After watching the Reichenbach Fall I was inspired to write some mushy, fluffy 'what happened next' story (probably one of many) So thanks for reading!

In Memoriam

Greg Lestrade felt guilty.

Not because he had never told Sherlock how important he was, or that he was a good man, or that his life was worth more that the population of London.

No, none of those things made him feel guilty, they made him empty.

He was sat staring at the one blasted object that had brought his world down. The bag of Sherlock Holmes's personal possessions had just arrived and within the harmless plastic bag was Sherlock's life.

It contained only four objects, his scarf, his keys, his phone and a small dictaphone -type recorder that held, forever on record, the last few minutes of Sherlock's life.

Sherlock was genuine, Sherlock had cared and Greg had doubted him.

He didn't remember how many times he had listened to the contents of the tape, twice to get everything straight in his head, countless more just to hear Sherlock's voice.

'Everyone,' the true fraud had said, 'everyone.'

John.

Mrs. Hudson.

Lestrade.

Sherlock had sounded broken, defeated, resolute when he had spoken his name.

Sherlock counted him as a friend, died for him and when Sherlock had most needed him Lestrade had let him down.

Of course Sherlock wasn't a fraud. He and he alone knew why Sherlock had worked for free because every life saved; every criminal brought to justice was worth more than any fortune. Why else would he go over endless cold cases when the yard were capable of dealing with a crime without him? Boredom, yes, but Sherlock was a world-class chemist and he had plenty of other things to be getting on with in that circle of the world.

But Sherlock was a good man, a selfless man and he didn't even realize how precious he was.

The text on the phone had been his unraveling. One text for everyone who had ever meant something for him. Lestrade's was the shortest but it meant more than anything else anyone had ever said to him.

Thank you Greg, for everything. – Sherlock

So many years of memories in one line. It was too much for Greg who rested his head on his arms and grieved whispering endlessly

'I hope you knew what you meant.'

'You were important to.'

'You were a good man Sherlock Holmes, better than I'll ever be.'

Mycroft Holmes felt nothing at all.

He deserved it, the emptiness. He'd led Sherlock into it and nothing would ever change that. He'd ruined his brother's reputation and led him to his death.

He'd found out from a newspaper. What sort of a brother was he?

He went to the funeral, stayed silent and left before anyone saw him. He visited Sherlock's grave once to apologise and then left him in peace. It was what Sherlock would have wanted after all.

Sally Donovan felt worthless.

She was frustrated as well, mainly at herself because now she felt like she had blood on her hands, that she had held the largest role in leading Sherlock Holmes to do it.

Oh the irony.

'One day we'll be standing around a body and it'll be Sherlock Holmes that put it there'

Yeah, right, bet you never thought it would be his own.

Somehow she just knew how wrong she had always been about Sherlock before she had heard the tape, seen the papers (that she now wanted to scream at and tear up).

She felt worthless, what kind of a detective was she to accuse a person who had so willingly helped so many others? To accuse an innocent person? To call the most human person she had ever known so many horrible things and never see the hurt, the heart, that lay underneath the layers of defense built up against people just like her over so many years of loneliness.

She saw now that he had had no friends for only one reason, no one you was willing to be his. Sherlock could be a good friend, a good man; he had for John because John had been willing to do the same in return for a broken man.

He'd even left a text for her; it only made her feel worse.

Turns out we were both wrong, you really have the makings of a good detective Sally; please put your skills to good use. Oh, and ditch Anderson, his IQ will only drag you down – SH

She'd laughed through the welling tears, even in death he was determined to make one last jab. But it proved that he'd cared about her.

And Sally had set off the accusations that had sent him over the edge.

Sherlock was innocent, Moriarty was real, they were both dead.

She didn't even feel worthy to attend his funeral. But when no one was around, when no one was looking she visited his grave apologized in silence to someone who couldn't hear.

Molly Hooper felt conflicted.

She knew the truth about Sherlock. She had seen him scared, alone, no way out. She had sat with him as he broke, pieced him back together and helped him come up with a plan in the precious few hours he had left.

Molly had also known that there was no guaranteed chance of success.

Sherlock's 'body' was very convincing, the DNA records were edited appropriately and, ironically, Molly was the one asked to identify the body. When she got home she tended to the injuries Sherlock had suffered from his miscalculation, an awkward landing after catching the side of the lorry rather than landing on the bags.

She knew how much it must have hurt to move to the pavement even with her help, the stay still, give no reaction when he was moved, both physically and emotionally.

Molly stayed by his side as he recovered; frustrated by his body's weakness but religiously doing the exercise she set him so he could get back on his feet quicker, hunt down Moriaty's men quicker.

The day of the funeral she arrived home to find him staring out of the window squeezing the stress ball perhaps slightly too hard.

Sherlock was hurting too.

The following day he was off out into the dangerous world once again.

Molly was stuck mourning a man who wasn't dead. She had to comfort everyone else, pretend she was as upset as them and sometimes she genuinely was because Sherlock had got her into this. But in the end she forgave him as she always did.

When they found the texts there was no message for her. They gave her sympathetic looks but when she got home she smiled.

Everything that needed to be said had been the night he had left.

'I just wanted to thank you Molly, for being there for me, for doing all this. You always counted, you were always important I just didn't realize and now it's too late. I'm so sorry, and I'm sorry for what's coming for you.'

Molly had smiled softly, taken the broken man's hand.

'If you ever need anything, I'll be here.'

A glance was exchanged, no words needed to be said.

John Watson felt lost.

Sherlock was gone, his best friend, his other half and John had watched him take his own life. Why, he still didn't know, because Sherlock wasn't a lie, there had to be a reason and John would find it, it was what kept him going.

Lestrade gave him the recording and the text meant for him.

John, I'm so glad I met you, you've changed me, for the better of course. You're my only and best friend and I can die happy because I know you'll be there with me. Please don't mourn me, I don't deserve it; move on with your life. If you want to do something for me do this, don't forget me, I certainly won't forget you (if there is such a thing as an afterlife that is). Thank you. Most sincerely yours. Sherlock

It was so completely Sherlock that John wanted to laugh and cry. Every night he fell asleep listening to Sherlock's voice.

Sherlock Holmes felt.

He'd always felt but now everyone could see. He watched his friends slowly falling apart, unable to do anything and chuckled at the irony when his chest tightened painfully.

'I will burn the heart out of you'

It seemed so, even from beyond the grave.

In the end it took him three years to track them all down and destroy all that James Moriarty had ever created. And when he returned to London he returned determined to make everything alright again because he had promised himself that he had a heart for a reason.

When the physical and emotional wreck that was Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway of 221B looking in at the reunion of his friends. He knew then that everything would be alright again.

When he smiled a hesitant worried smile, flinched at the slightest moment towards him, relaxed when warm arms embraced him, held him up when his legs finally failed to support him, something was fixed within everyone.

When they spent three consecutive days watching him recover, cooling his raging temperature for eating nothing, not sleeping, drinking who know what, they recovered with him.

And when Sherlock walks into the living room under his own power, no longer horrendously thin or blindingly pale and realizes that he had friends, family, people who cared he healed.

And they healed with him.

Fin.