"My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead."
John refuses to call Sherlock's death a suicide. Suicide is when you take your own life and that's not what Sherlock did. John really believes that he would have given his life to save his friends, but in reality he had it stolen from him long before his fall from the roof of 's. Moriarty took his life and John would forever hold him accountable for Sherlock's death. Unfortunately, the rest of the world didn't seem to see it that way.
It takes far too little time after Sherlock's death for things to return to normal for the people of London. Not for the people who were close to Sherlock, things will never return to normal for them, but the average every day citizens of London will move on. A new story-of-the-week will replace Sherlock's last case and John will never have to see the headline SUICIDE OF A FAKE GENIUS plastered across every newspaper he passes again.
There are no court cases for two men who killed themselves. Two suicides: open and shut. Just files locked away in a cabinet somewhere in the basement of the building. Almost no one stops to think about the implications, Moriarty's web of lies, Richard Brook. There are a few interviews with police, but they're mostly ignored because the police are already convinced that it was suicide and John knows that they rarely change their minds. Certainly nothing in John's testimony would change their opinion of the situation.
John keeps a good check on his anger. At least, better than the time he chinned the chief superintendent. It takes a few weeks for people to stop calling Sherlock a fraud and a fake, and a few more before they begin to forget about Sherlock Holmes all together. A bright candle that burnt out too fast; a brief flash of genius, ended too early. John only punches one person a few days after Sherlock's funeral, after he's had too much to drink. For once, it's Harry who carries him home from the bar and dumps him on the sofa and makes sure that he has water and aspirin handy the next morning. His heart almost breaks when there's no violin music to rake through his fuzzy head the next morning.
After Sherlock's story falls of off the major news networks, it moves to the evening talk shows, and then eventually to crap daytime telly. Soon his story fades out of the public sphere all together and John can't help but be relieved. Once Sherlock's image and story are no longer surrounding him, John begins to feel less haunted, but the emptiness persists. It seems that the only people who remember Sherlock now are those few individuals that somehow managed to get close to him. Even Sally looks sad, sometimes, for all her accusations and cries of "freak", she never really hated Sherlock and certainly didn't want to see him dead. She just didn't want to see him around the office, but even now she finds herself missing him – although she would never admit it. Lestrade looks older and grayer than before. He seems a harder, but tired and haggard. His cases are more difficult than ever before, because he knows what they're missing: Sherlock. His keen eyes, his brilliant deductions and, yes, even his abuse and rude comments. Lestrade tries to think like Sherlock sometimes, tries to see things the way Sherlock could, but he usually just ends up tripping himself up. After a few months, Lestrade invites John to a few crime scenes and John accepts.
At first, John only manages to spot a few extra things, bits and pieces that he learned from watching Sherlock, but every once in a while he manages to catch something important. As time progresses he even manages to help Lestrade solve a few cases and he likes to think that Sherlock might be a little bit proud, if he were there. In reality though, John knows, Sherlock would probably just point out that John had missed everything of importance. John tries not to think about it, because sometimes it's just too hard to get rid of the lump in his throat so that he can talk to people again. Lestrade learns that when John gets that far off look, he needs to be left alone for a few minutes and he tries to give him some peace and quite. John is so far inside his own head that he barely even notices the extra space that Lestrade gives him.
Sometimes John and Lestrade go to the pub together. They talk about John's girlfriend-of-the-week, football matches and Lestrade's yo-yoing relationship with his wife. But there is a silence that stretches between them and seeps into the cracks in their conversations and neither of them can fill it. There is so much that they want to say about Sherlock, but neither of them can find the words. Neither man knows where to start. Instead they let the silence drift down to settle on the floor of the pub with the peanut shells and dust. They sip their pints and cheer when their respective teams score.
John tries to visit Molly a few times, but she's distant and scurries away at the first chance that she gets. Eventually John stops visiting the poor girl, but he makes sure to keep her number logged in his mobile and he sends her a card at Christmas.
