The violin's music was beautiful. Tears sprang to Mary's eyes as she listened. Sherlock's violin kept playing the Waltz. John was staring into the distance his eyes blank and refusing to meet anyone's eyes. Mycroft stood next to the chair; and Sherlock's parents had tears streaming down their face.
Archie had retreated back into his "shell" as his mother called it, refusing to do anything. The music stopped and everyone slumped back as if the music was the only thing keeping them up. Mrs. Hutson was in the middle of the room, eyes watering, as she pressed Stop on the recording.
It wasn't suppose to be like this.
John stood up and went into the kitchen. Lestrade sat downing amounts of alcohol, Sally and Anderson stood next to the doorway. Unsure if they'd be welcomed or shunned. Mary stood up, and gestured for them to join.
They come in, still rather hesitant, and Mary shut the door. She wasn't even suppose to get up. How was she suppose to live with herself now? After all this time...
It was a normal day.
John stayed in the kitchen. His eyes moved over the experiments and he opened the fridge staring at the eyeballs looking back at him. They seemed like they were judging him and he closed the fridge again.
Taking a deep breath, rubbing his temples, John wanted to cry. But tears wouldn't come. His eyes were dry as a bone, and John's hatred for himself grew. He couldn't even cry!
Until it wasn't
Mrs. Hudson's fingers were very nimble. They fast-forwarded, then stopped, then backtracked, then played. Her eyes were wet, watery, and she felt the liquid dripping down her face. She refused to brush them away.
She usually didn't like to show emotion. It was something her husband didn't allow her to; and when he got put away the habit just stuck. But this time it was so very, very different. This time it wasn't some weakness.
There was a gunman.
Lestrade downed his fifth drink that day. He couldn't think. Why, why wasn't it someone else? Why did Death follow him everywhere? Everyone Lestrade ever cared about, gone. His eyes filled and Lestrade took another long gulp.
It burned his throat as it went down but he welcomed it. He couldn't help it. He just wanted to be numb.
The gunman - the name wasn't even given - shot
Archie didn't like this. The atmosphere was too tense; too sad. But who was he, actually, to say this? He'd retreated from the world again when he'd heard the news. His mother was trying to coax him out but he refused.
Why if something happens it's always his fault? His father left after Archie was born (something his mother always said it wasn't his fault; but he refused to believe it). Archie felt tears drip onto his hand and he realized he was crying.
The bullet whizzed past John's face. Whirling around, he saw the bullet's destination and screamed "Mary!" Another body took her place. And the bullet hit home.
Mycroft didn't like this. His parents upset, the people in the flat crying. Turning away, Mycroft swallowed the lump in his throat. He couldn't cry. Not yet. Not in front of everyone. His mouth turned down and he collapsed into an armchair.
The tears came slow at first, then picked up speed and Mycroft cradled his head in his hands. How could he be so stupid? How? How?
Blood splurted and the man fell back. John's scream was loud. "SHERLOCK!"
Being there wasn't enough. Mycroft's parents weren't just crying. Full blown-out sobs and hiccups were issuing from the couch, where husband comforted wife.
Wails and despair filled the flat. Everyone finally gave into the tears threatening to spill over. Including Sally and Anderson.
Sherlock Holmes was dead. The bullet hit him right between the eyes and John knew this wasn't another magic trick. Sherlock Holmes took the bullet for his wife.
A lone figure stood in the middle of the room, listening to the crying. Turning to the recorder, the man knelt down and fast forwarded just a bit, then pressed Play. As the violin's first tunes filled the air, another voice rang out. Deep, rich. Sherlock's voice.
Mrs. Hudson looked frightened before she began to cry again. She remembered Sherlock's voice when he'd first sang to her.
I'm sorry I haven't been around
It's been a while, hasn't it?
Sorry if it's been too long
Hopefully it doesn't hurt
We're different people, you and I
Hey, friend, can I ask?
What's it like to feel nothing?
Hey, friend, does it hurt?
Does dying hurt?
No, I don't think so
Being here doesn't seem wrong
Can't we get on with lives?
Hey, friend, won't you come with me?
We can be a huge family.
Hey, friend, can't we just play?
Until the East Wind takes me away?
Everyone was crying. Mycroft remembered the song. He'd sang it to Sherlock whenever he came into his room. Mycroft joined in quietly.
Won't you stay with me?
Until the end, buddy.
Brother-of-mine I'm sorry.
Mother-of-mine, forgive me
Father-of-mine, please don't forget me
Friend-of-mine just trust me
I'll be fine
Once the East Wind takes me away
Mycroft's voice faded out with Sherlock's and he stopped singing. His head slipped back down into his hands. Sherlock stood next to his brother, gently placing a ghostly hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock?" came a quiet voice from his side. "It's time to go now, Sher." His grandmother said, patting his shoulder.
"I know." Sherlock said. "They'll be fine." His grandmother said, smiling just a tiny bit. "Yes." Sherlock agreed. He turned before whistling sharply, and Redbeard came bounding up the steps.
"C'mon, Redbeard. It's time to go now." Sherlock said and he cast one final look over his shoulder at his family before following his grandmother into the light that swallowed them.
What do you guys think? Too cheesy? Too sad? I made the lyrics myself, so sorry if they're bad. Tell me what you think! I love to hear from you guys! You'll probably hate me. I won't blame you.