John refused to go to the funeral. I am not sure why, but since he returned with news of Mr Holmes' death i have found making conversation with him akin to speaking with the coal scuttle and, after my final attempt to convince him to accompany me was met with his silent back in his darkened study i felt it best not to pry any further for the moment. Perhaps when i return he shall be in better sorts.
Hah! That is an overly optimistic thought, but our mutual ability to always see the light in things was one of things which drew John and i together. I fear for him regardless. I may not have been acquainted with John and the mysterious Mr Holmes for especially long but the deep friendship between the two was obvious to me from the start. I do not believe Mr Holmes to have ever had a close friend until John became his fellow lodger and, from what my dear John has told me himself indirectly, Mr Holmes played a large part in his mental recovery once he returned from the war.
John is also fond of telling me that had i not sought out Mr Holmes as one of his clients then he and i should never have met. In light of both these facts i have always thought it odd that we barely laid eyes on the man once John and i were settled as husband and wife. I still get a little thrill in my chest when i am introduced as Mrs Watson but i have the oddest notion that i can not consider our marriage truly valid until i have acted host to my husbands closest friend and that is now something which shall sadly never occur.
I wish i could have known him. I wish anyone could have known him and it is this which finally surprises me with my own tears at the funeral. I know he was a great man. I know that his mind was an incredible thing. I even know, from dear John's descriptions, that he was a positively marvelous violinist and it is immediately clear, on meeting him, that he inspired awe and respect from all that he encountered. However, i have never been privy to the true nature of Mr Holmes. I have never seen him smile warmly to greet me or relaxed in my company. In fact, i am relatively certain that the only people in the world to have seen such things are my dear husband and perhaps Mrs Hudson, who stands near me in her mourning dress, completely and rightly unashamed of her tears. she asked after John but did not seem surprised to see he was not with me.
In short, i wish i could have seen Mr Holmes loved and perhaps in love. I believe everyone deserves that. Here i feel a certain measure of guilt for having separated his greatest friend from him, for considering the circumstances i can only think that it was my own presence that prevented Mr Holmes from visiting us. I know he was not fond of me but still i can not help but shed more tears for him as the empty coffin is lowered to it's rest. I am not the only one with a handkerchief dabbing at my eyes and i am gratified to see that there are others affected by the death of Sherlock Holmes. Even if they did not truly know him, they recognize the loss of a brilliant man in the same way that i do.
I return from the service to find John still mired in a darkened study. Pausing on the threshold, i am greeted with the sight of him hunched over his writing desk in the light of a single, guttering candle. His fingers and clothing are spattered with ink, which can just be made out in the unreliable light. When i see the subtle shaking of his broad shoulders and the way his hand clenches on the arm of his chair i know he has not registered my presence. A rattling sob pierces the dark air and i am shocked to register that it is coming from my husband.
Perturbed i back slowly from the room and close the door with such care you might think me one of the thieves Mr Holmes would have chased, sneaking from the scene of a crime.
My empathy and sorrow for the deceased Sherlock Holmes decreases a little with every day John refuses to remove his mourning attire and i dislike myself immensely for it.
I will never say a word.