"And, after all, what is a lie?
'Tis but
The truth in masquerade; and I defy
Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put
A fact without some leaven of a lie"
- Lord Bryon
The funeral had been a simple one. Only a few people were in attendance to watch the casket slowly enter the Earth. It was swallowed without any mercy, leaving only black depths for the grieving mourners to stare down. Just as life had taken their dear friend away from them, so too did death hold the same grip. A small hand had reached out into the void, as if to pluck the corpse out like a toy that could be patched up with tape and string.
The child, so small and tiny, has eyes with a grave quality to them. They are a light blue, which most people thought of as the color of the sky. This child is far too young to know of pain and death and suffering. She did not even know how to cry. All she knew is that her father was gone. No one said when he would be returning, assuming that even a toddler could tell the difference between life and death.
"Daddy….Daddy don't go," the child would have whimpered. She would have screamed and jumped after the coffin into the void. If anyone had ever witnessed a fit, it would be nothing in comparison to what she would do. Yet this particular child stands motionless, her tiny hand continuing to reach out, in utter silence. She could never understand how to beg when she could never understand how to love.
A firm hand pulls the child back, rubbing her shoulder gently. No family is left for her, with the body slowly being covered in dirt inside of the case. Each scoop of the shovel bodes with more and more finality. The dirt strikes the coffin limply, a pathetic whimper, forcing the body to be more and more forgotten. That's all a person is when they are dead. No longer do people see them as being themselves. They are merely left out, placed six feet underground, and slowly forgotten. They are a balloon, tethered yet never remembered. These quiet souls have no place on this Earth.
The child stares at the tombstone, barely able to recognize the markings. Too young, they seem to be an alien tongue, almost in focus yet not quite. A few of the letters are understandable, but it is no matter to her. She knows the man underneath the ground. She knows the man that he is not.
"Come on, little monster," a voice coos gently. The woman, absolutely stunning, smiles down at her child, "Let's go get gelato."
The child nods, walking past a man with a cane. He barely glances at her, staring forward into space emptily. It's not the first time he has had to do this, to pretend to hold it all together. The tension swells inside of him, filling him up like a balloon. Only he cannot contain this pressure, feeling every molecule of him struggling to break free of the icy mask society requires him to wear. They cannot see the depth of his love for the man in the ground, even if they are aware of it. Society requires silly paradoxes like this. No one questions it, turning a blind eye while simultaneously judging the good army doctor. His hand quivers like a nervous bird, before grasping the cane again. This time, his knuckles turn white from the grip.
John Watson finally manages to tear his gaze away from the grave. The tears cannot come to him anymore. Each night, each morning, each meal, he cried for his best friend. The tears failed to come after a while. They, like Sherlock, had vanished from his life. The scar remained behind, as proof of the trauma he suffered. The trauma that haunted is every night.
"He was a great man, Sherlock Holmes," one of the officers murmured, shifting his feet awkwardly in the ground. John feels the tension continue to rise. These people, they drove Sherlock to this. How could they stand there, acting as if they had nothing to do with any of it? John started to turn, when a new voice spoke up.
"No, he wasn't. He was a good man. We were…we were lucky," Lestrade pauses, "He was insufferable, arrogant, an annoying dick…But he was a good man, Sherlock. This won't bring him back."
John nods, meeting the detective inspector's gaze. An ocean of pity is swimming behind Lestrade's eyes. With a sigh, John knows why, yet he is too tired to care. Everyone assumed he and Sherlock were together, a couple, an item, shag buddies…He couldn't remember their terms anymore. But now, with Sherlock gone, they stopped all pretense. They would no longer tease him about being Sherlock's date. To some, that may have been relief. But to John, he knew they only stopped because fiction is fun to tease about.
Fact tends to bore people.
"I should leave," John says, keeping his voice calm and steady. He hasn't spoken since Sherlock's eulogy. Even then, his voice was monotone, careful not to betray the smallest tremble. Every night, he practiced in the mirrors, staining the paper with tears until the pain was more common than happiness. There was no need to be afraid of the dark when it swirled around inside of him for so long.
