I've been dealing with some writer's block lately, so I decided to start something new to get my mind of things.

Basically, this is a Post-Riechenbach with established Johnlock and Hamish (who is Sherlock's biological son via surrogate) and who is basically a mini-Sherlock, from his looks to his intelligence. He's probably around 4 in this story.

Anyway, I'm just trying this out for now, but I'll continue it if people enjoy :)

Warning- general angst, funerals and whatnot, depression, etc...

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, the BBC does...

At first John had been afraid.

He didn't think anyone would show up really, for the funeral. Not after...not after...everything...came to light.

He thought it would just be a simple, quiet affair.

Hamish was seated on his knee, solemn and quiet in his heartbreakingly tiny black suit. Mrs. Hudson was there, wearing a dark dress and sniffling into a cloth handkerchief. Molly was sitting next to her, looking tired and small and nervous. Mycroft was next to her at the end of the small row, sitting stiffly in his best suit. His face remained stoic, refusing to show emotion. He was still ice, but it looked like he wanted to break down sobbing. Lestrade sat closest to the coffin (bare of all flowers because Sherlock had always hated them) at John's right, messing with his too tight black necktie, loosening it and glancing back and forth at John. Harry was there too, she'd been staying with John and Hamish past week in an attempt to help look after Hamish. She was seated on her brother's other side, gripping his weathered hand tightly in her own small one. She had driven out the moment she heard about Sherlock. She had to be there for her brother, no matter how strained their relationship had been in the past. It was a time for new beginnings.

The people seated in the first row along with him were the only people John had expected to come. He just couldn't imagine why anyone else would show up. He'd expected perhaps a few of his friends from work would show up to pay their respects. They'd never really known Sherlock though, it was just the right thing to do. Sometimes it felt like nobody had know Sherlock. Especially now. Sherlock had been estranged from most of his family since he was a teenager, so they weren't there, only Mycroft. He'd never had many friends or even acquaintances either. Most people chose to keep their distance, and he'd never made it any easier. He had shut people out and used his eccentric personality as a shield. John expected a grand total of eight people to come to Sherlock's funeral.

He was wrong.

Because John was now vaguely aware that the were quite a lot of people bustling around him. So many that they had filled all the chairs that were set up and were now standing in the back. There were a lot of people. Old and young. Parents holding onto the hands of little children. They were all dressed in dark clothes and whispering to each other, staying as silent as possible.

"Who...who are all these people?" John asked, leaning closer to Lestrade and shifting Hamish to his other knee.

Lestrade looked around too before replying, "I recognize some of 'em, I think they're people he helped out on cases. Some of the are probably fans of the blog too."

John felt his brow furrow. Fans? They still had fans? He vaguely remembered making a short blog post a few days after...after it had happened. He hadn't checked the blog in the week since. Maybe he didn't know what was going on.

John thought everyone was under the impression that Sherlock was a lie. He thought everyone hated him. After his final words, after his final actions...John had been so sure.

The media were certainly vultures, trying to attack John at every turn. Trying to get him to admit that his husband had been a liar, a fraud.

Of course he didn't believe a single, solitary word they said. He never, ever would.

Sherlock had been real, John was sure of it. He had been so very real, more real than any one person John had ever know. Real, yes, painfully so. But so very very complicated. People had never understood him in life. Sometimes it felt like nobody had really known him, not even his own brother. The world had categorized Sherlock in two very separate ways, the enigma and the psychopath. Some tabloids painted him as this ethereal, wan man whose entire life revolved around case work. With his cheekbones and coat, it wasn't really a difficult picture to paint. He had been nothing more than smoke in their eyes, a fleeting wisp that disappeared at first sign of light from their cameras. But then there was the monster some had made him out to be. The man that many had chosen to see had been the psychopath, the man obsessed with crime and criminals alike. The man that deduced your well kept secrets with a single glance. No matter how many children and mothers and fathers he saved, no matter how many priceless pieces of art work he saved, no matter how many families he gave peace, he was still ever the same in the eyes of his critics. And so they kept on painting their pictures, the vulture who scavenged the Yard's cases or the ghost lying waiting in the shadows. Few ever managed to see past the grim, ethereal figure in the flowing black coat that dashed around London, chasing after the scum of the city for what were now deemed to be his own purposes. They had always seen someone more monster than man.

The media had never gotten to see Sherlock for who he really was. Those who read the blog had a few, fleeting glimpses, of course, but that meant little. Sherlock had been a damaged soul, yes, that was obvious. Someone who had faced demons far greater than the average man. But people had never seen Sherlock the way John had. They'd never been there on the lazy Sunday mornings when the two of them would just lie in bed together, sharing sweet, slow kisses, content to stay in each other's arms. Sleepy Sherlock had always been the best, reduced to nothing more than a mewing little kitten in the mornings, sighing and snuggling into his love;s chest as John carded his fingers through the detective's tangled hair. On those few and far between lazy mornings, they would just stay in bed until Hamish managed to stumble up the steps to their room, bursting into their room clad in his pyjamas. He'd clamber up the bed with boundless energy and nearly attack his Daddy and Papa with hugs and kisses and giggles. The rest of the world never got to see Sherlock and Hamish together. They never got to see the usually stoic detective converse with the rapidly growing little boy, feeding the boy's wild imagination and embracing all his little quirks. They never came home to an utter mess of the kitchen after Sherlock had taken Hamish to Tesco and let him pick out his own food for dinner, a dish which Hamish had deemed "pasta with jam sauce". They never got to see the duo passed out on the sofa, wearing paper pirate hats after an exciting day of playing pretend. They never knew Sherlock the husband, Sherlock the father. Most people didn't understand.

