The wind was biting.
Rustling leaves filled the otherwise silent graveyard.
A few people had been on the hill to the west, but other than them, it seemed in my daze that Mrs. Hudson and I had the cemetery to ourselves. She was giving me space to say my piece. Her sobs were a faint note in the rustling wind. But I knew she wouldn't stand back for long, so I forced myself to speak what I came here to say.
I spoke the words I had been churning over and over in my mind since that moment, that so short, yet life-changing fall just a week before. My voice came out choked, stilted, and not quite right. What I had to say wasn't enough, just wasn't enough.
My voice died. I turned quickly to leave, my open eyes sightless to the area they passed over as I moved. Lost in the memory as they watered and stung. My heart clenched as I moved away, and I spun around again. The steps back took far less effort than those stumbling steps that would take me away from the harsh black stone, the still horribly fresh soil, and those glowing letters.
"..., Sherlock. For me." The words came fast before my throat thickened.
"Don't. Be... Dead." I tightened my left hand, the fist shaking, as I fought the tears that wanted to fall. As I touched the stone for the very first time. My fingers couldn't, I just couldn't. Touching the icy stone made it so real.
"Just for me, just stop it, stop this." I begged before hurrying away from that cold, cold stone. I needed to get back, go home, be alone. I.
I tightened my jaw, swallowed and attempted to clear my throat.
I couldn't give Mrs. Hudson any real comfort. A brief hand on her shoulder was all I could offer on the cab ride back. Which didn't seem to matter to either of us much. I was too focused on keeping my pain hidden. The cab was no place for it, there was only room enough for the harsh silence and Mrs. Hudson's occasional sniffle or whimper.
I left her on the sidewalk. She was already heading down the pavement to her friend's, as was her habit now when she was overwhelmed. I was numb to the twinges of my shoulder and leg as I unlocked the front door, shutting and locking it behind me. The limp was returning. Ha, what would he have had to say about that? My eyes burned as I unlocked our flat, the flat, my flat. His things were as he left them. The smell of an experiment sitting far too long was repugnant, but added to the ache of loss.
Pocketing the keys, I left the door open as I entered. I sank into my spot and stared at his chair. It seemed to be my default position now. Sarah had given me the week off to mourn and attend the funeral, and I had requested more time that she had then granted. I had three days left and the weekend before she would expect me back, and here I sat, haunted.
The tears came, as they did when I sat alone in the silence of the empty flat.
They were not the gasping breaths and choked sobs of what I was left with after a nightmare. No. These fell slowly, silently. They came and went without much sign. My red eyes could be explained away by poor sleep. And those damp tracts that dried invisible on my face, only I felt them.
My eyes fell to the violin case, then up to the empty desk, across the windows and bookcases. I rose from the chair as my anger began to burn. Senseless, so senseless! I clenched my hands in my hair. Turning on the spot, memories assailed me. Arguments, laughter, boredom, and calm nights.
Why. Why? Why! I had the skull in my hand before I realized that I had moved toward the fireplace. Posed to throw it at the brick wall, at that damned spray painted smile. I caught the action as I adjusted my grip on the damned thing. Instead, I found myself crumpling. The skull tucked away in my arm, hidden from view as if to protect it from the same fate I had nearly caused.
What now? Surely I did not expect for him to walk up the stairs and protest my touching his skull. Whining about a lack of cases. Forgetting the milk. Hunting for those damn Nicotine patches. I inspected the bones, fingers tracing, as my thoughts darkened.
What now? I could not expect Mrs. Hudson to let me stay for half the rent as Sherlock wasn't here, nor for that man's "favor" to still apply to discount it. How could I stay here, with all these bitter memories? Would I have the strength to search for another person to share the flat, or another flat share all together? How could I leave? It was the only place that had felt like...
And Sherlock's things, his skull, they would not remain. Mycroft would probably send some of his staff to collect. Oh god. Could I handle that? Could I calmly watch as every book, every paper, pieces of him, everything was packed away or sorted out into keep, bin, and donate piles? Every decision impersonal, unfeeling, just another task to the man or woman left to do the work. Would I have to do this? Could I even watch someone else touch his things?
And after all this, what would remain of my friend? Just a few scattered memories? A few marks in Mrs. Hudson's furniture and walls? Such a short time of our lives, but he had meant so much. Was there nothing left that was truly mine to keep of him? Oh god, oh god.
My phone rang in the otherwise silent flat.
I listened to it as I sprawled on the carpeted floor.
The ringtone stopped. Aching silence. The sound effect for a voicemail message.
I didn't get up. I didn't want to check and see who had called. I didn't want to hear someone who wasn't Sherlock speak right now. It was probably my therapist's office. Everyone else I had seen at the funeral. I hadn't been in for the past two appointments. One while he still lived, the other yesterday, deliberately skipped. I couldn't face the forced neutral expression. The demands of how was I, how I felt, what I thought, everything about the time since my last visit. She would probably push antidepressants. Especially if she had heard that I had been there. I just.
The sound effect for a text message.
I winced, my whole body jerked, it felt like my heart tore at the sound. It wasn't Sherlock, I told myself, it couldn't be. The dead do not text. God, the noise I just made, I sound like a dying animal.
I rolled onto my back, my shoulder rewarded me for the motion with a sharp pain, not that laying on my side had been any better for it.
Staring at the ceiling. My left hand, trembling but holding the skull against the carpet.
Oh, to think that I had thought that moment with my gun while in temporary housing had been my lowest point. How lucky that I no longer had it. Sherlock had took it and it was now somewhere, Lestrade probably knew where.
How horribly alone I was. Hadn't I done enough mourning in my life already. How was I to say goodbye to this man? To my best friend. A man I owed so much to? How could I?
"Sherlock."