I don't own anything, literally anything, Sherlock related. I do however own a crazy imagination and this is what it came up with. Among other things.

More coming soon.

A scream echoed throughout the dark flat making the cat, that was till then sleeping on the sofa unaware of the intruder in his kingdom, jump and run under the coffee table utterly startled. His mistress most likely just cost him one of his nine lives.

Molly dropped her bag by her feet and with a shaky hand turned on the light in her small, but cozy, sitting room. She wasn't expecting any company today. In fact she wasn't expecting any company in general since she lacked certain social skills to make a lot of friends who would drop by for a cup of coffee or tea and just chitchat. That was probably why her sitting room looked like a mess with medical journals sitting on every viable surface including the floor, several pieces of clothing simply draped over the back of the sofa, an empty cup on the coffee table and one on the sideboard, flowers that she bought thinking they would cheer her up, now completely dry, in the vase on the windowsill.

But the biggest mess was a man that was sitting on a chair, his head leaned back and his eyes closed.

"God, Sherlock, what happened to you?" Molly whispered softly as she approached the silent man that didn't in any way showed he noticed her arrival, "Sherlock?"

"Hello Molly. It appears I am in need of your assistance once more." He said calmly like he was commenting on the weather.

"I can see that." The shocked pathologist said before leaving the room and going to the bathroom where she, under the sink, kept her first aid kit. It wasn't as stocked as she would like it to be but it should contain everything she needed tonight.

"You were out tonight." Sherlock said as he finally opened his eyes and looked at the only person, apart from his brother, who knew he was still alive "Celebrating?"

"Do you know what day it is?" she asked and he could hear the anger in her voice. It seemed like she was insulted and Sherlock simply couldn't understand why.

"Of course." He finally answered after few moments of awkward silence.

Molly finally shed her jacket, throwing her absently on the sofa, and sat on the edge of the coffee table opposite of the man that observed her with curiosity. She took a deep breath and finally asked, "Then how can you ask me if I was out celebrating? There is nothing to celebrate on this day. You died on this day Sherlock! One year ago you jumped from the roof of St. Bart's."

"I am well aware of that Molly."

"Then how-" she took another deep breath "Never mind. Will you tell me what happened or should I deduce it?"

Sherlock leaned forward and she observed the damage on his beautiful face. His lip was split, some dried blood on the cupid's bow showed his nose was bleeding at some point, there was a small cut by his brow that was still slowly seeping blood down the left side of his face and his hair was coated with what must have been blood on the same side as the cut.

"It is better if you don't know any details Molly." She sighed on his words and nodded silently. If there was one thing Molly was certain of it was that Sherlock Holmes was very protective of his friends, the few that there were. After all he went as far as faking his death to protect them from a madman and his cruel plan.

She took the gauze and alcohol from the kit and slowly and carefully cleaned the cuts on his face. She had to give him credit; he never even flinched despite the sting he must have felt every time alcohol came in contact with the open wound.

"The cut by your brow isn't as bad as it first looked. It stopped bleeding but I'll still put a patch on it just in case."

She moved to get one out of the kit but Sherlock stopped her "Leave it. I will heal soon."

"Sherlock."

"Leave it Molly." He repeated.

"Alright." She finally agreed before continuing, "Your nose isn't broken, as I'm sure you already know. Your lip is split but there is nothing I can do for that." Apart from kissing it better, but Molly would never say those words out loud, "The blood in your hair-"

"Isn't mine." He offered an explanation and Molly nodded.

"Are your ribs tender? If you got in a fight then-"

"They are fine, thank you Molly." Sherlock interrupted her.

"Then why are you here?" she asked suddenly getting confused "You could have easily take care of it all by yourself."

Silence ruled the flat for several minutes during which Molly packed the unused things back to the first aid kit and returned it in the bathroom. When Sherlock finally spoke his voice was breaking Molly's heart.

"I didn't want to be alone today. It never bothered me before, the solitude. But today it was… difficult. I don't do sentiment, but I'm starting to understand it." He admitted, "So I went to Baker Street, to the empty flat opposite of 221B, but all I could see was that abhorred reporter. No John, no Miss. Hudson. I left after several hours and was on my way to see you when I noticed him. I was looking for him for weeks now and all this time he was right here in London."

"Who is he?" Molly asked fully knowing she wouldn't get the answer.

"But you weren't in your flat." Sherlock continued like she never interrupted him "Where were you Molly? You weren't celebrating, then where were you?"

"I was out with John and few other people. We were-" she interrupted herself in mid sentence and changed the subject "John is doing alright now. The first few months were the most difficult for him, for all of us. Even me because I knew the truth and knew how to make him feel better but couldn't."

"What were you doing Molly?" he asked observing her from head to doe, deducing what he could from the little details only he really noticed.

"We were healing." She offered an explanation.

Sherlock frowned "You have tape on three of your fingers. It wasn't an accident during a post mortem; you are far to skilled with a scalpel. You were cutting something much softer and it had to be precise. Most likely paper or cardboard. There are traces of yellow on your fingers that you tried to wash off but didn't manage to remove completely. Judging by the clank coming from your bag when you dropped it on the floor previously it was from spray paint. You have at least three empty cans in your bag." He looked at her seriously, "What were you doing Molly?"

"Healing." She repeated smiling, "And it was quite exhilarating."

"Oh?"

Sherlock left the flat several hours later; after several cups of tea, a large meal and a long hot shower. As he was walking away from his safe haven he put his hands in his pockets only to discover something that wasn't there previously. Knowing it could only be Molly that put it there he took the piece of paper out of his pocket and looked at the words scribbled there in horrible doctor handwriting.

It was an address that seemed familiar. Slipping into his mind palace Sherlock tried to find that exact street only to realize why it seemed like he knew it from before. It was because he did.

He started to walk faster in the right direction, not caring for the people mingling in the streets. The chances of someone recognizing him were slim now that his hair was cut short and dyed to the color of honey and contacts colored his eyes brown.

Besides, no one expected to see a dead man walking the streets of London.

It took almost an hour to get from Molly's flat to the address she gave him but the sight was worth the trip. He was in the building before, in the flat that belongs to that idiot reporter, shortly before the Fall. But once white painted building now served as a canvas for an artwork that could have only be made but few individuals.

And he knew them all.

He recognized Raz's work, and the same yellow paint color he once used to decorate the wall back in Baker Street. He now understood that Molly's cuts came from cutting a stencil and the color on her fingers from holding it in place.

Because right there in front of him on the front of the house was a graffiti that will soon, unknowingly to those who made it, start a movement that will spread like wildfire through London and then the rest of the country before it takes over the world.

A black car stopped few meters away and a man carrying an umbrella stepped out before he came to stand in the shadows next to his brother.

"I am quite pleased with how it turned out." He said looking at the work.

Sherlock looked at him, "You knew?"

"Doctor Watson kindly asked if the CCTV cameras could focus somewhere else tonight. It was no hassle, really." Mycroft Holmes explained before asking, "Ride?"

"No." his younger brother answered before returning his focus on the building.

There, on the white background, stood his profile in black paint with bright yellow words informing the world: I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

He only wished he could see… "Mycroft." He looked at his brother, "Has miss Riley returned home already?"

A small smile appeared on the man that was the government "Yes. I will make sure the recording gets sent to you."

"Please do. Goodbye Mycroft." He finished their conversation and walked away, pleased that his return to London was more productive then he first expected. Kitty Riley wanted a story for the first anniversary of his death, well the material was delivered right on her front steps.

Thank you for reading. Please take a minute and let me know what you think.