John was shaken from his daze by Lestrade giving him a pat on the shoulder. John checked his watch, it was time to start.

He gave Lestrade a short nod while hugging Hamish a little closer, feeling the little boy squirm to get more comfortable.

Lestrade got up and made his way to the small podium near the bare coffin. He straightened his suit jacket before giving John a quick look and beginning in a nervous voice, "I-I once said that Sherlock Holmes was a great man, and that one day, if we were very, very lucky, he might even be a good one. I was never really sure if that would happen...but now I can say that I know he managed to become one. When I met him several years ago...he was alone in every sense of the word. I don't...I don't really know what drew me to him. There was something about him that I couldn't place...I just, I don't know. I was absolutely floored by his intelligence, everyone was. He always made it known. There was something so infuriatingly incredible about him, and I'm...I'm glad that I could call him something of a friend. I've seen him at his absolute bottom, but...over the past few years, I've seen him...I've seen him grow, I've seen him come to his absolute highest. And I...I know that was due to-to John. From the very beginning...I was routing for you guys. I saw the way he looked at you and I saw the way you looked at him. I'd never seen him open up to someone so easily, not in the five years that I'd known him. I always felt like it was inevitable. John...you changed him in the most amazing ways, you made him something to be proud of. You made him into a good man. And...and I know that his-his death came as a shock, and I-I know that you...you must blame yourself at least a little. I blame myself too. Sometimes I wish this was all just a dream and that I could wake up and he would still be there. He should still be here, for John and for his son. I-I should never ever have doubted him, not even for a moment, and I-I hold blame onto myself. But I know that he was real, I know he wasn't a fraud. I also know that that I'm going to miss him a lot...I miss him right now. I know a lot of people will miss him..." Lestrade faltered at the end, sweeping his eyes over the massive crowd of people. He added a quick thank you at the end before taking his seat.

After that point, everything seemed to fade for John. He found himself only half listening to the rest of the speeches, picking out only a few words. Several of the men and women Sherlock had helped over the course of his career came up to speak. Recounting the crowd what Sherlock had done for them and how much the man had meant to them, despite the fact that they had just barely known him. They all said that they still believed in Sherlock Holmes, that no tabloid magazine or improperly sourced article could ever change their mind of that because they had seen the man in action. Many of them said that they were going to try and get other people to understand this, they were going to start a crusade to get the rest of the world to believe in Sherlock Holmes too. They said they were going to try their hardest to clear his name and make it so that his poor little boy would never be bullied about his father.

By the time they made their way to the last words (Mycroft's, a very emotional but very small speech, all the ice man could manage before tears started misting in his eyes, stubbornly refusing to fall), John was a wreck. But not physically. He was, of course, crying. Tears had been dripping down his cheeks for nearly the entirety of the funeral. Hell, he'd been crying on and off for the past week. Sometimes the tears would just come out of nowhere and he would be reduced to a sobbing mess. Harry would hug him then and let him sob into her shoulder. But he tried not to do that too often, it scared Hamish...

The service ended soon after Mycroft's final parting words. The droves of people slowly dissipated, some coming up closer to the coffin to pay their final respects before leaving. But John stayed firmly placed in his chair, without the energy to move.

Gently, Lestrade and Mary coaxed him out of his seat and closer to the coffin. He stood Hamish on the hard dirt in front of the coffin, kneeling next to the little boy and pulling him in a tight one-armed hug as the tears dripped faster down his face. He turned his head slightly to regard his son, his little boy, whose's eyes were misty and red. The little boy sniffled and looked sadly over at his Daddy.

Everyone else had left, giving John gentle pats on the back before heading back to 221B with Mrs. Hudson and Harry, presumably for tea. John and Hamish were left standing/kneeling there all alone. They'd given them a little privacy, a little space. John was thankful for this. It felt like the first time he and Hamish had been truly alone together since it had happened, save when they were in bed...

John wanted to cry, he wanted to scream. This wasn't fair. Sherlock shouldn't be gone. He couldn't be. John still needed him. He needed him so so much. Hamish needed him too, he needed his genius Papa that taught him about science and read him French storybooks. John wanted to scream and cry properly, he wanted to curl up next to Sherlock's headstone and forget the world existed, but he knew he couldn't. No matter how gray things got, he couldn't give up. He had to stay strong for Hamish...for Hamish...because Hamish needed him...

But no, right now he was a mess in his mind. His last words to his husband kept replaying in his mind, the last words he'd said to the man he loved before they'd made their final remarks with Sherlock on the rooftop. They wouldn't stop, he wasn't sure if they would ever stop. He couldn't shake the words from his head. He couldn't shake Sherlock's final, final words either. They were burned into his brain.

Goodbye, John. And tell Hamish I love him.

Who got the pasta and jam sauce joke? Argh, Misha Collins and Wes are just to adorable for words!

Also, special thanks to RainyDays-and-DayDreams for taking a look at this for me :)

Please please please leave a review and let me know what you think! I won't continue unless people want me to.