Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's and the BBC show belongs to Moffat and Gatiss (in case you didn't know)
A/N: So yeah, i've been working on this for around a month now and it's finally complete. Just a simple little fluffy one-shot set post-Reichenbach so obvious there are SPOILERS for that. Just so you know (because it happens more than once for me apparently) this is a one-shot and there will be nothing else added so save yourself the hassle and avoid adding this to alert because that's an email/update you won't soon get. Let me know what you think.
Also I posted this on my tumblr page, meandmymateamanda so nobody message me saying i copied someone okay?
A Question of Belief
It would be silly to say John moved on but he did his best not to dwell too much on the image of the cluttered emptiness he'd been faced with the first time he'd returned to 221B. All the experiments and chemicals and body parts that sat in the exact same spot they'd been left by their lost owner. The only thing he had touched was the abandoned violin, discarded somewhat unceremoniously by the fireplace, lifting it from the floor and recalling that bastard drawing all sorts of melodic tunes from it at all hours of the day.
He moved out within the week.
Every so often he tried to meet up with Greg Lestrade; the two would go for a drink and catch up or discuss the latest news, neither able to address the obvious elephant in the room that sat between them. Greg would always leave long before John who'd sit with his half-finished beer for anything up to three more hours, unwilling to face the blank, bareness of his small one-room flat again. Unwilling to be reminded of what he had lost.
Following that day, the papers went crazy. As was to be expected, the tabloids didn't exactly stick with the 'facts' preferring to theorise on everything from why he had jumped to the involvement of his now infamous blogger in the 'slow but steady build up of fraudulent lies', stimulating discussion and accusations that were whispered, not too silently, as John passed by. It took a great deal of self-control which he didn't know he still possessed, to not knock the living daylights out of whoever looked at him with those disbelieving, accusing eyes.
Moriarty had truly destroyed Sherlock's reputation and now John was caught in the wake, slowly beginning to lose faith in humanity. All of them were too happy, too willing to ignore the truth of what Sherlock did, opting instead to accept the simple comfort of a convenient lie concocted by a madman.
'The Fall of Sherlock Holmes'; that was how the series of events had come to be known. Quoted in every single newspaper for weeks, the thoughtless pun was sickening to those who had known the detective.
Of course John quickly became the focus of the press' attention with everyone clamouring for the exclusive interview with the disgraced blogger, all wanting to know how involved he was with all the lies and deception; was he worried about possibly being charged with fraud; what did he plan to do now that he'd been exposed and all those pressing questions the public were desperate for.
Following one particularly frustrating incident involving one annoyingly persistent journalist and an inability to follow a request to 'piss off already', the mass of interest in the former army doctor simmered down somewhat. It may have had something to do with his mean right hook and the bloody nose but he wasn't an idiot. John knew it was most likely thanks to some well-timed behind-the-scenes intervention by Mycroft Holmes.
Grateful though he was for the peace, John refused to thank or in any way display gratitude towards the man who he still held responsible for every moment that had lead to this point. There were no calls, no notes or messages, no impromptu visits and, probably most notably, no overdramatic god-complex-feeding kidnappings. It seemed Mycroft wasn't an idiot either.
It had been a fair while since John Watson had set foot on Baker Street, unable to bring himself to face the obvious emptiness that was palpable in the air. Nearly two months since Sherlock had taken that fateful step off the roof of St Bartholomew's, his name sullied and his body laid to rest. Still, here the doctor was, in the back of a black cab heading down the familiar streets that lead to his former flat, trying to think why it was Lestrade had insisted on his sudden return to the road.
As the cab pulled up at the side of the pavement opposite his old flat, the ex-army doctor saw the man who'd called him back here while his attention was clearly held elsewhere since he didn't respond as John called out to him while throwing the fare towards his cabbie.
The Detective Inspector, probably one of the few friends John had left in the world, had called him not an hour before, near-ordering the mourning man to get himself to 221B ASAP and hung up before giving any reason towards it or allowing John to refuse.
"Greg!" The silver-haired man turned as John called his name a little louder than before. "What is it? What's going on?"
It was odd enough being here but the smile Greg gave him was unnerving. He didn't smile around John anymore, at least not with a smile that reached his eyes like this one. Lestrade's dark brown eyes were glittering with a kind of joy that truthfully John hadn't seen on anyone talking to him in so long that he almost didn't recognise it.
"Greg?"
The DI simply raised a hand, pointing a finger across the road and John, with a heavy heart, turned to look at the place he had effectively abandoned…and his breath stopped.
It was…
It was…
Well, there were no words to describe it.
"How…?"
On the outer wall of 221B, spray-painted in large, bright yellow letters between the windows, were four words that truthfully rendered him speechless.
