(A/N: Okay. So. This is a song fic. It's based on Switchfoot's Yesterdays on their album Oh! Gravity. It's a good song and you can look it up on YouTube if you want to hear it, but the lyrics are at the bottom if you're too lazy to look it up. :3 It's okay. I understand. :P
I hope that, despite the serious feels that will ensue, you guys will enjoy this fic. And a big thanks to my beta, Doctor Whobbit. She gave me encouragement and corrections and advice and shit. :P I'ma stop talking now. Enjoy!)
The building was long and squat. The bricks were the color of mud, the windows were small, the shudders and trimming were a deceptively bright blue, and the roof was grey. The parking lot to the side was only half full, but that was to be expected. A man accused of fabricating a criminal mastermind only to make himself look clever wouldn't have too many people mourning his … passing.
It was only two days after he jumped, but the media was still abuzz. The tabloids were throwing out theories and accusations left and right. John could barely leave his flat without being swamped with press. HIS flat, not 221B. He couldn't go in there anymore. It carried too much of Him.
He saw Him everywhere. On the street, in a cab passing by, in the shadows…
John shook his head. Hallucinations won't bring Him back. Nothing will. He carefully made his way down the incline that lead to the funeral parlour, leaning heavily on his cane. The cane he hadn't had to use for almost two years, the cane that had gathered dust in a corner of the flat, until two days ago. Two days and so much had changed. It's amazing how quickly your life can fall to shit.
The doors of the parlour were just as washed out as the rest of the building. Two tarnished handles stuck out, taunting, teasing. John took a deep, shuddering breath before pulling open and stepping through the doors. The voices were hushed and the faces were solemn. A sea of strangers with only a few recognizable people. More of a pond, really. John limped through the lobby, stopping frozen in front of the guest book.
Most of the names ended in "Holmes" with a flourish on the "s". Certain familiar names popped out to John: Mycroft, Molly, Angelo, Mrs. Hudson, and even Lestrade was there. John allowed himself a small smile. In the end, Greg stuck by Him. Even in the end. John swallowed heavily and quickly scribbled his name down, five spaces from the end of the page.
Not willing to mingle, John made his way over to the couch and sat. Angling his cane between his legs so it was resting on his left shoulder, John sat erect, simply looking. His eyes passed over the scenery noting it, but not committing it to memory. The walls were a sickly yellow, the windows dressed with red sheer, and the floor was a pale blue carpet. The room he was in had multiple small tables that were full of colorful arrangements and there was a television to his left in a large wooden armoire, but it was off.
Across the room, through the empty doorway, John could see the casket. His casket. It was a plain black and, thankfully, closed. It rest upon a white tablecloth and was surrounded by flowers that ranged from white to pink to yellow, all cheery and out of place. His casket. His casket. John ducked his head into his hands, running his fingers through his hair and breathing deeply. He can't break down. Not here. He exhaled slowly and stood.
John walked out to the lobby again, ready for the storm. He started with the complete strangers. An empty smile in place as he shook hands. A quick nod as they recognized him. A sympathetic "I'm sorry" or "I understand" when they mention how much they'll miss Him. John hides behind his soldier face. He hides his contempt towards these people he'd never met or heard mentioned. They were never there for Him. Not before, not during, not after, and certainly not now. They're here to save face, but John will have none of it. They speak of their loss and their pain, but they feel no such thing. All they feel is relief that that's one less psychopath to worry about. It's high functioning sociopath, if that, John mentally spat at them while his mask remained in place.
After the strangers were met, John moved on to the people he knew. He was nearly crushed by Angelo, who cried something about losing his favorite customer. Greg gave him a swift and genuine apology, he'd never really doubted Him. He had always held his trust. John cradled Mrs. Hudson as she emptied her eyes out on his suit, only to apologize for mucking it up. Molly gave her condolences, quickly and quietly, before scurrying off a second later. John only gave Mycroft a steely glare, he'd lost all respect two days ago, before leaving the depressing building.
John stopped just outside, looking left and right before deciding to go sit on the stone bench that was to the side. He carefully lowered himself onto the cold surface and sat, with only his thoughts as company. Not the best company, You were better… His mind wandered as he waited for the wake and then the procession to be over. Once the rest of them had made their way to His ...resting place... and back, John would go visit Him. Alone, on his own.
Sighing, heavily, John leaned back against the tree that rested just behind the stone bench. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the sun, the brush of the breeze, and the rustle of the leaves soothe him to sleep. He hadn't gotten much of that recently. He was almost completely under, the darkness calling him, when a soft familiar voice dragged him back to reality.
"I think I'll wait with you, dearie," Mrs. Hudson said as she sat next to John. "I think I need privacy when I say goodbye." She grew quiet as she looked at him, eyes warm and understanding. "Plus I don't think you need to go alone." John said nothing and only gave a weak smile that left as quickly as it came and never reaching his eyes. Mrs. Hudson sighed. "But at least Sher-" John winced, a small hiss escaping his lips, and she quickly amended herself, "He's in a better place. He's free." Mrs. Hudson tried to make it sound like a good thing, like His passing was to be celebrated, not mourned.
