He had never thought it possible. Never contemplated what it would look like. Never wondered how it would make him feel. It had taken him completely by surprise, which was a hard thing to do. Yet here he stands, watching silently. The sight of it makes him want to run to the man. To John. John, who is standing over his grave. The black headstone simply engraved, Sherlock Holmes.
Mycroft had come to the funeral, and left as soon as possible. Lestrade was there. Molly too. Mrs. Hudson had stayed behind when it was over. But John was still here. His right hand resting on the headstone. His head bowed. Talking silently to his friend. Praying for… something. Sherlock tries to read his lips.
"One more miracle. Don't be dead."
And then it started. Slowly at first. Quietly. Just one tear, but Sherlock saw it. Like he saw everything.
He had thought it would be fun, to show up at his own funeral. To spy and see what everyone had thought of him. He had never been so wrong. And now poor John was sobbing. Over a man he barely knew. The wind swirls beneath Sherlock's tree.
"John. Please stop."
He calls silently, pleadingly. The doctor looks up, but there is no one there.
"I can't do this if you cry."
He mutters to himself. It was a sacrifice that had to be made, of course. And if John never trusted him again, at least he was safe. One day he could go back. But not now. John would have to go on.
An unfamiliar feeling stirs in the detective's heart. Pain. Loss. Sorrow. Regret. But it was a cold fact of life. He had to realize this. John would suffer, and it would be his fault.
Trust issues.
Sherlock laughs quietly. He feels sorry for the psychiatrist. But he would keep John safe. If only for his own benefit. He was, after all, a master of many talents. He could do it easily. He watches as John limps away. Limps.
Oh God. He thinks. My fault. My fault. My fault.
He swears to himself he will make it up to John. To his doctor. To his companion. To his friend.
Damn you Moriarty. Even in death, you hurt me.