Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK.
It was a chilly day. Not terribly dreadful or freezing, but it was dreary. The scent of rain was surrounding the London area.
To Doctor John Watson, that fit his mood completely. His landlady, Mrs. Hudson, had just left him to his own devices. In front of him was a grave. The grave of Sherlock Holmes.
He wasn't aware of the slight breeze that ruffled his cropped hair, or the way goosebumps rose on his arms, despite his warm jacket.
Quickly, he took a deep breath. "You told me once that you weren't a hero." He started, staring at the bolded letters that spelled out his best friend's name. "There were times when I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human..." He gulped, struggling to find his words. "Human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. And so... there."
Quickly, he let out a shaky breath he didn't know he was holding. He had to get this out.
"I was so alone and I owe you so much." He paused again. "Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me."
The tears began to well up into his eyes as he struggled to pull together his next words. "Don't... be..."
He could feel his emotions choking him, and it felt like ages before he muttered, "Dead..." in an octave higher than his usual.
He pressed his lips together tightly and held back a sob, as his voice strained to stay strong.
"Would you do that, just for me? Just stop... just stop this..." Finally, he was incapable of speech, and stood silently, so he could gather himself. He gulped back a clump in his throat, clenched his fists, and bit back more tears before he turned back. Quickly, before he decided he would never leave, he stalked away.
A couple graves away, Sherlock Holmes stood. No emotion showed on his bruised face as he watched John walk away.
He stood there for about an hour.
His hair hadn't been brushed for days. The usual wild curls were greasy and unruly. His eyes had black shadows underneath them, and there was a hint of dried blood hidden near his ear. The longer he stood there, the more it was evident that though he had been previously harmed physically, his emotional pain was much more intense.
After he tightened his scarf mechanically, he approached his own grave. Step by step his face grew contorted. Eventually, by the time he had reached the grave, his face was showing an emotion he wasn't quite used to. One he wasn't used to showing.
It was sorrow, and it was the most he had shown in his entire life. He hadn't shown this much when his mum died, or when Mycroft had deserted him years ago, when he needed him the most. He hadn't shown this much sorrow when Irene Adler was presumably dead.
Kneeling down, he touched his grave stone. "I'm not dead." He muttered, resting his head on the granite, so his face would be hidden from view. His hair fell over his eyes, and only from a certain angle would his quivering lips be seen. "John, I'm not dead." He said again, a bit louder. His voice shook and he took a gulp. He had never felt this speechless before. Not even when he was giving John his note was he at a loss for words. Yet, seeing him so exposed, unlike the tough soldier he usually was... it hurt more than he would have thought.
He could hear the words echoing through his head before he could stop them. 'Caring is not an Advantage.'
"Too right you are, Mycroft." He murmured, burying his head in his hands. The smell of death lingered on his fingertips, making him chuckle cruelly.
He adjusted his position and took notice of the fresh dirt underneath his feet. If he hadn't attended his own funeral a couple days ago, if he hadn't known what he did, he probably would have been able to deduce the exact day that the coffin was put into the ground, and that it was, in fact, empty.
His mind began to wander, and the more he dwelled on it, the worse his mind became. He had to quickly stand up and walk away before he drove himself insane.
John had told Mrs. Hudson to go on ahead, so he could walk around London wistfully. When he returned to his flat, he immediately regretted it.
When he was constantly chasing after Sherlock, he had picked up a few skills of deducing, and he knew right away that someone had walked into his flat. The door had been left ajar slightly, and the lingering smell was familiar, but not in a way that would be recognized immediately.
There was a rustling in Sherlock's room to show that they were still there. John inched forward slowly, grabbing his gun from the drawer as he passed it. Then, as silently as possible, he stepped closer to the door and listened.
He heard a violin being plucked quietly and for a moment his heart soared. Then he heard a string break, and a light curse that did not match the deep voice of his best friend.