John continues to live in 221B, but it's hard to be forever surrounded by Sherlock's possessions. Sometimes it's nice, not to find a human head in the fridge when he looks for the milk, but he would trade a lifetime of eyeball-filled microwaves just to see Sherlock one more time. He can't bring himself to pack Sherlock's things away. Instead he leaves them where they are, as a tribute to the mad genius that once lived there. Some people call it unhealthy and say that he needs to move on, but John wants to keep sharing this space with Sherlock's memory. Mrs. Hudson visits daily and makes tea and never once comments about the state of the flat or Sherlock's things. She never seems to charge John rent and his bank account always seems to stay filled (Mycroft's doing, he suspects).
Time passes and the world continues to turn around the sun, but nothing is the way that it should be. John knows that this isn't how the world should be. There should never be a world without Sherlock. John can no more imagine a world without Sherlock than he can imagine one without London. This is not John's world. It is just one that he's passing through, for the time being, looking for something better. John tries to continue living his life the way it was before Sherlock, but he knows it's futile. There will never be a life before Sherlock again, John can never know anything else. Mycroft was right, John missed the war, and he'd found it again in Sherlock. Now he's on permanent leave from his life's greatest adventure, but he knows that he can never be a civilian again.
John sits in the darkness in the flat, staring at Sherlock's empty chair, with its crumpled leather and chemical stains. His fingers drum against the armrest of his own chair and he listens to the sirens and the sounds of the city around him. Lights flash through the window as cabs pass by and somewhere down the street football fans are crowing their teams victory. John decides that he can't take it anymore. He won't let this city forget Sherlock. He won't let them forget how Sherlock saved them from bombs and serial killers, and the all of the innocent lives that he protected. Every citizen of London will remember Sherlock Holmes and how he became a good man. And John will make certain of it.
He pulls on his black coat and turns the collar up against the cold and limps out of the flat with his cane in one hand and a can of yellow spray paint in the other. He walks down the street for a few blocks and then turns off at a random alleyway, looking up at the red bricks before him. He takes a deep breath and writes: MORIARTY WAS REAL. The yellow paint drips down the wall and he is hit by a surge of adrenaline, so he hobbles off down the street as fast as he can, stopping a few blocks away to lean against a wall and catch his breath. He pants as the adrenaline leaves his system, but he realizes that it felt good to spray paint that wall. He wants to do it again and he wants to do it where anyone can see it. If anyone is likely to remember Sherlock Holmes, it is the inhabitants of the back alleys and side streets of London. His homeless network, his contacts, people's he's helped and people who maybe even feared him, in those last few months as his public image grew. John wants to make the others remember, wants to make them see how they broke a great man because they believed the fairytales in the newspapers. He looks around for any patrollers and then quickly scrawls I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES across the concrete wall. He glances around for any witnesses again, and out of the corner of his eye he sees slate grey coat tails flick around the corner and out of site. He knows it's impossible, but his heart won't let him ignore this chance and he dashes after those disappearing coat tails as fast as he can, calling Sherlock's name.
By the time he makes it around the corner, the man is gone and John's leg is beginning to hurt again, so he limps back to the flat and falls asleep on the couch with dark curls and billowing coats in his dreams. The next morning he goes to a crime scene with Lestrade and helps with a murder and a missing diamond ring. They find it on one of the suspects with the victim's blood on it and John feels good about his contribution for the day. That night he goes to dinner at Angelo's and walks past the wall that he spray-painted the night before. He is satisfied to see that the paint hasn't been removed yet. Angelo greets him like an old friend and gives him the table at the window, where John sits and orders dinner. As he stares out at the London streets he begins to plot other places to tag with his graffiti reminders, and his mind drifts. He's jerked back to reality again by a head of dark curls disappearing into the alley way across from Angelo's and he bolts from his chair, out the door, and down the street. The man is gone again and John feels shaky once more. He returns to Angelo's and gets his dinner to go. He eats in the dark, at home, and once more puts on his coat with the collar turned up and heads out onto the streets of London.
