Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.
Songs used in this chapter: Hometown Glory - Adele
Cemeteries of London - Coldplay
WARNING! SPOILER ALERTS AHEAD! Well kinda... This is post-Reichenbach!
Enjoy! And don't forget to review ;3
Chapter 2: Hometown Glory, or Cemeteries of London
She stepped out of the sleek black box, politely tipping the cabbie before stepping out onto the hard concrete. She watched the cab drive off down the long stretch of road, surrounded by full, leafy green trees, swaying softly in the wind., before walking down a narrow path, listening to the sharp sound of her high heels click-clack on the pavement. She suddenly stopped dead. An overwhelming feeling came over her, and she ignored all formalities that the cold, dead, concrete offered. She took off across the grass, in between running and walking, going nowhere in particular, but knowing where she was going all the same. This…feeling led her to to the exact spot. She knew she was right, she had never been so sure in her life. Her convictions were proved true as she looked down at the name on the black slab, stripped of all but two words; a name.
"Sherlock Holmes", it read. That was it. No formalities. Just "Sherlock Holmes." None of this "Friend, husband, son" shit that people liked to tack on. Who was Sherlock Holmes? Who was he to anyone? How could you possibly sum up a relationship with Sherlock in just a simple word, so commonly used?
Her eyelids fluttered, and she finally succumbed, closing her eyes, taking in his aura, his presence. She could feel him. She knew everything there was to know about the man- his family, friends- well, friend, and his work. That was all there was in his file. Just words. No mention of the smiley face spray painted on his wall, punctured by bullet holes, or the sound of a lone violin resounding through Baker St at 3 AM. Not even the nicotine patches, or his trademark black coat. Not the way he folded his hands while thinking deeply, as though in a solemn prayer, nor his "mind palace".
She almost wanted to smile at that. There were words, yes, to describe who Sherlock was, but none you'd typically find on a tombstone.
Sherlock Holmes: friend to a lonely army doctor returning to London from Afghanistan, who would never believe, for one moment, that Sherlock told him a lie.
Sherlock Holmes: aid to a detective inspector when the police weren't clever enough to solve a puzzle on their own
Sherlock Holmes: disturber of the peace to a landlady on Baker St.
Sherlock Holmes: adversary of the Iceman A.K.A The British Government + its umbrella, the forensics analysis who lowered the IQ of the whole street and his secret lover, unbeknownst to his wife. Oh year, and the mad psychopath who believed he WAS Sherlock Holmes. Only, Sherlock was on the side of the angels.
But Irene didn't believe for a second that he was one of them.
No Sherlock wasn't anything. He was just a human. The most human human anyone could have known.
Irene stood there, among the trees, the dirt, the flowers, the dying grass, and the weeping angels. Sherlock would have hated this. She smiled slightly at the thought of Sherlock gazing down at her, standing at the foot of his grave.
It was so…conventional…ordinary.
Flowers? He would have rather had his violin or maybe his skull lying at his grave. Anything but flowers.
Irene decided it must of been Mrs. Hudson's doing. No one who knew Sherlock would leave flowers, or teddy bears, or bits of scripture, or anything else so sentimental at this man's grave. Not even little Molly.
But her; why was Irene left here at his grave? It was daft. Absolutely mental, to be standing among a peaceful (if you could call it that) field of bodies, midday. It gave even Irene the shivers. If she wasn't careful out here in the open, she'd soon be one of them. But she wasn't going to take it back. She wasn't here to say beautiful, heartfelt words in order to console herself over such a loss. She knew exactly why she was here. She was a busy woman, and she didn't have time to wander around London, wallowing in anguish. She always knew exactly where she was going, always had a purpose. And now, she was here to pay tribute to Sherlock. That's all he would ever be to her; just…Sherlock.
With a still heavily masked face, wiped of any emotion whatsoever, she walked away from his grave. What could she have said anyway? She barely knew him, yet knew him so well. It was pointless to sum up her thoughts about him, anyway. What she was more curious about, anyhow, was what was left of the lives of Sherlock's dearly beloved.
In her hidden part of her heart, of all our hearts, in the place where we tuck information or feelings we'd rather seal away, banish from our beings, she felt a twinge of hope. Strange, strange hope. Her eyes widened, pulse quickened as the feeling washed over every part of her.
Suicide? No, it can't be. He wasn't like the rest of them. He wasn't ordinary. He couldn't jump. How cliche. Why did John believe it? Because he saw it. That's why.
Irene Adler had made it a strong point in her work to not believe anything that anyone told her.
Not even seeing is believing. That gas used in H.O.U.N.D. They all saw that hound, yet it wasn't so.
She could fake it, so why couldn't he? Oh yeah…because he had helped her. Irene's heart sank. Maybe she shouldn't have come here after all. It was a stupid idea, she had known from the beginning, but it was the least she owed. She never got the chance to repay him. She shut her mind, to any further thoughts, knowing this train of thought had the potential to open doors which couldn't be so easily closed.
No. Snap out of it Irene. He's dead.
He jumped.
Irene left it at that. She quickly stuffed that unnerving hope back into the abyss of her damaged heart, and left it there, out of sight, out of mind. Some things are easier not thinking about.