I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK
Words failed him as he gazed up, mouth agape at the bright, bold words and he felt his chest tighten slightly. Why would those words, those words be there?
"What?"
Greg shook his head, not bothering to keep the wide grin from his face as they both stared at the familiar bricks of the boys' former home. "Not a clue."
"Who…who…?"
Greg laughed slightly, turning to look at John before looking back at the words. "No witnesses, no usable prints, nothing discernable that can lead to a conviction." The DI didn't mention that even if he could there was no way he would ever pursue them. If he could he would shake them by the hand and ask for an extra can of paint to help them.
Never during their final case had Lestrade truly doubted Sherlock. Alright there had been moments, but mainly his hands had been tied by protocol and responsibility. He couldn't exactly have said no without ruffling feathers and getting himself fired; what use would he have been to Sherlock then? If he had known that it would all end the way it did, and how he'd be left trying to help pull John Watson through the dark times that would follow, then Greg would have handed in his badge the moment he was ordered to arrest the consulting detective.
"Mrs. Hudson called it in, poor woman had the shock of her life when she found them. Clever bugger got them up overnight, no idea how." He shook his head, still smiling and throwing a half-glance in John's direction every so often.
John stared in wonder and amazement up at those letters and came to realise something important. So important, and odd, that he found his lips quirking back into a smile, a genuine smile and he fought the urge to laugh at those words he watched.
In the end it had taken less than twenty four hours for the press to turn the nation against the man whom John Watson had come to call flatmate and friend but as he continued to gaze up in disbelief, on the edge of laughing heartily for the first time in months, the ex-army doctor realised that even though it sometimes felt as though everyone had turned their back; even though it was easy to get swept up in the widespread lies, not everyone in the world was an idiot.
At this thought John did laugh.
Not everyone was an idiot, no matter what Sherlock thought.
From what little information he'd managed to force from Molly, Sherlock had found that John Watson had become little more than a recluse which wasn't right. John had always wanted to believe the best of people and the detective had struggled to watch his friend begin to spend more and more time shut away from the world.
"He's seems so sad. Not like you did when…well, the-the thing before you…" Molly had swallowed, coughing slightly. "Still, he looks…lost…and alone."
It wasn't that he didn't trust her words and observations but Sherlock had to see it for himself, had to the results of what he was doing and he was willing to risk everything to check those words were true. He just had to.
Passing by John's regular haunts was easy and blending in was simple enough; it was a wonder what could be achieved with a batch of hair dye and clothes people wouldn't expect to see him in. John hadn't given him even a sparing glance and Sherlock had been able to see the truth of Molly's words.
Everyday it became harder to find him as it seemed he wasn't leaving his flat anymore, instead sitting alone and slowly giving up on the world. Because he cared about what everybody thought about Sherlock, which in all honesty he still didn't understand.
He didn't need to though. It was slowly destroying John and that was all that mattered. There was no way Sherlock could allow his death to ruin his greatest friend. It was wrong. Something had to be done.
Clearly it had to be something big and brash, something that would capture the good doctor's attention and be interesting enough to drag him from that small dingy flat that was at great risk of becoming more of a hermit's cave than anything. Of course the phrase hadn't been his idea, just the inspiration and the need to do something, but it was amazing what a couple hundred quid and a few willing homeless-network volunteers could achieve in the space of a few hours.
The next morning, he watched, well hidden and eager to see how John would react as the cab pulled up, dropping its occupant onto the pavement before pulling away. He drew back in case John's eyes followed it, waiting until it had passed by before venturing to look again and he couldn't help but smile as he watched his friend's face pass through disbelief before his lips drew back into something they hadn't expressed in so long.
A smile.
Sherlock watched as his two closest friends spoke, or rather Greg spoke and John hovered somewhere between babbling and laughter, clearly unsure how to deal with what he was seeing. A few hundred meters down the road, hidden slightly round the corner avoiding being seen by his former flatmate, Sherlock smiled as he instinctively pulled his hood further forward over his forehead before turning his back and walking away.
John Watson, Sherlock's blogger, would be fine. Both of the former flatmates would be…for now.
Molly would keep an eye on the pair of them and clearly Greg would always be there should John need an extra hand, but sometimes, just sometimes, it wouldn't be quite enough. In those times there would be nothing, not even his 'being dead' that would keep the two of them from being there for each other.
Even if John didn't know it one way or the other.
As he walked briskly down the street, Sherlock recalled the smile his plan had finally drawn forth from the doctor and smiled again.
It wasn't perfect this life they lived now, separate yet still so dependant on each other. No, not perfect.
But it worked.