Just a little ditty. I was inspired by a post on a blog by unposted-letters-to-sherlock on tumblr. I'll link in my profile.
Disclaimer: I of course do not own Sherlock. Not for want of trying.
It's hard to be strong in the face of such utter destruction. The destruction of a life you'd only just had the honour to be part of. I tried, we all did, standing there in our mourning garb, decked in black. Mrs Hudson stood to my right openly crying, holding a crumpled black silk handkerchief to her nose with a shaking gloved hand. I wanted to do the same, just weep for all I was worth, truly howl. But it would only have embarrassed Sherlock, had he been there. And to be honest i'd never really been a howler. I've been to so many funerals, mostly military, all similarly emotional. There was nothing different about the people here; the odd policeman, Angelo, a few faces i'd seen in passing as they dropped into our flat, looking for the great Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft was there of course, 'Anthea' standing just three steps behind him, her phone held limply in one hand hanging by her side. A show of respect perhaps.
There was only one person in that cemetery that caught my eye. She was tall, lean and fair skinned. Agewise she must have been in her early seventies, possibly late sixties at a push and had aged gracefully, naturally. Her fine grey curls were pulled back from an angular face and pinned neatly against her head. She was stunning, as older women go, her bright blue eyes piercing from within such a pale complexion. Her gloved hands were folded in front of her, head held high as she stood next to Mycroft. The familial resemblance was striking. Mycroft's nose, an obvious feature, and those cheekbones... Strong and defined.
Sherlock's mother. Mummy. I couldn't help but stare; at her youngest son's funeral, she stood with emotionless grace, like a statue, or a royal addressing her public. Why wasn't she crying, gripping the only child she had left, cursing God? I continued to stare at her, watching for every movement, every intake of breath. It was steady; in, out, in, out, in, out. He'd inherited that too then, that stoney disposition.
The funeral was ending, Mycroft had scattered a handful of soil onto his brother's coffin and turned away, his assistant trotting obediently at his heels as they headed back to the car. Mummy turned, her feet leading her away from the gaping chasm in the ground, still not a word uttered, a goodbye. It wasn't until the cemetery was cleared and I was carefully manoeuvring myself into a car, my leg stiff and unyielding, did she turn, and with some determination click back down the path, the heels of her shoes sounding out her footsteps. It wasn't much, nothing flashy. No flooding tears or heartfelt goodbyes. Instead, out of her pocket she pulled a battered and grubby teddy bear, roughly big enough to fit snuggly into the palm of a boy's hand, and placed it tenderly under the tree that stood nearby. She said something, her lips moving only slightly, so as not to get caught. I only heard a few words, blown in my direction by the cold breeze; "Sleep well."
Then she turned her back, and walked away.
Thanks. R&R