So this is my first fanfic. Be kind. It will be a slow build, so if you are impatient, this is not the story for you.

The standard disclaimer applies. I do not own anything that you recognize. That all belongs to BBC and co. Why else would I be writing fanfiction?


Gone. The one man in the entire world who made him feel alive was gone. The selfish bastard had not even had the good sense to take John with him.

John looked down on the black stone. Somehow that stone seemed to fit Sherlock; dark, strong, and immovable. It was also startlingly blank like all the times the man had refused to explain his plans or gotten so tied up in his experiments that he couldn't be bothered to hear what was said to him. But that wasn't right. Sherlock could express more in a single look than most people could in a thousand words. Especially if he thought you were an idiot.

John felt the heat of his own anger welling up and found himself talking to Sherlock, wherever he was, because he most certainly was not dead. John was certain. There was no way that the great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was dead. That meant that he had to come back.

"Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."

John pulled himself away. He would accomplish nothing here. He still had the dreaded dinner with the Holmes family. He would not be going except Mycroft had asked in that tone of voice that implied he could go under his own volition or he could be kidnapped. John Watson might not have much left to him after this whole ordeal, but he had his pride. He would go to Mycroft's dinner, try not to punch the slimy git for causing this whole mess, and then he would crawl home and sleep for ten years until this all sorted itself out.

The Holmes family dinner was exactly as bad as expected. John showed up prepared for the normal post funeral gathering. Since that typically included family and close friends, John assumed it would be a very small group. Instead he was faced with an impromptu dinner party.

Mycroft greeted him at the door with his wan smile. "John, good of you to come. You're just in time."

"Yes, well," John said, very much aware that his rough coat looked more than a little worn compared to the other's on the eldest Holmes's arm. "I was under the impression it was not optional."

"Just so." Mycroft waved over a passing maid and handed her his armload of coats. "Mummy would have been so disappointed if you hadn't come. She's been looking forward to meeting you for ages."

"I can't imagine why."

"You will have to ask her, but I think it is curiosity. Since he left home, Sherlock has never been able to live with anyone else. Not even at the University. He was -"

"An insufferable know-it-all and a nightmare to live with?"

Mycroft's lips quirked, but he continued on as though John had not spoken. "-rather temperamental. Come, we should go to dinner."

As Mycroft turned and began to lead the way down a side hallway, John stared after him. Mycroft possessed a rare talent for understatement. Sherlock had been so much more than temperamental. Mercurial would have been a better word. Capricious. His mood could swing from the blackest depression to a euphoric high in the span of seconds and once engaged in something, he would focus on that to the exclusion of all else. He had once ignored John for three days, except to drink the tea he was brought, when he thought he had found a link between blood coagulation and arsenic content. The flat had been a hazard area and John had refused to eat there for an entire week.

"John, you don't want to keep Mummy waiting."

John mentally berated himself. He could not go losing himself like that here. Not in front of Sherlock's family. This was going to be a long night.

To distract himself, he snuck a glance around as he followed Mycroft. "This is where you grew up?" Everything was white. White windows. White walls. Even the floors were made of white marble. John had a hard time picturing any child growing up here, much less Sherlock. It was too neat and too sterile. Even Mycroft, who John had come to associate with big leather chairs and good liquor seemed out of place against the grandness of the house.

"Yes. Sherlock and I had rooms on the second floor of the house. The third was dedicated to my father's work and the extensive library that he kept."

"So that's where he started learning to be a know it all."

"He was never granted permission to use the library after they caught him sneaking books back to his room. Father was particularly strict with his books and he forbid Sherlock from ever stepping foot in there again."

"So of course he picked the lock and did it anyway."

"Naturally."

They emerged into a large dining hall with a huge oak table standing in the center. Their flat would have easily fit into this one room of the house. The setup appeared to be designed to host about a hundred people, although there were only about two dozen seated near the head of the table.

Mrs. Holmes sat at the head of the table wearing a delicate black evening gown and veil. The richness of it was a little alarming and John wondered at why she would wear such a thing, but a quick glance at the other guests showed him to be woefully underdressed in his suit and tie. Mrs. Holmes smiled at Mycroft and John as they approached.

"May I present Dr. John Watson?"

"Dr. Watson. Thank you so much for coming. I have been waiting so long to meet you. Sherlock had been quite reluctant to bring you to see me."

"Mrs. Holmes." John said with a nod.

"I hope you will be able to stay after dinner so I can get to know you."

John did not want to stay one minute longer than he had to, but could see no polite way of turning her down. She was Sherlock's mother after all. "I would be honored."

"Wonderful. Shall we begin?"

Mycroft steered him to his seat, two places down from the head and right next to Mycroft. His one comfort was that he was seated directly next to Lestrade. As John took his place, Lestrade raised a half-filled wine glass in salute to him, then leaned over and whispered, "rich bastards. Think they could buy the moon." John could not help the snort of laughter, but tried to pass it off as a particularly bad sneeze.

