Sherlock never says goodbye.
Sherlock Holmes didn't like goodbyes. Very much like his own mother. The problem is, Sherlock thought, that they are pointless. They waste time. However on this occasion, as Sherlock looked down at the large collection of flowers, he couldn't help but feel he had been ripped of the only goodbye he would have made. He tried to speak but logic told him otherwise. That decaying body wasn't a person any longer. Anger boiled inside of him.
If only he had been able to say goodbye. One last chance to talk to him. Say everything he had been fighting against because it wasn't right. Maybe, Sherlock thought, he wouldn't be hurting like this. He didn't know if it was guilt or what normal people called heartache. What he did know was that his only chance of a proper goodbye was gone due to a bullet to the chest.
Sherlock glared at the stone in front of him. He hated being reduced to this. This would be his last chance of a goodbye. The problem was it would never be a real one. Sherlock's whispering voice carried in the gentle breeze as he slowly walked out of the cemetery.
"Goodbye, John."
