Humpty Dumpty
"Sherlock!"
It was the last thing Sherlock Holmes ever heard.
A man and a woman stand in front of a grave. It is a lonely, sad little grave, and no living thing dared to grow upon the soil. The woman wears a black hat that obscures her face, and the man wears a simple black suit. In her hands is a bouquet of beautiful white flowers, and she kneels gently down to place it before the headstone. There are tears on her face, some dried, some fresh. The man hugs the woman briefly, and she leaves, patting his back in consolation. The man looks unbearably sad as she turns away, and he kneels down, his graying hair ruffled by the breeze. "Sherlock. God, I miss you." John Watson pauses as his throat constricts painfully, and takes a deep breath in a pathetic attempt to compose himself. "You were the best and wisest man I have ever known." He chokes on the words, because he wants to say more, knows he should say more, but the words won't come out.
"No one could be that clever." Sherlock's rich voice rings in his head.
"You were." John whispers, because even though he's had some time to think, some time to read the terrible news they've been writing about Sherlock, he knows that Sherlock couldn't possibly have faked any of it. The media won't convince him; the detective himself couldn't fool him.
"Stay where you are. Keep your eyes fixed on me!"
"Please, please, Sherlock." John barely hears his own voice. "Just one more thing, mate, one more thing. Just one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't… be…dead." A tear flows freely down his cheek, staining it.
"I'm a fake."
The dam holding back the ocean of tears suddenly gives way, and he is beyond control, beyond any sort of coherent thought except Don'tbedeaddon'tbedead and pleaseSherlockonemoremiracle. John doesn't even register that he's fallen to his knees, almost crushing the white flowers Mrs. Hudson placed in front of the headstone. He looks at the black marble headstone and thinks he can see a face, a pale, cold face made up of angles and cheekbones and lonely eyes.
John…
The wind seems to carry Sherlock's voice to him, and John can barely breathe because the grief is too much and the air seems to lack oxygen. John remembers all of Sherlock's quirks, from the awful experiments he did to shooting the wall to playing such lovely music on the violin. He even recalls the smell of him, though it is indescribable beyond Sherlock. In his mind, John can almost see Sherlock popping out of the grave, and this makes him smile for a brief second until he remembers it can't possibly be.
"It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."
"Leave a note when?"
"Goodbye John."
"One more miracle, Sherlock, I am begging you. Please come back. Come back home." John sobs into the headstone, and barely registers two pairs of feet cautiously walking towards him. He doesn't look up, and doesn't flinch when a warm hand rests gently on his shoulder.
There's a quiet, sad sigh from the man who's touching him, and John looks up. He almost jumps in shock at the sight of Mycroft Holmes, whose eyes are rimmed red. His face is blotchy from crying, and even his umbrella seems sad today. On his left is Greg Lestrade, who looks to be trying hard not to lose it in front of John and Mycroft.
"I am sorry for your loss." Mycroft removes his hand from John's shoulder and discreetly looks away, allowing John to compose himself. He's never liked Mycroft, but now John's glad for the company, glad for even a small piece of Sherlock.
He can only nod right now, and wipes his eyes on the back of his hand. Greg looks so sorrowfully at the headstone that it makes John want to wail. "God, Mycroft, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry!" Mycroft's confused face only makes John feel worse.
"What for?"
John swallows. "I should have been able to prevent this, I could have tried to stop Moriarty and save Sherlock…" Mycroft holds up a hand to stop his babbling.
There's a deep, woeful sigh from Mycroft, and when the older man looks at John he sees pity in Mycroft's eyes. "John Watson, I believe there is someone to blame for my brother's death, but it most certainly is not you. Lestrade had more of a guilty conscience than you do, and it took me hours to convince him otherwise." At this, Greg lowers his eyes guiltily and shuffles his feet. "Please, do not tarnish Sherlock's name by saying that his best friend is to blame for his death."
He can feel the urge to weep all over again, but by now John knows his eyes are completely cried out, at least until tomorrow. He nods gratefully to a distinctly uncomfortable Mycroft and heaves a great breath. It did help, even though John still feels wretched inside.
John leaves the two alone to mourn for the detective, and takes a short walk on the path near the grave. For once, John's glad that his gun isn't anywhere near his body, because the grief and desperation, though slightly dulled by (surprisingly) Mycroft Holmes, the 'Iceman', is still unbearable. "Sherlock, if you can hear me, I want you to know that your brother loves you very much." It seemed almost as if Sherlock's presence/ghost was still very much unsatisfied by this statement. "Hell, Sherlock, I love you very much."
There was a feeling of utter smugness in Sherlock's presence, at least in John's imagination. "I know what I've said about not being gay, and I'm not gay. But it is impossible to not love you, Sherlock, because you were such a brilliant, brilliant man. No matter what, I love you. Please, please stop being dead."
John waits for a sign of life, a sign of Sherlock bloody Holmes, anything. His lip twitches as he imagines Sherlock jumping out from behind a tree with a ridiculous mustache, saying "Not dead!" He waits a little longer and the depression nearly kills him right there as he realizes he is going insane, that he is cracking from the inside out, and a fresh wave of tears hit him and oh god he really is dead.
John remembers the soft blue scarf Sherlock almost never took off outside the flat, the way his eyes would light up maniacally whenever a new, interesting case popped up. "Stop it now, Sherlock."
No one could be that clever.
Keep your eyes fixed on me!
Pieces of that day start to come back, and John recalls the exact words Sherlock said.
Stay exactly where you are. Don't move.
Keep your eyes fixed on me!
No one could be that clever.
Stay exactly where you are…
John runs these words through his brain, looking, looking for a clue. He smiles to himself.
Stay exactly where you are…
It's a trick. Just a magic trick.
Just a magic trick, John thinks. Yes indeed.
One year later…
John shrugs on his coat, looking around the empty flat for his keys. He could've sworn they were there just a minute ago, but they've vanished from the table.
Cursing his absentmindedness, the doctor takes his heavy coat off, placing it back on the coat rack. A quick search under the table and the armchairs reveal no keys, but under the couch is a folded piece of paper. Curiously, John picks it up, holding it up to the light seeping through the window.
He grins to himself. The ink is still fresh (it smudges under his fingers), and he recognizes the handwriting immediately.
Not dead.
It flutters to the floor as John lets out a whoop of happiness and relief. He thinks triumphantly, I was right!
There's a jangling of keys, and when John turns around, hoping beyond hope, his heart almost gives out.
Sherlock bloody Holmes is standing in 221B, holding his keys.