The talk was light, polite and polished. Mrs. Holmes was in her element while John felt quite out of his. At one point the talk turned to him. The lady across from him, the one with the tinkling laugh and big doe eyes, spoke to him. "Dr. Watson, I don't think I have seen you at any of Mrs. Holmes's dinners. How do you know the family?"

"I am - was - friends with Sherlock. I helped him with his work and we split rent on a flat."

"But I thought you were a doctor."

"Yes, I am. I work as a doctor part time at a GP."

What did you do before you met Sherlock?" the man sitting next to doe-eyed-girl asked.

"I was in the army. Served with the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Really? An army doctor?" The girl's eye got even rounder, if that was possible. "What was it like? Where were you stationed?"

"Afghanistan."

"Why did you stop?"

John shifted in his seat. "I was invalided home."

The man across from John leaned in eagerly. "Really? Why?" He was entirely too enthusiastic for John's taste.

"I was shoot."

"Where?" He asked as he edged forward in his seat.

John had no interest in telling this story again to a bunch of strangers. "In the shoulder," he said gruffly.

Catching his tone, the couple sat back and focused on their meals for a moment before the girl with the doe eyes spoke again. "Is that why you went gallivanting off with the youngest Holmes?"

"Sherlock was brilliant and courageous and the best friend I could have asked for. He saved me from myself, and I enjoyed helping him when I could. I owe him my life many times over."

"My brother was a lucky man the day he met Dr. Watson." Mycroft interjected, saving John from embarrassing himself further. "The good doctor has managed to keep an eye on Sherlock and keep him out of danger where he could."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I meant no disrespect. I was only curious." John gave a tight nod and started down his plate.

What were these people doing? Sherlock Holmes, the greatest man who had ever lived, was dead and these people sat around eating smoked salmon and talking about nothing and acting as if they were better than him. They had no idea what Sherlock had done.

Greg caught his elbow and leaned in. "You alright?" he whispered.

"No." John said. "How can they sit here and do this. Talk about him like..."

"Like the heartless bastards they are?"

"I suppose."

"It's just human nature John. With the exception of his brother and mother, no one here ever had anything to do with Sherlock. They only ever knew him as the eccentric member of the Holmes family. They don't understand and they don't know any better. Forget them."

John managed a weak smile for the detective before retreating into himself. He just wanted this whole fiasco to be over.

He managed to hold his tongue and avoid any more conversation until dessert when he suddenly found himself the object of a number of whispers and stares. He tried to ignore them, and when that failed, tried to find the eyes that were staring at him. The one or two he caught staring looked away abashed. Finally, Mrs. Holmes spoke just as dessert was being brought out.

"I thank all of you for coming to help celebrate my son's memory. It gives me hope that so many remember him as fondly as his family and I appreciate your support in our time of grief. The kitchen has prepared a special treat for dessert, Sherlock's favorite. Please enjoy it. Afterward there will be music and we will be receiving anyone who wished to speak with us. Sherlock was a good man and he will be missed."

On cue, waiters brought out dessert and John was disappointed to see a miniature raspberry souffle set before him. This was the best the Holmes family could muster in honor of it's youngest? A few fancy words and a dessert that, unless John was very much mistaken, Sherlock had only pretended to enjoy because he knew Mycroft hated raspberries.

Suddenly John found the entire situation unbearably funny. He could feel laughter bubbling up and he knew he would not be able to hold it back. Greg gave him a questioning look as he rose from the table, but John did not answer it. Instead, back straight, head high, he walked away and back the way he had come, ignoring the calls following him.

He escaped onto the front porch, and just in time too, as he dissolved into a fit of giggles entirely unbecoming in a middle aged, ex-soldier. He couldn't help it. He collapsed against the white rail and laughed until he couldn't breathe. At some point his laughter got confused with crying until he was not sure which he was doing.

That's how Mycroft found him. He was leaning against the railing with tears running down his face and clutching his sides trying to get a breath in. Ever the unflappable brother, Mycroft slid down to sit on the porch with John.

"I meant what I said, John. My brother was a lucky man. I think you saved him in a lot of ways."

"You've got it backwards. He saved me."

"Even so, he was a better man around you. I think we were all relieved that there was someone there to talk some sense into him every now and then."

"You know I can't believe he's gone. I just can't. It doesn't seem right. It's like I know he's still out there somewhere, just laughing at all of us."

"You saw him jump."

"I know what I saw. I know it, but I can't believe it. Besides, if he's gone, what else is there?"

There was silence between them. Mycroft studied John for a long time. He looked as though he wanted to say something but did not quite know how. Before he could, John stood up. "I can't go back in there, Mycroft. I can't."

"I thought as much," he said. He held out John's coat. "I'll make your excuses to Mother. Would you like me to call you a cab?"

"Thanks." John said, taking his coat, "but I think I would rather walk." He set off down the long paved drive towards the main street. It was only when he got to the gate that he remembered he was supposed to be angry with Mycroft. He heaved a long sigh and began the arduous task of finding a taxi at that time of night. He would deal with Mycroft some other time.


Well there you have it. This chapter is pretty stand-alone since I can't decide if I like where it is going. I thought I would get opinions before I got too deep into the story line.