A/N: So, this is me dealing with my Reichenbach feels (if you need someone to commiserate on Moffat's evilness, you can PM me, just ask sarahhaley. I love commiserating!) and post-story sadness (because after finishing my Who story, there was a gaping hole in my heart that I hadn't known it occupied.). So yes, I jumped on the bandwagon of post-Reichenbach fics, but I think mine is slightly different than the average one. Please enjoy, and don't be afraid to R&R!
Disclaimer: I don't own *sniffles*
John Watson was numb. He woke up in 221B with a sick feeling in his stomach. It had been exactly a week since they had buried Sherlock. He ambled out of his bedroom, breathing in the lingering scent of chemicals—particularly of the explosive variety—body parts lying around the flat that John still hasn't found, and some fancy cologne that Sherlock had been mixing in with his experiments for some odd reason before he... Well, John couldn't think about that. All he could think about was that everything about the flat still reminded him of Sherlock. His best friend… He choked up over his kettle as he set it on the stove to boil. He limped to the chair, giving the sofa—Sherlock's favorite place in their flat—a wide berth. He opened the paper, ignoring the smattering of obituaries written by people who claimed to have known the great detective best. If he looked at another one, he might just explode. The kettle whistled, and John pushed himself out of the chair to pour a cuppa. He had to stop himself from pouring a second for a Sherlock who would never drink it. He shrugged off Mrs. Hudson's questions about how he was feeling, grabbed the cane he had to dig out of the bins, and hailed a cab. First, to the florist for new flowers for Sherlock's grave. He smiled a little at what Sherlock would say to such an action.
"Why would someone put flowers on someone's grave? The person receiving the flowers is dead," he'd ask, one of the few times a look of confusion would cross his face.
"Think for a moment, Sherlock," John would prompt patiently, shaking his head ever so slightly.
"Sentiment," the great detective would guess.
"Sentiment," John would affirm, and Sherlock would go on doing whatever he had been doing.
The cabbie looked back at John, his eyes widening in recognition.
"You're that Watson bloke, aren't you?"
John clenched his fists and nodded stiffly. "Yes, I am." He knew what was coming; the staring, trying to assure him that Sherlock was the fake everyone had thought he was. It seemed, sometimes, that John was the only one who knew the truth. The cabbie grinned sadly.
"That Sherlock, he was summin' else, eh?"
"You… could say that… yeah."
The cabbie nodded. "I read your blog sometimes. That man, 'e was definitely not a fraud. I may not be the smartest man in th' world, but I do know 'onesty. And Holmes was an 'onest man."
John nodded, tears coming into his eyes without his permission. "Thank you." They pulled up to the florist. "Would you mind waiting here? Won't be a minute."
The cabbie nodded and turned around. "Buy one for me, will ye? 'e was a good man, an' I want 'im to know I believe in 'im. Would you buy a xeranthemum?" He pressed a five pound note into John's hand.
John looked at him suspiciously for his very specific flower request, but said nothing, smiled, and wandered into the florist.
He bought a bouquet of irises, zinnias, cyclamens, and purple hyacinths, handing over 40 pounds. He traded the five pound note for a xeranthemum and went back to the cab.
"How's this?" He held the flower up for the cabbie's inspection.
The man smiled and tied a note around the flower's stem near its head. "Flowers are interestin', always a different meaning for each flower. This one means immortality. Seems fittin' for your friend. No one'll be forgetting 'im any time soon.
'Ere's your stop. Be seein' you, Doctor Watson." The cabbie pulled over to the curb across the street from the graveyard, waving away John's hand full of money.
"Thanks, uhm, uh—"
"Peter Jones, Doctor Watson."
"Thanks, then, Peter." John smiled and stepped out of the cab, sorely tempted to read what Peter Jones had written on his strange flower request for Sherlock.
With every step he took, his feet seemed to grow heavier. The trek to Sherlock's grave filled him with dread, yet he knew he would never be able to not visit the cold black slab of marble that his best friend rested beneath. He let a single tear drip down his face and shook his head, a small smile on his face for a flash; Sherlock would be incredibly confused as to why John was crying. Wiping his eyes, he set his bouquet on the ground and stared at the strange flower the cabbie had asked him to buy and attached the note to. He fought the urge to open the card with the note and lost. But he was at a loss as to what it said.
