mean, by the way?"
John ignores this. "Well then, you know it's never been found at any crime scene."
"So far," the DI mutters.
John's head shoots up at this. "What the hell's that supposed to mean? What do you take me for, Greg? Do you really think I'd come across a body and not call 999?"
Lestrade gazes at him intently. "I trust you, John. If you say you're not responsible for this, then you're not. But right now, you're the only link I've got. The street artists won't talk – never have done."
"They might for this," John suggests. By now, he knows the artists well enough to know that their loyalty is to each other – a kind of professional code. He's pretty sure it doesn't extend to potential murderers.
"No, they won't," responds Lestrade, with assurance. "Well…not to us, anyway." The implication is clear.
John shrugs. "I'll do what I can." He genuinely doesn't know if he can be of any help to Lestrade. Will Raz and his mates talk to him and, even if they do, will they know anything useful? There's a risk of getting them into trouble – and not necessarily with the police. Lestrade's team clearly don't know whether the painter and the murderer are one and the same – they are obviously assuming he/she might be, but so far, there's no forensic evidence to connect the two acts. Only the fact that the painting certainly takes place shortly after the killing.
This is where they need Sherlock, more than ever.
In any case, he's got other problems. Who is his mystery pursuer? Is there any connection to this case? And where the hell is Sherlock these days? Is he even still in London, in the UK? For all John knows, he could be in Tunisia, Peru, Japan, Pakistan… For all he knows, he could be wasting his time trying to help his friend.
He does not need to be getting involved with the Yard again. And yet…he feels the gaping hole in his life. The danger, the pursuit…
He sighs and gives in – as much to his own curiosity as anything else. "Who's the informant? Is it the same voice each time?"
"No, always different – sometimes male, sometimes female, old, young, foreign, East End, regional English – you name it." Greg shakes his head. "Never the same voice. But always the same format – just a post code. We've learnt to get there quickly when we get that message now. But it's never any good – always just too late."
"Same method?"
"Always the same – strangulation with some kind of thin cord or wire. From behind. Must be a big bugger – angle's always from above."
John's mind goes back to a dark canal path and a viciously strong hand at his windpipe, cutting off his air. Slightly different method, though… or just more prepared? That man was tall too. He's never reported the incident, and no one ever noticed the bruises.
"You said 'always just too late'. Do you - do you think the phone call happens before the murder?"
"Well, take tonight." Greg gets out his notebook and frowns at the last page. "Call comes in to 999 at 2:02. Usual – muffled voice asks for police, gets put through, gives a post code and hangs up. Too quick to trace location, always a mobile number but different each time. Random pay-as-you-go numbers for cheap phone models, always paid for in cash at different mobile shops around the city. So…we get here at 2:16 – bloke's still warm. Dunno exact time to death yet, but can't be more than ten minutes – fifteen at outside. Previous killings been estimated as no more than 30 minutes before we get there. And the paint's still wet – message painted no more than 5 to 10 minutes before."
"Can you tell anything else about the killer? You're sure it's the same person?" John thinks it through, carefully. What would Sherlock ask? What is he missing?
Lestrade hesitates. "Same height, anyway – about six two, they reckon. Definitely male. Very strong, but he must be quick too, and light-footed. Seems to take the victim by surprise. They don't know much about it – dead within minutes, always from strangulation. He's efficient, I'll give him that. And never leaves a trace – always takes the weapon with him. We've found minute traces of a white cord on some of the bodies, can't identify it as any particular make. And he never leaves any DNA – he'll be fully clothed and gloved. No traces of any fabric. He's professional."
"Ex-military," John murmurs, almost to himself, but Lestrade takes him up on it.
"You think so? He certainly knows what he's doing." The DI frowns. "No…unnecessary violence, if I can put it like that. No…emotion. Just a quick kill."
"And any link between the victims?"
Again, Greg consults his notes. "Twelve so far, over a thirty month period – spread out, at least six weeks between each hit, but just random enough that we can't predict the exact date of the next. All over the city – no pattern that we can find in the location, just dark places, abandoned at night. All men. All low-life scum that we've been trying to catch out for a while. Three Chinese, four Eastern Europeans, one Brazilian, the rest White British. All involved in gangs – drugs, arms, prostitutes, child workers – you name it."
"In other words, not particularly desirable," John points out.
Lestrade gives a dry chuckle. "Yeah, we noticed that."
"Some kind of vigilante, then? Someone trying to clean the streets by the most direct route possible? Maybe the killer himself – or maybe he's a hired gun. Ex-military would seem to suggest that – there's enough of them out there looking for work and money."
