A/N: This is my first Sherlock fic. It is based on BBC's Sherlock, I do not own him or any other characters. If you have not yet seen season (or series) two there are spoliers ahead, ye have been warned! Events are post-Reichenbach. I switch the POV's quite often and some events will be re-accounted by different characters. Please read, review, and enjoy! Thank you.
Awake
Why was it called "a wake" John felt more asleep than ever, as if all the events of the past few days had all been a dream. John felt as though he was moving in
slow motion. He had had this feeling for the past few days now, ever since the day...the day of the fall. His brain wouldn't even let him comprehend what had
happened. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Sherlock fall again and again.
John was sitting in his favourite chair in the living room of 221B Baker Street, a small group of people milled around him. DI Gregory Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson,
Molly Hooper, Angelo, Mike Stamford, and John's sister Harriett that was all John could think of to invite over after the funeral. He had thought about Mycroft,
but then remembered it was partly Mycroft's fault Sherlock was dead. He had also considered Sgt. Sally Donavan, but she too was partly to blame. At the
service Anderson had muttered something along the lines of "good riddance" and John had punched him until he felt the man's nose break and bruises began to
form around his eyes. No one had dared interfered and no one questioned his actions.
Mycroft had been at the funeral, it was an open service and no one would have stopped him from coming to his own brother's farewell. John had been the one
to receive the handshakes and condolences. Many of Sherlock's homeless friends had attended and while John recognized most of them there was one man in
particular he did not know. The man was tall and while his coat was considerably shabby he had what appeared to be a brand new deerstalker upon his head.
John had almost laughed, God how Sherlock had hated those hats. The man's face was completely covered by a bushy moustache and long unkempt beard. The
way the man walked convinced John he was drunk, but when he shook John's hand it was firm and steady, and when he spoke John could smell no alcohol.
"He was a good man, that Sherlock Holmes, shame 'bout his being a fake an' all." The accent was heavy.
"He wasn't a fake" said John with more conviction then he felt. John had hopped no one would bring that up today, least of all a bum.
"You seem awfully sure 'bout that." The man stared at him from beneath the brim of the ridiculous hat piercing something deep inside John.
"I am, and nothing you or anyone else says can change my mind." This time John conveyed his belief fully "Sherlock Holmes is the best man I've ever known, and no one could ever replace him."
"Was" said the stranger as he turned to leave, "Sherlock Holmes was the best man you have ever known, and no one will ever replace him." The stranger had mumbled the last part as he tried to get out of the small church and as far away from John as he could.
A hand on his shoulder pulled John from his memories. It was Molly.
"John, you haven't touched your tea." It was true, the tea Mrs. Hudson had made him an hour ago sat untouched and ice cold on the little table beside him.
"Yes, well." was all John could muster of a reply. Everyone was watching him as if they expected him to say something more but he remained silent and began
looking around the flat. Yorick, as he so fondly referred to the skull on the Mantle, sat quietly starring at him refusing to say what they were both thinking.
Without getting up to look John knew a small vigil of the Homeless network were outside the door of 221B. He had heard Mrs. Hudson refuse to let them in.
Slowly the small group departed, Mrs. Hudson heading down stairs with the promise of bringing him up some breakfast in the morning ("just this once dear").
Angelo letting him know he could still eat free at his restaurant anytime he liked. Molly told him "not to be a stranger" and to "come visit." John felt it would be
some time before he could return to Bart's, if he ever went back at all. He had no reason to go there now.
Each disappeared until only Harriett was left, she had been sober for three months now, but her brother's lack of emotion was enough to make her want to start
drinking again. She half expected her brother to start knocking things over, punching the wall, swearing, anything at all to make the silence go away. But he sat
in the chair, unmoving, unspeaking, where it not for his steady breathing and the rare flick of an eye she would think him dead as well. At ten pm she rose to
leave, as she walked passed John he cast out his arm and wrapped her wrist in his hand, "don't leave me." He turned his head to face her and their eyes met,
"please" he begged, "don't leave me as well. I can't! I can't stand the damn silence of this place."
His eyes shifted to the violin unwillingly left out of its case by its careless owner. By an owner that would never return to put it away. The coffee mug on the
desk, almost five days old, still half filled with coffee by someone who left in a hurry. Unopened cartons of cigarettes sat next to unopened packages of quit
smoking patches on one corner of the desk. The yellow smiley face on the wall mocked John from where he sat and John had the urge to get up and punch it,
but he remained seated, hand still clasped to Harry's wrist. He looked back up into his sister's eyes and she saw they were filled with tears.
"I won't" was all she could reply before breaking into tears herself.
It had been a month since Sherlock's death. It was not suicide, John refused to refer to it as such, and if anything it was murder. Sherlock had been murdered
by Jim Moriarty, and his brother had given Moriarty the tools to do it.
