The next 48 hours passed in a strange, almost fevered haze. Even now, my recollection of that time is confused and disordered. I dimly remember that it was Lestrade who led me away from Holmes' side where I believe I had collapsed, or was it Clarky? Holmes' brother Mycroft was there too, or so it seems to me now. I may have swooned. My clearest recollection from that terrible time was of opening my eyes to find my dearest Mary leaning over me, my face wet with her tears,the sting of brandy upon my lips as Mycroft lifted away a small flask.
I fear I was not much use to man nor beast at that moment; it was Mycroft who took charge. He had come to claim the body of Sherlock, who was to be buried within the family vault in Brompton Cemetery. He had refused to allow any further examination of his brother's body, and indeed the coroner had expressed himself satisfied that Holmes' death could be entirely attributed to the fatal mixture of morphine and absinthe. Cause of death was recorded as accidental overdose, and the coroner expressed his personal opinion that the inquest would likely record a verdict of death by misadventure.
Mary took me home in a hansom, and I passed the journey in silence. Though Mary tended to me most gently and tenderly, in truth I felt numb to my very soul; it were as though a part of me had died with Holmes - and perhaps it had. It did not seem possible that life could go on without Sherlock Holmes in it; and yet, that was the prospect before me - an eternity of a life without him. How could I bear it? Surely I should go mad at the very thought.
And yet... and yet, I did not. Somehow, that terrible night passed, and the day that followed. Idid not go mad; I simply drifted, lost in some strange limbo of grief. Mary dressed me, led me to the drawing room, sat me down. She placed my pipe in my hand but it simply dangled from my fingers, a useless thing that did not give me comfort. She placed food before me that I cold not eat; cups of tea that grew cold, undrunk. My mouth tasted of ashes, and I wanted nothing. Even tears seemed beyond me. That evening, she led me back to our bedroom and undressed me before laying me down in our bed. She entreated me with soft words and loving kisses, but I could not return her love. It was not her arms I yearned to feel around me;it was not her lips I longed to kiss.
Eventually she turned away from me and cried herself softly to sleep. My eyes were dry however; I had no more tears left in me.
The day of the funeral dawned, cool and grey. London herself seemed covered over in a grey pall of mourning as a cold rain fell. Mary dressed me in black, she herself also in full mourning with a veil that hid her ashen face. We walked out to the carriage in silence.
I had never seen the church of Holy Trinity so packed as it was that day. The casket lay upon a catafalque shrouded in black silk with a simple wreath of white roses upon it. It seemed the entire police force of the City of London had turned out to honour Holmes; I exchanged nods of greeting with Lestrade, Gregson and Hopkins. Clarky had buried his nose in a handkerchief but bowed his head as I passed him, his eyes redrimmed.
Mycroft Holmes waved me over to the front pew, I would have demurred, but he stepped forward and took me by the elbow. "Come, doctor; your place should be here. Let my brother have his Boswell right to the finish."
I choked then, and would have pulled away but for the feel of so many eyes upon me. Mary pushed me gently towards the pew then slipped quietly into the one behind.
I stared at the shrouded coffin. I failed you, I told it silently. As your doctor, and as your friend. Bitterly I wished I could exchange places with Holmes; it was not right that I should stand here, alive and breathing, in place of him. I was only peripherally aware of the service beginning; I could not take my eyes from the casket. I rose when others rose, sat when they sat, but I could not have told you what hymns were sung or what was said. All I could see was that black wooden box that contained the mortal remains of the one person who had meant the world to me, and I could not stop thinking on how I had never told him.
The church seemed unbearably hot and stifling. The voices all around me became a cacophony of sound. I was dimly aware of a steadying hand under my elbow, other hands that caught me as my vision greyed and I swayed. Voices, concerned faces that swum in and out of my gaze-
"Is he alright?" "I think he's going to faint-" "John,you've gone grey!" "Stand back, give him some air-" "Brandy, has anyone got some - ah, Lestrade, there's a good chap-" "Good lord, catch him, he's going!" "John!"
And then. mercifully, I knew no more.