This is a post-Reichenbach fic based on Tumblr user lesmoules' prompt "in which people approach a grieving John to comfort him and assure him they believe Sherlock wasn't a fraud," particularly Angelo, Henry Knight, and the Sherlock's homeless network. You can also find this on my own Tumblr, at billowsandsmoke(dot)tumblr(dot)com/post/16175907650/belief-reichenbach-hurt-comfort-fic. I do not own BBC's Sherlock, obviously. Please enjoy!

Belief

"I don't have friends," he once said. "I've just got one."

John Watson, the lone friend of Sherlock Holmes, sits in his—their— flat on Baker Street, examining the thick, leather creases in the chair opposite his.

It's been three days since the funeral. Just enough time for reality to set in, for John to realize that he's not coming back.

He's been doing everything to keep busy. At first he started organizing and condensing Sherlock's files, but that became a bit too much and so he merely set to work figuring out what belonged to Sherlock and what belonged to John. It was funny, because the line between the two had grown blurry over time. After a few months it was no longer Sherlock's skull, but their skull, sitting on the mantle in their flat.

Once he gives up on this, John tries to read some of his old blog entries, though this is a largely awful idea.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs grant John a small reprieve from his attempts at finding a distraction for himself, and he is grateful to see Mrs. Hudson in the doorway. Until now she has left him alone for the most part, and he's glad to have had the time to collect himself a bit. A least, as much as is possible.

"Oh, I forgot," John says. He doesn't know what else to say. "The rent is due today."

"Nonsense, nonsense, darling," she says, waving for him to sit back down. "I'm going to make a pot of tea. Would you like that, John? Oh, and these dishes. I can stack those."

"Mrs. Hudson, I've been meaning to talk to you about the rent. I can pay you this month's and next month's, but after that…"

"That's all taken care of," she says quickly. "Ah… Oh well, I might as well get this all out of the way." She opens her mouth a few seconds before she begins to speak, as though she's choosing her words carefully. "Mycroft called me personally yesterday. He said that he's going to pay the rent as long as you'd like to stay here, and that I'm not to accept any money from you no matter what you say. Also…" Her eyes instinctively dart towards the stairs. "He also sent Sherlock's will for me to keep safe until… Until you're up to looking at it. I suppose the business has already been done, so you don't have to worry about that." She turns and retreats back into the kitchen before she says anything else. "He said that Sherlock left you nearly everything. Of course, he would've told you this himself, but he said he didn't want to bother you."

"'Didn't want to bother me' my arse," John mutters under his breath. Mrs. Hudson doesn't know the part Mycroft played in Sherlock's death, and he isn't going to be the one to tell her. He'll only accept the rent money for her sake. As for his part of Sherlock's estate, he'll only accept it because Sherlock wanted him to have it. He's not exactly in the position to argue.

On the other hand, the fact that Mycroft actually called her probably speaks volumes, but it's not something he wants to think about right now.

It's quiet for a minute or so, except for the clatter of dishes being set into the dishwasher. "Mrs. Hudson?" John calls, quietly at first. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, sweetie?" She comes into the living room with a damp towel in her wrinkled hands.

"Do you believe me? About Sherlock and Moriarty and the whole lot of it?"

Mrs. Hudson does not say anything, but a sad look comes over her face and she furrows her brow. "I have a casserole in the oven that I'll bring up when it's finished. Do you need any laundry done while I'm up here?"

"You're not our housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson."

She notices John's use of the word 'our' and pauses, slowly going to him and taking his hand. "No I'm not," she says. "But I'm not just your landlady, either." She plants a grandmotherly kiss on his fingers and bustles off to fetch the whistling kettle from the burner. The kiss speaks the words she can't bear to, for fear of breaking down again.

"I believe you, John."

…

A few nights later, John sticks a wad of cash in his pocket and goes looking for a cheap bar. He goes blindly, wincing against the taxi headlights, ignoring the homeless woman selling fake flowers on the sidewalk. He speaks to no one, hears nothing, and orders the strongest drink he can think of. He revels in the sting of the alcohol, the sharp bitterness on his tongue and in his throat. He hasn't eaten since breakfast, though he only remembers this after his stomach begins to burn with the emptiness. Everything is so empty.

He doesn't want to go back to work; God knows it would be a terrible idea for anyone to put a scalpel in his hand. Even as a nurse, he isn't sure he ever wants to see another pint of blood in his life. He hates that dark crimson color, because he sees it running over the asphalt in his dreams most nights.

