The flat was too damn empty. Ever since...the Accident...it had been. John sits in the armchair, staring at His couch and smiling face painted above it. The stupid yellow face...it reminded him too much of Him. It was like a haunting memory he never could shake. Then again, he sure wasn't trying. His own words from the gravesite haunt him. "...Sherlock, for me, don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this…" Just as he had done every day since he'd come back to the flat he brings a hand to his forehead and with his other grips the handle of his cane. But he wasn't coming back...he was never coming back. He couldn't even say his name anymore.

Suddenly there's a knock at his door. "John...are you in there?" asks a sweet elderly voice. , probably bringing him something to eat and drink. "Y-yeah, I'm here." he answers stupidly, pressing his fingers into his temples once more before putting his hand down and fidgeting in his chair. He sits up straight just as she nudges open the light door. "Its not healthy to be keeping to youself like this…" she says, looking very sympathetic and even a little motherly. John gives her a feeble smile, like that of a dying old man. His muscles refuse to smile anymore, they simply shift into what should be a smile. It seems that He took all the happiness with him when he passed…

"Something came in the post for you." she says, a small package on the tray on the plate of food and cup of steaming tea. John's a little puzzled by this. He's received nothing but bills and sympathy cards since the Accident so this was more than just out of the ordinary. places the tray on the small table in front of John. Without hesitation he picks up the package, turning it over and over in his hands. stands there, as if waiting for a response from the shell of a man before quietly shaking her head and walking slowly out. Though she'd hoped for a thanks, seeing him finally interested in something was enough of a change to have her leave satisfied.

Its a simple package, wrapped in brown paper from a grocery bag. He reads the label curiously, heart thudding in his chest. Could it be...from Him? He surprised to find its written very poorly, as if a child wrote it. Amelia Hess from a town in the United States. He's more than simply stunned by this, he's a little...disappointed. His hopes of it being a puzzle or reveal or something from Him fade and yet something about this package feels...special.

He turns it to the folded and taped side, gently tugging on the flaps to get them free. He presses his shaking fingers into the paper wrapping, and the contents shifts as well. Paper…? Frabric…? He opens it. A small, cheaply printed newspaper unfolds in front of him as he works free the tape. He's further confused by it. Why would someone send him a school newspaper from some little town out of the country? He picks it up, feeling something slip out of it. A letter drops out and his first impulse is to ignore it and continue examining the newspaper.

He ignores this instinct and grabs it, his hesitation seeming more foolish to him now. He opens it briskly, no writing on the outside and the seal not even licked and closed, simply folded inside. Inside is a sloppily creased stack of notebook paper. He opens it and inside is a child's words. Its an odd sight for him since he knows nobody with children and knows none. He struggles to read it. As he reads, short as it is, he feels himself a little overwhelmed.

"Dear ,

I saw what happened on the news for a little bit and wanted you to know that me and my sister still care. She even wrote this article in the newspaper for you because we know you'll be sad and stuff. I hope he comes back soon.

Sincerely,

Colin Hess

3rd Grade"

John hides his face in him hand. Just when he thought he was on the verge of reaching some sort of emotional resolution with His passing...Despite what his heart was trying to force him to do he continues. He's balancing on the edge of setting the damn package down. Hell, he's on the verge of tossing it into the fire. He just can't handle dwelling on his passing anymore. But something...somehow...forces him onwards.

He unfolded the paper and flips through it, looking for the indicated article. It takes him a few seconds. School sports teams, a play of some sorts...then, he finds it. Immediately his hand goes to his chin, feeling a rock of emotion plummet in his stomach. "The Fall of Holmes?"

"The Fall of Holmes?"...his heart tells him to stop but he can't. He's already read through the first line.

"Sherlock Holmes; the man who took the world by storm. Since the time he first got new coverage on our televisions we've been captured by the man who seems to know everything about anyone he meets without talking to them before. He's become the most brilliant man in the world, his blog capturing the minds of HUNDREDS of people around the globe with his feats of investigation expertise with his partner John Watson."

John laughs inwardly, his expression still stoic and hardened. At times he didn't feel like a partner at all. At times he was the tagalong, the bodyguard, the extra muscle, the lab rat, and even once or twice (though he'd deny it now) the 'damsel in distress'. Blogger gone Jack of all trades...and he finds himself squinting a little through a haze at the words. His hand moves from his chin to the side of his head, holding his face in his two forefingers and his thumb idly. He read on.

It goes on to rave about his previous cases and he begins to wonder. Was this child nothing more than a fan, working up to the final result he completely expected? Every tabloid was screaming it. They all claimed He was a fake...a fraud. In fact it was this that seemed to kill John just as much as His passing. To have him both passed and disgraced was...nothing but a sin. He reads on, his chest clenching with anxiety as his eyes slip over the next line.

"However, the trial of the century after the biggest heist in history changed everything."

John's hand grips the edge of the paper. "Like hell it did…" he mutters, forcing himself onwards with a pained and frustrated face.

"After a short trial period and a quick-minded jury, the stunning verdict was delivered. Not guilty. It shook the world to its core and no doubt sent a terrified shockwave through Holmes and his partner."

"Mostly me...and what did he do he went right home into danger head on…" John says bitterly. There's a large part of the story cut out here. John hadn't felt the need to share it so the world would never know many of the details. He reads on.

"Unfortunately, within days of the verdict, tragedy struck. After calling his best friend and companion on the phone, he stepped from the roof of a building and fell to the ground below."

Somehow the simplicity of this part made him angry at nothing in particular. It was if someone was minimizing the nightmares that haunted him every time his eyes shut. Every time he slept, every time he was alone, every time he took a breath...it was as if he loved reminding himself of the worst failure of his life. He'd failed to save the man who'd saved him. He feels himself becoming more and more unable to continue and he grips the arm of the chair with one of his shaking hands.

However, something...something in the darkness of his world...tells him to continue. All the pain and grief he was suffering from His passing seemed to temporarily...alleviate ever so slightly. It sends a shiver down his spine and he unwrinkles the crumpled paper in his palm enough to finish reading it.

"However…"

This being the first thing he reads after deciding to continue, he feels like that 'something' may have had a point.

"I believe Sherlock was too clever to be taken down my this. Yes, a regular human would have perished from that fall, but when all things are considered Holmes was ANYTHING but a normal human. Anyone brilliant enough to perform the feats he had in previous months was too intelligent to be taken down by a simple drop."

John sits a little straighter in his chair, reading on more intently now.

"I believe he was no fraud. I believe he's alive and well out there, waiting and watching like a good brilliant man would do. I believe in Sherlock. And if this should somehow reach the hands of John…"

His heart thuds in his chest…

"...I think he should believe again too."

He doesn't read the signature. His shaking hand lets go the paper and it slowly drops to the floor. He puts a hand over his eyes and rest his other arm across his legs, leaning forward. He's quiet for a long while. Suddenly, his frame shakes in the stillness of the loft. His lips pull back and his teeth clench together. His first smile in months. He removes his hand, his eyes glazed but...different. Life seemed to have been dripped back into them. He smiles at the ceiling, then squints and blinks in confusion.

There's another 'bored moment' bullet hole on the ceiling. "God dammit, Sherlock, when you get back you're never touching my gun again." he says.