This is loosely connected to "Cleaning squad" but it can stand alone. In this story, John Watson believed that Sherlock really died. Police investigation and the scandal... Grief and sorrow... Trauma from witnessing the suicide...John's life was spiraling downwards: however, he decided to pull himself together and move on.
There's a cute illustration of Reapersun: John's scribbling "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" while Sherlock in disguise standing next to the doctor.
Red-eyed, John staggered into the kitchen. He barely slept but got up anyway. He stretched and yawned, inhaling deeply the odorless kitchen: Mrs. Hudson had left an airwick can. The citrus fragrance felt alien in the place that had flooded with fingers and petri dishes. Mrs. Hudson and Molly had cleaned out the cadavers and other unhygienic items from the kitchen weeks ago. When John came back from his therapy, he stopped dead at the kitchen...so empty and clean. Almost all the experiment tools were taken away: only his microscope sat on the table. Mrs. Hudson looked scared of him even though he didn't comment on it. It would've been better if he could thank her. He couldn't. That night, he sat in the kitchen, trying to remember where things were when he sat in front of the microscope.
Mrs. Hudson walked on eggshells around him. After the funeral, everything felt so unreal: Sherlock seemed to be gone for a couple of days to solve a case. John didn't function. He just sat in his armchair, staring blankly into nothing in front of him for hours. Harry once visited and left with glares. Mrs. Hudson stuttered and avoided his eyes when she brought up food trays. John was to blame. He had growled and yelled at his landlady when she attempted to get rid of things from the kitchen earlier. He didn't want to let it go: he had to keep everything - even a rotting orange in the refrigerator, or it felt as if he was accepting his death. Considerably scared, Mrs. Hudson had scurried downstairs. He regretted it; kept saying to himself that at least the kitchen had to be cleaned; and apologized profusely the next morning. Yet he could still see Mrs. Hudson flinch from time to time.
Two days ago, he found Mrs. Hudson trembling and crying, clutching the skull and the cigarette package beside the fireplace. She was sobbing so hard; he could hear her crying out his name again and again. She didn't notice John's presence for another twenty minutes. She had been pretending that everything was normal all along. Apparently she was hurting. Once, she said that Sherlock was like her son that she could never have. How shocking the news of his death would have been for her. He felt so small and selfish for neglecting the old lady. He had been too immersed in his own grief.
They cried together for a long time, admitting how much they were missing the detective. They shared good and bad memories about him. John mostly listened, deeply indulged in Mrs. Hudson's story about how he had saved her from the abusive husband in Florida. Before Mrs. Hudson left the flat, John mumbled out a promise that he would do his best to get over his death. She gave him a weak smile.
The ongoing investigation, the scandal, and the paparazzi made it impossible for John to start something new. He had given up working as a doctor and devoted his time as the blogger and assistant of Sherlock. In other words, he was unemployed with his death. John didn't care. First of all he had to deal with his own grief and the scandal. In addition, there was considerably sufficient money left in the joint bank account of Sherlock and John. Mycroft was paying their rent despite his protest. Someday he would need a job but not at the moment.
The police finished interrogating the doctor pretty fast – Lestrade's or Mycroft's help, John assumed. However, the paparazzi and reporters still hovered around the flat. Sherlock was still the fraudulent detective who had created his nemesis, James Moriarty. John was the key witness. They had been living for 18 months together. It was too juicy to let go: there had to be something more than the quaint 19th-century style flatshare of two men. Unwanted camera flashes and shutters, lurking tabloid reporters with rude questions... It was harassment. He could have holed up in the flat, and he was very tempted to.
After a therapy, John was on his way back to the flat when a reporter approached him. Kitty Riley! She flashed the Sun with a headline, "Widowed bachelor" John was docile in most of times. This time Riley saw how scary he could be. He almost punched her on the face when Raz, the street git from the Chinese gang case tore her apart from John.
It was Raz. Unkempt hair, wrinkly jacket, and sparkling eyes...he gave John a squeeze on the shoulder before running away with clinking of his backpack full of spray paint cans. Riley was furious, asking the doctor who the git was. John ignored her totally and kept on walking to his flat.