John sits at the end of the bar, perched on the stool, drowning in the emptiness and the crimson asphalt. Everything aches, stings, burns, I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you. His heart, true to the prediction, is reduced to blackened ashes floating in a hollow cavity, in the emptiness.

At some point he throws his cash down on the counter and stumbles out onto the street, unbalanced not only by the drink but by a limp that was never real. He's not sure where he is anymore, or what time it is or even what day. He drank to forget, and now he can only remember one thing.

"Sherlock?" John asks a streetlamp. He turns frantically on the spot, his vision spinning around him more quickly than his head can turn. He is like a lost, terrified child in an amusement park. "Are you there, Sherlock?"

He is momentarily blinded by some oncoming headlights, and he remembers something else in this frightening haze. Didn't he run out in front of those headlights once before, with his hand in Sherlock's? He had grasped his hand so tightly, clinging to that unwavering, immovable anchor.

John steps off of the curb, and just as he does so, he feels someone pull him back. But the arms are too thin to be Sherlock's, and the fabric of the coat too rough. The smell isn't right. In a moment there's another pair of arms, these much bigger, and all John knows is that he's fighting against them because they're not Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.

He doesn't remember much after that.

The next morning Mrs. Hudson brings him a pot of tea and the mail. As he sits in his chair, wrapped in a blanket and gingerly sipping from the teacup, she tells him about the four raggedy-looking people who brought him home that morning. John is only half-listening until she puts something down on the coffee table in front of him.

It is a small bouquet of fake flowers, and a note written with what looks like the nub of a broken pencil.

"We believe."

…

One day John checks Sherlock's email. There is one new message with an attachment, sent from an address that he doesn't recognize. The virus scanner says that the attachment is safe, and up pops a picture of two rabbits sitting in a small hutch. He doesn't understand what he's looking at until he opens up the email.

Dear Mr. Watson,

I wanted to write to you because Mummy finally told me what happened to Bluebell. She said that she had to bring her to work, but she also said that your friend Mr. Holmes was the one who made her tell me. I thought Mr. Holmes was kind of scary, but I'm sure I just met him on a bad day. That's why I named my two new rabbits Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson. I sent you a picture if you want to see them.

Mummy also told me that Mr. Holmes died a little while ago. I'm really sorry, because I know he was your friend and I know he was helping a lot of people. But Mummy says she doesn't think that all those nasty things the newspapers were saying are true, and neither do I. So the other thing I wanted to say is that we believe you, Mr. Watson!

Lots of love,

Kirsty Stapleton

At first, John wants to cry. He doesn't, however, and instead he prints out the photo of the rabbits and pins it to the kitchen cabinet.

…

John is thumbing through papers at the newsstand, making sure there aren't any new headlines that he needs to worry about. He only looks up when he hears a familiar voice say good morning to the cashier, followed by the ping of a few coins on the counter. When he turns, he is still surprised to see Detective Inspector Lestrade standing beside him. Lestrade looks equally surprised.

"J-John," he stammers, clearly caught off guard. He composes himself quickly. "I'm sorry I haven't been around. Are you holding up alright?"

"How's the job treating you?" John asks coldly. Lestrade winces.

"Look, John, I owe you an apology—"

"You owe Sherlock an apology. But I guess I'll have to accept it for him, considering he—" John can't finish the sentence, but instead allows a murderous grimace to come over his face. His eyes are alight with the gravest indignation. "Considering what your lack of faith made him do."

"No… Please, you have to understand. You know I didn't mean for that to happen. I'm- I'm so sorry."

"You're sorry, and Sherlock is still considered a fraud."

"I can't go in front of the press, John. I could lose my job."

"Sherlock lost his life!"

"I told them…! I told Donovan and Anderson that they were wrong and that it was all a big mistake. I tried to stick up for him, John, you have to believe me!"

"Believe you!"

And the next thing John knows, his fist is buried in Lestrade's face. He lets out an unattractive grunt as he's knocked off the feet, making the cashier cry out in panic. John isn't sorry. There's blood splattered across his hand but he doesn't care, because that was for Sherlock Holmes. That was to give Detective Inspector Lestrade just a taste of all the anger and bitterness wrapped up in his betrayal.

"Did you believe in Sherlock?" John hisses, before turning on his heel and walking off into the brisk morning air.

"It's alright," he hears Lestrade say to the cashier as he picks himself up off the asphalt. "I deserved that."

That night, John is eating a bowl of soup that Mrs. Hudson brought him, and is flicking through the crap telly that Sherlock used to watch. He stops when he sees a familiar face, and suddenly Lestrade is in his living room, standing in front of what appears to be a mob of reporters in the police media room. John isn't sure what he's looking at, exactly, until he reads the headline on the bottom of the screen.

