John Believes

This piece is for a contest run by the amazing WaistDeepInThoughts.

Check out her page here:
[link]

Her contest simply demanded that you create a piece of art featuring any Sherlock character, and since I recently drew Sherlock and his violin for another contest not long ago, I was inspired to give John a spin. With this piece I wanted to focus on his pain at Sherlock's "death" but still wished to show that no matter what he will stand up for his friend who he has always believed in. I don't know why, but I just picture John standing in the rain with a sign that shows the world that he is a believer in the extraordinary powers of Mr. Sherlock Holmes post-Reichenbach. I used a real shot of a rainy London street and blurred it just to make the more lined and unnatural John pop out more and take precedence. I also added in some rain behind and over him with some puddle drops tossed in for good measure just to create a moody atmosphere with a prominent blue tone where the frantic rain mirror's John's mind as he mourns Sherlock.

I have also written a piece that I did to accompany this particular artwork that I hope is a good textual companion piece to this visual element. Here it is; I hope you enjoy:

"Well, I was going to make this a post on the blog, but I thought it wouldn’t be in good taste. Still, I had to find some way to vent my feelings because keeping it all inside isn’t healthy for me. What’s that, Sherlock? How am I? Well how the bloody hell do you think I am? I watched you fall to your death right in front of my eyes. My best friend, breathing one second, gone forever the next… Ever since that day-no-ever since that moment, I have felt an emptiness in the pit of my stomach like I haven’t eaten in months and no matter how much I scarf down, it still remains. If that isn’t bad enough the silence in Baker Street is nearly unbearable, and Mrs. Hudson doesn’t even bother to yell at me anymore for keeping the place a cluttered mess. I tell her that’s what you would’ve wanted. This sounds kind of stupid, Sherlock, but sometimes when Mrs. Hudson is away I will pluck at the strings of your violin and try to play a melody. And if I close my eyes real tight it is almost like you are alive again and back here where you belong, strumming away trying to think hard about a case you are working on. Yeah, I thought you’d find it more than a tad daft.
Now, Sherlock, let’s talk about that great insomnia you’ve given me, shall we? I try to sleep night after bloody night, but all I do is toss and turn, with images of you lying dead in a pool of your own blood haunting me every single time I shut my eyes. I haven’t had such nightmares since I was over in Afghanistan, and I would rather take an eternity of the explosions and gunfire noises over what I am feeling inside me now. Hell, I figured going to my shrink would help, but guess what, Sherlock? She just sat me there for an hour twice a week and kept telling me to accept that you were a fraud and move on the best I can. “The sooner you forget his lies, the sooner you can move on,” she says. “Write on your blog, it will be cathartic,” she says… Two weeks ago I finally snapped at her, we had a row and I stormed out not long after, so I guess I won’t be going back there again. I wasn’t going to have anyone tell me you were a fake, because no matter how many bloody people tell me you were, I will never in a million years believe them. I won’t even believe you, Sherlock.
From the first moment I met you I knew that you were way too genuine to be a fake. The way you looked me in the eyes and told me about yourself, Mycroft, your work, all the laughs we shared in Baker Street… I could see it in your eyes, in your mannerisms that you were telling me fact, not fiction; that we were sharing genuine moments with each other. I still remember that night when you knew Moriarty was trying to burn you, and you thought he had gotten to me too. You smacked your hand off the table, and shouted while staring right into my eyes with complete and sincere intensity. Your expression in that moment couldn’t ever be faked; not even by the greatest actors alive today, Sherlock. On your face was the look of a man who knew just how good he was and couldn’t stand being lied about and turned against by everyone he trusted. I could see plain as day that it was all genuinely getting to you, that you were all you said you were and more. You showed me in that moment that Moriarty wasn’t a bloody actor you paid to make yourself look cool. You were too arrogant and self-assured in your own abilities to be desperate enough to need to pay for attention, Sherlock. No, that night, more than ever was when I knew you were the real deal.
Even the way your voice choked when you tried to tell me you were a fraud before you jumped gave you away. I could hear it in your voice that you didn’t mean any of what you were saying and that you couldn’t bear trying to convince me that you weren’t genuine. I was your proudest audience member from the very start, Sherlock, and it ate at you that you had to lie to me. Though, did you ever think I would believe you? There is no possible way you could fake all those amazing feats, all those clever deductions and plans, like how you showed me that you memorized all of London’s streets when we were hunting down the cabbie killer. So, whether your lie was made up to protect me or to make me think you weren’t who you said you were, I’ll never know. All I do know is that it didn’t work, and I will never let anyone spread slander about you as long as I live. Not the news on the telly, the press, or even Anderson and Donovan.
And so I will stand all across London, my sign in hand, and I will speak the truth about the Sherlock Holmes I knew so well. I will shout loud and proud that you were the most brilliant man I will ever know, the greatest detective who ever shall live and the best friend a man could ask for. With my sign I will stand tall against the media who paint you as a fool, even if I am standing all alone in the pouring rain, speaking to nothing but the raindrops cascading off of me. I will stand soaked but in the hopes that my words affect just one, just one single person passing by me, because even that would mean what I was doing wasn’t all for nil. You may find all this to be a rather pointless crusade, but when I was nothing but a broken soldier you didn’t give up on me, so I won’t ever give up on you, not for anything, Sherlock.
I don’t really know where to move on from here though, but I am trying, day by day to grow a little stronger, to be a little less cynical about everything. I think it is about time I try to kick some of my worst habits, and hopefully I will get better because of it. I’ll try not the stare at your empty chair, try to stop visiting your website, and instead try and clean up the mess at the apartment… I might even try taking a walk every now and then and have some nice thoughts for a change. Yeah, some nice thoughts would be good, I think. Don’t you, Sherlock?
My most recent happy thought was a few nights back, actually. I fell asleep in the chair and for just a brief few minutes I dreamed of a happy moment for once in all this darkness. And it wasn’t about the war, or your fall, or one of our cases or anything remotely morbid. It was just us, Sherlock; just you and I, meeting again, right here in 221B. I was heading towards the door to the apartment after exchanging words and payment with a cabbie, and I slowly started making my way up the stairs. Then, I heard the faint sound of your violin being played upstairs, the strings being lightly manipulated and playing a melody you would’ve loved. At the notice of it I speed up the rest of the stairs, almost burst through the door, and by the light of the window I see your silhouette and for the first time in a long time I can’t help but smile. It was a strange dream, Sherlock. There wasn’t anger, or pain or anything like that in my eyes. You, there in the flesh, breathing before me was enough for me to forgive anything you have done. Then, your head turns almost in slow motion to meet my gaze, and just when I am about to run to you, I wake up in a sweat. Though it felt like my brain was teasing me, trying to make me think you were alive again, and though I know we will never meet again in this life, it was a nice break from the nightmare my life has turned into. And, it is nice to dream about the impossible for a change. That you will someday walk in our door again and everything will finally return to normal.
And so, Sherlock, until fantasy becomes reality, here I will be. Mourning your absence, saluting you like a fallen soldier, and carrying the message to anyone that will listen that I believe in Sherlock Holmes, that Moriarty was real and that Richard Brook was a lie. I’ll do it not for Lestrade, not for Mrs. Hudson, not for your fans and not even for myself. I’ll do it because standing for a few hours in the pouring rain with my sign, defending your memory with my chin held high is the least I can do for all that you have given me. And until the world believes, I won’t stop, and I’ll keep up the hope that all of this is just one bad dream and that you are still alive out there, somewhere.

You know, I meant with all my heart what I said to you at your grave that day, Sherlock. And I am still waiting for that one last miracle."

-John H. Watson