In the Empty Hearse, when John finds out that Sherlock's parents knew, he says, "So that's why they weren't at the funeral," meaning, of course, that there was a funeral. I've always wondered how that went down, so I wrote it myself. Also, the world of Sherlock fanfiction is somewhat devoid of post-Reichenbach fics that take place in the immediate aftermath. Most of the pick up later. This story will replay the funeral from the perspectives of 7 different characters. If read all at once, it'll be a bit repetitive, so I'm only going to update once a week or so. Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 1: Donovan
Sally Donovan was not particularly sensitive to the idea of death. In her line of work, she dealt with it on a daily basis—often nasty, gruesome forms of it. But one type of death in particular never failed to resonate painfully within her soul: suicide. How bad did someone's life have to become before they decided it would be better to end it? How miserable, unwanted, and hopeless must they feel?
If there was one person she thought immune from such emotions, it was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't care how he made other people feel, and he certainly didn't care what other people thought about him. Well, apparently he did. He cared so much that he couldn't bear to live a life in a world where people thought he was a fraud.
As soon as she'd heard the news, she was overcome with guilt. For as long as she'd known the man, she'd bullied him. There was no other word to describe her behavior. She'd ruthlessly called him 'Freak' and 'psychopath' without paying any regard to the damage such titles could cause. She'd hated him for how he seemingly took pleasure in murder, made light of people's lives. Maybe he'd had a touch of psychopath in him, but after witnessing what he'd become after meeting John Watson, she was certain he'd never hurt anyone.
She remembered the first thing she'd said to John Watson when he showed up with Sherlock at a crime scene: "One day we'll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there." She was right, in a way. But when she said that, she never expected her prediction would come to fruition in such a manner. That day, they'd stood around a body, and Sherlock Holmes had put it there. It just so happened to be his own body.
God, she hoped John didn't remember her saying that to him. If he realized the connection, he'd hate her even more than he already did. Sally Donovan knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that John Watson now despised her—how could he not? She'd all but murdered his best friend. She deserved to be hated.
Frankly, she hated herself for what she'd done to Sherlock. It had seemed so unbelievable that he could track down the children just by analyzing a footprint. Lestrade had complete faith in him, why hadn't she? She'd been the one to plant the first seed of doubt in Lestrade's head. She'd been the spark that started the wildfire that burned Sherlock Holmes to the ground. If she'd just kept her stupid mouth shut, Sherlock would still be alive, and John Watson wouldn't be sobbing over a casket. What had she stood to gain by saying such terrible things?
Looking back, it was all out of jealousy. She'd gone to school, had worked and trained exhaustively to reach the position at Scotland Yard she now held. Sherlock Holmes just waltzed in, just barely drug-free, and managed to do in an instant what Sally and the combined brainpower of all her colleagues had failed to do in a week. Wherever she stumbled, Sherlock leapt over her, carrying the answers on a silver platter straight into Lestrade's hands. She was actually thankful he was so picky about the cases he chose to help with; otherwise, she'd be out of the job. If she was honest with herself, she was glad for his help when they really needed it. So many criminals would have walked away scot-free if it weren't for the brilliant detective.
She'd abandoned all doubt in him when he'd killed himself. The saying was true: your word was worth so much more after you were dead. If he'd really faked it all, if he'd really been a merciless psychopath out for attention, the public learning the truth wouldn't have driven him off the edge of a building. He'd have basked in the glory of being one of the greatest criminals in history. But he wasn't a criminal. He was truly the greatest mind to ever walk this Earth, and just a few ill-spoken comments managed to make him into a public scapegoat.
Now he was lying lifeless in a box at the front of the room in which Sally Donovan now found herself.
