It's late winter, or early spring. You could never quite tell in London. A thin layer of snow is seeping slowly into the ground, but the flowers persevere, lending a warmer tinge to the grey morning. Disoriented from the unexpected jump, John's only thought as he regains his balance is that it's a nice place, empty of the noises of the city but with its spires still glistening in the distance. Even under clouded skies, with a chilly wind ripping through his clothes, it's nice.

Those are his thoughts, at least, until he sees the casket.

Something sinks in his stomach, and he rounds on Harry.

"You are not bringing me to my own funeral!" he hisses through clenched teeth.

"And why not?" she retorts, already pulling him down the path.

He stumbles behind her, dragging his feet. "Because, that's just… well, it's odd!"

She sends a puzzled look in his direction. "Because everything else that has happened to you recently is normal."

It shuts him up long enough for her to lead them into the tiny throng of people. No one seems to notice their presence, despite the fact that when he looks to his left he is practically brushing arms with Sally Donovan.

"I did not expect so many people," he admits. Truly, the space under the shade of a bow-backed oak tree is filled with somber faces. His mum and dad, people from his school days, army mates, the lot of Scotland Yard. Mike, Sarah, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Anderson, even, he's surprised to see, Mycroft. But he has to work to fight the bitter surge of disappointment he feels when he notices the absence of a shock of dark hair and dramatic coat among the crowd.

"Looking for someone?" Harry murmurs as the minister drones on. John shoots her a glance, but before he can reply, someone else does.

"Why isn't he here?" Sally whispers anxiously. John starts, fearing for a moment that he isn't as invisible as he thought he was, but it soon becomes clear that she was speaking with Lestrade next to her. The inspector shrugs minutely, but his eyes are also almost desperately searching the faces grouped around the long, black box.

Swallowing, Donovan shakes her head. "There's no case. It's a Sunday. He has no reason not to be here. I knew it, that wanker - no, I can't even believe this. After all that poor man did for him, after everything-"

"Hey," Lestrade murmurs, for people are starting to stare. "Maybe he can't."

"I told him to stay away, I did."

"Donovan, it isn't Sherlock's-"

"I know," she cuts him off, and inhales shakily. Her hand dashes below her eye in a furtive gesture. "I just… I thought it meant something, you know? Thought they meant something. And I liked the bloke. I never imagined this."

Lestrade's eyelids squeeze tightly together, and to John's eyes, in that moments he looks very, very old. "No one did. None of us. God. Some detectives we are."

It would be funny anywhere else. Sally doesn't reply for a long time, and they stand, half-listening to the pastor talk about good deeds and golden shores and the valley of the shadow of death. At last, she whispers, "For the first time I'm worried about him. Sher-. The psychopath."

Her confession hangs in the air over their heads, heavy and grey. "Me too," Lestrade sighs eventually. His stoic façade, crumbling at the edges, finally breaks, and he stretches a comforting arm around her. "I'm terrified for him."

They stand quietly, listening to the remainder of the sermon and leaning into the comfort in each other.

John stands apart from them, and John lies in the casket.

A heavy feeling is growing in his chest, worse than anything the past few years had thrown at him. It's a horrible, sick sensation - being talked about as if you're not there. What's worse, he learns, is being talked about in the context of the things you've left behind.

A prayer is spoken, and the sleek edges of the wooden case disappear into a hole in the icy ground. His mum steps forward, cradled by his father. Both of their faces are contorted in expressions John thinks he will never forget. They throw dirt into the hole, his mum chases it with a blown kiss from her watery lips. He saw this at Harry's funeral before. He decides he never wants to see it again.

"Harry," he chokes out, and only now realizes that his grip has become vice-like on her arm. She doesn't want to see any of this either, though - he can see it in her stricken eyes. She needs only to hear his strangled cry for help, for get me out of here, for I can't stand this anymore, can't you see my heart is ripping itself apart?, before they are off, whirling once more through the vast chasms of space and time. The opening notes of a hymn chase after them, and John can hear the words ringing in his ears.

I once was lost, but now I'm found. Was blind, but now I see.

When their feet touch softly down, it is in a place John knows to be home.