It was probably the hardest thing she had ever done.
Go to his funeral, watch as the defeated form of Doctor John Watson gave the eulogy. See the smug faces of Donovan and Anderson, both horribly delighted in the appearance of their being right. See Greg Lestrade looking nearly as defeated as John, muttering to himself about how it was his fault. And poor old Mrs. Hudson, with her atrocious hip and tear-streaked face.
It had been enough to make her cry, and she knew the truth.
The truth that he was safely tucked away in her flat, occupied with an out of tune violin that she had borrowed from her brother. The truth that he was alive and well, certainly not dead. The truth that the wonderful Sherlock Holmes, who always said such horrible things, was not a fake, was not a suicide victim, and was certainly not dead.
But here she was, crying with the rest of them over a well constructed lie and a dead body swiped from the morgue.
It was probably the hardest thing she had ever done, and she knew the truth.
Comments are lovely, my dearests.
TRF was so painful to watch.
Love,
Sarah xx
