Title: We Believe (4/4)
Rating: PG-16
Warnings: Spoilers for all of Sherlock, up to and including RBF. Some language, 'Supposed' character death, mentions of depression, angst…Oh the angst.
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade, Raz, Kitty Reilly, Henry Knight, mentions of Jim Moriarty, mentions of Sebastian Moran, mentions of Mycroft Holmes, mentions of Missus Hudson, various OC's
Pairings: This is where the John/Sherlock kicks in, friends. There's also now Greg/Molly…Cause why the hell not? :P
Notes: My first Sherlock fic, and it's finally done. The very last piece. Dedicated to my betas princess_aleera and jademac2442, and every single one of you who read, reviewed, loved and enjoyed this fic.
Disclaimer: Sherlock, John, all of their friends and the many places the visit do not belong to me. If they did, I wouldn't have to write fanfiction, now would I?
Summary: Post-RBF. He writes one sentence, and while it's not enough, it starts something. A movement.

Part Four—The Resurrection

It's been two months since Molly has seen any sign of Sherlock Holmes.

Which makes it five months since the first article proclaiming the greatness of John Watson (and his stubborn detective, of course) was published by Rhys Sheppard, and nine months since Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper had sat across from one another and discussed the physics of faking ones own death.

It's also been about forty days since Molly started dating him… But that's not really important, right now. What's important is that she has no idea where Sherlock is. He's never been gone this long before. Close, but not quite; and she's starting to worry.

She's curled up on her couch, telly on, cup of tea cradled in her hands as she watches some crap romantic comedy that usually had her bawling by the end. She thinks this time she might just get a few sniffles, maybe shed a tear or two; but avoid the messy, red-faced sobs that usually came with these movies. Sobs that had nothing to do with the happy couple on screen.

She glances around her flat and smiles. There are photographs of people on the walls now, one of her and John at The Globe, looking rather done up for a pub (it was New Years). There's another of Greg and John sticking their tongues out at her as she snapped a picture, and it's rather cheeky.

She gives a tiny smirk when a sharp, official rap on her door echoes through the flat. She stands up and pads through her living room.

When she opens the door she is enveloped in warm, strong arms and a deep, passionate kiss, and she can't help the little flutter of joy she feels as she kisses him back.

She rolls over and pleases a kiss on his shoulder, savouring how warm her bed feels with another person in it. "Wake up." She whispers in his ear. He's got things to do today.

Greg rolls over and drapes an arm around her waist, nuzzling Molly's neck with his nose, and she giggles a little.

"No," He whispers, "Don't wanna."

Molly decides not to complain, and instead begins carding her fingers through his hair.

John looks up from his laptop when Greg walks in, trying to look casual. He grins a little before glancing back at the screen. "Did you say 'hi' to Molly for me?"

Greg stops dead, coughs a little and makes a quick detour to the kitchen. John chuckles.

"Not sure what you mean, John," Greg has his head in the fridge. "Spent all night at the office, working on Sherlock's case."

"Liar," John laughs. "You spent all night at Molly's. And you've been dating her for at least a month."

Greg straightens, cracks open a can of diet coke and sits in front of John with an eyebrow raised. "What makes you say that?"

"The day you first asked her out, when we were at the Globe." John types a little on his keyboard, smiling. "Both of you were so red I thought someone had splashed you with paint. I might not be Sherlock, but I'm not stupid, Greg." Greg stares at John until John looks up, and he shuts his laptop abruptly. "What I don't understand is why you didn't tell me. I'm more then happy for the both of you."

Greg doesn't say anything for a bit, leaving John to study his face. Being with Molly seems to have smoothed the detective-inspector's frown lines considerably, and the bags under his eyes are less noticeable then before. John can't help but feel a little spark of jealousy, but it's mostly overtaken by the feeling of genuine happiness for his new flatmate.

"I didn't want to rub it in your face, to be honest." Greg mutters. John raises his eyebrows, a silent question that Greg doesn't answer.

"Right…" John glances down at his screen, smiling still. If Greg doesn't want to talk about it John won't force him, but he's pleased that Greg's moved on from his ex wife.

"…Did you love him?" Greg's voice is dead serious, no joking tone or careful phrasing, and it startles John into looking away for a moment.


"Sherlock. Did you love him?" Greg's got him pinned in place with his gaze alone, and John feels suddenly exposed.


"It's a really simple question, John."

