If curiosity really killed the cat, then Sherlock would be dead. Then again, he was looking at his own tombstone. Which, incidentally, was a chance no one would have passed up. To see their own tombstone without being buried beneath. Which was why he was her. He was merely curious to see who came, to catalogue their reactions. It most definitely was not because he felt guilty. Sherlock didn't have emotions like normal people, and there was nothing to feel guilty about anyway. And that was most certainly not remorse that made his chest feel as if he had some sharp toothed animal gnawing on it from the inside. (It is though, and he knows it)
He doesn't regret his decision at all. It's for the best; Moriarty's web is still out there and he can't put his friends in danger. Even so, he doesn't want to just forget about everything, which is why he visits the graveyard. It's not because he wants to see them. Needs to see them. He's only here to remind himself why he can't give up. And their reactions don't bother him because he works best alone. He doesn't need people. (Yes, he does)
It doesn't bother him when he sees Mycroft crying. Mycroft, who is unemotional, who thinks caring is a liability, comes to his grave and cries. And, even though the last time he saw Mycroft cry Sherlock was in kindergarten and their father had just died, it doesn't make his chest ache. He doesn't look at his sobbing older brother and wish that he could jump out and tell Mycroft he's okay. Not for a moment. (Except he does)
It doesn't bother him that Lestrade, Greg, blames himself. That the hardened Detective Inspector shows up and just stands there staring at the tombstone, Sherlock's tombstone, for ten minutes straight, then mumbles quietly, "I'm sorry," and walks away. And this doesn't give Sherlock a twinge of guilt. It doesn't! After all, it's not his fault Lestrade feels that way. (But if the Inspector knew Sherlock hadn't killed himself, he wouldn't feel guilty.)
And it doesn't bother him that Molly, who knows he's alive, comes to his grave as well, simply because she's tired of lying to everyone while having to look them in their grieving eyes. Because she wants to talk to someone who knows the truth, so she doesn't have to hide it. And the closest she can get is talking to Sherlock's gravestone, because the man himself is long gone. And this doesn't make him feel like pond scum. (Only it does, because she's lying for him)
It doesn't bother him that he made Mrs. Hudson, his sweet old landlady, cry too. It doesn't matter that he was sure she was fine, or close to it, when she began to list of all his annoying traits in that breathy high-pitched voice of hers. Until her voice cracked and then he saw, as she walked away from Watson, tears running down her wrinkled cheeks. But, he can't help that and it doesn't affect him anyway. (But it does)
And Watson's sorrow does not, cannot, bother him either. Not his grief-stained eyes and shaking voice. Not his heartfelt speech on Sherlock's humanity or his deep conviction that Sherlock isn't a fraud. He's right, but that doesn't make it any less extraordinary. Not even his desperate plea that Sherlock not be dead, for a miracle that in truth has already happened. No, this doesn't break his heart to see his best friend so broken. (Only that's a lie, too)
Sherlock knows they'll get over it though. Not that he needs to be reassured of that fact, of course. But it's the truth. They'll move on, get on with their ordinary lives. Their wounds, the ones he's inflicted, will heal. They'll figure it out and by the time he comes back they will be fine. And if he doesn't come back, he might not, it will be dangerous. If he stays gone forever, well, they think he's dead already; it won't hurt any extra, and eventually they'll just forget. They'll get along perfectly fine without him. They'll be all right without him. (No. No they won't)