For the "I believe in Sherlock" project on tumblr - search for the tag #believeinsherlock to see some of the amazing creative works that have sprung up.
Mrs. Hudson hovers at the door, Greg Lestrade lurking behind her. John looks up at them with a sigh.
"Come on in then, it's better than having you cluck at me from over there. Thanks for getting the door, Mrs. H."
"We're just worried about you, John. You've barely left the flat in a week..." Mrs. Hudson fusses with a tea towel she'd absentmindedly carried in from downstairs.
Greg nods awkwardly. "I thought maybe, you know, if you're... up for it. We might go to the pub or something? Watch the game?"
John slams his palm against the flat arm of the chair he's sitting in - Sherlock's chair.
"Stop treating me like some bloody war widow, tiptoeing around like this. He's not dead, and he's not..." his voice falters, and he stumbles over his words. "He's a good man. You know he is."
The detective inspector crosses the sitting room and akwardly pats John on the shoulder. "He admitted it all though, didn't he? Richa-" he cuts himself off "Moriary's body up on the roof... And we saw Sherlock's body fall - I read Molly's autopsy report."
Jonh shakes his head, his face stubbornly set. "There's got to be a reason for it all. He'll come back and he'll clear everything up. I have faith in him, Greg. I believe."