Hello! I know I haven't updated my current stories in awhile, no worries though, I have a chapter in progress! I know this seems a bit out of the blue, but this chapter popped into my head and I felt like I needed to write it.
I don't own any of the characters, but the words are all my own.
John.
Through the whole grieving process, everyone kept asking me if I was okay. At first I couldn't answer, in fact I didn't speak at all. That was when the pain was burning in my heart, searing me from the inside. I had never dealt with this kind of pain. For the first few nights, I locked myself in the flat, never opening the door.
Reporters had flocked outside on the pavement, pounding their fists against the door, demanding an interview from the Sherlock Holmes's friend, his blogger. They stayed for days, until eventually they gave up. I didn't bother to read the articles, or watch the news reports.
The funeral was difficult, so much more than I expected it to be. Thankfully, Mycroft took care of the preparations, and the funeral took place in a very remote location. No reporters could be seen, and a select few were made aware of the event.
Sherlock's grave was one among many, surrounded by a serene atmosphere. This seemed wrong to me. Sherlock was always in motion, never stopping for anyone or anything, always looking forward, to something new and challenging. For him to arrive at his final resting place was shocking enough, but the silence was unbearable.
Few words were said, and in all honesty, there wasn't much that anyone could say. The individuals who stood by his grave side, even though they had known him for years, didn't know whether to believe he was innocent or not. Throughout the service, many looked torn and unsure.
I didn't say anything. I didn't speak unless spoken too. Mrs Hudson was the only one who stayed with me. She clung to my arm, whether for her support or mine I wasn't sure. She chatted quietly, neither speaking to me or herself, merely speaking to fill the unbearable silence.
A few people offered me condolences, never looking me directly in the eyes. These people I didn't know the names of, and had no desire to find out. I'm sure that they were invited for a reason, but as far as I know, they had no direct link to Sherlock. They weren't of importance to me.
For a reason unknown to me, Harriet was present at the funeral. She was drunk, as usual, and was wearing an extremely short black dress, all the while remaining incredibly close to Molly Hooper, who looked extremely uncomfortable. I was ashamed by her behavior, but made no move to try and control her. Perhaps Mycroft had invited her for my support, assuming that she would be of some comfort. I doubt she even knew who the funeral was for, nor cared.
I noticed that the only person from Scotland Yard who was present was Lestrade. He looked uncomfortable, but his grief was genuine. I was almost certain that he admired Sherlock more than anyone else, and that he felt guilt for what had happened. Donavon and Anderson were no where in sight, which was most certainly for the best. They were not welcome here, not now, not ever.
Molly managed to escape the grasp of my sister for a few minutes, which she used as an opportunity to make her way over to where Mrs Hudson and I were standing. She addressed both of us, but only received an answer from Mrs Hudson. Molly didn't seem surprised by this, and gave me a sympathetic glance and pat on the arm. I didn't pay much attention to what they were saying, but when Molly turned to talk to me directly, I listened.
"It's okay, you know. To tell people that your not okay. You don't have to pretend." She said softly. I only looked at her, and nodded my head. When she realised that she would receive no other answer, she continued her conversation with Mrs Hudson.
This statement bothered me, for some reason. And then it came to me.
It wasn't okay, to admit defeat. Not to her, not in this world, not to anyone. If I were to show weakness in this world, this fast paced and ruthless world, then I would be torn apart. People cared only so much, only to the point where they did all they could to appease their sense of duty before moving on with their lives.
Molly Hooper would never forget Sherlock Holmes, but John Watson would soon become a faded memory. I would maybe cross her mind every couple of years, but nothing would come of it. I was nothing more than an after thought.
By convincing others that I was okay, then maybe slowly I could convince myself that I was okay. I would become a shadow, only surviving but never living. I refused to be a burden to those around me.
The feeling of being alive was gone, so now an empty shell of a man remains. There is pain, and there always will be, but nothing more than that. Pain tells me that I am alive, it doesn't mean that I am living.
The one person who brought me to life, was lying in the ground, never to resurface. The one person out of millions who of others who understood me was gone. My best friend was gone. I had finally met the right person, and now they were gone.
As Molly turned to leave, saying her goodbyes, I spoke two words.
"I'm fine."
I know its not written too well, and there are better one shots like this out there, but this is my take. I hope you enjoyed it, and please leave a review!
Pingu xx