"Yeah, but the victims are usually pretty junior, so it's a pain. He's cutting off our route to the master criminal each time."
"Ah… so not so police-friendly after all."
Lestrade lets out a frustrated sigh. "It's almost as if he knows how we operate. You know how it goes, identify the gang members, work out the weaknesses, try to get an undercover in there at the lower end. Try to find the stupid ones, the greedy ones, the pissed-off ones and work on them. Get the evidence, get out and arrest the big boy. This guy, he's cutting off our potential informants. It's always the ones we were eyeing for a possible approach. And then… the message."
"You think it's a message, then?"
Greg eyes him. "Don't you?"
John gives a small smile. "Oh, I do. What I meant was – is it a message for you?"
The DI's gaze is shrewd. "You probably don't want to talk about this, but… why do you do it?"
John thinks for a minute. Bloody ironic if he's been imitating a murderer all this time, and encouraging Raz and his mates and the Homeless Network to join in.
"John? Why now – when he's dead?"
"Why do you think?" he snaps, glaring at the DI. "Just because those bloody idiots at the Yard think he's a faker – despite the fact that none of you - none of you - have found a single scrap of evidence against him in three fucking years of searching, it doesn't mean that there aren't some of us out there who have never stopped believing he was real."
He stops abruptly and turns his head away, feeling the humiliating prickle of moisture at the corners of his eyes. Even now, it can catch him – that pain. But underneath it, as he fights to stop the angry tears, he feels a new sensation of queasiness. He can feel the sweat trickling down his lower spine and, for a moment, he thinks he may throw up his dinner all over the bushes.
Has he been the … plaything… of a killer? Who is that message for? Is it someone taunting the police – pointing out that they've lost the only man who had a chance of solving the case? Or does the messenger know that Sherlock is still alive? Is it a message to Sherlock – and is John the conduit? He has a sudden overwhelming fear that he's just been repeating a message designed to taunt Sherlock – to draw him out for one last 'game'.
He realises that Greg is talking again, and the level voice seems to ground him. "I'm sorry, mate. I believed in him too, you know."
The DI looks out over the quiet campus buildings, not quite meeting John's eyes. His voice is quiet and John has to strain to hear the words. "I never didn't believe in him, not really. I had to report what Sally said – if I hadn't, she'd have gone over my head anyway, and I would've been cut out of the arrest. This way, I hoped I'd be able to give him some back-up."
He smiles, bitterly. "You forget that I knew him a long time before you came along. I remember when he first started hanging out at crime scenes, telling us that we were wrong. I was a DS back then. He was just some skinny kid. He didn't have that coat; he just looked like any other fucked-up drop-out student, but there was that…something about him. Some intensity in his eyes…when he wasn't high as a kite on fuck knows what. I knew all about that too – arrested him myself once or twice for possession. But…I liked him – I wanted to see him clean. Wanted him to make something of his life. Dunno why, really."
He turns away very slightly, hiding his face. "That's why I kept an eye on him - later on, when he was detoxing. And, when I made DI, I kept inviting him back to scenes and giving him unsolved case files, to take his mind off the drugs. Yeah, OK, so it made my job easier in one way…but it was also about him – you know? I wanted to give him something to live for."
He coughs uncomfortably – the DI is not usually the type to pour his heart out, and he's clearly finding this difficult. "See… I got nothing much going on in my life – you know all the stuff about my wife, and we've never had kids – and I'm just this stupid plodding detective who gets the shit cases that no one else wants… and looking out for Sherlock gave me… something important to do – you know what I mean?"
He turns back, and gives John a wry – almost sad - smile. "And then, one day, along comes this ex-army doctor. And I wasn't needed any more, not in the same way. Not that it really matters, but… suddenly, he had something else – someone else - to live for."
John shakes his head emphatically. "That's not true, Greg – it's not what you think, not what everyone always seemed to think about us –"
"Yeah, it is, John." The DI interrupts, waving his hand at John's automatic denial. "No, I don't mean that – I know there's nothing going on between you. But, sometimes I'd see him look at you as if he was – he was…startled by something – some realisation. First time I saw it was after that cabbie died – he was standing there by the ambulance and deducing the likely killer, and then suddenly he broke off, and I saw the way he looked at you."
