Nothing ended in death, of course. Death disturbed the living (although Sherlock was never entirely certain as to why), but it didn't stop them in their tracks-they continued on with their lives, shaken, but not for long. Not irreparably. Even less damage was wrought upon the dead themselves, who were never again subjected to the utterly exhausting demands and expectations of those who lived on. In that respect, death suited Sherlock.
John took flowers to Sherlock's grave, once-potted lilies, still growing-but before he stepped away from the grave he had whispered "Christ," and had picked the pot up again, leaving the cemetery with it tucked under his arm.
A shame. It was a trite gesture, certainly, but Sherlock liked to see John like that, caring. His visits had become less frequent, but they were still steady, one at the middle of the month and one at the end, as well as at least a brief appearance on most holidays. Molly would bite her lip each time Sherlock left the tiny flat, never ceasing to be anxious-but she was there in the evening, there to offer the comfort Sherlock never liked to admit he needed after having seen John in the cemetery.
It had been a John day, just as nearly every day for the past four months had been. Sherlock had left the flat in the early hours of the morning, stepping softly past Molly's open bedroom door and out onto the streets, and bundling himself in sweaters and scarves (not his old get up, no, but less conspicuous and markedly warmer-and Sherlock found himself craving warmth). He had taken a cab to the cemetery, an unusual indulgence for him, and had sat waiting on the outskirts of the yard until John had arrived, earlier than anticipated, when the rising sun was just beginning to paint the sky pale golden and blue. The birds were just beginning to sing in earnest, and John sank to the ground, sitting and listening and occasionally speaking.
"Mrs. Hudson worries...flat so empty...the blog, I can't...I'm sorry...getting used to this...don't want to..."
John was stiffer than he had been at the beginning. He spoke to Sherlock's grave as if they were lovers who hadn't seen each other in far too long-familiar and affectionate, but stilted, not sure where to begin. Hidden, Sherlock drank in John's voice, devouring his appearance, the determined squaring of his shoulders and the complex emotions running across his face.
After a time he stood, brushing imagined soil from his trousers, and turned, leaving the cemetery lifeless once again. Sherlock lay on his back on the grass, his eyes closed, replaying each motion of John's hand and each tremble of his voice, tucking every detail tenderly away to tide him over until the next visit. By the time he stood to leave, the sun was high in the sky, and the morning glories planted by a nearby grave had already begun to close.
When he returned to the flat Molly was home, pulling groceries from a paper bag and putting them away, her hair tied back in a low ponytail.
"Was it bad, today?" she asked as Sherlock walked through the door, a carton of milk in her hand.
He didn't respond, but sat down at the short pine counter, watching her move about the kitchen, examining her-remembering the shock on her face when he first knocked on her door, soil still caked into his eye sockets and beneath his fingernails, pale, hollow. She had recovered tremendously in the following months. It was good to remember, the extent of what humans were capable of growing used to.
Molly took his silence as confirmation, and sighed sympathetically. "I saw him on the tube yesterday. Wasn't looking his best. I supposed it must be about time for another visit-not a good one, either. He misses you."
Of course he did. John needed him. Always had-Sherlock was certain of it. Just as John conducted light for Sherlock, Sherlock had become a conductor of sorts for John, had helped him see the danger and the excitement and everything that gave life its texture. Why wouldn't John miss that?
"I was thinking," Molly was saying, putting tucking jars of sauce into the pantry, "would you like to be embalmed? Don't laugh, it's only that you haven't been smelling all that nice lately, and even though God knows it's a miracle you've held up this well, maybe we could do something to keep you just a bit more fresh."
"Doubt it works like that," Sherlock said, breaking his silence-although, of course there was never any real way to guess how any of this worked. "I haven't been rotting. If this was just a body, It would be in far worse condition. I've been considering this-this form is a manner of transport, but not in the same way that it was. An imprint, rather than a duplicate. A watermark. Residual."
"Right," Molly said, frowning. "So..."
"So it's not a decaying corpse." He avoided identifying the from he now inhabited as him. It looked like him, certainly, just as solid and thin and present as he had ever been, but it was different somehow, obscene, a body designed only for shadows. "Not a corpse at all, really. Something else, different. New. I'll wash, get the smell of death off me, that should take care of it."
Molly nodded, grateful. She wasn't squeamish, which Sherlock appreciated-days spent in the company of the dead had stripped her of most natural disgust-but she was still a product of the living world, and never had enjoyed coming home to one more reminder of human mortality. She had crossed herself frantically when Sherlock had first arrived on her doorstep, a gesture which had made him roll his eyes, almost laugh. Later, as they sat on her bathroom floor and together scrubbed the blood and dirt from Sherlock's teeth and hair, he had reminded her that she wasn't religious. "No," she had said, smiling sheepishly. "Mum was. Old habits, you know."
That was how it had been. Nothing ended in death, but everything was revealed, remembered. Habits and superstitions long since buried, dismissed stories that Sherlock thought he had long since deleted climbing to the front of his mind.
"I got some more books today," Molly was saying. "I know you think it's pointless, but I want to understand as best I can. At least try to." She shook her head, bewildered, folding the paper bag and slipping it neatly beneath the sink.
Sherlock tightened his mouth. It was pointless, but Molly had attacked the research feverishly, consuming every piece of information she could find, no matter how unhelpful or unlikely. Sherlock didn't need to know how it had happened, didn't honestly care. He was present, and he was stuck, and that was all right as long as John stayed stuck, too-as long as they were frozen in time together, he could contend with anything. But John was a product of the living world as well, and the slightest push might cause him to roll away from Sherlock, move forward without him, into a world where things were warm and close and easy and-no. The thought was unacceptable. For the time, he was immovable, and John was too. That was all he needed to know.
"Whatever pleases you," he said, voice cold as Molly sat down on the chair beside him, picking up the newspaper and unfolding it between them. There was comfort in creating boundaries, no matter how insubstantial-even now, with the weight of death hanging between them like a great curtain, dark and pervasive, kind in its solidity.