Silence reigns for a long while, before John manages to raise his eyes. "Why do you think that?"

"This goes beyond your best mate killing himself, John. This is like…" Greg gnaws on his bottom lip for a second. "Like you've lost a lover. You don't sleep, you don't eat, you barely leave the flat… You're worrying the people who—" Greg stops, takes a deep breath and sighs. "Who care."

John wants to stand, to turn and walk to Sherlock's room and lock the door, but his legs won't work and his mind is racing. "I…I don't…"

"If you don't want to tell me I get it." Greg shakes his head. "We don't talk about him, and I know it's my fault, but…"

"It wasn't." John whispers, eyes skimming over the flat, looking anywhere but Greg. "It's my fault, Greg, I didn't get to him in time, I—" John stops and closes his eyes. The familiar burning of tears stings his eyelids. "It wasn't your fault." He finally whispers, and he gives a start when Greg's hand is suddenly resting on his knee.

"It's not yours either, John."

Raz leans against the cold brick with his hands shoved in his pockets and a cig sticking out the side of his mouth, watching a young man in a blue sweater slouch around Baker Street. He's been watching the kid for about an hour with a bit of a smirk.

He's supposed to meet John for a late dinner while the copper is out on a case or something, but when striding through some of the back allies he comes across the kid finishing off a rather impressive tag. It's Holmes on a stormy blue background, smirking just enough for it to be noticed, and underneath is scrawled 'Buk'.

The kid gives a terrified squeak when he sees him and runs off, bolting in the opposite direction. Raz follows with a smirk of his own.

He's been trailing after Buk for about an hour when the sees the short, hooded tagger take a hard left and end up right at Watson's front door, where he takes out a can of yellow paint and shakes it with practiced ease. Raz is about to step in and chase the kid off- John's been good to him and he doesn't want the bloke to have to scrub paint of his front door- when Buk takes a step back and begins to paint the sidewalk.

It's a simple message with a hint of dramatic flair to it.

'I will always believe.' And two silver-grey eyes drawn beneath it. No face, no fancy portrait or over-the top shading, just the eyes.

Raz watches the kid run off and slides out from his hiding spot to take a better look.

The eyes seem to stare at him, amused and a little snobby, as he moves to the door and knocks rapidly.

He kind of likes this thing he's started.

John is awake, sitting at the fire reading Rhys's latest article ('Chief Superintendent under investigation, accused of following substandard evidence', and it's a real page turner) when his phone rings loudly.

The screen is flashing 'Molly Hooper', and he glances at the clock on the mantle. Molly Hooper is calling his at three-twenty-six in the morning.

He drops the paper and pounds the talk button, pressing the phone to his ear with a slightly trembling hand. "Molly. What's wrong?"

"John." She's been crying. She sniffs loudly and he winces. "I need you to come, right away, I know it's late but I don't know who else to call and he won't let me take him to Bart's and I—"

"—Molly. Take a deep breath and tell me what's happened, alright?"

"I've got this…" She hesitates "…friend. He's in trouble. He showed up at my doorstep and he's in a bad way, I need you to come and help him." She sounds out of breath but she doesn't seem to be crying any longer. John gets up and starts rummaging around for his medical bag.

"How bad, Molly?"

"I'm not sure. He won't let me look, but there's a lot of blood." John finds the bag shoved under a desk, dusty and forgotten in the corner. He tries to remember the last time he'd pulled the sodding thing out. It was one of the few cases where Sherlock was hit by something accidentally, a bat to the head, and stitching the wound had been both and adventure and a trial.

John pushes the thoughts away. "I'll be there in twenty. Can you keep him stable that long?"

"I think so." John doesn't wonder why she's whispering, just wraps his hand around the handle of his cane and lurches towards the door. "Thank you, John."

He gets there and raps smartly on the door, and when Molly opens it a crack and peers at him he can tell she's been crying since he hung up. She lets him in with a watery 'hello'.

"Okay, where is—"

"I have to tell you something." She says in a rush. John blinks. "It's important."

"… Okay, what?"

"…I'm sorry." She bites her lip, and John is suddenly much more interested in what she wants to tell him. "I'm sorry, and I know you're going to hate me but he made me promise not to say anything. And I'm so, so sorry." She turns and scurries off, leaving John to stare after her blankly for a moment.

'What was all that?'

He shakes his head and follows after her, into the living room and then to a tiny room where she stands, slightly protective, in the doorway.

