Hai there! This is my first ever fic, I really hope you enjoy it, if you do I'll probably add a chapter for each character. Constructive criticism is more than welcome, as are suggestions for stories, I'm always looking to improve my writing, just be gentle, please. I DO NOT OWN THE SHERLOCK SERIES OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS!
Lestrade.
If Molly Hooper hadn't examined the body herself, Gregory Lestrade would not believe what happened at St. Bart's a few days ago.
But it did happen.
And now Gregory Lestrade was donning his best black suit with his nicest black dress shirt and his finest (and only) black tie.
Half an hour later Greg arrived at the Cemetery and readied a crew of his most trusted officers around the perimeter to keep the press out of this private affair, as John had requested.
When he finished he walked over to the closed coffin, the open, waiting, grave, and the group of the 5 other people that were permitted to witness this sorrowful event (not counting the minister). After the minister had said a few words about life and death, Greg stepped behind the simple black headstone, engraved merely with the words "Sherlock Holmes."
"Sherlock Holmes," Greg began. "Was broken when I met him, he was a druggie and I didn't trust him; but, he quickly proved to be one of the most brilliantly minded men I have ever met. He became an integral part of my team, and I watched him get clean, stay clean, become a great man, and begin his path to becoming a good man. With help from the people gathered here today, I believe that he truly did become that man I knew he could be. His passing has come as a devastating shock to all of us. He will be greatly missed be myself, my team, and the people who loved and respected him."
Greg stepped back to his former place between Molly Hooper and John Watson, but not before giving and receiving tearful hugs from everyone. And then Mycroft stepped up behind the headstone. After clearing his throat and dabbing slightly at his eyes he began:
"My little brother there is so much I could say about him, and so much I wish I could have said to him. Try as I may I suppose there was one thing I could not protect Sherlock from, one thing nobody saw coming: himself. My brother always claimed that he didn't have any friends and that he was happy that way, and for a very long time that was true. Then, Mrs. Hudson, John, Greg, and Molly, all came into his life and showed him friendship, especially John, and if my brother thought he only had one friend in this world, it comforts me that he knew that that one friend, was faithful, and that he died with that thought in his head. So as we mourn his passing, I would like to thank John Hamish Watson, for showing Sherlock the love and friendship he had always denied himself, thank you John, for making his last days happy and meaningful."
And with tears threatening to spill from his eyes, Mycroft stepped down to stand next to his and Sherlock's mother. Finally John took the spot behind the headstone, his soldier's façade not betraying anything that he was feeling. When he spoke it was simple, brief, yet the perfect thing to be said.
"Sherlock Holmes was a good man. Whatever the press say, whatever he tried to convince me of, I will not believe he was a fraud. He was my best friend, my only friend. He helped me live again, gave me a reason to, and I think, in a way, I helped him too. He could be rude, and he was undeniably a sociopath, but he was cunning, he was special, he was brilliant, and I will never forget him. There will never be another Sherlock Holmes. Goodbye mate."
His voice stayed steady and he took his place with the rest of the group as the coffin was lowered into the grave. As the dirt and flowers were thrown into the grave covering the coffin Mycroft helped his mother down the pathways to their private car and left with Mrs. Holmes sobbing. Next to leave was Molly, tears silently falling, and the minister. Greg squeezed John's arm and spoke quietly:
"John, mate I'll be heading out, the men around the perimeter have been ordered to stay until you leave, so take all the time you need."
"Thanks mate."
The night after the funeral Greg got ready for bed after a long day when his phone went off, it was a text from John.
Greg I don't know what to do. ~JW
Do you need me to come over John? ~GL
I don't know. I feel lost. ~JW
I'll be over soon John; we can talk over a cuppa or watch some bad telly. ~GL
Thanks mate. ~JW
In almost no time Greg arrived at 221b ready for whatever he might find inside. He found John, sitting alone in his chair just staring forward; he barely noticed when Greg entered the room.
Greg knowingly stayed quiet, made some tea for himself and John, and then just sat on the couch and kept watch over his grieving friend; he listened to John carefully when he would quietly mumble about Sherlock, and he got John a blanket when he shivered. Finally John fell into a fitful sleep. Greg made himself more tea and when John woke up around dawn he made him tea and toast with jam. After a mumbled thank you and a brief hug, Greg thought it safe to leave John alone, and John let him go, himself now wanting to be alone.
