Rain pattered against the taxi window. The day of Sherlock's funeral just had to be a rainy one. I didn't want to go, but Lestrade was forcing me. Something about "the good Sherlock did for Scotland Yard," but I didn't believe any of it. Looking to my left I saw Anderson, probably thinking the same thing.
"Greg, do we have to be here? Sherlock faked all of the cases we had him solve, so he really didn't help us at all." Greg looked up sharply from where he was staring at the floor.
"Sally. You and I both know Sherlock couldn't have faked everything he did. Even if some of it was his doing, which it wasn't, we would still owe him the respect of showing up." The taxi started to slow down next to a large cemetery. Sherlock's brother didn't want his funeral public, and never in a church. There wasn't a visitation, and this would be a closed casket funeral. Apparently when Sherlock had jumped, he made sure his head was bashed in.
We got out of the taxi and started towards the gravesite. There was a large white tent set up toward the middle, and a coffin was set on a table in the middle. A crane sat to one side of a large open hole, waiting to lift the dead man and place him in his final resting place.
"Not many people here," I heard Anderson murmur. I looked around and saw a couple of people I recognized: John, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson, but other than that, only two other people were there, mingling amongst themselves under umbrellas. One elderly woman sat in one of the provided chairs, sobbing while Mycroft held his ever-present umbrella over her. That must be his mother. I didn't even know Sherlock had a mother.
A man walked up to a podium in front of the coffin, and asked, "Does anybody have any words for the late Sherlock Holmes?" A girl that I didn't recognize with mousy hair walked up and started speaking of Sherlock's intelligence and diligence. She spoke of how she worked with him often at the mortuary when he was trying to solve a case, and how much she liked seeing him, with his wit always keeping her wanting to talk to him longer.
Sherlock's mother got up and went to the podium after the girl was done. She talked about how great of a son Sherlock was, and how he always did his best to help everybody, and told them at first he didn't want to be a detective, but a pirate. Everybody smiled at this little memory except for John, whose face had remained steely this entire time. After Sherlock's mother stepped down, to my surprise, no one else had anything to say.
The man stepped up to the podium and said thank you for being here for the family in these sad times. Two men came up and lifted the table up with the casket out into the rain and by the gaping hole. One of the men stepped toward the crane controls and gently grabbed the casket and placed it at the bottom of the grave. The man who spoke handed Sherlock's mother a shovel, and Mycroft helped her to the mound of dirt next to the grave. She scooped up a shovelful of dirt and dumped it on her youngest son's casket. She started to heavily sob again and Mycroft hugged her comfortingly before grabbing the shovel and repeating the action. The two took several steps from the grave, and allowed the crane to do the rest. During that time the young girl and Mrs. Hudson left, but not before talking to John. When the young girl spoke to him, he just offered an empty smile and gave her a small hug. When Mrs. Hudson talked to him, he just shook his head, and said something softly. She nodded and patted his arm gently before leaving.
I turned to leave and Anderson followed suit, but I heard Greg call out, "Donovan, Anderson, we're staying." I just let out an exasperated sigh, but when I saw Greg's shoulder's so tense from trying not to cry, I figured I had to stay.
Once the entire hole was filled in and patted down, Sherlock's small family walked up to the gravestone and patted it gently, and walked away too. Greg was about to walk up after the Holmes were gone, but John, steely-faced John walked up first. He just stood at the foot of the filled in hole, just looking at the plain black tombstone. It wasn't until he talked to us that I noticed his shoulders shaking.
"I can't say a proper goodbye with you all here, so why don't you just leave. They don't want to be here anyway, Lestrade." John looked back at Greg, then returned his gaze to the grave. Greg walked up behind John and put his arm around his shoulders, and John turned and buried his head in Greg's shoulder. I heard John weep his heart out, just letting everything out. Greg wrapped his other arm around John, letting him cry.
I never had thought Sherlock could affect someone this deeply and in this way. Sherlock always seemed so detached from everything, I didn't think he could ever care about someone this much. He didn't seem to relate to anybody very well, and always caused some kind of argument, but here was John Watson crying about someone who he truly cared about.
"What's he crying about so much? It was just Sherlock. It's not like the queen has died," Anderson's voice cut through the rain harshly. I knew he wasn't a fan of Sherlock, but this was hurtful, even for him.
"Stuff it, Anderson." I walked up behind John and put my hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, John. I really am sorry." I didn't expect him to respond, but to my surprise he whipped around to stare at me. The only way I would have been able to tell he was crying was the pink puffiness surrounding his eyes.
"It's your fault! You should be sorry! That man could have never faked anything." John looked at the gravestone a moment. When he spoke again, his voice seemed much calmer. "You were wrong, Ms. Donovan. Sherlock couldn't have been a fake." He almost chuckled, but it was much too bitter and broken. "Those were some of his last words to me you know. 'I'm a fake'. But that's not possible and I refused to believe it. He was just too real." After John finished, no one said anything. I never thought Sherlock or John could take anything I said seriously. I never knew the power of my words.
As we all quietly stood around the final resting place of Sherlock Holmes, I contemplated everything I had ever seen Sherlock do or say. I started to come to the grim realization that John had a point. Everything about Sherlock seemed genuine, and overall he just acted like a very large and very intelligent child. Sherlock was just doing what he enjoyed doing, and we had made fun of him for doing it well. I felt a bit sick; I was starting to realize that I had been as bad as Sherlock.
After awhile nothing made a sound except for the rain pattering against the dirt. "You're right," I muttered. "I don't think Sherlock could have been a fake. He did far too much to be completely fake." I saw John nod beside me.
"You were right too, Sally."
I looked up at him in confusion, wondering what in the world he could mean. He just had an outburst about how wrong I was. He looked at me and saw the confusion on my face.
"You don't remember? I suppose you wouldn't. It was one of the first things you ever said to me. You told me that 'one day, we'd all be standing around a body, and Sherlock would be the one that put it there. And you were right."
I stopped and felt as if someone had punched me in the gut. Both Greg and Anderson's mouths were agape, staring at John and me in shock. John walked away while I stood, unable to move for a second. Everybody woke from their reverie at the same time, but John was already gone. Anderson started to shift and shuffle around.
"Can we head back to the Yard?" he asked finally after awkwardly patting Sherlock's tombstone.
"Yeah, I just needed to show you two that." Greg turned and started walking the path to the road. Anderson trotted for a moment to catch up, and I followed to walk next to him.
"Needed to show us what?" I asked, though I was starting to realize the answer.
"Sherlock wasn't the man you thought he was. No psychopath or sociopath could have friends like that. For people to care that deeply about Sherlock, he had to at least have cared for them a little." Greg sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. "You thought that no one could ever be friends with Sherlock, and that nobody believed in him, but I can almost guarantee that everyone at that funeral believed in Sherlock Holmes. And I know, somewhere deep inside, both of you do too."
I didn't know if I cared about Sherlock Holmes, but the anguish on John's face as he wept for his dead friend got to me. Sherlock was all that John had had; he didn't have many friends other than him. I vowed to myself then that I would be there for John, to try and make it up to Sherlock for all that I had done. I just wish I could still prove to Sherlock that I understand now, and that I am so, so sorry.