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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fan Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
There's still one person in London who believes. Sherlock fan fiction, one shot. Set shortly after the Reichenbach Fall.

Submitted: December 11, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 11, 2013





I picked up a copy of The Sun from a trash barrel on the corner by the subway station. Some man had just tossed it in there with a sad shake of his head and walked on. I stared after him for a moment, then focused on the headline sprawled across the front page in bold letters: Suicide of Fake Genius, Fraudulent Detective Takes His Own Life. 

My jaw fell open in shock. No, there’s just no way... It can’t be... I rifled through the pages until I saw the main story, and I was so taken aback that I stumbled into the wall behind me. There before my very eyes was a huge picture of Sherlock Holmes wearing that funny hat of his, and below it was a shot of the front of Bart’s hospital. In it, there were people gathered around something, and when I looked closer, I could see what that something was: A body, covered by a white sheet. Well, it was mostly white. A good section of it was stained crimson. 

Aghast, I began to read what they had written about him. 




My hands began to shake the more that I read, and I hadn’t gotten through half of the article before I ripped it to shreds. I knew Sherlock, none of this was true. I even helped him on a few of his cases, getting information about someone or helping him catch a criminal on the run. He told me once that he called us his ‘homeless network’, and that we were of more help to him than all of Scotland Yard. I took pride in knowing that I was of use to the great Sherlock Holmes, and that he said we were important. He even thanked us once, and if anyone knew Sherlock, they knew that he didn’t do that. Ever. For anyone. Well, except for John. 

I ran my fingers through my hair and wondered what was going to happen now. All Sherlock had was his mind and his name, and now both were discredited. Soon his memory would be nothing to anyone. 

It was then that I decided that I couldn’t let that happen. Sherlock deserved more than this. And by God, he’s going to get more. If it’s the last thing I do.


Two hours later, I stood in front of a brick wall that was the side of a cafe in a busy section of the city. In my hand was a can of black spray paint that I had bought with the little money that I had. I’m not eating tonight, but so what? It doesn’t matter anymore. I can go hungry for a while, if it means I’m doing something for Sherlock. 

I walked slowly to the middle of the wall, flipping the can in my right hand and staring sadly at my blank canvas. “I wish I didn’t have to do this,” I said to no one. I was answered by the sound of cars driving down the street, and people’s voices as they talked and went about their lives, as if nothing had happened. I sighed deeply, raised my arm above my head, and pressed my finger down on the nozzle. 


My task complete, I turned and walked away back down the alley that I came from. I threw the spent can of paint behind me, and I heard it clatter against the concrete and roll away. I didn’t bother looking back, my work was done. I knew that someone would see it eventually. I didn’t care who, just as long as someone out there could see it. 

Maybe I’m the only person left in the world that has faith. 

Maybe I’m the only person left in the world who’s still a believer, who knows that it was all real. 

Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. I don’t care. I just know that I’m the only one who is willing to stand up and say something. 

I made my faith action. I want the world to know the truth. That’s why on that day, I let everyone know what I believed. What I still believe to this day. 


On the side of a little cafe in London, you will find a message written in spray paint. If you read it, you will see it very clearly. Five simple words, but they are the truest words I have ever said: 



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