Lestrade speaks slowly; he's not used to talk of this nature, and doesn't seem to know quite how to word what he's trying to say. "I think… he was realising something about himself…and I'm pretty sure he was finding out that he was capable of caring about someone else for the first time in his life. And it scared him – it scared the shit out of him. He wasn't supposed to care – at some point, some doctor or other, or perhaps his brother or mother, told him he wasn't capable of it, and he'd always believed it. But you…" Greg shakes his head. "I don't get it, John. What's different – what's so special about you?" He doesn't mean it as an insult; he's genuinely perplexed.
"I don't know." John feels stunned, almost breathless. He'd known Sherlock for only eighteen months before the detective 'died', and he realises now that he's never guessed half of what went on in the detective's head. There he was, thinking he knew Sherlock better than anyone. What arrogance!
He might have understood the man's moods, perhaps better than anyone, save Mycroft, and he's pretty sure that no one else has ever cared about Sherlock as much as he has. But if Greg Lestrade, of all people, could detect something in Sherlock's emotions that John never even suspected, living in close proximity all those months, then clearly he didn't know his friend as well as he thought. His mind goes back to that graveyard in Dartmoor - those words about John being his 'one friend', that strange intensity in Sherlock's eyes as he stared at him - and he feels an odd, undefinable sensation of warmth in his stomach.
Sherlock always maintained that caring was a disadvantage and yet, somehow, it turns out that John made a difference. He'd never expected to – not really. Oh, he'd get angry with Sherlock and challenge his inhuman behaviour from time to time, but Sherlock always seemed to brush him off. And John had to admit that, for the detective, not caring seemed to make a kind of cold-hearted sense. He'd seen time and again how well that great mind worked when unencumbered by sentiment. In fact, the one time that Sherlock had seemed to be off his game was with the Woman, Irene Adler – and look how that turned out.
And yet, here's Lestrade telling him that he has made Sherlock feel something for someone else. If that someone had been the challenging, mysterious, intelligent, beautiful Irene - well, John wouldn't be surprised at all, but to know that it's him – that he has affected Sherlock's emotions...well, it's a heady feeling. He doesn't know the exact nature of Sherlock's feelings for him, and he's not sure exactly how he feels about that, but it's something to think about another day.
But…John Watson - small, insignificant, average, jumper-wearing, tea-drinking… ordinary John Watson. No wonder Lestrade looks so confused.
And then the depression descends again and the warmth is sucked away by cold reality. If Sherlock really cares as much as Lestrade thinks he did, how could he have borne to keep John in the dark for three long years? Surely he would have found a way to get in touch? He certainly knows by now that John is aware of his trick…but nothing. No cryptic messages slipped to the doctor through his homeless patients – messages that would have brought him some meagre comfort. If Sherlock does know, he certainly doesn't think it worth trying to establish contact with his 'only friend'. Perhaps John just isn't that important to him anymore.
Greg shakes himself out of his reverie, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. He mutters a little, and John has to strain to hear him again. "Anyway, I just had to say it. Sorry, not my business, anyway. Just didn't want you going on thinking you're the only one who suffers." How is it that John has never noticed that edge of bitterness in the DI's voice before?
He's suddenly deeply sorry for his anger. "Yeah, well." He frowns at the ground, feeling his equilibrium restoring itself. "Um, Greg… I was wondering, did you ever hear anything of Moriarty? Afterwards, I mean."
Greg shakes his head. "Nah, nothing. Not him, or 'Rich Brook'." John can almost hear the apostrophes around that name – the DI is making it as clear as he can that he certainly doesn't believe the false story planted by Kitty Riley, whatever he may have thought at the time.
"And there… there was nothing on the – that roof?" He hopes Lestrade understands without any further explanation; he doesn't feel capable of reliving that day once more.
He does, and his gaze softens. "Nothing – not a sign that anyone had even been there."
"What?" John's mind is racing. "What - not even his phone?"
"What do you mean? What phone?" Lestrade sounds confused.
John stares at him. "Sherlock's phone. Before he jumped, he threw it down – I saw him. It's in the report – at least, I think I mentioned it –"
"But, John, there was no mobile on the rooftop. I saw the reports – nothing – no sign of anything. Are you sure he didn't throw it over the edge?"
John shakes his head firmly – there's no way he can forget any moment of that scene. "No. He threw it backwards – I definitely saw it. It was almost as if he wanted it to be found."
The two men stare at each other.
"Guv?" The voice comes from behind the DI, making both men jump. "Think we're finished here, if that's OK?"
"What?" Lestrade tries to gather his thoughts. "Yeah, OK. Forensics got what they need?"
"They say they have for now."