In less than a second, the door slammed open and John was holding a gun to Mycroft's head.
In pure rage, John couldn't tell who it was. Not at first, at least. "Who are you and what do you want?" He growled.
Mycroft gently set the broken violin on his brother's bed and raised his arms to show he was unarmed. "John..."
"Answer my question!" John shouted, shoving the gun into Mycroft's temple. Mycroft flinched and kept his mouth shut, waiting.
Soon, realization dawned on John's face. It wasn't long before that soon turned to fury. "This is all your fault." He spat, venom in his voice.
Mycroft tried to speak, but John stepped forward, pressing his gun as hard as he could against Mycroft's face. "Don't! Don't try to deny it! This is all YOUR FAULT! If you hadn't given Moriarty that information, he would still be alive! You deserve to be dead! Not him!" He cocked the gun and pushed his face as close as it would go, with him still being capable of shooting.
For a second they stared at each other, before Mycroft lowered his head in shame. "I know..." He murmured. "I know, I do. I wouldn't blame you if you pulled the trigger right now." He looked into John's eyes, which had once been fierce. Now they were forming doubt. He took this as an opportunity to continue.
"Sherlock is my brother, John. Despite what you may think, I loved him."
John narrowed his eyes again. "Then why did you-"
"You wouldn't understand!" Mycroft interrupted. "Where do you think he got his emotion from? His lack of caring for anyone and everyone, with few exceptions? I used to tell him that caring wasn't an advantage. I only now realized how wrong I was.
"I lost my brother, John. Don't you think I regret my choices far more than you hate them? Don't you think I wish I had been in his place instead?"
He paused and looked John in the eyes. For the first time in his life, he was showing someone else just how much he cared for his brother. He was letting his true and full emotions out in the open.
John knew he couldn't kill Mycroft. Sherlock wouldn't have wanted it, and Mycroft didn't deserve it. He had no idea what he was getting into when he let all those secrets loose. At the time, it had probably seemed innocent. How could he have suspected that Moriarty would use it against Sherlock like this?
He began to lower his gun.
"Kill me."
The demand stopped John in his tracks and he felt a shiver run up his spine. "Wh-wha-" He was at a loss for words. Mycroft's serious expression showed that he wasn't joking around, nor trying to fool John.
"Kill me. I deserve to be dead. You said it yourself."
Still, John couldn't do it. Now he didn't hesitate to uncock his gun, dismantle it, and toss it on the bed. This way Mycroft wouldn't be able to use it and kill himself, if he wanted to. "Get out." He growled, pointing towards the door.
Mycroft stared at John for a moment in disbelief, but John wasn't going to relent. "GET OUT!" He shouted, reaching for the closest thing to him.
His hand came in contact with a long wooden handle and he wielded it tightly in his hands. He raised it above his head and slammed it as hard as he could on the ground. Whatever it was, splintered and broke, but John was still glowering at Mycroft, who was now walking away as swiftly as his feet would allow.
John held tightly to the item in his hand, refusing to move until he heard the click of the door downstairs. Then he took in his surroundings.
For the most part, the room had been the exact same as it had been when Sherlock was alive, except for the dust settling on things, the gun on the bed, and the violin.
The violin was destroyed.
He collapsed, pulling the instrument close to him. Instantly, the tears came.
John hadn't cried in over a year. He didn't cry in Afghanistan when his friends had died, or when he got shot. Nor did he cry when he saw Sherlock fall from Barts. He had barely held back his tears at Sherlock's grave, and now here he was, in Sherlock's empty room, bawling like a child.
Many thoughts passed through his head, but none of them were about his dignity or strength. They were only about the pain he had gone through in the past week. He thought about Sherlock and nothing else, and he cried more than he had ever cried in his life.
Author's Note: I plan on this fic being long with actual chapters and I'm going to continue it. I hope you guys like and I would appreciate all the reviews I can get. The second chapter should be up before the week is out.