John blinked away a raindrop that had fallen onto his eyelash. Or was it a tear? He wiped his eyes before he could discern between the two. Sherlock shuffled closer shielding John from any more rainfall. Their shoulders brushed against each other, just barely, just enough.
People were beginning to clear out, to go back to their cars, to catch a cab, to go back to their ordinary lives. They didn't care. Barely noticed the funeral invite. Came out just to pay a few respects, then go back to being happy again. To forgetting Harriet Watson.
Finally, John took a deep breath, nodding to himself silently. I can do thisrepeated through his head like a mantra. Sherlock pressed on the small of his back reassuringly, urging him to go forward. He leaned down to John's height, whispered in his ear. "You need closure."
Sherlock's breath against his ear in the dreary, cold rain gave John the last encouragement he needed. Clutching the damp bunch of poppy flowers in his hand, he walked out from the cover of the umbrella, away from Sherlock, towards Harry's grave.
He laid the bouquet down next to her headstone, just below her name. Straightening himself again, staring up into the thick gray clouds, blinking away raindrops, his reassurance was suddenly gone. Why did he think he was strong enough to do this alone?
He turned his back on Harry's grave to see Sherlock, still sitting under the umbrella, boring his eyes into John. His strong, steadfast eyes, full of reserve, full of certainty. You can do this.
John turned back to the grave again, taking a deep breath, starting over again. "Harry." He began, his voice breaking, hands shaking. He was right. He couldn't do this. The past few years he hadn't been there for her, hadn't even noticed her spiraling back down into alcoholism, her pleas for a visit. And he couldn't be here for her now.
He stooped back down to retrieve the bundle of flowers, his knuckles lingering on the smooth granite of the gravestone which bore the name Harriet Watson. He dragged his fingers across his face, wiping away the last of the raindrop and tear mixture, and turned to go back to Sherlock, back to life in 221B Baker Street, back to solving crimes alongside his best friend, back to a happy life. Just like everyone else.
When he returned to the umbrella-sheltered Sherlock, warm and dry unlike a soaked John, his companion gave him a quizzical look. "That's it?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he turned on the ball of his foot towards the car.
John shrugged. "I wasn't there for her when she needed me. How can I be here for her now?" He stuffed the flowers into a garbage can as he was walking by, a little too violently. The noise ricocheted off the can as hard poppy stems collided with strong metal. John kept walking, under the shade of Sherlock's umbrella, and Sherlock didn't protest him going back.
Sherlock was hailing a cab, one hand on the umbrella, the other outstretched, when John spotted a thin, irritated man wearing a suit and glasses carrying a briefcase and an umbrella walking towards them quickly, a frown on his face. John pointed, tapping Sherlock on the arm, feeling like a child, and by the time Sherlock had glanced over to see what was the matter the man had already arrived.
"Good morning." The thin, balding man set his briefcase down after a moment of hesitation, trying not to get the leather wet in the sodden grass, and pretended to smile, to be openly warm to these two strangers. "I'm Mr. Peter Van Dwelling. I believe you-" he held his hand out to John- "are Mr. Watson."
John shook his hand half-heartedly, more interested in Mr. Dwelling's briefcase, which had tipped onto the lawn as expected, than the man himself. "Yes, and what are you doing here?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Please. It was easy enough." He put his fingers up to his lips, as if in concentration, but John already knew it was effortless enough. He sighed and dropped his head to the ground as Sherlock. "Your suit and briefcase are old and worn, meaning you've had them for quite some time but only for special occasions, business outings. You have become accustomed to coming to funerals, so much you forgot the customary "Sorry for your loss" everyone includes to their introduction to a family member. You've come with documents you've hid in your coat pocket, bearing the seal of the nearest children's home. John," Sherlock turned to his companion, "You've got a social worker in your presence."
John held back words of praise, and instead questioned the men in front of him. "Why are you here?"
Mr. Dwelling released a sad little laugh, like a sole, faraway boom of thunder after the storm has passed. "You obviously haven't looked through Ms. Watson's will anytime recent. Come with me."