"D.I. Lestrade gives long-awaited statement on Holmes fiasco."

"My statement is very brief," he begins, and John notices that his knuckles are white as he grasps the edges of the podium. "I must make it clear that I speak only for myself, and that my personal views do not in any way represent the views of my colleagues or of Scotland Yard as a whole."

"Just covering your arse," John thinks. But he can't help but watch with awe, and just a little respect.

"I witnessed that man do incredible things. Things that a lot of people understandably believe to be impossible. But there were things that even he couldn't have organized. There were things that I know he deduced using the power of his own mind, and I feel privileged to have worked beside him, both as a colleague, and as a friend."

A wave of voices rise up as soon as he goes quiet, and the Inspector's eyes flash with the barrage of photos that are being taken. His eyes reveal only a hint of fear, but that isn't what is most obvious. Instead, the man is brimming with courage, his eyes fierce as he defends the honor of a man he respects. John knows that Lestrade could be fired for this, and at the very least it will discredit him in the eyes of the other detectives. He wasn't exaggerating when he said as much that morning.

The brave Inspector points to a reporter in the second row, his hand perfectly steady and firm. It is King Arthur's hand, reasserting order in his court.

"If you had to condense your statement into one headline, what would it be?"

Lestrade looks straight at the camera, as though hoping to meet John's eyes through the satellite transmissions and television wires.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

…

He has good days and bad days. On a particularly bad day, about a week after his chance encounter with Lestrade, John hears a strange sound from the alleyway behind the flat. He is sitting at his computer and doesn't think much of it until he notices that a piece of scrap paper on the desk beside him is now covered in scrawling, blue letters.

"From one doctor to another. I believe in our friend, Sherlock Holmes."

There's a flash of blue from outside the window, but he doesn't notice since he's still preoccupied with figuring out how the writing got there. Days later he comes back to it, reads it again, and notices something that he hadn't before. Ourfriend, Sherlock Holmes.

He never finds out who this mysterious supporter is.

…

Sometimes, in the evening, the flat becomes a bit too claustrophobic for John and he's forced out onto the streets. He just wanders, never bothering with a cab. Sometimes he sits and watches people, trying to notice things as Sherlock used to. He knows he'll never be half as good at it, but it feels nice to try.

On this evening in particular, John finds himself walking a familiar route. It's not his choice to come this way; it's his legs' fault for taking over while he was distracted by his thoughts. He sees the apartments, sees the little old lady sitting at one of the windows, sees the warm lights of the restaurant across the street. He doesn't plan on going in, but rather walks by with his head down and his hands in his pockets. Out of the corner of his eye, for as much as he promised himself he wouldn't, he looks for the table by the window where he and Sherlock once sat.

John keeps walking, until about ten seconds later when the door to the restaurant slams open and a voice calls out into the night. He would be sure it's directed towards someone else, except the voice is calling his name.

"Oi! Oi, John Watson! John Watson!"

He turns to see a large Italian man barreling down the sidewalk towards him. "Oh," John says. His own voice sounds strange to him. "Hello, Angelo."

"I have a table for you," the man booms, taking John roughly by the arm and dragging him back towards the restaurant. "It's cold! And my restaurant is warm. Come eat! I will make you something!"

"I'm fine, Angelo, really."

"Nonsense, silly man!"

John has already been pulled inside, and Angelo takes his coat and pushes him into a chair by the window. There's already a candle lit on the table. "Stay here! Make yourself comfortable! I am going to bring you something nice." And with that, he turns around and rushes off towards the kitchen.

John is a bit shaken and more than a little annoyed, until he realizes that he never would have come in if Angelo hadn't been so forceful. He's sitting at the exact table that he had been hesitantly catching a glimpse of just moments ago; the table that he'd been sitting at when he first looked Sherlock in the eye and saw just a hint of the danger and adventure and thrill and fulfillment that was waiting in his future. He still can't believe it was only a matter of months ago that they went running through the streets of London like a pair of lunatics. It feels like years have passed since then. Years of memories that he doesn't have.

His thoughts are disrupted by a young waitress who comes over to fill his water glass, and uncork a bottle of red wine that she sets down on the table. She offers him a warm smile that actually lifts him from his dark, silent mood, and he spends the next few minutes thoughtfully sipping at his wine glass.