"Yeah, well, block off this entire area, the street too. Let the Dean know the entire Uni's off bounds tomorrow. We'll come back in the morning." Lestrade clasps John's shoulder. "Can I give you a lift home?"
"Mmm? Yeah, thanks." John follows the DI past the now-tented scene. The team are packing up their gear, and an ambulance is backing into place to move the body to the nearest mortuary. Nothing more can be done tonight.
"Another busy day tomorrow." Lestrade groans his tiredness – it's nearly 3AM now, and he'll probably be expected to make his initial report on the latest murder in about six hours' time. John feels a little guilty about taking up his time.
"Greg, you sure it's no trouble? I can walk from here."
"Yeah, right, and probably get into more trouble, knowing you," Lestrade mutters, with a wry smile. "No, it's OK, John. You need your bed too, no doubt."
Ironically, John is feeling more awake now. It's as if being involved in a case has shaken him out of his self-pity. He feels useful again. "I've got a day off tomorrow, so I'll chase up some of the street artists and see what I can find out."
"Appreciate it."
They reach Greg's car. As John steps around to the passenger side, he has a sudden thought. "Um, Greg, have you ever considered using Mycroft's help? With the phone calls, I mean? Wouldn't he have some equipment – I don't know – something that might help you track the calls? Or some more CCTV images that you haven't seen?"
Greg dips his head a little as he gets in. "It hasn't come to that, yet." His voice is clipped.
John knows that Greg's no fan of Mycroft. He must have been really pissed off when he discovered Mycroft's involvement in the Moriarty case – he's clearly still smarting over the way the master criminal got to the jury to avoid imprisonment, and it can't help to know that Mycroft 'compromised' with Moriarty, even if it was to protect national security. John thinks he understands. Greg feels humiliated – betrayed, even - by both Holmes' brothers, and he's less willing to forgive the older one who, after all, lacks Sherlock's rather idiosyncratic charm.
John also suspects that Greg feels incredibly guilty about Sherlock's death. He knows blokes like Greg – they're straightforward, honest, no one's fool. They hate subterfuge – won't countenance it in themselves or anyone else. In Greg's mind, Sherlock probably killed himself because he knew his friends didn't trust him… and Greg does count himself as one of Sherlock's few friends. It's now clear from his words that he never really believed that Sherlock was guilty of all those crimes, but he didn't make it clear enough to the detective at the time – and then it was too late.
That's probably why he hasn't intervened in John's mildly illegal activities with the graffiti. It's a compromise.
Both men are silent during the short journey. There's an air of exhaustion in the air – and not just because of the late hour. They're both defeated, and they know it.
Greg pulls up at the corner of Dorset Street and Baker Street. "You OK here?"
"Yeah, thanks Greg." John gets out of the car and leans back in for a minute. "Can I have photos? Of the messages – at least one for each crime scene. The guy I'm thinking of might be able to recognise the style. Also," he adds, thinking fast, "what about anything on the victims? I was wondering whether there was any link to Moriarty. I need to look into their backgrounds."
"Well, I'll drop the photos round tomorrow. The victim files might be more difficult, but I'll see what I can do. Thanks, mate."
John shuts the door, and the DI waves and speeds off. Back to his more-or-less broken home. John feels a surge of relief for the comfort of 221B – even an eerily empty 221B that still feels wrong. At least he's not going to back to shouting or silent reproach from an estranged wife. He wonders briefly why Greg doesn't just divorce her and get on with his life.
He shakes his head at the mysteries of human relationships – and then checks himself with a laugh. Sometimes, it seems as if the longer he lives without Sherlock, the more like the consulting detective he becomes.
As he walks up the deserted street towards his flat, he ducks briefly into a small alleyway. It's on this wall here that he wrote his first message, almost two and a half years ago, and he has a sudden desire to see it again.
The message is still there. The letters are clumsy and blurred together a little – he was unpractised in the use of a spray can back then – and it's a bit chipped by wear, but at least it's never been cleaned off, as some of them have.
He traces the letters with his fingers, feeling the rough brick scraping his fingertips. The minor sting to his skin is good – it chases away the exhaustion and helps his sleep-deprived brain work better.
As his finger reaches the last 's', he stops dead, staring at the symbol at the end.
The usual curving triangle, indicating a single flame. But it's not quite the same, and his heart starts beating faster, with either fear or hope, he's not sure which.
What's different is that someone has drawn a second, identical, flame, right next to his.
Next time… John gets more involved in the case...and encounters someone he's been avoiding for a long time.
