The funeral was a dismal affair. Though, to be fair, when were they ever not? This one in particular, Sherlock's in particular, was difficult and painful. Closed casket because…well, because he had jumped off of a building to his death. There was only so much that could be done to hide the physical damage. No one wanted to see his once so distinguished features broken to pieces like so many bloody, shattered pieces, ruined, forever lost. No one could bear to see Sherlock lying there, dead, unmoving, eyes closed, not saying a word. Many had often wished (with a passion) that he would just shut the hell up for a moment, just a bloody moment, Greg included, but having him silenced forever…that was not something that any one of them could tolerate.
It was a quiet service, plain, unadorned, not show-offy in the least. Greg imagined that Sherlock would not have wanted a funeral at all. His righteous indignation at being the central part of such a trite convention of the masses against his will would have been spiteful at the least. Greg could picture the young consulting detective's face clearly for a moment, contorted with disgust and disappointment at the ordinary people's mindless conventionality.
There was no afterlife as far as Sherlock had been concerned, no higher power. Things came to a conclusive end with death and that was it. To the consulting detective there had been no point in being so sentimental about these things, dressing them up in delusions of false hope was inane, the tool of a weak mind. Greg begged to differ. At this point, he honestly didn't know what he believed in (the idea that someone or something had let this happen was just unconscionable), but even entertaining the possibility that the only thing left of Sherlock was the broken body in that box, which there were about to bury…He couldn't. He could not do it. If Sherlock were really gone, totally and completely from this world, then what was left? What was the point?
He's not, Greg though firmly, trying to hold back the most recent onslaught of tears he's here in my heart, in my bloody head. It was a poor substitute for the real thing. Sometimes you need the fiction, Sherlock, he sent the message to wherever the consulting detective was, hoping that he could hear his thoughts in death as well as he had in life, Sometimes you need it, even if it isn't true, because you won't survive otherwise. That's what we ordinary people need to do. He wiped his eyes. As he did so, he wondered with a troubling shock to his system, how much longer he would be able to recall Sherlock in such detail: his voice, his face, his habits, and gestures. They would all fade with time until there was only the vaguest sense of him left to Greg. What would he do then?
When Mycroft and Greg had entered the church, the DI held his partner's hand so tightly that it was a wonder he didn't shatter any of the bones or leave bruises. To his credit, Mycroft didn't even flinch from the pressure; he just gripped back, and smiled tightly. Greg did not want to be here. But then, who would? As they walked up the aisle, he paused to look about him, observe his surroundings, but really to avoid considering their current destination.
The church was large and grandiose (Mycroft had clearly had a hand in choosing the venue). It was also dark. There were tiny windows through which faint rays of sun illuminated the floating dust motes, black marble pillars, dull flagstone floors, dark wood paneled benches, and a sort of cavernous silence that soaked up the dismal echoes and perpetuated the feeling of emptiness and conclusiveness. Whatever light or sound came into the space was quickly absorbed and dulled.
The size of the place was in direct contradiction to the congregation of mourners that gathered inside of it. There were very few who had come to see the final rites of the late consulting detective, literally and metaphorically, fallen from grace. They hovered near the altar, close to one another and yet infinitely distant.
As they drew closer, Greg saw Mrs. Hudson clutching a handkerchief to her face with both hands. She was standing next to Molly Hooper whose shoulders were hunched about her ears. The young woman was attempting to say something soothing to the 221's landlady, but was failing miserable in the attempt, to judge by the increased sobbing. The poor girl was glancing around frantically, looking for a way out. Her eyes seemed to rest briefly on Mycroft with something akin to relief, as if he might rescue her. Greg thought he saw Mycroft shake his head slightly, but he wasn't sure and, in any case, he was at that moment waylaid by Henry Knight, who had come down for the service. He shook Greg's hand vigorously, muttering something about gratitude and appreciation, but the DI didn't really give a damn. There were a few people that might have been members of Sherlock's homeless network. That was it.
No one from the Yard dared show their faces here, not even the few officers that had been on relatively "good" terms with the consulting detective. It was probably for the best that none of them had come. So help him, if Greg had seen Donovan or Anderson today, he would not have been held liable for his actions. They wouldn't have been mourning; they would have, most likely been gleeful. Just thinking about it made Greg's blood boil. He tried to tamp the lid closed on those particular feelings. Anger was good, and it was easy, but the danger lay in the direction that it could take Greg. His thoughts tended to dwell on the fact that he was responsible and how could he have allowed-? No, Greg, not today. He was angry with Moriarty for creating this situation and playing with their lives, with Donovan and Anderson for the part they had played in forcing Sherlock to such extremes. Most of all, though, he hated himself for allowing any of this to happen. That last was slowly and painfully eating him alive inside, keeping him awake at night, making him feel sick, disgusted, dirty…
Yet, even being angry at himself was easier than dealing with the underlying fact, which Greg tried to violently suppress and ignore, that, at some level, he was angry with Sherlock for dying, to killing himself, for leaving. As much as Greg wanted to ignore it, he couldn't. It kept flashing before him in a truly devastating way. It was not just that Sherlock had died. No, it was not only the shock of him being gone, which was quite enough of a gut wrenching blow every time Greg was forced to remember it, every time he checked his mobile for a text, every time he saw Mycroft's face, every single moment that he managed to forget, for even a second, about what had happened. No, it was that hard on the heels of that knowledge came the realization that not only had Sherlock died but he had taken his own life. Which, was so counter to everything that Greg knew about Sherlock, so completely contradictory to his character, something that Greg would never have considered. The boy had had some self-harmful tendencies, Greg knew, but killing himself? What on earth could have driven him to that extreme? What would have led him to a point from which there was no return? How desperate must he have felt? Then Greg was back to blaming himself for putting Sherlock in that position. He hated himself for it. But there was another part, a darker part, that hated Sherlock for not realizing that they could have found a way out of this together. Sherlock had had Greg, he had had Mycroft and John; they could have fixed this.
