The worst gap for John was the silence. The unyeilding, blank silence. He sat in 221b. On his chair. Sherlock's chair sat untouched. All Sherlock's things had been untouched until Mrs Hudson had moved his science equipment away. John didn't know where. Some medical school. John didn't really care much.
"John! There's a man here to see you! Why don't you answer your doorbell?" Mrs Hudson yelled from downstairs. John had been so deep in grief he hadn't heard the noise of the bell.
"John." a small, posh voice sounded from the door. John recognised the voice instantly; though he wasn't sure what from.
The man moved round and when John saw his face, he knew. Henry Knight. From Baskerville.
"Hello." he said, and John didn't answer.
"Oh sorry, yeah, hi." John suddenly said, realising he was being rude, and jumping up to shake Henry's hand.
"May I..." Henry indicated Sherlock's chair. John nodded, but cringed as he sat. That was Sherlock's chair, and John had to fight off the desire to shove Henry off.
"I'm sorry." Henry said quietly. They sat there in silence for a while.
"How've you been since the case?" John asked, attempting conversation.
Henry shrugged. "Better. The effects are wearing off. The doctor said there would be lasting effects though. Like paranoia." as if to illustrate his point, he looked around nervously, his hands figeting with the ends of his jacket.
John almost wanted to ask Henry straight why he had come. But figuring that was rude, he just stuck with silence.
"I actually wanted to ask..." he tilted his head slightly. "Whether you would come with me somewhere."
John frowned. Where? Where could be so important that Henry had to take him there? Right then? He asked him.
"I can't tell you. It's getting dark, we must leave now."
Henry got up and looked back, walking towards the door.
"Are you coming?"
John sighed as he stood up. He had nothing better to do. Why not?
After a long, cold and damp walk through London back streets (having doubled back about 5 times and being informed by Henry twice that he was very sorry, but they were utterly and completely lost), they came to a small square; basically a very wide alley with bins and litter everywhere.
"Look at the wall." Henry instructed, so John obliged.
In bright yellow paint there were written five words.
I believe in Sherlock Holmes.
John gasped and his bad leg (his limp had been slowly coming back recently) almost gave out on him. He ended up falling down and sitting cross-legged on the floor, unaware of the mud and God knows what else.
Someone else had written this. Someone else believed in Sherlock too. John felt too many emotions. Anger, embarrassment, happiness, sadness, guilt. John wasn't alone. Whoever wrote this, be them gay or straight or fat or thin or funny or shy or black or white John respected them. He respected them almost as much as he did Sherlock.
"Do you know who wrote this?" John asked quietly.
"No." Henry answered. "I just thought..."