Henry Knight almost choked on his coffee when he finally opened the paper that morning. He stared blankly at the screaming headlines, printed on the now soggy brown newspaper, eyes widened and mouth slightly open. Slowly, his head shook. He wouldn't believe it. Couldn't believe it. It just didn't seem like Sherlock. His eyes slid over the lines of black ink in the article, the words blurring together.
SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS
Fraudulent detective takes his own life
The drivel in his hands was declaring Sherlock Holmes a fraud, a criminal, and dead. Henry felt confused, and suddenly his stomach twisted. Sherlock Holmes was dead. Not only that, he'd committed suicide, and, if these vulture journalists could be trusted, he had made John Watson watch. The poor doctor's face swum in Henry's mind, followed by gruesome images of the great consulting detective, broken and bloody.
If Henry knew one thing, it was that Sherlock Holmes wasn't a fraud. He had seen first-hand the calculating eyes scan for clues, the great mind solve problems, work magic. He knew he was indebted to Sherlock for the rest of his life.
Henry stood numbly to absentmindedly boil the kettle. Tea fixed everything. But he knew it wouldn't fix this. Mid-step, Henry paused stock-still. This was where Sherlock once stood, yanking every kitchen cupboard open in a strange fit of a sort of feverish excitement, looking for coffee. The deep voice still reverberated through the room, through Henry's head. "Why do you call it a hound? Why a hound? Strange choice of words – archaic".
He remembered how Sherlock had joked with him back in 221B when Henry first came to him for help, how strange but amazing the man had seemed. He remembered in the moors how Sherlock had not only put Henry's case to rest, but also assuaged Henry's fears by making him look at the dead dog for himself. He could still feel the pure relief and gratitude that had completely overcome him, making him weak at the knees. When he came home he'd not only thanked Sherlock for bringing his father's killer to justice, but also for saving Henry's life, and stamping his fears of the monster hound into dust.
In a few days, and in that one moment of making Henry confront his fears, Sherlock Holmes had been able to do what many policemen and years of therapy couldn't.
Standing on the spot where Sherlock had once pranced making coffee, the words and memories came back to Henry is stunning clarity, and he resolved to do whatever it took to clear Sherlock's name. This libel and defamation wouldn't be put up with. The truth would come out, and Henry was ready to help preserve the memory of the world's only Consulting Detective.
Before noon he was sat on a train to London. He had to see John Watson; to make sure it was true, and to pass on his condolences. Henry would go to the funeral. It was the least he could do for the man who had changed his life.
And when he disembarked at the station he passed a yellow tag on the wall. There were four simple, powerful words written there. Henry paused to look at them, just for a moment. He dipped his head, and then continued walking, leaving the graffiti behind to multiply throughout the city. The words to be written over and over.
I believe in Sherlock.
A/N: Hi everyone, thanks for reading! Anything you recognise I do not own, of course. Feedback is, as always, greatly appreciated :)