Disclaimer: I own nothing having to do with the BBC nor the Sherlock series.
"Mycroft had said I should speak. I wasn't really up to it just then, but I did what I could. I told the gathered crowed of homeowner and homeless alike how Sherlock had done so much for each and every one of us; how he had done his part to make the streets of London that much safer. I told them how committed he had been to solving every case he took. I told them of his passion for his work and for the city of London. I told them everything and nothing.
When I stepped down, Greg Lestrade nodded his approval, Mycroft grimaced his acceptance and Mrs Hudson sobbed her wish that I had said what I ought to have.
I ought to have told the whole world what he had really meant to me, personally. I ought to have told them what he had done for me, how he had changed me. I ought to have told them how he had not only saved my life, but made it worth living.
But they hadn't deserved to know, not before him. And he would never have known, because he was dead.
I went back to his grave months and months after his funeral. I don't know exactly what had pushed me over in the end. I had had so much I still wanted to say to him and he wasn't exactly there to hear it; not that he would have listened if he had been. I think it must have been Molly Hooper's suggestion that I take some flowers to the cemetery for him and have a bit of a sit down, just for me. She had said that that's what she had done, when her father had passed, and it had really helped her to feel closer to him as well as able to let him go. At the time, I thought that that was what I needed, so I went.
The mixed bouquet of Zinnias I brought with me that morning had a very light scent. I remember thinking it was a bit like Mrs Hudson usual tea blend.
I sat on Sherlock's little plot of lush green turf, no doubt kept up by someone on Mycroft's payroll, with the Zinnias in my lap and mumbled my way through everything.
I told Sherlock's headstone how much I missed the man that had bared the name carved upon it. I told it how living without him was tearing me to pieces. I told it how I missed all of the little things; the oft worn scowls and rarely gifted smiles. I told it I missed being startled awake in the wee hours of the morning by the screech of the violin several times a week. I told it how I had taken to sitting in Sherlock's arm chair, his violin in my lap, trying to remember the last song I heard him play. I told it how I had started trying to make my own deductions when I was out and about but that they were always made in his voice in my head. I talked and talked about all of it until my throat grew hoarse and I could speak no longer. And then I sat there and thought through it all again and again.
Before I knew it, the sun was setting and I realised that I been there the whole day. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, my back was stiff and my legs were cramped. I stood, wincing at my soreness, and deposited Sherlock's flowers at the base of his headstone. Whispering a final goodbye, I turned to leave. Before I had taken a step, however, I heard a deep voice call from behind, 'Haydn's Symphony Number forty-five in F-sharp minor; the 'Farewell' Symphony.'
I didn't dare turn around, afraid that he wouldn't actually be there. Instead, I called back, 'And what is that, then?'
The voice answered, 'That is the last thing you heard me play.' I could take it no longer, not knowing. I turned and he was there, whole and undamaged, saving me from myself yet again.
And now, on our wedding day, as I stand here making this heartfelt speech and knowing that you, Sherlock, have undoubtedly rolled your eyes and begun thinking on another track entirely long before I've reached this point, I still smile because I know that in your heart—the heart you claim not to have—you were already aware of all of this, and more. I know that there was and is no need for me to tell you any of it because you are here as you and that it all that matters to me. Thank you."