R I Z Z L X J K E C P L H O P
Y J W P F G G Q Z Q O R B Z X
N E M G L L O D W Z Q T L Y G
M X X T B E Y K D J Y Z H D L
D R S W X O J G K M J J D P D
M O J O F Q V E F L N C J D H
N F Z Z D K G F E W T N X V Z
Y L L J Z V V T V D C W J W E
H H D G P Z W J H K P L F R C
Y X S Y N L T C J D B O K G G
X F D U P F G T B S E A J P Q
K D D L Q P S G J B R D Q C N
W M B F S I R S G J U R Q M P
W W O A V R S W L A G W F H H
Z B G Z M L S Z X F A P O E D
He decided not to pretend he understood what Peter had written and laid the flower on the grave next to his bouquet. He stood there for a moment, shoulders shaking silently, mouthing a silent prayer he couldn't bear to allow into the air.
"Please don't be dead. Please don't be dead. Come back for me, Sherlock, I'm begging you."
Little did he know there were two figures watching him, one from a cab, and the other in the darkness of the trees lining the graveyard similar to the last week. Except this time, the figure was hidden behind trees closer to the grave that John was heading to; he had to see his best friend's face again, even if it was contorted by sadness.
Eventually, he raised his head from its bowed position and glared directly at the gold lettering of Sherlock's name.
"Sherlock, I don't know what to do. I feel like a shell, and I'm a shadow of myself at the surgery… Sarah can't even look me in the eye, now. You managed to drive away all of my girlfriends just so that I wouldn't leave you, and then you… You go and do this. You are a bloody bastard, and when you come back, you better have no doubt that I won't be avoiding your nose." A single tear slid down his cheek, but John made no move to stop it. He let the salty droplet of water trail down his face to his chin where it hung delicately for a moment before landing on the still-fresh earth over Sherlock's casket.
Peter Jones watched as John Watson left the cab, flower and message in hand. He shook his head at the poor bloke; he had no idea. Peter could only hope that Sherlock revealed himself to the world again soon. He didn't know how long they could last without him sweeping in and saving the day like the hero he told everyone he wasn't.
Sherlock Holmes stood in the trees, not quite understanding why John was there. He had just been there the day before, and Mrs. Hudson had brought flowers. He imagined the conversation, asking John what was going on.
"Why would someone put flowers on someone's grave? The person receiving the flowers is dead," he'd ask, one of the few times he would be confused.
"Think for a moment, Sherlock," John would prompt patiently, shaking his head ever so slightly, but still smiling, always tolerant of Sherlock's... misunderstanding of emotions.
"Sentiment," he would guess, knowing almost certainly that he was right.
"Sentiment," John would affirm, and his smile widening like he thought Sherlock was learning something new about humanity.
Sherlock grinned a bit. He could just hear John's voice in his head. It was so clear. John stopped at the grave, and Sherlock instinctively took a few steps farther into the shadows. John set the flowers on the fresh dirt and bowed his head, shoulders shaking, muttering something Sherlock could only guess at. It was driving him crazy, being unable to tell what John was saying and why. He could tell everything that John had done that day, but he couldn't ask why. He felt an ache in his chest and filed it away to be examined later; he put it under sentiment, an ever-growing file that Sherlock was almost afraid to look at.
A/N: Yes, I put a cipher in there for you guys. And yes, I expect you to solve it. I'll give you three clues:
1. It's triple-encoded (yes, I'm mean. Deal with it; this'll be fun. Well, for me, at least!)
2. 2 of the ciphers used were 2 of the ciphers used for the secretmessages on Sherlock's website (the science of deduction)
3. the other one requires a code word that is fairly obvious and is a major part of this fandom.
Have fun! Whoever solves it first and PMs me/reviews with the answer will get a lifetime supply of virtual cookies and love!
Thanks for reading!