John didn't bother to observe anything as he stumbled through the streets, feeling emptier than he had ever felt before in his life. Now his troubles of a bad leg, no job, and a dysfunctional family seemed both petty and far away- his world had yet again come crashing down on him, and this time he was truly lost.
Three months ago, Dr. John Watson had been dragged across London, his best friend Sherlock Holmes running from the police. Someone had cleverly made the police believe a big lie wrapped in some small truths, and now Sherlock was remembered as a fraud. Which John would never believe.
Sherlock had become his best friend. They'd gone through so much, gunmen and gangs and dogs and gross police station coffee. Sometimes John wondered if Sherlock were really human, but even now the loyalty soldier could not bring himself to doubt his friend's humanity. If no one else in the world believed, John Watson did. Sherlock Holmes was real. So was Moriarty. That was Watson's war- holding onto the tangled skein of truth.
John passed a kid painting the side of a building. He first brushed it off as some chav tagging, but then he recognized the paint- Michigan.
"Hello, Raz," John said.
"Oh, you," Raz replied, not looking up from his work.
"Any news?" John ventured.
"You got a computer, check it yourself," Raz replied.
"I meant about- oh, never mind. I hope they slap you with the ASBO you should have gotten last time. I wad in magistrate's court because of you," John snapped. He stormed off, feeling horribly alone. Sherlock should have been there, getting information for a case from Raz. Everything was backwards and upside-down.
What John didn't realize, however, was that he was far from alone. Many others were fighting his war. Mrs Hudson. Molly Hooper. Henry Knight. Raz. And Inspector Lestrade.
And John didn't notice, as he stormed away, the intricate rendering of "Believe in Sherlock Holmes" Raz had just finished painting.
