AN: I guess this is post Reichenbach if you take it as that, written before I watched The Empty Hearse.
Sherlock drives his own hearse.
The front windows tinted, blacked out glasses on his face, he drove the lie behind him up to the cemetery gates.
He watches the mourners get out from cars behind him, one by one. He reads their stories; all their emotions that he doesn't understand.
But then it comes to John Watson. He can't read him; perhaps he chooses not to. Sherlock leaves the tale of his turmoil and grief to his own undisturbed privacy.
They all file into the graveyard and start to disappear from sight amongst trees, John at the end of the congregation turning to look back; just once, before following the others with a bowed head.
Perhaps it is best he wasn't to help carry his metaphor of a coffin upon his shoulder; the once army doctor appears as though he could barely bear the weight of a twig in Sherlock's representation. Perhaps he is stronger, than that, though. Sherlock leaves even his body language unread.
He hears the back of the vehicle being open, coffin removed.
Pulling off the sunglasses, he lays them down on the dashboard.
His hands scour his face; the sharp contours of his cheeks dark and harrowing against a sickly pallor.
A sigh rakes through him, and he rests his forehead on the steering wheel; exhausted with the world.