"John…," Molly calls out, looking concerned, "Are you sure? I know you two were close and—"
"I best be off, couldn't beg the surgery for the entire day off," John lies smoothly. He couldn't take the thought of a funeral in the morning and a day left to his thoughts. It would destroy him, "Guess a dead flat mate isn't a good enough excuse these days."
He forces a chuckle and Molly nods. The noise of people arguing with him is destroying John, turning him inside out, only to be tossed around like a ragdoll. Everyone knows the pain he is in, but for his sake, they pretend to be oblivious to it. Everyone but Molly.
"There's no use in pretending that's all he was, John," Molly says softly, "He's dead. What do you have to lose?"
John turns his gaze, looking directly into her fawnlike eyes. A small smile comes up on his face. Returning his gaze towards the grave, his heart drops to the bottom of his stomach and drowns in a sea of emotions. Molly knows all too well what he has to lose. With Sherlock gone, things have become even harder for John. At night, his dreams are filled with a detective. He prefers to be asleep.
But even dreams must end.
"I'll see you later, Greg, I promise I won't forget," John says, leaving Molly's question answered only in his heart. Using his cane, he hobbles his way away from the grave slowly, remembering the days when he hadn't needed it. Only sometimes does the limp come back, in times where he cannot swim in the ocean of emotions.
Today happens to be one of those days. The road isn't far, filled with cars zooming by. No cars slowed down. None of them pulled over and wept. No one knew that Sherlock Holmes had been buried. And if they did know, John suspected they would only pretend to care. Their lives continued, without being changed in the very slightest. Yet his, his was uprooted. His life was turned around only to crash and burn, the smoldering wreckage being tended to by the occasional card of sympathy.
He sighed, gripping his cane tightly, and waved down a cab. He may never be able to put Sherlock behind him, but he could keep on moving. It was what the army doctor was good at. He would live to see another day, even if it broke his heart to do so.
"Where to?" the cabbie asks, not bothering to turn his head at John. Some cabbies, John learned, bothered to be a little more polite when picking people up from the graveyard. It did not seem that this one cared at all.
"Er…Maida Vale, please," John answered.
"What, you planning to get shot or something? Crazy fool," the cabbie rolled his eyes, "Unless you're a doctor or something, that must be great, gambling people's lives. Bet your wife loves it."
Two pills. A deadly gamble. A game, one that Sherlock was so fond of playing. John reflects back on it, reviewing the memories for as long as he could. These memories are happy ones, yet even they are tinged in pain. He, the doctor, could not save his best friend. He could save a meaningless stranger, someone of no significance at all to him, but was unable to keep his friend's heart beating.
The drive is spent in silence. Maida Vale, fortunately, is not all too far. John steps out of the cab before he realizes it, being swept inside to the doctor's practice. He still wears his funeral garb. However, as much as doctors intend to get people better, an aura of death continues to cling to hospitals and practices. His attire is not all too out of place.
"Dr. Watson, good, you're back!" the new nurse, a perky blonde woman, says as she spots him, "We've got a bit of a build up, but I told them off for when they started getting cranky. They're like toddlers, I swear."
John smiles at Mary, "Yes, yes, I suppose they are. Who am I seeing first?"
"Did you really forget, Dr. Watson?" Mary asks, handing him his chart, "You're going to be seeing me. Tonight. What do you say?"
"Sir," Anthea calls out, glancing up from her rapid fire texting, "Sir, you'll want to hear about this yourself."
Mycroft does not move, staring outside the window. The rain pours down rapidly, blurring the colors together like a never ending stream. His umbrella sits against the desk, slowly gathering dust. People had to believe that he was suffering from his brother's death. The lack of his umbrella seemed to be the most obvious sign of mourning on his part. Slowly, he glances down, inspecting his belly. A grimace caresses his face.
