Title: Making the Connection
Story Summary: A non-chronological collection of short chapters based on one word prompts, includes (pre-)slash for Johnlock & Mystrade
Chapter Summary: John visits Sherlock, post-Reichenbach. 'Prequel' to chapters 3 & 4. Johnlock. Prompt: Belief
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Moffat, Gatiss & SACD.
A/N: As always this prompt came from oneword(dot)com, if you'd like to prompt me you can do so in a review or a PM.
London's street cleaners might never forgive him. He was responsible for the sudden spike in graffiti activity in the city centre; for the massive amounts of flyers that stuck to every lamppost and every traffic light and subsequently landed on the ground for them to clear away.
It had been eight months since Sherlock died and the movement had reached its climax. They were so close to getting his name cleared that John hardly got any sleep.
After yet another visit to New Scotland Yard that ended in a row he had come here, to the graveyard. He took the white pebble out of his pocket and placed it on top of the shiny black headstone. Then he slid down its side, sat down in the slightly moist grass and leaned his back against the marble.
"We're almost there, Sherlock", he said quietly. He didn't want the other regulars to overhear him. Not because he was talking to a grave – that was what most people came here for – but because the conversation was private. "It won't be long now, until they finally publicly clean your name."
He sighed. It was strange how used he had got to talking to a grave. "But to be honest I'd rather not talk about it. I just came from Scotland Yard and needed some time with you before I can face the world again."
He just sat there in silence for a few minutes. The afternoon sun was shining bright and he enjoyed its warmth on his face. He closed his eyes and let the back of head rest on the warm stone.
"I talked to Barbara on my way in. She's planting flowers on her daughter's grave again. I know you would like the pebbles better than flowers. It was the first time we talked about grieving. She told me it's her faith that keeps her going and then she asked what my belief was. You know what I told her? I believe in Sherlock Holmes. That's when I realized how far the movement has come, because she knew what I was talking about. She just smiled and said 'I believe in him as well.'"
His hand brushed over the green grass that grew just below the gravestone. "I'm not sure what I'm going to do when your name's finally cleared, what I can believe in after that. I guess I'll have to figure out how to move on."
He let his head fall down and his hands stroke through his sand blond hair all the way to his neck. The thought took over his mind for a few moments before he whispered: "I think it'll be the hardest thing I've ever done."