"Please don't freak out." Molly whispers. "I don't think he can handle that right now, and… Please. I'll explain everything." She steps aside.

It takes a few seconds for John's brain to register what he's seeing.

There is a man with platinum blonde hair and black roots lying on molly's extra bed, eyes screwed shut, face almost covered in blood and the bits that aren't a worrying grey shade. He's wearing a white dress shirt and black slacks, but the shirt is stained through with blood on the right shoulder and the slacks are torn and caked with mud on the knees. He has absurdly high cheekbones and the ends of his hair are beginning to curl around his ears.

John stares unashamedly and with an edge of hysteria to his thoughts. It looks like… It looks like… But it's not.

"It can't be." Molly is staring at him, but that barely registers. The man on the bed cannot be Sherlock Holmes, because Sherlock Holmes is dead. Sherlock Holmes jumped off a building and Sherlock Holmes is nothing more then bones and dust buried under six feet of dirt.

"It is. John, I'm so sorry. He told me not to call you but—"

"—Tell me it's not." He cuts over her.

Molly blinks carefully at him, her hands wringing together. "What?"

"Tell me it's not him, Molly. Tell me."

"I don't—"

"I can't, Molly. Tell me it's not him, I can't." John Watson cannot treat this man who looks like his dead flatmate, because his mind can't wrap around it. The idea of it, the very notion, consumes all reason. His vision begins to swirl.

Molly seems to understand when he backs up a step. "It's not Sherlock, John." She barks, and it's so insistent that John perks up right away. "Don't be absurd. It's just a friend who's had a spot of trouble with the police, that's all."

John nods. "Right. Best get to work."

Three cracked ribs, a through-and-through bullet wound that seems to have just missed bone and a host of lacerations and gashes. John thinks Molly's friend is lucky to still be alive.

Molly watches John work with a wary, critical eye. He stitches and sanitizes and cleans off the blood with a steady hand, but not once does he raise his eyes to Sherlock's face. Not to the whole of his face, anyway. He looks at the patch of skin split open by some sort of blow and the long scrape down Sherlock's cheek, but not once does he focus his eyes on the picture these pieces make.

John is a very good doctor. He murmurs quietly to his nearly unconscious patient as he works, words that she can't quite catch. She's sure the words don't mean anything anyway; it's the tone that he carries. Gentle but firm, soothing in a way she doesn't quite understand.

At one point Sherlock's tired, confused eyes flutter open, and he tries to speak. John gently shushes him, but for the first time in this whole process his hand begins to shake.

"Be quiet, Brett, I've brought a doctor." Molly says, a little sharper then she intended, but it works. Sherlock's mouth clamps shut and his eyes slide over to her before closing.

John asks Molly to pick up some more disinfectant and a larger size of bandages. They'll be needed later and his medical bag is almost out, but as she turns to go he can sense her hesitation. She says nothing about it, though; just changes into some casual clothes and leaves.

John leaves 'Brett's' side and goes to her kitchen, washing the blood off his hands and watching it twist down the drain. The scalding water feels good, somehow. Right.

He can hear noises from the bedroom and tries his hardest to ignore them. He turns the dial on Molly's stove to full heat and begins to fill the kettle.

The bedroom door creaks open. John flinches.

Sherlock wakes up in 'his' room, body protesting his recent activities with a fierceness he rarely experiences in full. His shoulder seems the worst of it, the pain sharp and pulsating, but when he takes a deep breath to call out for Molly he has to bite back a gag. His ribs are fairly badly off.

He glances down at himself. He's shirtless, and his usually pale skin is stained with purples and greens in rather sensitive areas. Kidneys, ribs, stomach…vital areas. He tries to recall how he got to Molly's flat and remembers staggering through the back alleys of London in the dark, avoiding major roadways because the possibility of being followed was still a very present danger. He can vividly recall pausing to heave on the corner of Baker street and deciding that showing up on John and Lestrade's front door at three in the morning was not the best plan of action.

Sherlock remembers making an about-face and stumbling his way to Molly's flat, sagging against the wall of the elevator as it carried him closer to her, lurching to her place (last one at the end of the hall) and pounding a fist against her front door. His hand left bloody smudges on the white paint.

He remembers her opening the door, dressed in a pair of offensively pink pajamas, and the expression on her face. Shock, then distress. And then…

A voice. A very familiar, very male voice, muttering softly to him. Pieces of skin tugging together. Molly calling him 'Brett' for some reason… Disjointed flashes of….