John laughed harshly. "Yes. He's free," he spat bitterly. Mrs. Hudson gave him a long, piteous look, but remained silent after that. Or maybe she did speak to fill the silence, John didn't know nor did he care. He simply ignored her.
The minutes flew by and soon the hearse returned. Apparently once He was in the ground, the rest of the Holmes wanted nothing to do with Him. Bastards...John groaned as he hefted himself to his feet, knee protesting. He hobbled up the hill to the main road, Mrs. Hudson walking quietly behind him. Upon reaching the pavement, he lifted his arm and called out for a taxi.
Soon enough a taxi came to a halt in front of them, but it still took a few tries.You always had this way of summoning them with just a flick of the wrist. John held the door open, letting Mrs. Hudson slide in before him. Once he was in, John leaned forward and gave the address before settling properly. They rode to the cemetery in silence. Not the comfortable silence that John always shared with Him, but a burning silence that cut into him like a knife.
When the cab stopped, John got out and spoke quietly to the cabbie, "Wait here. We'll be just a minute." The man gave John a hard look and rubbed his stubbly chin.
"All roight," he said in a thick cockney accent, "but it'll be on you, mate. I'm keeping the me'er runnin'." John paused before nodding and turning to catch up with Mrs. Hudson who was waiting at the crest of the hill. They walked in silence that grew heavier with each step. With each step, John had to lean heavier on the cane. Finally they reach the headstone.
They stand in silence for a minute or two, just staring at the name etched into the polished stone. John finally broke the silence. "I'm angry," he huffed, head down. And he was. He was pissed. Mrs. Hudson made a sympathetic noise.
"It's okay, John. There's nothing unusual in that, that's the way he made everyone feel." John shook his head slightly, He'd never made him feel like that. John had always felt wanted, useful. Mrs. Hudson continued, growing more agitated by the minute, "All the marks on my table and the noise. Firing guns off at one in the morning." John gave a small noise in agreement. "Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine! Keeping bodies where there's food. And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings on!"
John held up a hand, and tried to derail Mrs. Hudson's rant. "Yeah, listen. I'm not actually that angry, okay?" Mrs. Hudson nodded and grew quiet.
"Okay. I'll leave you alone to... you know," she gestured vaguely and sniffled before heading back towards the taxi. John didn't turn as she walked off and kept his eyes on the ground. He cleared his throat a few times, emotion clogging it. He glanced behind him, ensuring that Mrs. Hudson had indeed left.
Turning back forward, John shuffled in place, almost turning to go himself, but changing his mind. He sharply tilted his head, looking at the grave again, and took a deep breath. "Um," his voice cracked almost instantly. "Hm." John took a few more breaths before trying again. "You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Um. There were times that I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this," John ducked his head, squeezing his eyes shut, "you were the best man and the most human," he paused, searching for the right word, "human being that I have ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie," he finished in a rush. "So, there."
John tucked his head for a moment, shutting his eyes and taking increasingly shallow breaths while squeezing the bridge of his nose, trying to regain his normally iron-clad control. He rapidly faced His name again, taking a few steps forward and resting his hand on the headstone. "I was so alone and I owe you so much," John said quietly. He clenched his eyes shut once more, but quickly opened them, unable to handle the image that hid behind his image of Him on the ground, red so bright against His pale skin and blue, that was once so bright and alive, now empty of all light and life...
John felt his walls begin to crumble and he took a few steps from the grave before whipping back around. "Please, there's just one more thing," his voice started strong, but broke quickly. That's what he was now: broken, beyond repair. "One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me." John's chest ached heavily and throat tightened so he almost couldn't breathe at the slip of his tongue, the mention of His name. He took a few more breaths, all of them shallow, all control lost. "Don't. Be." John's mouth opened and closed, unable to say it, until he finally choked out, "Dead." With that, the walls collapsed and all the emotion, all the anger and hurt and pain, rushed out, filling John and choking him.
He tried taking breaths, but all were shallow and only helped make him dizzy. "Would you do that, just for me?" he managed. He took another gasping breath, a sharp pain piercing his lungs. "Just stop it. Stop this..." John trailed off, physically unable to hold back any longer. He just stood there, in front of Him, and broke down. The tears poured out, coursing down his face, leaving burning trails on his cheeks. For a few minutes, John let them fall and wet the ground where He lay. Eventually, he had to regain control, rebuild the wall to contain those feelings, that overwhelming pain.
John kept his fingers firmly on the bridge of his nose as he hid it all away again. A lot of people say that when you say your last goodbye, you feel better. Like you've finally accepted what's happened. John didn't. He felt worse. This isn't closure. This is torture... Emotions reigned in and cheeks dry, John reapplied his soldier face for Mrs. Hudson's sake, and turned about face to head back to the cab.
As he marched to the waiting vehicle, John promised himself that he'll never visit this place again. He couldn't face it, the truth. He would, for the first time, run away. John would honor His ... passing in another way. Visiting Him would only hurt his heart and shatter the dream that He could do that one last miracle. That He could come back for John.
(A/N: Big thank you to Talia-Naeva for pointing out the weird format this chapter was so I would re upload it. As I have. Hopefully it'll keep this time :D)