John had been to the grave everyday in that month, rain or shine. Sometimes he went with Mrs. Hudson, sometimes with Harry, mostly he went alone. He
would spend hours sitting there leaning against the gravestone talking to Sherlock, or ignoring him. He assumed this was what it was like for Sherlock when
John wasn't home but continued talking to him anyway. Sometimes John would bring Yorick along too, sometimes he'd bring Sherlock's violin and try to play it.
He kept telling himself to go take lessons so that the fine instrument would not go unused.
Today John came with Molly. Molly had called him out of the blue and asked him if he would go with her to Sherlock's grave. John had half expected her to call
sooner, or to have run into her there as she had been so found of him. They stood together, side by side at the grave, close enough to be touching but not
actually touching. John thought Molly would cry but she seemed to be doing fine.
Molly didn't know what to do. It had been awful not seeing John come visit her at Bart's, almost as bad as not seeing Sherlock. They had always made her day
better even if it meant missing a date or not seeing her girlfriends. They were always up to something, trying to solve a case, or just doing crazy experiments.
She hated seeing John a broken man, she longed to tell him the truth. That his best friend was alive, was safe, and would eventually come back to him. She had
promised Sherlock she would tell John nothing, and her constant love for Sherlock allowed her to keep that promise, that he had trusted her with something so
important gave her the strength she needed.
Lost in her thoughts Molly remembered the last conversation she had had with Sherlock.
"Do you think you can do that Molly, for me?" He had asked her for the tenth or so time. He knew she would do anything for him and so used it to his advantage.
"Yes" she assured him, "yes of course. I'll miss you though."
"I know." He had said, and he did, of course he did he was Sherlock Holmes. He knew how much she cared, how much she would miss him. "Look after John for me, will you?" he said it as though he was only going on holiday for a few days and she would have to feed and walk his dog while he was away.
"Of course" she said with a little bob of her head.
He had hugged her then, a full on hug, his arms tightly embracing her body, when he pulled away he kissed her right on the lips. It didn't last long, but it was
long enough for Molly. When she had opened her eyes again he was already gone, nothing but the door swinging shut behind him, proved Sherlock had been
there at all. That was the only time she had cried. It was what she had thought about at the funeral to make the tears come, although one look at John might
have done the same.
John. Molly had almost forgotten he was there. She turned to look at him, he was staring straight ahead at Sherlock's grave, only a solemn expression on his
face. Molly had the sudden urge to make John smile. She wanted to see him happy and enjoying life again. He had always been a bit of a lady killer, having a
new mate on his arm every couple of weeks; maybe she had a friend who would be interested. He is quite handsome, Molly told herself, and he was always so
kind the very opposite of Sherlock it would not be difficult to find an interested party.
Molly suddenly realised she had been staring at John for some time now, and her face grew warm at the thought. John was a much more compatible match for
her than Sherlock could ever be. All it took for her to see it was Sherlock not being there. Without Sherlock's shadow over him John suddenly shone brightly.
Then a new though crossed her mind, what if this was Sherlock's plan all along? Had this been what he meant by "look after John for me?" Was this his farewell
gift to her, to both of them?
Sherlock knew both her and John had a string of unsuccessful relationships perhaps he knew too that they might be able to make it work together and the only
way they would find each other was for him to be out of the picture.
John turned and looked at Molly, she was staring straight at him, had been for minutes now, and it was a bit unnerving. "Molly?" he asked "are you alright?"
John's voice suddenly pulled Molly out of all her deep thoughts. Was she "alright?" yes she was alright, in fact she doubted if she was ever better. But all she
replied with was a dazed "What? Oh, yes, fine thanks." Molly turned and looked once more at the black polished marble that was Sherlock's headstone which
marked an empty grave. She said a silent good bye to him as she took a deep breath and took John's hand in her own.
John felt Molly lace her fingers between his as they stood at Sherlock's grave. At first he thought she might just be doing it to comfort him, but somehow she
felt closer. He had never considered her as someone he might be interested in. Not that she wasn't pretty, because she was, and it could never bother him that
she worked at the morgue, like it might some other guys, she had always been friendly and helpful, but John accounted that to Sherlock's presence. Sherlock
that was the reason he would never had asked Molly out. While he had never shown much interest in her John knew her heart belonged to him and should
Sherlock ever change his mind John did not want to come between them.
John turned and looked at Molly again and without really thinking about what he was doing he kissed her, a long warm wonderful kiss.
Molly figured the last place she would ever be kissed would be in a cemetery, but there was a beautiful irony of being kiss by Dr John Watson at the grave of
Sherlock Holmes.
As John stood there at the feet of his best friend, holding hands with and kissing Molly Hooper, he suddenly felt more awake than he had in the past month.