Nothing made him feel this paradoxical spiral of emotion like looking at the chief mourner. John Watson was standing poker straight (Greg recognized the ex-army doctor's military stance. Firm and focused but only a hair's breadth from completely falling apart). One of John's hands rested on the lid of the highly polished black coffin, his face betrayed nothing. His expression was so fixed that Greg didn't think he was capable of moving it, lest the façade break completely. No one was approaching the blogger, who looked strange in a suit, and whose aura radiated anger, devastation, and betrayal so strongly you could almost see them in a haze surrounding his person.
Mycroft had wandered off a few moments ago into the shadowy expanses of the church, undoubtedly to complain about the floral arrangements (or perhaps to continue avoiding John as much as humanly possible). He was typically devoted to detail (well, what would you expect from a Holmes? Or the man responsible for running a nation? Let alone the two combined into one?), but this trait had been amplified to a slightly frightening degree over the past few days. Greg appreciated it on some level because he would not have been able to manage all this by himself and he understood that being able to control mundane things was Mycroft's way of staying calm and dealing with complex and troubling issues, but he was worried that he was suppressing a bit too much. It's his brother for God's sakes, Greg narrowed his eyes, he's acting like he's orchestrating a bloody play for all the emotion he's showing right now. He didn't want Mycroft to hurt, that would be cruel, but he did want him to demonstrate, even if only for a moment, that he was feeling an iota of what Greg was. Perhaps he was just jealous of Mycroft's stoicism? Greg turned back to the blogger now; he could deal with Mycroft later.
He approached John cautiously, standing behind him and clearing his throat slightly. John didn't say anything; he barely moved at all, just the tiniest, most infinitesimal nod of his head to let Greg know that his presence was recognized. The doctor's eyes never changed their position, they starred at the part of the casket where Sherlock's face would be (bashed, bloody, broken) hidden beneath the lid and the simple arrangement of lilies arranged atop it. The DI wished, fervently, that John was picturing Sherlock alive rather than wrecked, dwelling on happy memories rather than the dismal recent events that had stolen him away. The current direction of his own thoughts did not leave him with much hope for John's.
He rested his hand on John's shoulder. Neither of them said a word. Greg stared at the coffin too, and felt slightly faint, thinking of what lay inside it.
Greg would never be able to remember the ceremony, or any of the details of the drive to the cemetery. He did remember, however, with striking clarity, standing by the graveside as they lowered Sherlock's body into the ground. The image of that moment was burned into his memory and would stay there for the rest of his life. His body erupted in chills and his heart clenched. He felt that part of himself was being interred as well, never to be recovered.
Mycroft stood at the foot of the grave, leaning heavily on his umbrella, face inscrutable. Greg and John stood on either side of it. John's jaw was clenched so tightly that Greg thought he could hear the man's teeth grinding from where he stood, a gaping hole separating them in their grief. John had not said a single word in Greg's presence since he had seen him in the mortuary and, though the younger man's face was impassive, closed off, and shut down completely, tears were flowing freely down his face. John looked like he would gladly jump into the ground in this moment to be with Sherlock if the consulting detective would not come back to him. It was written clearly in his shaking frame, dark hooded eyes, and the desperate gleam that shone from them. It was so painful to watch that Greg had to avert his eyes. He couldn't look at John; he couldn't look at the coffin, as they lowered it into the ground; he could not bear to see if Mycroft's face had finally broken. Instead he stood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his greatcoat, staring at the grass underfoot, trying to will away his own assault of tears.
The other mourners had left. It was only the three of them now. Just these three, watching the fourth of their number leave them for good. The finality of this moment, the incontrovertible end of the once great Sherlock Holmes, was like a final twist of the knife of grief, but Greg knew that he needed to bear witness. When it was over, it was over, there was no longer any hope that Sherlock would jump up and shout surprise, or casually, brazenly stroll in the Yard demanding a case, or randomly pop into the flat at the most awkward moment. He would never go or be anywhere ever again. The coffin at the bottom of the grave was stark in its finality. It was a not joke; it was not a ruse; it was real. This was the end of Sherlock, the conclusion, the sad, bitter end.
Greg glanced at Mycroft who had bent his head, at John who had fallen to his knees, and at the patch of earth that had swallow his friend, his son, and his child whole. A sob escaped him before he could help it. A light rain began to fall. Mycroft opened his umbrella and went to stand by John shielding the younger man from precipitation that he was wholly unaware of, and Greg joined him there. After a moment of just standing, the two together heaved the army-doctor up from the ground and steered him (forcibly) away from the grave. Greg did not look back. He couldn't, not if he was to help carry John forward.
Goodbye, he thought.
AN:
So here is Chapter 3. What did you think? I would be very happy to hear your opinions. I am discovering that when I write angst I really write angst. I have decided to continue this story, so look for a new chapter soon. To save me from continual heartbreak (and you as well), I've written a nonsense fluffy johnlock piece to be posted soon (a palate cleansing before we have more sadness). Thank you for taking the time to read this. Please, if you get the chance, leave a review and let me know what you think.
Much love.
