The air was crisp and a sharp, cold breeze swept through London, a constant reminder that autumn was well on its way. It was nearly mid-October, and the leaves that hadn't already fallen were beginning to do so now. The sky was blanketed in clouds, the gray, sombre kind that was no stranger to the London skyline and reminded you that the threat of rain was never far away.
There were few visitors to the cemetery at this time of day, and especially not in this weather. October was not one of the months were the cemetery drew the most amount of business. There were only two figures that could be observed at this time: a man, probably in his late-thirties, early-forties, and a woman, probably in her mid to late-sixties. They stood, side-by-side, facing the polished, black headstone. It was one of the newer ones in the cemetery; years of wind, rain, and snow had yet to weather away the gleam of the marble, nor dull the brilliant gold of the letters. It was relatively simple as far as headstones went: no fancy engravings or epitaphs. All it said was a name. SHERLOCK HOLMES.
Had either the man or the woman not been so engrossed in their contemplation of the headstone, they would have perhaps felt another presence, or another pair of eyes watching them. Had they turned around, they wouldn't have been able to see anyone other than themselves, and the woman probably would have just brushed it off as nothing, but the man wouldn't have been able to shake the feeling that there was something here that he was missing. For there was in fact another man in the cemetery, standing underneath a copse of trees some thirty feet away. An acceptable distance, he had thought, to be able to observe the scene the others visiting the graveyard without being seen himself. It was imperative, for now at least, that he not be seen, especially not by those two. For the man hiding in the trees, silently observing everything, was the man whose headstone the other two were visiting.
Sherlock had felt tempted—never to an uncontrollable extent, but tempted nonetheless—to spy on John in the months that had passed since his death. He knew it was not wise, for though he had been seen jumping off a building in broad daylight, there were still many people who probably believed the truth: the great Sherlock Holmes had too high a degree of respect for himself to simply throw himself off the top of a building because things had gotten a little challenging. Challenge, after all, was what Sherlock lived for. Since most of these people were probably highly dangerous terrorists, it was imperative that Sherlock disappear for a little while. The last thing he wanted was for his careful laid out and thoroughly genius plan to be kyboshed by one tiny slip up. So he had resisted all urges to check up on John in person, relying instead on the occasional word from Molly Hooper as to how his best friend was doing. It drove him crazy, but it was for his own good, as well as John's. He couldn't resist today, though. Molly had warned him that it was highly risky, what he was attempting to do, and "What if you get caught, Sherlock?" as if he were a child attempting to do something dishonest, but Sherlock had ignored her. He knew perfectly well the risks, and was certain that, so long as he remained out of sight, he would be fine. What he hadn't anticipated, however, was how overpowering the urge to expose himself would become once he was standing less than thirty feet away from his best friend. The only reason he remained under the trees now, was because of the terrible fuss he knew Mrs Hudson would make upon discovering the truth.
It was fortunate, Sherlock mused to himself, that John's powers of deduction were less than extraordinary, otherwise there was no way he would have been able to remain undetected for so long. His friend, it seemed, was too engrossed in the contemplation of Sherlock's headstone to be the slightest bit aware of anything else that might be going on. He couldn't understand what could possibly be so fascinating about the headstone: it was bland and tasteless, the perfect picture of upper-class simplicity, and classic Mycroft. Sherlock disapproved of it of course, but this was one of the drawbacks to being "dead": you had no say in your headstone. John, he was sure, disapproved as well, but there would have been nothing he could have done to stop Mycroft.
Sherlock observed the two figures more closely. Mrs Hudson was looking nicer than usual; perhaps she had dressed up for the occasion? If so, then Sherlock was flattered: it was not very often that anyone ever dressed up for him. The rush of emotion surprised him, but, then again, he had been feeling more and more emotions as of late. It seemed that perhaps the icy, unfeeling Sherlock Holmes was beginning to thaw.
John, on the contrary, was no more dressed up than he would be on any other ordinary Saturday afternoon. He had lost weight, though, and seemed to carry himself much more stiffly than usual; perhaps the limp was beginning to come back? It would be such a shame if it did; it was such a hindrance.
He had gotten thinner in the months since Sherlock has last seen him; the grief, it seemed, was affecting him much more than Sherlock had anticipated. Perhaps he had been wrong to assume that no one would really miss him when he was gone, though his actions wouldn't have differed even if he had known how this was going to affect John. After all, grieving for your best friend was better than being dead.
They only stood together for a few moments before Mrs Hudson drifted off, presumably to catch a cab back to Baker Street. John remained, staring at the headstone for a long time as if willing Sherlock to magically appear out from behind it. The thought was sorely tempting, but Sherlock couldn't risk exposing himself now. There will be a time and a place for that, he told himself. Now is neither.
As he watched, John laid the bunch of flowers he had been carrying in his hand—the bright, garish kind that you brought with you when you went home for your mother's birthday, or when you were trying to impress your date—down with the few other, slightly wilted ones already at the base of the headstone, and stepped back. He contemplated the headstone for a minute, weighing his words, or perhaps deciding if he was even going to speak at all. When he spoke, Sherlock could hear every single word as if the man were standing right in front of him. There were many pauses; it seemed as though John was deciding what he was going to say as he said it.
"You told me once that you weren't a hero. Um, there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you the best man, and the most—most human being I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie." He stepped forward and laid his hand on the headstone as if it were Sherlock's shoulder. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much." Having said his piece, he turned, as if to leave. He must have changed his mind, however because he paused, looking at the headstone angrily, the way he used to look at Sherlock when he was particularly frustrated. "There's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be." Here he paused to catch his breath. "Dead. Would you do that, just for me, just—stop it. Stop this." And with that, he turned and strode off towards the gate.
The urge to run after him and tell him that he wasn't really dead, that all of it was just a ploy, just another game was so strong that it was all Sherlock could do to resist it. He had never once seen John cry, hadn't seen him close to tears until now, nor had he ever felt the urge to go and comfort someone the way he did towards John. Sentiments were not his thing. He shouldn't be so moved by all of this talk, shouldn't feel the beginnings of a lump in the back of his throat that meant that tears weren't so far away. Frustrated at how soft he was becoming, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. It had vibrated once while he was observing, but he had just left it be. Sure enough, he had one unread text message from Molly Hooper.
Are you really sure you want to do this? I know you and John were close. Let me know if you need me to come and get you. M
Sherlock sighed. Molly had been against this idea from the beginning because she thought it would be too hard for him to stand so close to his friends without exposing himself. The fact that she had nearly been right was infuriating. He wasn't supposed to be sentimental. He wasn't supposed to feel. But then again, his relationship with John had been atypical. With John, it was impossible not to feel. John was a man who was ruled by feelings. His strong moral principles and his loyalty to his friends were the driving forces in his life. And so it was hard, when one was as closely involved with someone like John as Sherlock was, to remain completely devoid of feeling.
Turning on his heel, Sherlock headed towards the side entrance, making sure to stay under the trees, and sending Molly a quick reply as he went. I'm fine. It was fine. Meet you out front in ten. SH
He'd just have to pretend that everything had gone smoothly, that watching John at his grave hadn't moved him in any way. He wasn't going to give Molly another reason to be worried about him.
One thing he had learned today: this wasn't an experience he was going to be able to repeat. That much was certain. As much as he yearned to run after John, he couldn't. In fact, it was precisely because he wanted so badly to chase John down that he could attempt to check up on his friend again. He'd just have to rely on Molly in the future. Because with him, feelings were uncharted territory: dangerous and unpredictable. And it was the dangerous and unpredictable that got people hurt.