"And later on, in today's episode, we will be talking to key whiteness that knew this great pretender personally, until then..."
John turned the TV off angrily. It had been almost a month since the incident on the roof of Bart's hospital, but still stories of the fake detective were running rife within the news and local media. People couldn't just forget it and move on. He supposed that it was partially his fault, from day one he had refused point blank to have any sort of interview; to confirm or to refute the stories. For that reason many people started to suspect that he was part of the whole scandal and not just a poor, stupid man that got taken for a ride by the alleged fake. A week after the funeral, he had been taken in for questioning down at Scotland Yard. But of course nothing happened of it. They had no evidence to charge him with. This didn't stop the media though. The very next day an article was published about him and how the war had unhinged him, how he had looked for a new life of adventure because he had become addicted to the violence of Afghanistan. All in all it hadn't painted him in a very flattering light. But what hurt him the most weren't the distrustful looks he got from people on the streets or at the shops; it was that he knew the article was right. The life he had had with Sherlock had been dangerous, wild and wonderful. And he had become addicted to it. That's why when his 'supply' had been cut off, when that beautiful, brilliant man had thrown himself of the roof of that building. He too felt as if he had died.
At night he no longer slept in his bed. Instead he'd sit in his chair by the gas fire and stare at the chair opposite him. He woke in the morning with a stiff back from sitting upright all night. This had carried on for a couple of weeks, until finally Mrs Hudson had bustled in one morning and forcefully brought him crashing down to earth again.
"You can't just sit there john, it's not healthy" She had said
"Go away Mrs Hudson"
"I will not! When was the last time you ate something or had a shower?" John had said nothing, but had continued to stare out the window.
"That's it, I can't do this anymore!" Her tone had snapped John out of his thoughts
"What do you mean, can't do what anymore?"
"You'll have to move out" Her voice had wavered but her face was deadly serious
"You're ...you're evicting me?" John had gasped
"I can see no other way"
His heart had begun to thud irregularly against his chest as the adrenaline of this unexpected horror was forced upon him. The hormone seemed to clear his head; it felt like a one hundred year old dust that had clouded his mind was being washed away and his body tingled as his nerve ending woke up and he became aware of a dryness in his mouth and a thudding headache on his temples.
He had stood suddenly from the chair and yelled at poor Mrs Hudson before breaking down in tears. Her frail arms wrapped around him as he shook with pent up anger and grief.
After that day he was able to function again. He still had a deep ache in his chest where Sherlock used to be, but now he used that pain to aid him in his search. Sherlock may be dead, but his work wasn't finished as far as John was concerned. At night he roamed the streets, backpack full of spray paint cans as his scrawled his message across the face of London. 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes'.
During the day he hunted down any information possible on the elusive Jim Moriarty. Moriarty had disappeared the same day Sherlock had died. The papers liked to speculate that Sherlock had killed the man before committing suicide. But no body had been found, so the mystery stayed unsolved. Only John looked for any clues that might indicate where the man was hiding.
Months passed and john found that it wasn't just his untidy scrawl that decorated the walls and monuments of London. Different people had begun to take the lead it what became known as the 'I believe in Sherlock' campaign. New tags joined his one such as 'Moriarty was real' and 'James Brook was a fake'. John's heart soared every time he passed one on the street. People were starting to question the newspapers. One news story in particular that appeared 4 months after his death, changed people opinions on Sherlock Holmes.
"This morning a body was found on the south bank of the River Themes." A middle aged women dressed in a suit addressed the camera in front of her. "The body is reported to be that of Kitty Riley, the 27 year old journalist who covered the first story of the 'fake' freelance detective, Sherlock Holmes. Miss Riley's article featured an interview with the man behind the master criminal Jim Moriarty. Actor James Brook, told her in his interview that Mr Holmes had paid him to play the character of Moriarty and that the detective was a fake. His claims are what; experts say, drove Sherlock Holmes to his suicide earlier this year.
Forensic scientists say that Miss Riley had been in the water for about a month prior to the body washing up on the south bank. It has also been said that the body shows signs of extreme violence before death and it is believed that she was murdered. Police are looking for Mr James Brook in connection to her murder but there have been no signs of the alleged actor since the suicide of Mr Holmes in January. Police have not yet released a statement, but it is believed that they are considering the possibility that James Brook was in fact a fake."
The public outcry following the murder of Kitty Riley is what finally drove the campaign into the headlines. Suddenly the papers were awash with dozens of interviews from the hundreds of people Sherlock Holmes had helped. People like Henry Knight were finally given the chance to tell their side of the story.
3 years later
John Watson, ex military doctor, slowly pushed open the door to 221b Baker Street. He took a moment to breath in the familiar musty sent of old books and furniture. He slowly walked in and hung his coat on its hook behind the door. For a moment he though he saw a long black one already hanging there. But then he blinked and the illusion was gone. This place held so many memories of wonderful times mixed bitter pain and suffering. But those were just part of the story and he wouldn't have traded them in for the world. It was going to be hard, leaving this place. But he had a new life now. He had a beautiful girlfriend who he loved and was hoping to marry and have a future with, but he couldn't do all that while sitting in a flat drenched so heavily in the past. John took another moment to drink in as much of the place before he strode to the bookshelf and begun sorting the books into boxes.
It took a few hours but finally john had sorted everything in the flat into boxes or neat piles. While looking through his flatmates old stuff he had welled up a couple of times, but he no longer felt the raw agony of loss anymore. He could remember Sherlock with fondness and even laughed when he found their old skull buried under a pile of loose paper.
John was just shifting the last few objects when he felt rather than heard someone behind him. He stood up slowly and turned around.
There standing in the door way was someone who he had never thought he would see again in this life time. He no longer wore a long black coat, but instead a scuffed and ripped leather jacket that looked like it should have been thrown out years ago. His hair that used to have a wonderful healthy sheen to it hung in lank curls over his forehead. He looked like he had been living rough and his face had new lines that were never there before. Even so John recognised him straight away. How could he not.
"Hello John"
"Sherlock!"