CHAPTER II
NOTHING IS EASY
Sherlock knew nothing was easy for normal people with normal, dull and boring brains. But after seeing John, his very best friend, crying after the death of his beloved wife who had also been his friend, Sherlock understood sometimes things aren't that easy, not even for him.
He spent the whole night hugging John, rubbing his back with his hands and trying to calm him down. However, it was impossible to do so. John cried and cried, and it seemed like he was never going to stop.
Mycroft arrived a bit later than Sherlock and decided to leave them alone and stay out of the scene. It was devastating to see John, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, a brave man crying uncontrollably and begging for someone to bring his wife back. Mycroft sighed sadly as he saw his brother crying as well. He even found himself looking inside his pockets for a handkerchief to wipe the small tears falling from his green eyes. The Holmes brothers were fond of Mary, very fond of her and not only because she was John's wife, but also because she had won their hearts. It was impossible not to love that woman when she was intelligent, always smiling and mostly important, making John a very happy man.
After hours, John stopped crying when he felt his eyes were heavier than ever. He cleaned his face with the back of his palms and sighed when he saw his best friend caressing his hand. He looked up and realised Sherlock had been crying with him as well. There's always a first time for everything. And that night, the same night John allowed himself to cry in front of his friend, was the same night he saw Sherlock crying sincerely and sadly for the first time.
They knew they couldn't be there in each others arms just crying. There were a lot of things to be done and he didn't need and he didn't want anyone's pity. Not even Sherlock's, nor Mycroft's.
"John, how are you?" Asked Sherlock softly. He could see how sad, tired and angry his friend was only looking at him into his blue eyes.
"How do you think I am, Sherlock? Mary is dead and I can't bring her back. I was there when she died and I - I - I didn't do a fucking thing! I was there - I saw her dying and I couldn't do a damn thing!" John yelled while trying to break the contact with his friend. As soon as John raised his voice, Mycroft approached them.
"John, I can do all the paperwork -."
"I don't want your fucking pity! Go away! You weren't there you can't -."
Sherlock ignored his words and hugged his friend one more time. John's fists tried to fight his friend, he tried to stay away from him but he couldn't. The sad doctor couldn't say no to his only friend.
"It's OK John, I'll help you. OK? I'll help you." Sherlock reassured his friend and looked at his brother.
Mycroft nodded and left the hospital.
That's when Sherlock realised he needed to be as strong as a concrete wall, he needed to be there for John, for Mary, and to pick up the pieces of the broken man who was crying in his arms.
It was raining the day of the funeral.
Some people present were protecting themselves under their umbrellas, dark umbrellas, but John didn't care. He was standing in front of the closed coffin and the only thing he wanted to do was do something so he could be the one being buried right now and not Mary.
Mary didn't deserve it. Mary deserved to live a long life, with his husband and their children and be happy.
John cursed the God he believed in for taking his Mary away from him. For taking his wife and their son. John wanted to find his own gun and shoot his brains and be buried next to her. Sherlock was there with him the day after and he had slept some hours on the detective's bed. He even hated himself for sleeping when his wife had just died.
And, when he thought Sherlock wasn't looking, he found the gun and pointed at his own head trying to end the pain in his heart.
It didn't had any bullets left.
Sherlock slapped him hard across the face that day, after Mary's death and before the funeral. John looked at him surprised, it was the first time they had used any kind of physical force against each other. Sherlock was crying. He told him Mary would be disappointed.
John knew she was.
A few members of her small family was there to leave their flowers and their condolences to the poor man. That's what John was, a poor man. Greg and Molly, Anderson and Sally, D.I. Dimmock, Sherlock, Mycroft and his assistant, Mrs Hudson, all of them were there, standing next to him and around the closed coffin while it was being covered with land.
He wanted to punch himself for being mute. But the truth is he could barely articulate a word or two after that day.
John only threw two white roses, the ones he knew Mary loved so much, over the coffin while seeing it disappear under the ground and cried quietly, letting countless tears fall down his pale cheeks, knowing the love of her life was going to be confined under the ground, inside a wooden box to never be with him again.
Sherlock took his hand the whole time and shared with him his own umbrella.
Wasn't it a coincidence it was raining the same day his love was being buried? Was the sky crying with him? Was God apologizing for taking Mary away from him? John shook his head and tried to clean his face and his eyes, but he found it quite a difficult thing to do when he was facing a gray stone with his wife's name engraved on it. More if there was also the tiny life of the baby he wished for so long as well.
John didn't say a word when he was left alone in front of Mary's grave. As soon as the coffin had been completely buried and covered with land, everyone left the place in silence. No one stopped to say a word to the widower, but they only stopped to left all the white roses they could, in memory of Mary Watson and her little baby.
"I'm going to miss you, I'll miss you so much Mary. You don't know how much I love you. I'll always love you, I promised it, remember? The day I proposed, and when we got married. I'm not going to forget you and please, forgive me, I'm sorry Mary - I'm sorry."
The broken doctor knelt down over the mud and kissed his hand and then he touched the gray stone. He turned around and walked away from Mary's grave.
Sherlock was waiting for him a few meters away.
The car ride back to Baker Street was silent and Sherlock agreed it was the most difficult moment of his - their lives. Unspoken words, but Sherlock knew John wasn't able to go back to his flat, to the flat he had been sharing with Mary for so long. And even if John wanted, Sherlock knew his friend couldn't go there yet.
For the moment, Sherlock knew John was going to stay at his flat, until someday they could sort out the situation.
When they arrived, John was the first one to get off the car, open the door of Baker Street, run the stairs and finally close himself in his old room. Sherlock decided it was for the best to leave him alone for a while, to clear his mind, and cry. Because the detective knew he was crying, sobbing loudly.
And Sherlock cried as well, because Mary had left a hole on everyone's hearts.
Even on his.