"John?" He whispers.

John doesn't turn when the soft footfalls are in the hall, or when they cross the living room. He stares silently straight ahead, kettle in hand, refusing to look.


'Oh god. Oh god. It's him, all right. That, or I've gone mad.' For a second the idea is comforting. He's been on the edge of it for a little while now, and if he's finally cracked it'll be a relief. No longer will he be worrying about being insane. But it has to be him, because no one has that voice. Smooth and calm and completely indifferent.

"Sherlock." His voice is quiet, mild. He reaches over the counter to find a teabag and isn't surprised to see his hand shaking violently.

"I suppose you were going to find out sooner or later." Sherlock says it so matter-of-factly that John can't help a bitter smirk. "Though I'd rather hoped it wouldn't be like this."

"Mmmmm." John still can't turn. He grasps a teabag in one hand and bites his bottom lip. "Go lie down, Sherlock. You're not in a good way." His voice trembles. John curses his lack of control.

"You're upset." Sherlock says, like he's reading John. And the hell if John's going to allow that.

"Shut up. Just shut up and go back to bed, Sherlock. I'm not joking." God his leg hurts. He doesn't even have any weight on it, his foot is hovering just off the tiled floor, but the bloody ache of it makes him want to yell.

"I believe we need to 'talk' about this. It's an unorthodox situation, but—"

John turns on him, slams the kettle down on Molly's kitchen counter, and tries his hardest to control his voice. "No. No. Get back in bed. Now."

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, and then shakes his head. "No."

"Sherlock, I'm going to fix you up. I'm going to let the bullet hole close up and your ribs heal and all that. Then I'm going to punch you in the face. Rather hard, to tell you the truth." John can feel himself shaking, vibrating with rage, but is impressed with how conversational his tone is. "And then I'm moving my things out of Baker Street and never seeing you again." He grins, and it feels so wrong. Like he's one or two more sentences from breaking into hysterical laughter. 'So for once in your life, listen. Go back. To bed."

Sherlock is gripping the doorframe with one hand, as if it's holding him up, and the strange mix of emotions John can feel tearing through his mind make him want to scream. Shock. Anger. Concern. Utter and complete disbelief, though that's beginning to fade as he takes in the detective's appearance once again.

"…We need to have a discussion, John." His former flatmate looks downright exhausted just standing there. John forces himself not to care about that.

"There's nothing to discuss, Sherlock." He goes back to making himself tea, turning his back to Sherlock. The detective doesn't move in the slightest, but John figures if he ignores him long enough he'll get the hint.

He doesn't. "I know you're hurt."

John snorts.

"And I know you're angry. But I had to." And god, that tone. The note of pleading in his voice that sounds just like 'Please, will you do this for me?'.

"Had to. You had to." John still doesn't turn. He can't look. He knows that if he looks he will not see the Sherlock that's standing in front of him but the one that is constantly there in his head. The Sherlock with his hair matted with blood, his eyes open and unseeing. He can't look. "You had to make me watch you jump off a building and die."

"Yes." Sherlock whispers. When was the last time Sherlock whispered something? "Moriarty… He was going to kill you. You and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Three bullets…" The floor creaks softly as Sherlock shifts his weight. "Three gunman."

That was not at all expected. John toys with this for a few seconds, thinking it over. He thinks about Greg, with his easy smile and his guilty eyes. And Mrs. Hudson, who looked more and more worried every time she came into the kitchen and saw her baking sitting exactly where she left it, untouched. "…I'm glad you saved them, then."

"And you."

"I'd rather have had the bullet." Bitter, but absolutely true. John tries to picture the look on Sherlock's face, deciding it is either the rare expression of surprise he gets sometimes or the cool detachment he always has. Probably cool detachment. Sherlock has always excelled at ice.

"…You don't mean that." Maybe this isn't actually Sherlock. Sherlock never sounds so quiet, so reproachful.

"I do, actually. Looks like your brilliant deductions have failed you."

"I had to—"

"Oh yes, you had to. Absolutely. Fine. I accept that you had to kill yourself to make sure that the three people who actually cared about you didn't get shot." He leans against the counter, eye squeezed shut, and listens to the total and complete silence. "So explain the eleven months and eighteen days of silence after that."

He hears the intake a breath that signals one of Sherlock's well-prepared and flashy speeches and delights in cutting him off "Actually, no. Forget it. Whatever you say isn't good enough. And I really don't care."

