The Empty Hearse
Web of Obsidian
One to the day after Sherlock Holmes died, a memorial was held. People talked, some laughed, some cried. John said nothing at all. Speeches were going to be made...
(Or, basically, a very interesting way for Series 3 to open. Inspired by a post my friend showed me online. Link: carry- on- my- consulting- tardis . tumblr . com post/48726687361 Simply remove spaces)
They gathered in a small room, some building in London. Lestrade didn't really know where. Couldn't even bring himself to care that much. It all still hurt too much. It hurt that he jumped. Oh, he hated the man sometimes, the fiasco with the press had gotten him demoted to practically a nobody at Scotland Yard (it was lucky he wasn't fired), John had spiraled downwards into some pit that nobody had been able to pull him out of, and even now while it may look like he was fine it was just a mask, Sally had been moved to a different station, even Anderson was hurt. He hated him more than anybody else, but he didn't want him dead. He never wanted anybody dead, none of them did. Especially not him. Never him. Lestrade would have gladly done anything just to bring him back. Just to see him again, to see John smile again...
It was quiet. There were food and drinks, although they were barely touched. Soft words exchanged. Molly Hooper sat next to John Watson, taking comfort in the silence between them. Anderson was in a corner on the far side of the room. Lestrade was talking with a couple of other people.
Everybody cried at some point. Eventually a few laughed, because it hurt so much they had to do something.
Somebody – Greg didn't know who, someone he had helped on a case at some point, one of the many, so very real cases – suddenly stood up on a chair and started talking, a bit more loudly, to the entire room. They said how Sherlock (how could they bring themselves to say his name, Lestrade couldn't after this whole time) had helped them, how they believed in him, and how they always would.
Someone else told their story. Then another. Then another.
Finally someone pushed Greg forwards and he found that his throat was suddenly dry. He couldn't get any words to come out. His emotions were flying every which way, he could feel everybody's eyes on him, see John staring at him with hollow eyes...
"Today..." His voice was a whisper, and he coughed, clearly his throat. Licked his lips. Tried to form words, any words. "Today... One year ago... Sh... Sherlock Holmes..." He ignored how his voice shook. "One year ago, today, Sherlock Holmes, the best man I have ever come to know in my... my entire life... died."
He made to continue, but a series of pings and chiming bells sounded across the room. There was a low murmur, and everyone pulled out their phone. Lestrade took his own phone out of his pocket and nearly dropped it.
Wrong.
"It... It just says 'wrong'," a voice called from the back of the group.
"That's ridiculous," somebody scoffed, a woman towards the front, but she was white as a sheet and trembling. "That's... That's impossible."
More chiming.
"'Wrong' again," said the same voice from the back.
Greg was trying not to faint, he could hear the blood roaring in his ears, vision going fuzzy, legs going weak. He looked up and saw Molly, staring at her mobile with a strange expression. ...Relief? John's face was completely void of anything.
Three more chimes. One from the phone in his hand. Two from the couch where his former friends were sitting.
You know where to find me.
SH