Werewolf in London
He took a long drag of his cigarette; the patches certainly were not going to cut it today. John was sulking nearby watching his friend struggle. Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh and snuffed out his butt under the heel of his boot. Adjusting his coat collar he turned and gazed at John with a sort of hallow look. John wasn't completely sure how to react to this and kept his smug as per usual the last few weeks.
"We're going to be late if we don't hurry."
"I'm aware…," Sherlock said icily.
"I'm only trying to help you're also part of the funeral. You really don't want to be late for your own…" John started to say. Sherlock cut him off with a glare and by stepping into the church. He almost laughed to himself. Sherlock Holmes standing in a church was severely laughable in any given situation. There the casket was waiting for him. Empty, though it was, it still unnerved him by what it represented. John slipped past and took a seat in the back. Sherlock hoisted his share of the casket and together the group of solemn faced men walked it down the aisle. Slowly they marched and in his head he could hear a slow dramatic cello playing mournfully. The church remained eerily silent, save for the footsteps of the group of men. Even though the casket was empty and it was only for the family's sake, it was still heavy. After they placed it down gently in the front of the church for all to see Sherlock took his respected seat in the family section.
"Let us say a quick prayer before we begin," The priest spoke. John noted Sherlock refused to bow his head. He wondered what was going through his mind and how he was doing. Sherlock had been off for about a week now, and though he wasn't one to disclose his feelings, John wasn't about to ask either. The last thing he wanted to do was try to mother Sherlock Holmes.
"Amen," Sherlock blinked. He hadn't realized that the prayer had even started let alone ended. He was so absorbed, so wrapped up in his own mind he felt like he could barely function. His head was a fog, and he hadn't been able to pull himself out of it the past week. He knew John had been worrying about him but he just didn't care. He looked on as a very broken seeming man came to the pulpit and cleared his throat. Slowly he wiped his nose on a dirty looking handkerchief and stuffed it back into the breast pocket of his suit.
"Today, I put to rest my beloved only daughter Gwendolyn. It grieves me so to see such a light has been taken from this world. She was such a fire cracker always so full of beauty and life," Sherlock wanted jump up and cut in but he was locked in his seat by some form of rage or self restraint.
"I'll never get to spend Christmas watching the children she longed to have opening gifts by the tree. That smile that lit up like Time Square on New Year's Eve…I won't ever see it again. My sweet girl, was taken from this world and now I'm never going to hold her or hear her voice again…" Those words struck Sherlock to his core and with a mighty force he pushed himself gracefully from his seat and stalked down the aisle out the door. Just a blur of black leaving the church all cheekbones and anger, the other church goers shivered with discomfort as he left. John got up and followed him out finding him in the back alley lighting another cigarette.
"At the rate you're going today you might as well start treatment for lung cancer," John commented. He came up and stood next to his best mate, his flat mate, and held his head high like a solider always does. Sherlock took a long pull of his cig and then extended his hand offering some to John. He declined like always and Sherlock merely shrugged.
"Are you okay?"
"If by okay you mean overwhelmed by this strange human emotion you call grief than I'm doing just peachy." He almost laughed at the jest of it all. He felt like such a joke. John sighed and waited for Sherlock to finish his smoke.
"Let's go get something to eat. We need to get you away from this. I'm sure Sid will fix us something really nice. Come on it's not far from here a good walk will do you some good," John insisted nicely. Sherlock gazed at his dearest friend and after a long pause he nodded. They walked in silence for a little while until Sherlock stopped and sighed.
"How are you supposed to go on? What do you do when someone who changed your life dies?" Sherlock asked. John grimaced as if recalling a horrible memory. He then did something completely out of character. He took the last little bit of Sherlock's cigarette and inhaled deeply. Coughing a little he tossed it onto the ground at his feet and ground his toe into it firmly putting it out. Sherlock noted the motion and stored it away.
"I did it. You died, right in front of me. My best friend and I had to pick up the pieces and live like you would have wanted me to," John paused. "That was not in misery and I know, it's a whole lot of easier than said than done. But if I can do it then the great Sherlock Holmes can do it too."
"How?" Sherlock asked. John held back a laugh. A genius like Sherlock and his people skills and how well he was tapped into his emotional side he shouldn't be shocked that he was asking John for help. The man didn't know about the sun for Christ sake so why would he know how to coupe with death?
"That's something you have to figure out for yourself. Compose again, catch her killer, I don't know what else to tell you Sherlock. That's my advice to you. It will help that you also have me here. I didn't get that lucky..," John mumbled the last bit. Now it was Sherlock's turn to grimace because of the statement. He stared blankly at the street signs before starting to walk again.
"Catch her killer….yes…it's brilliant…," And then he fell silent, lost in thought. John didn't get a word out of him the rest of the time they were out.