'I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think, for one second, that I am one of them.' Perhaps if he had been an angel, he would have had wings to fly away with. He would be safe now, not a corpse in a casket 6 feet below the ground. But he didn't.
He fell.
And when he hit the cement hard, his life was the only thing that could fly. It flew away. He isn't on anybody's side now. I look at the cold stone that marks his grave, and whisper to both of us, 'You're one of them now, Sherlock, you're one of them now.' I lay my hand on the hard marker, and sigh deeply. But even as I do so, I feel something soft brush against my cheek, and a swift breeze at my back.
'Hello John.'
I turn around; he's standing there now with a silly grin pasted on his face, wearing his trench coat. The wind ruffles his messy hair, and a pair of ebony wings are primly folded behind his back. He motions for me to follow him as he skips off in boyish glee, 'Come on, we have work to do!'
But the vision fades and I'm left standing alone in the cemetery with only the wind and my memories.
I choke back my tears- soldiers don't cry. 'Not anymore, pal,' I whisper, 'Goodbye, Sherlock.' As I turn to leave I see a solitary black feather lying on the ground. Picking it up, I place it on his gravestone. Without a second glance, I head home, leaving the wind to blow the feather where it will.
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Thank you for reading :)