The next day he received a text. Six in the morning, it was, and his phone beeped and even after he'd chosen to ignore it, he couldn't fall back asleep. His eyes stayed wide open, thinking, calculating, and he might as well have ached to see it. In the pit of his stomach he felt a throb, an ache, hope, as he closed his eyes, only to reopen them to see the sender.
"I know it was you."
His stomach dropped. It otherwise would've worried him or even caused his heart to race if the text had it ended with "SH", but alas it'd been from Lestrade, and it'd been followed by a second text,
"Nice job."
John let out a sigh and smiled unceremoniously. He didn't reply. He knows Lestrade is lucky he didn't get sacked for backing Sherlock, he really does, and in the back of his head John is thankful and somewhat flattered by both the Detective Inspector himself and his message.
He decided to reply after all.
"I'd cover London in those words, if I could," He decided to say. He found his left hand aching as he typed. "The whole world."
Tea will surely calm his nerves.He walked over to the small kitchenette in the small room in the small hotel, and put the kettle on.
Another beep.
"You don't have to." Greg had replied. Another beep, "Have you seen the telly lately?"
"No. Why?" John sent, walking over to the small television in front of the bed and switching it on. The news blared and nearly drowned out another beep.
"Have a look and see."
He did.
And the reporter stood in front of a great wall of graffiti on London's east end, and behind her, five words in bright yellow stood out against the rainbow of colours in the background, and those five words were repeated on the headline below her, and those five words read none other than, "I Believe In Sherlock Holmes".
And it was not John's handiwork.