"Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up."

- louise erdrich

01 | the funeral

When someone dies, how do you keep living? This was the question I kept asking myself. How could the world keep spinning when all I wanted it to do was stop? I was starting to think that everything went on to spite me. People kept coming, kept bringing food, kept repeating themselves. "I'm so sorry," they would say. "I know this must be terrible for you."

I would nod, thank them for their acknowledgement of my grief. What else could I do? What could I say? How could they really understand what I was going through? How could this be happening to me?

Lost in thought, I stared at the tombstone in front of me. The one that bore his name in large, white lettering. Son, brother and friend, it read. I had the passing thought that those words were the understatement of the year. Was this all we got in death? A life summed up in less than a sentence?

"Katherine?"

I glanced up, stolen from my musings without any show of surprise. People were still milling about, mostly near my parents. They'd given up on me about thirty minutes before, when I had simply stopped responding when someone asked me a question. I didn't mean to be rude. I just suddenly couldn't seem to remember how to make an effort. I felt empty, like the person I had been a week before had abruptly packed her bags and vacated my body. And I didn't know if she was ever coming back.

The person who had called my name was not familiar to me at all. Dressed all in black, customary and respectful, her aged face was full of a grief that mirrored my own. All at once, looking at her without ever saying a word, I felt awake. I wanted to ask who she was, why she was here. But my mouth wouldn't seem to open. She saw this and reached out, shocking me again by taking my hand in both of hers.

"You don't know me." She said gently, as if she knew I might break. As if she could really see. "But I knew John. I came to pay my respects. I didn't know if I would be intruding, but I would have so regretted not coming to say goodbye."

I blinked. "You aren't intruding." I swore, and I meant it. I sounded like I meant it. "How did you... know John?" Saying his name, even though everyone had been doing so all morning, felt like a slap in the face. It felt wrong to have a name and no one to put it with.

"Oh, dear." She said with a laugh that didn't quite sound full. "I'm his... I was his landlady for a while."

My mouth fell open unceremoniously as I realized who she was. "You're Mrs. Hudson? My brother... well, I heard about you." I said, squeezing her hand. It was suddenly like I had always known her. I knew enough about her and his flatmate from the blog John had kept online. He hadn't called much when he lived on Baker Street, but then again he had been busy. And so had I and so was everyone else we knew. I hadn't had enough time with him and I realized it too late.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to brighten. "I was sure you wouldn't know me from Eve, dear. But I'm glad to be wrong. Is there anything I can do for you before I go?"

I chewed my bottom lip for a long moment, thinking. What could she do for me? My automatic response was 'no, thank you, but I'm fine'. That was what I had been saying all morning to everyone who had asked me the very same question. Somehow, this was different. She had known John and known him well. And I was sure that all of his things were still in the flat where he lived before he'd gone back to Afghanistan. He wouldn't have taken much, if anything, with him at all. It struck me that I could really ask something of her, really benefit. It wasn't just superficial. This would mean something.

"If it isn't much bother, would you mind if I stopped by later?" I asked. My voice had lost its life again, no matter how much I had tried to revive it for her. Mrs. Hudson was kind, just like John had said to me once. She went out of her way to come here and offer me what no one else had been able to offer even if she didn't know it yet.

"It's never a bother at all." She promised firmly. "You have an open invitation to visit anytime you like, Katherine."

"Thank you." I said, nodding to myself. "It's just that... I know his things must still be there. If his flatmate didn't...?"

Mrs. Hudson was instantly aghast and I worried for half a second that I had managed to offhandedly offend her. "Oh, no! Sherlock would never throw John's things out. I would never have allowed it even if he had thought of it for a moment. If you want to take some of them home, please do. Or leave them. It's up to you, dear."

"I'm not sure yet." I said, lost in thought. Did I have a right to take his things away? Was it too soon? I wondered about his flatmate. Was he grieving at all? It didn't feel right to me, to take John's things from one of the last places he had been, the place he called home. But I could visit and... what? I wondered suddenly what good that would do me. All of his old things were just that. Things. It wouldn't bring him back, no matter how long I stood around and looked at them. Would it bring me any peace at all? Or would it just make everything worse?

"Think it over." Mrs. Hudson murmured, patting my hand again. "Like I said, the door is open for you anytime. I'm so sorry, Katherine. I loved John like a son." And before I could react, her hands released mine and she turned to leave, following the dwindling crowd back toward their cars.