"John—" He's going to go ahead and talk anyway, apparently.

"Go to bed."

"I had to end it. All of it. I had to break Moriarty's empire into fragments. I had to be sure you wouldn't—"

"—Sherlock." He growls.

"—Be hurt. I had to be certain that all of this would be for a reason. Had you known I was alive—"


"—It would've put you in danger. All three of you. Your reaction was the greatest cover I could have ever hoped for, and—"


That stops him. John Watson has given up on controlling his tone, on holding back his anger. That venom that always hovers in his blood comes forth in a blinding onslaught.

"Cover?" He hisses and turns to face what had been his best friend, and his… Well, that didn't matter now. The detective has that bloody look on his face, the one where he's said something 'socially unacceptable' but is loathe to apologise for it. "I was good cover?"

John holds his thumb and finger about an inch apart, ignoring the slight tremble. "This close, Sherlock. I was this close to—" He takes a deep breath. It doesn't help, and he drops his hand to one side. "I get it, yeah? I understand. I really didn't mean a damn thing to you, because I'm…" He holds out his arms, smiling "…I'm normal. I'm ordinary, right? What you see is what you get, nothing special about Doctor John Watson."

Sherlock winces when he says 'ordinary'. Actually winces. John feels a perverse sliver of pleasure and pushes it deeper. "Ordinary. I drink tea and I sit in the bloody flat and stare at your things, 'cause I can't bring myself to throw anything out or donate your damn clothes or even move the furniture." He laughs, and Sherlock winces again. Probably because he sounds more then a little hysterical. "The only thing extraordinary about me is how bloody stupid I've been, sitting here mourning a man who's not even dead. And of course you're not dead! You're Sherlock fucking Holmes, you'd never do something so pedestrian. Like dying."


"But guess what Sherlock? I'm the one that's had to deal with it. All of it. I saw you jump and I saw your blood all over the pavement, and I've never stopped seeing it. Do you understand?" John presses the heel of his palm against one eye, trying to drive the images of Sherlock—His Sherlock, broken on the ground and bleeding and—

A sudden burning sensation in his other hand snaps him out of it for a moment.

"Christ!" John yelps. He's set his hand on the burner he turned on to make tea, the burner that's been quietly heating up while John went off on his tirade. John snarls in the back of his throat.

He's surprised when a soft, cold hand grips his wrist and turns his hand palm-up. Sherlock turns the tap nearby on and holds John's hand under the freezing water, not releasing it no matter how hard John pulls. Eventually the blogger gives up on being released and just stands there, feeling the odd sensation of simultaneously burning and freezing with a bitter sneer.

"It's not serious." Sherlock's whispering again, but this time John can feel the warmth of the detective's breath on his neck.

"I'm a bloody doctor, I know that." John puts some space between himself and his ghost, who stares, unflinching.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock steps closer. He's cornered John against Molly's countertop, and John feels a desperate need to escape. "I'm aware that the words mean little to you, but it's the truth."

"Go away." It's a hiss. He feels like a trapped animal, pinned between Sherlock's thin, beaten body and the counter.

The response isn't verbal, it's physical. He can feel the slight tremor in Sherlock's hand as it moves to rest on the back of John's neck, can feel the exhaustion in the way the detective rests his forehead against John's neck. John doesn't move. Can't. He's frozen in place by whatever this is.

It gets more dreamlike when the detective moves his head as if he's moving a great weight and presses cold, dry lips against John's own.

John's almost certain he's gone insane now, because if he isn't that means Sherlock Holmes is kissing him and really, even he knows that's not possible.

It's over almost as soon as it began, and Sherlock is disappearing back into the bedroom before John has a chance to stutter through some sort of desperate question.

"Moron. Moron. You're a moron." Sherlock growls and eases himself back onto the bed, trying not to jostle anything.

He's gone and 'fucked it up', as they say. Whatever 'it' was.

Molly walks in and finds John leaning against the counter, looking like someone's hit him 'round the head with a brick and he's just come to.

"John?" She drops the supplies on the kitchen table, notices the kettle sitting next to the stove and frowns. "Were you making tea?"

"You knew he was alive." He doesn't sound accusing, but she flinches anyway. "You knew and you didn't tell me. Why?"

"He…made me promise not to." She fiddles with the hem of her jacket. "I'm so sorry John."

