John and Mrs. Hudson were sitting in the back of the cab, on their way to Sherlock's funeral. John was fidgeting nervously. He had put on a suit and tie for the occasion. I don't know how Sherlock wears - wore - these things. John thought as Mrs. Hudson gave the driver the address and they started off. The first few minutes passed in silence, John staring out the window at the slightly overcast sky.
Suddenly John spoke. "I don't know if I can do this, Mrs. Hudson."
"What do you mean, dear?"
"It's my fault, isn't it? I couldn't stop him from falling."
"Now John, I don't ever want to hear that from you. You've met Sherlock, you know that once he gets an idea in his head, there's no talking him out of it. It's not your fault."
"But Mrs. Hudson, he was on the phone with me, while I was looking at him. If anyone could have talked him out of it, it was me right them."
"You might have been able to talk to him, Dr. Watson, but you couldn't have talked him out of it. I don't want you feeling guilty for the entire funeral about this."
I'll feel guilty longer than that. John thought, but out loud he said. "I just don't know if I can face them. The other people who'll attend."
"Listen, dear. How many people do you think will be there? Mycroft, Molly, Greg, you, me, and probably Sherlock's parents. And perhaps a couple more people from the yard. You know them all, none of them will blame you."
"I will."
"You don't count."
They sat in silence for a while longer before John spoke again, slightly desperate.
"Why'd he do it? Why did he have to fall? What went through his thick skull, to his incomprehensible mind and said, 'how about we fall, huh? doesn't that sound like fun'?"
"I've said it before, and I'll say it again, he's Sherlock. How will we ever know what goes on in that silly little head of his?"
"We'll never know now, I suppose."
"We never would have known anyways."
"Surprisingly enough, that doesn't make me feel better."
John wondered what Sherlock would deduce about him if he were here. He would, of course, instantly know John hated the suit, if not from observation, then just from knowing him. Sherlock would see that… John hadn't slept for a few days, with what little sleep he had punctured by nightmares. He would have seen that the blog remained unchanged in the time since he'd left. He would have seen that John had had a small breakfast of tea and a few bites of eggs, and only because Mrs. Hudson had made him eat something.
As they arrived at the cemetery, Mrs. Hudson paid the driver, and thanked him as she stepped out, John muttering a thanks as he followed her, grabbing his cane as he left.
The cab passed five people trying to wave it down as it drove away. It remained firmly on course, with the driver's knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. He was right. The cab driver thought, as he took off the hat to reveal a mess of curly black hair. Nobody ever thinks about the cabbie.