A.N. This is the sequel to my first fic, See You Soon. I definitely recommend reading that first as this one will make more sense then. Hope you like it, reviews or anything of the like is eternally appreciated :)
Today was going to be a very hard day, thought old Greg Lestrade as he stood in front of his mirror and adjusted the tie on his far too often worn funeral suit. He looked old, much older than his actual age with deep wrinkles, both from stress and laughter lining his face and silver-grey hair. However, it was his eyes that really showed his age; deep, tired pools that spoke of great loss and loneliness. It was hard being one of the only ones left from "the glory days" as he calls them. The days of fighting crime with his team and often the addition of a strange, sociopathic genius and his loyal army doctor.
They were a great team, though none would be caught dead admitting it. They were also great friends, but once again this was something that was never spoken of, instead it was something that each of them simply knew and there was no need to vocalise the fact to each other or anyone else. He recalls wonderful memories of afternoons at 221b Baker Street, sharing indecent amounts of Chinese takeaway and chatting about the most recently solved case, or just simply being in each other's company. It had always made Greg feel extremely honoured to be made part of the slick, well oiled machine that was Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They truly were two sides of the same coin and watching them at home, where their unique and frankly envy worthy relationship was really allowed to shine, was captivating. They would move around the flat together like partners in a dance, always knowing where the other was and what they were doing, interacting on an almost physic level. It really was a sight to behold and Greg often thought, as he sat back on the sofa, slyly observing the subtle gestures of affection that would pass between them and the way that John could get the ever stubborn Sherlock to do the dishes with something as simple as a look, that if he ever even tried to describe the way they interacted when not in public to Sally or any of the yarders, they wouldn't believe it for a second. Not that he ever would however, he valued their silent trust far too highly to waste it on people who just wouldn't understand anyway.
This all came to an end however, with the truly cruel death of the supposedly sociopathic, heartless detective. The same sociopathic, heartless detective who actually died not only saving a unknowable amount of innocent people from a stark raving psychopath, but also saving the one person who actually was his heart. It was tragic and just downright unfair, and he had been one of the first on the scene when Mycroft's minions and the police finally found them. He still almost wishes that he hadn't, as the image of the poor, traumatised doctor holding his dead lover in his arms and refusing to let go, instead whispering "I love you" over and over again as if the words alone might convince whatever god may be out there to just give him back, was forever burned into his memory. It was Greg himself that finally made the doctor let go, allowing the paramedics to take the body of a great and also truly good man away, and it was he who held him as the poor sod had literally collapsed and broke down, crying so hard he couldn't breathe.
The funeral had been rough. He himself had only held it together for his friend's sake, the bloody strange bugger had really gotten under his skin over all the years he'd known him and losing him really physically hurt. The turnout had been surprisingly huge, and it warmed his heart that so many people not only knew of the great detective's existence, but would also miss his presence. Of course there would always be one that would miss the strange genius more than anybody else, and by God he had missed him. He remembered and mourned and missed that man right up to the very day he himself died and once again rejoined him.
It was for that very same man's funeral that Greg was once again putting on his worn, black suit and the reason that he kept swiping at his tired eyes. John Watson had been found sat in his old, battered armchair by the fire, a locket in one hand and an old scarf in the other. He had been asked to come to the mortuary and pick up his old friends personal effects and his heart had clenched painfully when he recognised who the two items corresponded to. He was glad that in his last moments, he had the comfort of these two items. However, it was also heartbreakingly sad, as throughout the rest of his life, he never loved another person. His heart forever lay with the raven haired detective that had deduced his way into the doctor's life within a few moments of meeting. They were always destined for each other.
Moving away from the mirror and over to his dresser, Greg looked at the very same items he had placed there. He picked up the locket and opened it, looking at the original picture of Sherlock playing his violin, and then at the newest addition he had added which showed a much younger John Watson, taken by Greg himself on one of their Chinese takeaway and telly nights and showed John and Sherlock joined at the hip on their threadbare sofa, John practically forcing a chopsticks full of food into the stubborn detectives mouth, laughing as he did it. He had taken the picture quickly with his battered digital camera and had planned on using it as blackmail material should Sherlock ever decide to withhold evidence yet again, but as soon as he saw it he knew it was far too special and showed something far too pure to be spoilt as use for blackmail.
Snapping the locket shut, he stared out of the window and for the first time in many days, he smiled. No matter what awaited anybody after their brief stay on earth was over, he knew that the detective and his army doctor would now be enjoying it together, perhaps as an eternal Sunday like the ones they used to talk about every now and then, finally being allowed to spend the rest of eternity together as they should be.
As Greg stood up, collecting his things and heading out of the door, he couldn't help but hope that when he finally joined them, they might once again enjoy the occasional night of takeaway food, laughter and the silent, nameless happiness he hadn't felt in a long time. Warmed by this thought, he headed off to the funeral, a soft smile on his face and glanced up once at the bright blue sky.
"Hang on boys, I'll be there soon"