From then on, John creates his own war. He makes war on the image that Moriarty left behind and the one that he destroyed. He makes war on the people of London and their fickle allegiances and their fairytales, and he reminds them that Sherlock Holmes was real. He knows that he can never undo everything that Moriarty accomplishes – his network is too vast and complicated, and John knows that even Sherlock would have trouble picking apart Moriarty's web of deception. But John can do this little thing, his little part, and he does. He tags public buildings and private ones, historical or new, big or small. He does shop fronts and delivery shoots and lampposts. One night, when he's feeling particularly daring, he even tags Scotland Yard, down the alley just below Lestrade's window. Every night he tags more and more buildings, and eventually he starts to notice that some of the tags aren't his. He wonders briefly who else might be contributing and is pleased by the development, pleased that he's making a difference. During his escapades, he learns that his cane – which he no longer needs – is a useful tool for pulling down fire escape stairs and for looking innocent when patrollers came by. No one questioned the nice-looking, middle-aged man with the cane. One night he slips down an alleyway and bumps into someone as he rounds a corner. He starts to apologize, but stops and gapes at the man he's crashed into. Lestrade pulls the black bandana away from his face, looking grim and John sees fresh, yellow spray painting dripping down the wall behind him. MORIARTY WAS REAL. No words pass between them, no words need to pass between them. This is the silence that has been stretched between them since Sherlock died and this is how they will fill it. John welcomes Lestrade to the battlefield.
Ghosts of Sherlock still haunt John, but eventually he stops chasing them down alleyways and across train tracks. He accepts that as a part of his damaged psyche, and even welcomes them sometimes, hoping that in some way Sherlock might approve of what John was doing. He never saw ghosts when he returned from Afghanistan, but now he sees them all across London. Some are more substantial than others, but they all stand as a testament to everything that he lost when Sherlock's body hit the pavement.
John and Lestrade continue to visit the pub together, but the silence between them is no longer as strained as it used to be. John's girlfriends last longer each time, going from days to weeks to months. Mary, the newest one, doesn't even question his odd late nights or the yellow paint on his fingertips. Mrs. Hudson seems happier and hums while she makes the tea. Molly continues to avoid him, but seems less nervous. Even Mycroft begins to show signs of recovery as his diet gets back on track. John doesn't want to admit it, but in a lot of ways things are returning to some semblance of normalcy.
One evening, as he is wandering the streets with a can of spray paint stuffed in his jacket, he sees a particularly good spot to decorate. It overlooks a large, public square and will be very visible, but there is no one around to catch him now. He steps back from the wall to see how large he can make the painting, and he sees a ghost again, for the first time in a long time. His heart skips a beat, but he bolts down the street again. He misses Sherlock too much to pass this opportunity by, so he peruses the long lanky legs down the street and around the corner. Maybe his subconscious is trying to tell him something. There had been times where he would have been caught by patrollers if he hadn't chased one of his Sherlock ghosts. He thought that maybe it was his own mind protecting him. Maybe he has become more observant in Sherlock's presence after all, but only his subconscious could tap into it.
He races down the street, turns the corner and finds himself at a dead end, facing a tall man in a grungy jumper and blue jeans. This isn't the first time he's chased a real, confused person down the street. But this time there's something different and his mind whirls through the images it's receiving but doesn't know what to do with. There is no stylish trench coat. His hair is red and messy, and he has a scruffy beard, but the man standing before him is most definitely Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock. John's Sherlock. And for a moment, John begins to wonder if the earth really does revolve around the sun, because suddenly he thinks it might revolve around Sherlock. He knows that his does. This is his world and he's found it again. His best friend is alive and standing before him; he's suntanned and breathing with a bright light in his eyes. A million miles away from the man that John saw lying on the concrete outside of Bart's – pale and dark and broken, his curls heavy with blood and all of the quick witted light drained from his eyes.
Sherlock takes a step forward and says "John." There's a slight catch in his throat. And John Watson's eyes roll back into his head as he crumples to the ground in a dead faint. Sherlock's cry of "John!" filters through the fog as his mind gives up trying to process what he's seeing and decides that John should make friends with the ground.