The cemetery is hushed, transient. Standing still in a precarious way, like it could tilt and jolt out of existence at any moment. His imaginary body has been planted amongst swelling rose bushes and bouquets of fresh flowers left on the ground. Sherlock Holmes can see the gravestone marked with his name, and feels as if he has woven himself a dream.
He possesses a unique dual existence: Yards away, he is dead. The gravestone declares it so, and there's nothing to say he isn't. Except for him.
He waits in silence until a taxi pulls up, and the two most important people in the world get out of it. They approach the grave slowly. He watches Mrs. Hudson say something to John, and not long after she walks away, crying and scarcely composed. If anyone else had made her cry that way, he would break them. Should he break himself?
John talks to the man underneath the gravestone for a long time. Sherlock wants to walk into the open and stand beside John, so that they can grieve for the man together. He has never been good at grieving, though, as he recalls. He would probably say something to make things worse.
"Why miss particular individuals when there are billions of others to replace them, billions with heartbeats that function just the same?"
He could say that to John now, but John would insist that the man beneath the ground was special in some way. Sherlock had said those words to his mother during his father's funeral. She hadn't responded, or perhaps hadn't the chance to; Mycroft had put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and led him away, so that the two stoic brothers could stand behind the grievers and not bother them with their heartlessness. Sherlock had watched his mother from afar. She had drifted, slowly, like a falling cherry blossom, to the ground. She had pressed her black gloved palms against the dirt like she could reach her husband better that way, and she stayed in that position for hours. Silent and tearless. The other grievers' tears had seemed superficial, and Sherlock had thought his mother's sadness seemed the saddest.
When his father died, Sherlock wasn't sure how to react. So the night before the funeral, he made two lists. One had the cons of his father no longer existing, and the other the pros.
Cons
1. No one's cigarettes to nick
2. No one to tell Mycroft not to bully me
3. No more interesting conversations
4. Will miss him
Pros
1. Inherit his chemistry set
2. Get to use his microscope
3. Get his Theraphosa blondi (tarantula)
4. Will ask for the collection of taxidermy
5. Mycroft will get jack knife; will be able to nick it
There'd been more pros than cons, so that had settled it. He'd decided he was happy his father was dead, and all during the funeral he'd thought of nothing besides where he would be hanging father's taxidermy bat and when it would no longer be the "wrong time" to bugger Mummy about buying his Theraphosa blondi some mice.
He is glad John hadn't known him as a child.
John's sadness is sad, just like his mother's once was. John speaks for a long time. Sherlock wonders what he's saying, but deduces it before he even intends to.
He's thanking Sherlock. A sense of duty. A sense of owing Sherlock, even though Sherlock only took John's cane from him while John gave Sherlock back the world. He's asking for Sherlock to return somehow, because he isn't a particularly original man and that's what grievers often do. He'd been in denial, at first, and then angry. Sherlock knows, he's read all about the stages of grief. John's not angry now. Sherlock can tell.
And then John does something amazing.
It's not crying. Obviously he was going to do that. It's that he rubs his eyes, after just seconds of releasing tears, and he stops his crying. By sheer force of will. With an unwavering sense of self-discipline, he collects himself, stands straight, and walks away.
John Hamish Watson, you impossible man.
Sherlock watches his friend walk all the way out the cemetery, his arms swinging with the measured movements of a military man, and by the time he reaches Mrs. Hudson and signals for a taxi, he looks almost well. Somber, but composed.
Sherlock wants to brush off what he's just seen and think about his next move. Wants to figure out how much the next hotel will cost, so that he can demand funds from Mycroft. Wants to know when his plane takes off. Wants to know what leads he has. Wants to move forward, forward, endlessly forward.
Instead he just says, "John."
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