"Sir, it's about the election," Anthea presses, pulling a manilla file out of her bag.
"Which election?" Mycroft asks, touching the file daintily with his finger, as though he could absorb all the information without reading it. He turns his gaze towards his assistant, reading the nervousness in her face. It isn't from her husband's latest affair and nor is it a result of her niece running off to New Mexico with her boyfriend. Her economic status is fine; Mycroft has personally guaranteed it.
The question is answered for him before Anthea can respond, yet she responds anyways. Old habits die hard. "Sir, the election for…for your position. You've been unopposed for years, but some Anthony Thompson chap decided to queue up for it. We'll need to arrange a campaign."
"So? That's hardly an issue. We have more pressing matters to deal with, Anthea, such as the little fiasco down in Miami…It could be a potential security issue if we allow their incompetent officers to take care of it."
"I agree, sir, until I saw this. It's the photograph of Thompson. I had a computer analyze it, it's exactly what you think it is…Sir, what would you like me to do?" Anthea asks, slowly sliding the photograph over to Mycroft.
He flips it over, memorizing the face in an instant. It's a familiar one and not one he cared to see. A sigh escapes him, drawing his attention to the thick rain. Gravity was such a simple thing. Things fell unless they could counteract the forces. Politics, in his opinion, were similar. It only seemed to be lately that they were giving him a constant headache.
"Hm…Mention this to no one. We are going to pretend that we never saw this photograph and proceed with a campaign as usual," Mycroft nods, sliding the photograph into a drawer, "Do tell my little brother the news regarding his, er, donation…I'm certain he will need to take care of that before departing for New Zealand."
"Yes, sir," Anthea nods, leaving the room as quickly as she came.
Mycroft sighs, returning his gaze to the window. The rain shows no sign of letting up, backed with the power of fiercely dark clouds. When he closes his eyes, the photograph is conjured up before him.
For the first time since he was five years old, Mycroft Holmes is afraid.
It used to be that Greg Lestrade returned home to a full house. It was filled with light and cheer, along with a beautiful woman and three darling children. She would welcome him inside, pushing him towards the kitchen while the girls tugged on his knees. Thinking back on it, it seems like paradise to him. It's almost tangible, a singing dream drifting right before his eyes. Reaching out for the door knob, he can almost believe that when he opens it, love with surround him and welcome him home.
He opens the door and is greeted by emptiness. The house is still, too large for one person. Pictures of his three girls line the wall, with one of his wedding day. His heart aches, remembering the happiness, and how fleeting it proved to be. The light switch is within reach, yet he makes no move towards it. It only seems fitting that the quiet is partnered with darkness.
Lestrade sighs, collapsing into the single chair of the living room. It drove him crazy, seeing places for people to fit into his life and having them be gone. He digs out his phone, flipping through the recent calls.
Molly Hooper – 10:00 AM
Philip Anderson- 12:34 PM
Sherlock Holmes- 1:01 AM
Sherlock Holmes- 1:05 AM
Sherlock Holmes- 1:09 AM
Sherlock Holmes- 1:14 AM
Sherlock Holmes- 2:20 AM
His eyes begin to swell up, looking at the calls. Sherlock would never be able to pick them up. He knew that every time he called. If anyone saw death regularly, it is Lestrade. No one is able to come back from the grave. No amount of mourning will ever bring them back. All that can be done is to serve justice and then to go home, to return to life and pretend it all never happened. Bandage the wound and allow it the time it needs to heal. A thing of flowers does nothing to restore life to a loved one. Burying a box at a crossroads and hoping for a miracle does not solve the issue either. Nothing will bring his friend Sherlock back to him.
Lestrade sighs again, pressing the call button. It clicks over to voicemail within a few minutes. Each time, he hopes to hear the click of connection.
"You've reached Sherlock Holmes. Please leave your name, number, and a detailed message. Oh, and don't be boring."
It never happens.