Most of the funerals she'd attended in her life had been for elderly relatives, with the occasional unfortunate accident causing the death of a younger acquaintance. Yet she'd never been to one that felt quite like this. Funerals for the elderly are usually more uplifting—celebrations of a life well-lived instead of mourning a life cut short. Those preceded by severe illness carried some sense of relief; at least the deceased was no longer suffering. But the funeral for Sherlock Holmes had a completely unique atmosphere.
A man like Sherlock had very few close friends, and they all sat clustered in the front corner. Sally had separated herself from them, knowing Sherlock wouldn't approve of her considering herself a friend. Most of the room was occupied by former clients, friends and family of victims of the crimes he'd solved. In his last few months, his fame had grown, and the number of people who knew his name and would recognize his face had grown exponentially. Had he died a year or two earlier, his funeral wouldn't have garnered half this attendance.
Because of this, the majority of the crowd knew Sherlock only for his work. Very few of the people present had any idea what the man was really like away from crime scenes and the spotlight. They were basically mourning the loss of a favorite comic book hero for all the personal attachment they had to the deceased. Sally suspected the only people who felt true despair at this tragedy were Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, and John—the small circle of friends Sherlock had.
Sally glanced up at them, hunched over in grief while some preacher none of them had ever known muttered nonsense he'd memorized that morning. She couldn't imagine how John must feel, he and Sherlock had been inseparable. Lestrade had told her everything that happened: Sherlock had jumped right in front of John. God, it was horrible. She'd caught a few glimpses of John since arriving, never once with dry eyes. How do you stop crying after your best friend kills himself before your eyes?
Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were understandably bereaved. Mrs. Hudson treated Sherlock like a son. Mycroft appeared as he always did—steely and unfeeling—but there was a cloudiness to his gaze that hadn't been there before. Perhaps he did care for his brother after all. But something was off about Molly. Sally knew how much she cared for Sherlock, and how emotional the pathologist could get. Of course, everyone grieved in different ways, but this is not how she expected Molly to react to such an event. Instead of crying, she just stared off into space like she was trying to remember something she'd forgotten long ago.
Sally forced herself to let Molly be; now was not the time to scrutinize other people's coping mechanisms. She listened as Lestrade stepped up and spoke about Sherlock and his passion for his work. He read off the pre-written speech with practiced composure, but she could hear the break in his voice whenever he referred to the detective in the past tense. She knew Sherlock was so much more to him than a consulting detective for tough cases. Anderson, the idiot, wasn't even paying attention, so she nudged him as Lestrade and John changed places.
She'd made it through Lestrade's speech without breaking down, but John's eulogy shattered her. It wasn't so much the words themselves, but the fact John could barely get them out through choking sobs. He had to repeat almost every sentence, reinforcing the fact that Sherlock was gone, which undoubtedly made it even more painful. When it was over, John barely managed to stagger back to his seat before collapsing against Lestrade. Afterwards, there wasn't a dry eye in the room.
Sally had expected someone like Sherlock to donate his body to science or something, but he was to be buried in the cemetery where his grandparents rested. Either she'd been wrong about him, or Mycroft had something to do with it. At his age, it was quite possible Sherlock didn't even have a will.
As the casket was lowered, John attempted to lunge after it like a rock climber leaping for a handhold as he plummeted from the wall. He screamed in anguish, "No, no. NO!" That final, loudest shout came when the casket completely disappeared from view beneath the rim of the hole. It was only Lestrade's tight grip on John that prevented him from jumping in after it.
Sally didn't think she'd ever seen a man so broken. Even her grandfather hadn't been this upset when his wife had died. She didn't know much about Sherlock and John's relationship beyond what she witnessed when they came to Scotland Yard, but clearly it went a little deeper than mere friendship. What she did know was that John's arrival in Sherlock's life had greatly improved his manners. John had sometimes functioned as the filter Sherlock so clearly lacked, ensuring he didn't say or do anything too insensitive. She hadn't known John before he met Sherlock, so she had no way to judge how the detective had affected the doctor. If it was anything as drastic as John's effect on Sherlock, then it was certainly immense.