John stood at the grave. He knew what Sherlock would say, that it was just useless sentiment to talk to cold marble as if it could hear.
Besides, it wasn't as if Sherlock was around to disparage his actions anyway. It didn't matter now. And there was something he needed to tell Sherlock.
"I went to talk to Mike Stamford.
Remember what you said? In your … note. You said you researched me, before we even met. To impress me.
Two things wrong with that, Sherlock. Mike didn't even know I was in town that day we met. I checked. There's no way you could have researched me. And besides, since when did you ever want to impress anyone? Me. You liked being complimented, I know. But, you didn't care what people thought.
So … so why did you do it, Sherlock?
That's the big question, isn't it? How could a man who didn't care what they thought, who loved his work and himself so much, reach a stage where he … he…
Killed himself.
Threw himself off a building.
Told his best friend he was a fake and made him watch him kill himself.
Why did you tell me you were a fake, Sherlock? And why, in the name of … everything, did you make me watch?"
John stopped, before he started choking on his own tears, then turned and walked away.
Hidden, just out of sight, stood Sherlock Holmes. He knew he should be there, but he couldn't help himself. He had to keep an eye on John. The fact that John still believed in him, and was oh, so slowly starting to work it out went against every plan he had, but made him happier than he knew he had any right to be. A small smile started to creep onto his carefully constructed mask.