He stares blankly at her, and she wonders if he's in shock. "I've got to check in on him. You should get some sleep."

Molly doubts she'll be sleeping anytime soon.

Sherlock's feigning sleep when John shuts the door behind him.

"Don't be stupid, I know you aren't sleeping." John is conscious of how unbelievably wary he sounds, but it fits the last year he's had and he can't be bothered to pretend he's okay anymore. Besides, Sherlock won't be fooled the way everyone else has been.

"I'm certain I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock sounds guarded, and cracks his eyes open. "I was simply resting my eyes."

"Of course." John collapses into the chair he pulled up to the bed earlier. He lets the cane fall to the ground.

He falls asleep before he manages to say anything.

When Rhys walks into his office at five-thirty in the morning he's surprised (and a little distressed) to find someone sitting in his chair.

"Morning." The man says, back to him, staring out the window. Rhys flicks the light on and gives a tiny smile.

"Sitting alone in the dark's a bit dramatic, don't you think?" He keeps close to the door, in case turning and fleeing is necessary, but his reporter side is far too curious to leave just yet.

"I've been called worse." The voice is deep and almost familiar. Rhys is smart enough to know that the man sitting in his chair isn't finished talking, so he doesn't reply. "I find it interesting that you've got Kitty Reilly's 'farewell article' framed on your wall. Seems a bit vindictive, don't you think?"

Rhys grins. "It makes me laugh on a rough day." He's still by the door, but edges in a little closer. "And I particularly love how she claims she's leaving because of personal problems, and not because the paper dropped her like a sack of rancid garbage." He sets his briefcase down on his desk and stares at the back of the other man's head. "Which says to me they finally got around actually reading her articles, but that's just a personal belief."

"Yes, I did notice the line about 'private issues' was highlighted."

"It's nice to know exactly where to look when you want a good laugh." Rhys replies. Then crosses his arms. "So, why exactly are you sitting in my chair? I worked hard for that chair, it swivels and everything."

"I thought you might be all right with standing for a bit, considering I've made your career." The voice says mildly. Rhys frowns.

"Funny, you don't sound like John Watson."

The chair swivels around (which Rhys really does love), and the man sitting in it gives him a nearly-microscopic smirk.

"He would be rather pleased to hear you say that." Sherlock Holmes says, and Rhys nearly passes out right then and there.

The Resurrection of a legend-My conversation with Sherlock Holmes

Article by Rhys Sheppard, Editor-In-Chief.

He was sitting in my office at five-thirty in the morning, staring out the window in silence, and when I finally figured out who it was I nearly passed out on my very uncomfortable floor.

Yes ladies and gents, it's true. Sherlock Holmes, recently cleared of being a criminal mastermind and the subject of an Internet phenomenon, is alive and well in London.

Holmes, who was accused of multiple criminal acts by the freshly fired 'journalist' Kitty Reilly (I'm sorry, she resigned. For some reason I thought she was fired) last year, jumped from the roof of Saint Bart's hospital two days before the article proclaiming him to be a fraud was set to be released. Since then he has been the subject of suspicion, ridicule, anger and defamation, all based on the testimony of one 'Richard Brook', an 'actor' hired by Sherlock Holmes to portray his nemesis, Jim Moriarty.

It was recently proven by Henry Knight and his handy Cardiff hacker that Holmes couldn't possibly have committed the vast amount of crimes he's solved, and the unwavering dedication of Detective-Inspector Greg Lestrade has managed to establish this in court. Sherlock Holmes was posthumously acquitted of all charges last week, much to the pleasure of those who claimed to be close to him.

But Holmes is a much more brilliant genius then anyone has given him credit for. He managed to convincingly fake his own death and remain out of the public eye for an astonishing twelve months, organizing it with the help of a 'close friend' and a group that he calls his 'homeless network'.

Want details? Interested in the 'hows' and 'whys'? Of course you are, don't lie to me. The exclusive interview is on page three, so go read it. I won't beg.

-Rhys Sheppard, Editor-In-Chief.

AN: Thank you. So much. Each and every one of you made this fic possible, and it's finally done. But don't worry. There's a sequel in the works and an 'interludes' fic for anyone and everyone who enjoyed this. I'm also taking prompts for the interludes fic, so feel free to drop some off! The sequel will be about fixing the relationship between John and Sherlock, because that's too big of a project for a fic that was only going to be three parts.

Again, thank you for reading. I'm so thankful.