Angelo returns with a steaming plate of what looks like pasta and chicken parmesan, and sets it down in front of him. He's forgotten that he hasn't eaten since Mrs. Hudson brought him lunch the day before, and the rich smell of baked tomato and melted cheese reminds him. He breathes a quiet 'thank you' to the restaurant owner and takes the first, slow bite. It goes down smoothly—the warm, nourishing starch and protein— and settles pleasantly in his stomach. He has forgotten food could taste so good.

Much to John's surprise, Angelo doesn't leave after this first bite. He sits opposite him, in the spot Sherlock once occupied all those months or years ago, and pours himself a glass of wine. When he speaks, his usually boisterous tone is replaced by something more placid, more respectful.

They don't talk about much. Angelo asks John if he thinks the restaurant could do takeout, and John replies that with food this good, the only challenge would be keeping up with all the orders. They talk about the weather, that afternoon's football game. This goes on until well after John is finished with his meal, and Angelo offers him a piece of pie which he must decline because he is so full. Angelo has a piece put into a takeaway box and leaves it on the table, assuring him that sweets are good for his health. John asks if Angelo thinks he should stay at Baker Street, and Angelo responds that yes, he must. The only thing worse than remembering is forgetting.

The restaurant is empty, and it's almost midnight when John rises at last. Angelo helps him put on his coat, and hands him his slice of pie. "You are looking peaky," Angelo says. "You will stop by next week?"

"Alright," John says. He's too comfortable and warm and full of good food to say no. But before he leaves, he turns to Angelo one last time.

"Listen, about what all of the newspapers were saying—"

But Angelo stops him with a hand on his shoulder and a reassuring squeeze. He says nothing, but his eyes give a melancholy twinkle as though to say, "I believe you, John Watson."

…

A month after the funeral, a small manila envelope arrives in the post without a return address. John is somewhat disquieted by this, but there is no sign of the familiar magpie seal. He takes it inside, carefully opens it, and allows a peach-colored notecard to fall out onto his lap. The paper is of the finest quality; thick and rigid, but impossibly smooth and almost silky to the touch. He opens it, revealing two words written in a vibrant shade of scarlet lipstick.

"I believe."

For a fleeting moment, John knows exactly who is responsible for this, but then he gives his head a shake and puts it from his mind. That woman is dead, and even if by some miracle she isn't, there is no way she would risk exposure to send such a trivial calling card. Dismissing it as a piece of delayed fanmail, he drops it into the rubbish bin beside the desk.

The next day, John picks the still-unblemished notecard out of the rubbish and places it on the mantle. If Sherlock could avert one inescapable death—for John is sure he had something to do with it— why couldn't he avert another?

The small hope makes the pain just a bit more bearable.

…

His therapist suggests that he get away for a bit, but John is fairly sure she didn't mean for him to revisit the little inn at Dartmoor. His arrival is without incident, and after he unpacks he goes out to the moor for a few hours before the sun sets. It is peaceful there, and John doesn't feel as lonely as he thought he would. Perhaps that is because, when he looks up at that huge stone outcropping, he can see Sherlock's silhouette stretched upwards towards the sun, his arm extending out towards the horizon.

"What is that, John?" he demands, hungry for information, for John's answer.

Everyone at the inn keeps to themselves until later that evening, when one of the owners comes over to him at his table in the corner. "The name's Gary," he says. "I don't know if you forgot."

"No, I remember."

There's an awkward pause before John gestures for him to sit. "Thanks. Uh… I just wanted to say… My partner and I are real sorry about your detective friend." He pauses, and then adds, "The one with the cheekbones?" as though to differentiate Sherlock from the other brilliant detective that John used to follow around.

"Right. Thanks."

"We still appreciate you not charging us with anything. We've been keeping up the dog tours, you know, but we don't use a real dog anymore. Which is for the better, you know."

"Yes, that is indeed for the better."

"Say…" He gives a little shrug. "Can I get you a drink on the house?"

The other owner, who is named Billy if John can remember correctly, comes over when he hears this. "Only if you get me one too," he says, resting his elbow on Gary's shoulder. "You big flirt."

John finds the couple to be fairly good company after a drink or two, and after an hour or so he sees another familiar face out of the corner of his eye. Henry Knight walks over, smiling and looking much healthier than he did the last time they met.

"I heard you were in town," he says kindly, as John stands to shake his hand. "I thought I should come over to welcome you back."

"Let me get you something!" Gary says, his cheeks a little pink. Henry pulls up a chair and nods his thanks when Gary puts a small glass of bourbon in front of him.

They talk about the moors and the inn and the idea of Henry maybe writing a book about the whole thing, because it's a fascinating story when one gets down to it. Time passes, and at last there is a lull in the conversation. "Oh, your room is paid for," Henry says.

