Crouching down on the ground, John pushed past the various assortments of flowers to run his hands over the cool tombstone. His fingertip touched the engraving, words he'd already committed to memory:
Sherlock Holmes
The world's only consulting detective
January 6 1973 - January 15, 2012
John thought that, in the month that had past, the words should have stopped hurting. This reality should have stopped hurting. But it hadn't. It ripped at him, clawing at his sanity, turning his world off center. With Sherlock went his stability, his happiness, and his best friend.
With a choked sob, John stood, picked up his cane from off the ground, and vowed never to visit the grave again.
oOo
"You've destroyed him."
Sherlock looked up from his cup of tea, unsurprised to see his brother sitting across from him. He hadn't heard Mycroft sit down over the afternoon bustle of the café. Concern, fatigue, and a hint of fear were written all over Mycroft face, a combination of expression that had recently become the norm.
"That is hardly my fault." Sherlock said coldly. He hated to be so callous, but knew of no other way to maintain his resolve. "I can't go back and you know that."
"You don't have to!" Mycroft yelled. A slight hush fell over the café as a few curious faces turned to look at them. Mycroft paused, straightened his tie, and took a few breaths before continuing in a hurried whisper. "Just tell him you're alive."
Sherlock stilled, his eyes closed. His fingers curled around the phone in his left pocket, itching to comply with his brother's request. He could feel his resolve and determination crumbling away. Suddenly, he stood. Sherlock pulled his wallet out of the other pocket and threw a few bills onto the table, refusing to meet Mycroft's gaze. He turned swiftly for the door. Mycroft barely heard his response as it floated back towards him.
"No."