A few days had gone by with no visitors; perhaps they knew that John would need some space. But that space would soon deteriorate at the funeral.
Mrs Hudson made tea for them both that morning and they sat in the living room together, in near silence. The only sounds were of the cars passing by and of them taking a sip from their tea cups.
"You know you don't have to do this." John said abruptly.
"Do what, dear?" Mrs Hudson looked up.
"Keep me company. I can manage."
Mrs Hudson thought for a moment. "I just don't want you to feel alone, John."
"Well I am alone!" John exclaimed, and made Mrs Hudson jump.
He looked up at the landlady. She looked shocked and sad. "I'm sorry." He said.
"It's quite alright." She took another sip of tea. "Would you like me to leave you?"
"No. We have… we have to talk about the… the…"
"Funeral." Mrs Hudson finished for him.
"Yes, that. Who will be going?" John asked painfully.
"Quite a number; many people want to pay their respects."
"Do they now? What respect did he get before he passed? Where was the respect then?"
"John,"
"I don't want these people, telling me that they're 'sorry', when they could have done something before it happened! He needed to know people still believed him, instead of the papers! Now look!"
"John," Mrs Hudson repeated, and she moved to the sofa and sat next to John, her arm around him.
He inhaled deeply. He didn't want to cry again, not now. He tried his best to hold it back.
"Greg and Molly will be there. They're your friends aren't they?" Mrs Hudson comforted.
"Lestrade believed Sherlock was a fake." John spoke quietly, but angrily.
"I don't think he did, John. He felt under pressure from everyone else; I'm sure he didn't want to believe it; I'm sure he didn't."
"Well he could have stood up to the others and told them the truth, instead of letting it get that far."
"It's over and done now John. Let's not think about what could have been done."
The funeral arrived. It was like time itself was confused, as it felt as if it had taken a long time and yet barely any time at all, to get to this day.
John and Mrs Hudson shared a cab. They sat in silence until they finally arrived and got out of the car. Mrs Hudson could see Greg Lestrade in the distance, and watched as the detective inspector spotted John, and started to make his way over. She hoped that John would be reasonable, especially on a day like this. John hadn't spotted Greg yet, and only saw him when he was just feet away.
"How are you coping?" Greg asked. He didn't know what else he could possibly say.
John thought about how much of a stupid question that was, but answered anyway. "No too well, but thanks for asking."
John wasn't going to hold a grudge. He could see by the look on Greg's face that he was broken too.
"Do you want to walk together?" Greg offered.
"Sure."
They walked down the path of the cemetery together, Mrs Hudson on the other side of John.
The time finally came when John was to give a speech. He hadn't prepared anything at all, but he went up none the less, and stood facing the crowd. He cleared his throat, and everyone stared up at him.
"As you probably know, Sherlock Holmes was my flat mate." John paused, and took a deep breath. "He was also my best friend; and although some of you have known him for longer than myself, I feel as if I have known him forever. I saw sides of him that people seem to think aren't there; the funny, playful sides, and I saw how he cared for people. I even saw the side of dark depression." John took another steady, but slow breath before he went on. "I feel as if I have wronged him by not telling him the truth in time, before… before it happened. I did not pluck up the courage to say that I loved Sherlock Holmes. I loved him for everything about him; the highs and the lows. He never knew this, and now it's too late."
John hung his head, and stepped down, walking back to his seat, feeling eyes following him there. Molly, who was a few rows away, looked over at John.
So he did love him. She thought, and more tears fell down her sad face.
Lestrade, who was sitting next to John, felt even more guilt. Even though it did seem surprising at first, that the doctor loved the detective, it explained so many things, as from what Greg had seen, Sherlock loved John too.
Sherlock looked on from his hidden place. He'd observed the funeral since it started, and he listened intently to John's speech. He tried to blink away his own tears, but one managed to escape.