John wasn't sure why he kept going to St Bart's.

Part of it was he missed the routine of heading down to the morgue with Sherlock. He found himself there with the detective as often as four days a week for one reason or another. The detective would insist on going to Bart's for experiments, for body parts, and for the occasional case. It had become an odd second home for John- and now that Sherlock was gone he longed for that sense of normalcy when everything was wrong.

However, John knew the true reason for why he kept finding himself at Bart's- Sherlock had died there. John had spent almost every moment with Sherlock in life, so why should he be apart from him in death? John found himself leaning against the façade of the building, staring at the spot where Sherlock's blood had stained the pavement. It had been only a few months since Sherlock had jumped, and John returned to Bart's at least twice a week to look at the spot where his friend died. It was odd; John had seen hundreds of people die in Afghanistan- a lot of them right under his hands. Why only Sherlock's death haunted John was a mystery to him. He had half a mind to solve it, but without the detective skills of his friend, John knew that he had no chance. Sherlock's absence was the root of the problem anyway, and Sherlock was never, ever coming back.

That core issue was the reason that John found himself sneaking up onto the roof of St. Bart's. He knew what it would look like if anyone were to find him up there- a lonely man whose best friend had just killed himself at the same spot, but John didn't care. Something in his gut tugged him to St. Bart's every day and now something pushed him up towards the roof and wouldn't relent until he was there. Stepping out of the door, John took in the sight of the roof, seeing the last things that Sherlock saw. AC units, wires, tubes and plumbing pipes were scattered at random over the roof. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, nothing was there to leave a testament to the fact that the most brilliant man John had decided to kill himself up there. An odd lump formed in John's throat as he took a few more steps forward; eyeing the granite ledge that Sherlock had been standing on.

A sudden curse made John whirl in surprise. Standing behind him, back to John, was a young woman. He couldn't see her face- she was clutching her hand, curses flying from her lips with increasing variety. Behind her, was a brick wall that was covered in what John realized was a mural- a work in progress, but it was still beautiful. The wall was swirled with a multitude of colors, an ever changing collage. Through the storm of color the words I Believe in Sherlock Holmes danced around in yellow. However, there was a large red splotch on the word 'Sherlock', and John realized it was blood. Swears dying down, the young woman set down a can of paint, the top of it torn at an odd angle with more blood on it. Reaching for the kerchief on her head that was keeping her hair tied back, she visibly started as John came into her view.

The young woman couldn't have been older than twenty. She was small, but had lean muscle. Dark, wavy hair was starting to coil down her back and neck now that she'd pulled the paint-stained kerchief off of her head. Her clothes were old, worn, and also covered in paint. In an instant, she'd turned, snatched up a messenger bag John hadn't even noticed, and had started to sprint for the door. "Hey, wait!" John found himself yelling, picking up his feet to chase after her. "It's ok- I'm John Watson!" He yelled (he internally chastised himself later for saying something so stupid). To his surprise, the girl turned briefly to look at him, her face holding recognition of his before she sprinted for the door and disappeared.

John stared after her for a few moments before walking over to the mural, snaking his way among paint cans and brushes that had been scattered out on an old drop cloth that had clearly been used in other works of art. The closer he got to the mural, the further the lump traveled in his throat. The colors reminded him of a million things- Sherlock's changing mood, the fast-pace of cases, how his life had changed since Afghanistan, Sherlock's eyes, the whirlwind of the press over Sherlock…

Tearing his eyes from the colors, John looked to the words. The masterful swirls of the colors were incredible, but John thought the words were the most beautiful. They were simple, in just one color, but to John they meant the world. He wasn't the only one- people believed in Sherlock. They weren't fooled by Moriarty; they could see the truth. John half wished that the mural was more visible to the public (it was beautiful and the public could do with a dose of Sherlock-friendly press), but at the same time he was happy that the artist had chosen the secluded spot. It was more than just a statement- it was a testament to Sherlock, his integrity, and his cases.

John raised a hand and gently touched the word 'Sherlock'. The artist had cut herself badly on the paint can she'd been trying to open (a cerulean blue) and had spilled a bit of blue at the bottom of the wall. However, a large splotch of blood, in almost a hand print shape had slipped down the detective's name. That's when John saw it- another can of paint, grey, had tipped over and spilled. Before John even realized what he was doing, he put the scenario together. The artist was struggling to open the can of paint and she tripped on the other, open can on the ground. Distracted, she'd torn the top wrong, cut her hand, and lost her balance. Seeking for support, she'd planted her hand on the most available surface- her own work of art.

Smiling slightly sadly now, John knelt down and set the can of grey paint back upright. It didn't take much for him to pull the drop cloth over to mop up the mess. Once the grey and blue paint were cleaned up, John put all of the cans together in neat stacks and covered it with the drop cloth, hiding it behind an AC unit so that it wasn't visible. If anyone else found the mural, he didn't want the artist to lose her materials- if and when she came back for them. Satisfied, John took one more look at the mural. For some reason, the blood stain on Sherlock's name seemed right. He didn't see it as someone else's blood, didn't see it as the supposed 'blame' and scandal that now stained Sherlock's name.

He saw that blood as Sherlock's. It was the blood that he'd given up countless times on cases or on experiments to prove someone's innocence. It was the blood that had once fueled the detective's genius. It was the blood that used to stain the pavement in front of St. Bart's. That alone made the monument to Sherlock all the more perfect to John. It was beautiful, meaningful, and, most importantly honest.

The pull in his stomach wasn't as strong as John left the hospital.