I stared after her, watching in peculiar envy as she escaped this place. I wanted to run away from it all, too. I wanted to be able to walk back to the car and never look back again. I wished that it wasn't a part of my heart buried here.

I don't know how long I stood there. Looking back and forth between the path that led to the exit and the grave. I couldn't remember exactly when it was that people had started to leave. I only knew that the sun was bright now and very high in the sky, even if it was hidden by the clouds that were beginning to roll in. It was fitting, I thought, that it would rain. That's what it always did in the movies at funerals. I didn't necessarily know if that was realistic, but it seemed right that the world would reflect your grief back at you even as it kept spinning in spite of it.

Thoughts passed in and out of my head, swirling and fading and then being brought back to life again in an instant when a fresh wave of regret would hit. I wondered if somehow I had known. When John had gone a second time back into war, had I known somewhere deep down that he would never make it home? Could I have said something to make him change his mind?

Would he still be alive if I had?

Something tore at the edges of a hole that had opened up where my heart had been. It burned like fire, causing me to wince as I thought of all the possibilities that would never be. It was foolish to stand there, blaming for myself for something that was out of my control. I knew that. But who else was there to punish? Who else was going to take the blame? Dying is a side effect of living. It has to happen sometime. And most of the time, it can't be helped. This couldn't have been helped, I told myself. Yet, the punishing went on and the flame kept burning under my ribs like it had always been there and would never stop.

I took one last look at the tombstone. John Watson, son, brother and friend.

Somehow, I found the strength to turn my back on him. I walked through the cemetery, following the path that everyone else had followed to go back to their cars. I was escaping now, though not entirely. The car that waited for me at the end of the path rumbled quietly as the driver worked patiently at a crossword behind the wheel while I stood with my hand on the door in hesitation.

I didn't look back. But I closed my eyes for ten seconds, twelve, and took a deep breath. And then I climbed inside.

Back in my childhood home, I sat in my old room and waited patiently to hear something other than daytime television. I wondered if my patience would be rewarded, if my parents would finally speak to each other instead of withdrawing further into themselves.

I stared at my ceiling, still in my dress from the funeral, picking absently at the quilt that lay underneath me. In the middle of thinking that there was too much pink in this room, I began wondering about leaving. But could I manage to leave without a lecture? Even if they weren't speaking to each other, my mother insisted that solidarity was key. Families stuck together in a crisis, she said. Therefore, if no one was speaking, we would all not speak together. I decided that it wasn't worth the effort and draped an arm over my eyes. The sunlight, though dimming now, was smothered completely from view and I found that in the dark and in the silence, I could finally breathe.

Not long after that, a chime interrupted what little peace I had managed to find and sent me crashing back into reality. I sighed softly and reached blindly for my cell, checking the notifications with disinterest. The number was unknown. I looked the message over anyway, sure that it was someone who probably knew my parents and wanted to pass on their regrets. To my surprise, this was not the case.

Katherine Watson? - SH

I stared at the screen, confused and unsure. SH? Initials, it looked like. Who in the world signed their texts? No one I knew, that was certain. Maybe it was one of my dad's friends. Or someone who didn't really text much in general. The longer I stared, the more disinclined I felt to respond. I shrugged to myself and began to put down my cell, but it chimed again.

I'm waiting. - SH

Indignation rose in my chest, flaring like the fire that kept licking at the hole there. My mouth had fallen open, but I didn't bother closing it as I typed my response.

And just who exactly do you think you are?

I sat there, fuming, waiting. My irritation was only growing as the minutes passed. How dare they demand a response from me after less than a minute and then keep me waiting. Did they have any sense of courtesy at all? Were they always this rude?

And then, the chime came again.

Sherlock Holmes. Last I checked. - SH

I started, trying to place the name. I'd just heard it hadn't I? Sherlock Holmes. It clicked, finally. The blog, Mrs. Hudson saying something about Sherlock when I had mentioned John's flatmate. So this was the elusive Sherlock Holmes. I disliked him already, even though John had spoken of him so highly. Could this really have been his first impression on my brother? Surely not. John was even less likely to put up with this than I was. But somehow, Sherlock had become synonymous with the term 'my best mate' in the few conversations that John and I managed to have in between our busy schedules.

Against my better judgment, I responded.

What do you want?

It was only as I pressed send and watched the message fly away that I realized how cold I sounded. But that didn't stop Sherlock from responding only seconds later.

If convenient, come to Baker Street. -SH

I was mulling this over, twisting one of the rings on my fingers absently, when he texted again.

