This one's kinda angsty, feel free to skip if you're just here for the fluff.
The stack of newspapers weighs heavily in John's arms - far more heavily than a pound and a half of newsprint should. The headlines alone seem to weigh several pounds each.
Suicide of fake genius.
Mad boffin detective dead.
Sherlock Holmes - a consulting sham?
John spreads them out across the kitchen table, the one that feels so empty and alien without all the beakers, the pipettes, the microscope. He may not be Sherlock, but at least he's going to try to put it to some use.
Methodically, he starts going through each article, comparing them to his own records, and to Sherlock's case files. Surely it won't be difficult to prove to the rest of London that Sherlock was the real thing, not when he's got all this evidence in front of him. At first, things go smoothly, as John finds dates and facts to back up his claim, back up the truth. However, each time his eyes trace over certain words - tragedy, death, blood, fallen - the sharp, stabbing pain in his chest worsens.
John pushes the papers away, rubbing his eyes in frustration. He debates giving up and burning the lot. But no. Making himself a cup of tea, he strengthens his resolve. Sherlock may be dead, but John isn't going to rest, seeing his reputation besmirched.