A dark jacketed male figure came to a dead stop in front of the sleek black headstone. The man stiffened his spine, his shoulders twitching sharply beneath the layers of fabric. His deep brown eyes, normally so bright and expressive, were dull and distant. His chest shuddered as he exhaled unevenly. He wasn't so much as looking at the grave as he was looking through it. For he could not bear to consciously read the name engraved in opulent gold upon its polished surface. As if refusal in allowing his mind to say the name might somehow make it less real.
The man, a once distinguished Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, swallowed hard, his Adam's Apple bobbing convulsively up and down. While the early days of autumn had barely begun, a strong wind gusted, tugging at his jacket. But the man barely noticed it as he was already frozen to the very depths of his bones.
The cemetery was so bleak and desolate. So harshly oppressive.
The man's ribcage tightened painfully as he raised his gaze to the pewter grey sky and watched as a sparrow flitted uncomfortably in the wind. Colorless clouds moved quickly across the sky in large amorphous swathes. Once, there was a time when he would have readily described those shifting non-shapes of vapor as some kind of tint or tone of grey or white. Grey clouds upon a grey sky. A typical English afternoon.
But not now. No, at this singular moment all he saw in the sky was a stark and disturbing absence of color. Color was something. Here there was nothing. Everything was flat and frozen. Utterly devoid of everything but despair and soul-deep burning agony.
He looked down at the grave and it was as if in that single second in time a thousand angry hornets were stinging his soul.
"I'm sorry," the man said, his voice thick with emotional pain. "I'm so very sorry. Your death was my failure, Sherlock. I should never have done the things I did. I should never have let things come between us. Oh, God, I should never have let you go."
The Detective Inspector heaved an anguished sigh.
"I made so many mistakes. I see it all so clearly now. I should have fought for you. For us. I didn't know. I didn't know, Sherlock. It wasn't supposed to turn out this way!"
The man stifled a sob, and momentarily squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, his eyes were red rimmed and shining with fresh tears. He swallowed past the heavy lump in his throat.
"I want you to know that I never blamed you for what happened with my marriage. I hope against hope that you knew that, despite the fact you never seemed to believe me when I tried to reassure you it wasn't your fault. I regret demanding that we keep things strictly professional between us after Amanda asked me for a fresh start. I should have known better than to think there could ever be true reconciliation between two cheating spouses. And while I know you'd deny it until you were blue in the face, I know I've hurt you. It's a wonder that you didn't hate me. But then, . . . maybe you did, and the civility you afforded me these past two years was nothing but a very clever façade."
"If I could have anything in the world right now, I'd have you standing alive and whole beside me just so I could tell you how much you meant to me. If I could look into those entrancing eyes of yours I know so well, I'd tell you that I never once stopped loving you. But through my own cowardice and uncertainty I failed to protect you. To keep you safe. I broke my promise to you, Sherlock. Your death is on my hands. I practically shoved you off that ledge. And for that I shall pay with all of the guilt, pain, and anguish the human heart can possibly bear until the very instant I draw my last breath. I pray that you've managed to find peace, wherever you are now, and that you're finally free of the Hell that is this world. Good-bye, Sherlock. I only wish you knew how much I loved you."
The grief stricken DI did not pay attention to the stand of old tall trees at his back. He did not see the man in the Belstaff and scarf peeking hesitantly out from behind the thickest trunk. While the tree stood a good fifteen meters from the black and gold headstone and the man in the scarf had not heard every word, he knew he'd heard enough.
And it took every ounce of his iron will to keep himself from going to the silver haired inspector with assurances that everything would be all right.
A/N: Ask for a sequel and you shall receive a Sherstrade reunion ficlet. Though honestly, you know I'll probably write one anyways at some point. ;)