It has been four weeks since John had been able to look at a newspaper or turn on the television.
He only answered his own mobile if it was Lestrade or the office(Mycroft soon gave up on trying to
As well as, had yet to disconnect the home phone, and usually let the phone ring out the answering machine.
His answering machine rang out, as he sipped a cup of cold tea.
Hey, it's Viv from work! Wondering if you wanted to catch a bite later? Call me!
Her tone was inked with cheerfulness, possibly attempting to shake a little John's way. Lord knows he could use it. She was a new assistant at the clinic he was working at, quite pretty, but also quite taken with the Sherlock Holmes suicide.
She would badger him on about the great detective, and after carefully snapping at her not to sully his name, she soon became very quiet towards John.
Though that didn't last for long. Soon she would invite him out to eat, compliment his work, and even wear thicker layers of makeup to impress him. Not that John wasn't flattered, he couldn't help connecting the girl with how Molly used to act around Sherlock.
He just didn't feel he could function properly with someone like that so soon after Sherlock had been taken so abruptly
Especially with how tirelessly the media has been slandering Sherlock's name. John abandoned his column (much to his viewers distress), and had not opened his computer in weeks. The days were long and arduous, but the job at the clinic kept him preoccupied long enough. He was secretly thankful to the receptionist for for-warning patients to not talk about Sherlock's suicide. They still eyed him curiously, but were more preoccupied in their own problems to probe him unnecessarily.
Reaching into the fridge absentmindedly, John finds an old jar of jam near the back behind some molding bread.
Really, he was sure he would have eaten
Sherlock had left a severed toe in there for some reason. A toe. In his jam. Of all the places, his jam.
Eyeing the jar with scrutiny, John felt a wave of nausea at the sight of it. He felt rage building up along side the bile, but what came out was a croak from his dry throat.
Laughing in grief. Knowing his friend had some kind of brilliant plan
that he was missing something as always. Did Sherlock just assume he would know? Figure it out? The he honestly thought John of all people would believe that he was a fake?
What was going on in his head, but he knew it had to be something amazingly horrible to result in his death
Mrs. Hudson comes by now and again for quite tea or to leave something for John to nibble on, but she knows it would be best to let him grieve.
In the army he had lost his fair share of patients
his fair share of friends. It's something that doesn't leave you, a feeling that harbors in the darkest corners of your mind while you sleep. But having Sherlock around consumed him, be it with general annoyance for a great portion, but consumed him nonetheless. He was a friend that John could have by his side without giving anything but his own companionship in return. Sure, one may call it a dysfunctional relationship, but it worked damn well for him.
the bastard had gone and killed himself. He wasn't going to be playing his violin, shooting walls, or even sticking thumbs into John's favorite jam anymore.
What a hellish thing to miss about a person, maybe Sherlock wasn't the only nut-case living on 221 Baker Street.
A strange force overwhelmed John, and he couldn't bring himself to rid himself of the morbid container. Mrs. Hudson must have seen it as well, so keeping it there a while longer couldn't hurt
Shaking his head slightly at his upset demeanor, John shrugged back his shoulders and decided to take Vivian up on that date. It had been a time since he had really talked with anyone, and even if he did screw this one up he didn't care much.
Just something to get him out of this flat.
Tossing on his thick bomber jacket, John shook his head vigorously trying to clear his head. He probably shouldn't call Vivian. Maybe just stop by the café to change up the atmosphere. It was nearly two thirty a.m, so not many people would be wondering around the area.
As he trumped down the creaking stairs down to the main floor, John found his face reddening with a deep-seeded hatred. Those ridiculous people who believe Sherlock was a fraud. Everywhere pandering him about their "relationship".
Even after he was long dead people still implied there was something "more" to their relationship. Honestly, some can't get their heads out of the gutter for one instant.
As such, it was difficult to go out during the days with the suicide still fresh in everyone's minds. Nightly walks were a blessing really, with no condemning looks or excited whispers surrounding him. It felt strangely without any people around, but it was a nice kind of empty.
The lingering scent of weed and freshly smoked cigarettes greeted John as he turned the corner to one hundred and thirteen street. His mind tended to wander while he was walking, and didn't notice Vivian turning the corner at the same moment he was.
Without really thinking, John dived into the coming alley way before she could see him. Really she could be quite tiresome after a while, though she didn't have a bad heart exactly. The scent of smoke grew stronger from the alley way, a few kids no older than seventeen were chattering in hushed whispers as they tagged the brick walls around them.
Bloody, of course. He should say something, but in all honesty he really didn't care at this point. One of the shorter kids spotted John's silhouette and froze.
The group scattered before John could get a good look at any of them, one even shoved him roughly aside in hisno, her escape. Knowing it would be tedious to go after a group of taggers, he merely rolled his eyes slightly amused.
At least he still had his commanding authority.
Stepping deeper into the alley way, John felt his heart sink. The words before him caused his brain to pause, and his lungs to forget to squeeze oxygen in. Stained in bright white in thick blocked letters the words paved all around the alley way and beyond.
-I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES-
The words were written in cursive, blocks, and even just plain print. Some artistic, others simply chicken scratch. But it was everywhere.
John felt a laugh choke in his throat. So many people
His legs moving on their own at this point, John sprinted around the alley way deeper into the underground setting. Old buildings stood blocked with the beautiful words, silhouettes of Sherlock's profile, and a rather well done portrait of him in the deerstalker.
"It's an ear hat, John!"
Someone was laughing quite loudly at this point, and it took John a time before he realized it was himself. So he wasn't the only one who believed in Sherlock's innocence.
All these faceless strangers, whoever they were. If only Sherlock could see them. He may even crack a grin, more likely not able to appreciate the sentiment given, but at least crack a grin.
it was always hard to imagine how Sherlock would react.
Light now splitting over the horizon, John was broken out of his trance. Though he felt he could stand there forever, just admiring the sheer volume of the words, he knew somewhere in the back of his mind how suspicious it would took if he was found here alone.
Though people would find this and it would be all over the media.
For the first time in weeks, he felt excited to receive the newspaper.
Grinning and feeling gitty with happiness, John nodded to the graffiti and headed back down to 221 Baker Street.
Hands comfortably in his pockets, Sherlock couldn't really grasp why a couple of kids "believing in him" made John so happy.
But it was nice to see John in a lighter mood. Stepping back into the shadows, Sherlock knew he had to be back before the sun rose completely.