"Absolutely not," John says, but he's too drunk to really protest. Of course, this is not a painful kind of drunk, but a state of drunkenness earned with friends along a warm fireplace. He finds it rather comforting.

"I insist. I owe my life to you and Sherlock. I don't live in fear like I used to, and I can do the things I want. I am very happy, and there's nothing fake about that no matter what anyone says. So please, let me thank you in the best way that I can."

Henry lifts his glass. "A toast," he says. "To Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

…

John wonders what happened to Molly. She didn't attend the funeral, and she hasn't bothered to contact him since he last saw her in the lab with Sherlock. But then again, Sherlock had always been somewhat cruel to her, and it would be understandable if she wanted to distance herself from the entire situation.

This being the case, he's surprised when she drops in late one afternoon. They're both perfectly amiable, and they make idle chatter over a pot of tea and a few biscuits. But John can tell that she's uncomfortable, pointedly avoiding Sherlock's chair with her eyes, and it isn't long before she gets to the point.

"There's a position open at the lab," she says quickly, the words spilling from her mouth just as soon as she can put them together in her head. "I thought you might be interested. You don't have to work with the bodies or anything, if that would bother you."

"I'm a doctor; why would that bother me?"

"I just thought…" She puts her teacup to her lips before she can say anything else, but John knows what she is thinking. "If I recommend you, I know you can get the job. That is to say…" She stumbles over her words again. "I mean, you have the qualifications for the job on your own, I wasn't saying that you didn't. I just meant that if you wanted, I could…"

"Don't worry about it, Molly. It's alright."

"Do you want me to give you the director's number? I'm sure he won't mind talking to you over the phone if you don't want to go in."

John pauses, and makes a comment on the weather to change the subject. They talk about nothing for a few more minutes before Molly awkwardly gets up and reaches for her coat. He helps her with it, and it isn't until she's halfway out the door that he makes up his mind.

"Could I get that number from you?"

He speaks to the director on the phone the next morning, and starting Monday, John goes to work at the morgue.

He works mostly in the lab for the first week, testing samples and analyzing results. It's not difficult work—most medical undergrads could do it— but it takes his mind off of things. It's nice to have a reason to get up, take a shower, and put on fresh clothes.

Molly doesn't show her face very often, and when she does, she avoids John's eyes like she's guilty or something. He assumes that she believes the things the papers say are true, and in some ways he doesn't blame her. It's easier to think that a man she fancied rejected her because he was a psychopath, and that the other man she fancied rejected her because the first man paid him to. Putting it that way, John is sure she's come to despise Sherlock, and only offered him this job because she pitied him.

That is, until she brings him a coffee one morning, setting it down beside him with a nervous smile. Hidden beneath the cardboard sleeve, there is a message written in black marker on the cup.

"I believe in you. Both of you."

..

It's been two months since John watched his best friend plummet to his death from the roof of St. Bart's Hospital. Having already retraced his steps to Angelo's, to Baskerville, to the morgue and the lab, John now thinks that returning to the dreaded spot may bring some level of closure, although it's also likely that it might cause him to break down all over again.

All John intends to do is walk by it, to walk down the same sidewalk that he once found Sherlock's broken, mangled corpse sprawled across. He just wants to see that the asphalt isn't permanently stained like it is in his dreams, and that there isn't a crack where Sherlock's impossibly thick skull hit it.

He walks, hands in his pockets, across the street and over to the building. There is no blood, no crack, no sign of what had happened here.

But then something catches John's eye, not because it stands out but because it is familiar. There, written at the base of St. Bart's concrete foundation, are two small words.

"I believe."

That could mean anything, John tells himself. But there it is again, unassuming, but written just as clearly. The handwriting, however, is different.

"I believe."

There are four or five other instances of the phrase, all of them using varying utensils and handwriting. John doesn't even realize that he's on his knees, running his fingers over the words as tears run down his face, partially in disbelief and partially because he's so touched.

At last, at the very end, there are new words.

"We believe," read the staunch, black letters. "With love and gratitude, Friends of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

And John Watson looks down at his name scribbled on the concrete, next to the name of the man who gave so much of himself to others. Sherlock probably hadn't thought of it that way, but that was what he'd been doing. At least, he had given so much to John. But in spite of everything, these people here, and the people who had reached out to him in these past two months, recognized and respected that gift. In fact, not only do they still believe in that gift, but they believe in Sherlock Holmes, and they believe in John Watson.

In that moment, John feels that even just a fragment of that emptiness in his chest has been filled with something warm. For the first time since he last left Sherlock's side, he does not feel quite so alone.