It was that night that an idea hit him. He might be able to turn around the press to his advantage. What he could do for his dead friend was to clear his tarnished name faster. Yellow paint, graffiti and Raz. People should know his friend was not a fraudulent sociopath. For the next few days, when he had free time, John roamed London streets in search of Raz. It took more than four days. He found Raz packing a few spray cans in his bag under a flyover. Raz' eyes twinkled at John's idea. John gave him enough money to buy about two dozen cans of yellow spray paint and left him with his number and address.
So that was how it began.
A sporadic yellow graffiti. I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES.
At first, they appeared under bridges, flyovers, or building walls. A couple of articles criticized the rampant vandalism and the inaction of the government, but they disappeared quickly from headlines. Instead, more stylized graffiti almost colored the city into yellow: on the walls of high-rises and tube stations, public toilets, bus stops, and so many other places. Strangely the police turned a blind eye on the graffiti. For a couple of times, Raz contacted John for another purchase of sprays. He started to trust John completely: he even gave John his number.
It was the day that Ella advised him to find a job. Someone had scrawled "We fight John Watson's War" in big yellow letters on the door of the flat. He was deeply moved for a moment. Then Mrs. Hudson's face fleeted his mind. He might have the door repainted for her. He was about to put his key into the keyhole when the door opened. Mrs. Hudson... With tears in her eyes, she held out a dozen envelopes to John. They were mails from people that had known Sherlock. They all expressed anger at the scandal and promised to support John to recover the honor of the genius detective. Feeling his eyes burning, the doctor clutched the letters and entered the flat.
It didn't stop there. Hundreds of support mails kept arriving. More yellow scrabbles... Some tourists took pictures, standing in front of the graffiti. People began to wonder: Sherlock Holmes might not be a fraud after all. A couple of reporters that Sherlock had previously worked together visited and interviewed the doctor. They were writing articles about the graffiti and Sherlock. A few days later, small articles propped, questioning the validity of the allegation that Sherlock was a fraud. More follow-up articles. His former clients testified the brilliance of the man and impossibility of "creating" their cases. When reporters contacted the Sun, they found Kitty Riley had been fired.
Months later, New Scotland Yard released a statement that all the cases of Sherlock Holmes had been legal and valid with an apology. The headlines of major newspapers covered Sherlock Holmes. The best part of that day was Lestrade's call: Kitty Riley was being interrogated for her connection to Moriarty. That night the pub was full of congratulating yarders - no Donovan and Anderson- for the belated small victory of Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade toasted with John. Officers missed the detective, rather, his brainy deductions.
That night, John tossed and turned. The idea was his but he could've not done it without Raz and his gangs. Without the graffiti, it must have taken longer to restore his friend's honor. He wanted to help those kids somehow. An idea hit him. His flatmate must have liked the idea, he was sure.
The next day was Saturday. John asked Raz to come over. He was almost whooping at the sight of the doctor.
"You did it, doctor! He's no longer a liar!"
"We... did it together, Raz. Shall we have some drinks?"
They talked a lot in the Speedy's café. When they walked out the door, Raz's face was beaming with disbelief. John had just promised to sponsor Raz's college education. The joint account had enough fund to support Raz and maybe a couple of more kid .
"Thank you, Dr. Watson. I don't know what to say!"
Raz was grinning from ear to ear: shaking his hand, John said with a smile.
"There's one condition, Raz. When you finish your education and get a job, then you have to help another kid...for him."
"Of course! I always dreamed of being a designer..."
"Call me if you need my help when you send applications."
"I'll stay in touch. Thank you, Doctor."
Raz whispered and turned around hastily.
"Please thank him for me."
John almost choked. As Raz danced away from him, the doctor blinked for a few times, bought flowers, and caught a cab to visit the cemetery.
John found a job as a part-time doctor. Money was rather tight, yet he could manage. He was all smiles when he took a photo with Raz on the first day of the college.
"We fight John Watson's War."
The graffiti was still on the door when Sherlock Holmes came back. He didn't say anything about the near-zero balance of the bank account. Somehow, he must have heard about the graffiti, recognized Raz's style, and deduced what John would have done.
I was writing a story about Sherlock's eating yet the story changed its course: I wanted to describe John's heart and Sherlock's...
I hope you enjoyed this. PLZ, tell me what you think. Thanks.
Yes, I just changed it. From a swimming suit company:( to "coffe" place. Thanks a lot:)