If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH

Now what? He wanted me to come to Baker Street. Had Mrs. Hudson spoken to him already? It was possible that she had convinced him to invite me, but this was hardly a traditional invitation. It seemed more like a command, if that. I sighed, worried that I really was losing my mind as I typed back.

Address?

Several seconds passed. I wondered if he hadn't changed his mind. I wondered if that would have given me some relief, or if my stomach would have stayed as knotted as it was presently. What would I find if I went to see Sherlock? Would he be this rude in person? My guess was that yes, he would be. I wondered if I could handle that today of all days.

221 B. Upper flat. - SH

Upstairs, then. Mrs. Hudson must have lived below them. I wondered if I would run into her again as I gathered my bag and my jacket, not bothering to change out of my dress. It didn't really matter what I wore, I supposed. It was no secret that there had been a funeral today. I did my best to sneak quietly down the hall toward the front door, carrying my shoes and phone in my hand, but I stopped when I heard the conversation that was floating out of the kitchen. The television, I realized, hadn't been on because someone was really watching it. It was on because there was something going on that I wasn't meant to hear.

"I don't know how to do this." My mum was saying. "I don't know how to... I don't... James, I don't know how to look at you. I can't breathe."

"We can get through this, Caroline. I know..." There was a sigh, shifting as my father tried to find the words to say. "I can't breathe either. I don't know how to do this either. Are you at least willing to figure it out together?"

"All I know is that I can't distance myself from this because you're connected to it, to him. I can't breathe because of this house and everything in it. Everything is my son." Her voice broke in such a way that made the hole in my chest twist sickeningly. "I need to... I don't know what I need."

There was a long pause. "Maybe you should go see your sister in France. Maybe the time... but it won't help, really. Will it?"

"I don't know that anything will."

I stopped listening. I rushed for the door, feeling suddenly like the ground might be yanked out from under my feet without a moment's notice. Or had it been already? Was I just going to be in this constant state of free-fall forever?

I found myself on the street and in a taxi before I could really catch my breath. The drive was a blur of buildings and sky and time, all of which I didn't pay any attention to at all. All I knew was that it had started to rain by the time I reached my destination, and I was relieved to finally have the sky reflect the storm that was raging within. I stood on the stoop, staring at the lettering on the door - 221 B.

I didn't really care that I was starting to get wet, I was in no rush to go inside even though I'd noticed the curtains in the upstairs windows fluttering in a telltale sign of someone's impatience. The only rush I'd been in was to get away from the conversation that hinted at more than I had wanted to know. I braced myself and knocked on the door in a desperate attempt to silence my thoughts.

The door opened and I was ushered inside by Mrs. Hudson, fussing over my damp coat and hair as if I might come down with a cold. I almost wished I would, it would give me an excuse to stay in bed for a few days. Finally, when she had satisfied herself by wrapping a blanket around my damp shoulders, she sighed. "I'm glad you came, Katherine. I wasn't sure that you would to tell you the truth."

"I wasn't sure either." I said. "But I was summoned. So, I figured that there was no harm in coming." I added, halfhearted annoyance laced through my words.

Mrs. Hudson stared at me blankly before the answer came to her. "Oh, that man." She huffed. "Really, he is lovely when you get to know him. In his own way. He's very... he's his own person."

That charming? I wanted to ask, but I couldn't bring myself to use sarcasm on Mrs. Hudson. It just didn't seem right. After a moment, nodding in acknowledgement of her words, I was glad I hadn't. It was good to have a little control of my life, even if it was just in the things that I said. It made me feel more solid, less likely to float away.

"Truthfully, Katherine, he's been very lost without John around. And now..." She trailed off, shaking her head to stop herself from saying more than I needed to hear. "Well, it's good that you came. Maybe it will do you both a little good."

I doubted it, but I didn't say so.

"Is Sherlock here?"

"Upstairs." She answered, glancing toward his door out of habit. "Should I introduce you or would you rather go on your own?"

The stairs didn't seem ominous to me, only the closed door at the top that hinted at the unknown. I ignored my unsettled stomach and shook my head. "I can go alone. You don't have to go to all that trouble." Before she could protest, I handed her the blanket that she'd given me and started up toward the door and whatever it was that waited behind it.

I didn't give myself time to wonder if I had made a mistake. I knocked and waited before a voice, baritone and completely different than what I had imagined, answered and told me to come in.

He didn't have to tell me twice.