Sherlock stared at the man sitting in front of him with a strange mixture of appreciation and morbid fascination that churned his gut and left him feeling too full. A cold drop of water hit his nose, startling Sherlock's focused gaze and causing him to turn it skyward. A light rain peppered across him, dripping across the well-kept grass of the cemetery.
Dr. John Watson was dead.
His chest felt suddenly heavy and empty, the contradiction making him lightheaded. Sherlock felt that maybe he had died too, except that couldn't be right, because then John would be beside him...still with him.
The gunman who had killed his friend was lying in a growing pool of blood, gurgling out the last few breaths of life that Sherlock did not have the energy to take away. Dead. Watson, gone. The detective could only look at his friend's closed eyes and pretend that he was asleep. Except his logical mind refused to let him keep the ruse at the forefront of his thoughts.
The only light in his gray world had been snuffed out by a single bullet to the heart and Sherlock felt suddenly empathic as his own heart burst inside his chest, pain and numbness warring for dominance.
The ginger hair darkened with each passing moment, rain drops that looked like tears streaming down the pale face, and Sherlock had the sudden urge to reach forward and engulf his friend's body in a fierce hug. That would require moving though and Holmes was not certain he could even breath, much less force his body forward.
"Sherlock," footsteps scuffed the wet grass, "stand up."
"Leave me alone, Mycroft." Why couldn't you have come ten minutes ago. You could have saved him. You see things that I don't - you could have saved him. "Just...leave."
"Stand up and pull yourself together," the this instant was implied by the older man's sharp tone.
Sherlock felt his body responding to the command the same way it always had and suddenly he felt young and uncertain. He turned wide pale eyes to his brother and cried for help with every silent fiber of his being. Mycroft remained impassive and Sherlock felt his jaw lock, eyes falling closed to block out the cemetery and all the truth now seated inside it.
"My people will see to your friend," Mycroft said with all the empathy of a cardboard box.
In that moment Sherlock found himself hating his brother with a fury more passionate than any emotion he could have imagined. Without a word, body held stiff, he brushed harshly past Mycroft and walked towards the open gates.
The soldier was dead. Mycroft could see his slumped body – back supported by a headstone – head lolled to one side.
It was a tragedy for Sherlock and the elder Holme would do his best to see that his brother had every means necessary to get over it, but he held out little hope. A long time ago – years in the past – he had told his assistant Anthea that Dr. Watson would make his brother or make him worse than ever.