John breathed in the cool, damp morning air and gazed out to those seated around the grave. He gripped the small podium in front of him, and closed his eyes for a moment, then slowly opened them as he spoke, focusing on the trees in the distance.
"Funerals are for the living. Gives us a chance to say goodbye and send our loved one on their way to where ever we each believe is next after this life. We gather to remind ourselves how much we cared for them and how they in turn cared for us. At least that's what I wanted to speak about today. But when I sat down to write this, I struggled." John paused and looked down at his handwritten words.
"Sherlock did not wear his heart on his sleeve, and in fact denied that he even had a heart. He treated sentiment as if it were a cancerous growth to be lanced off at the first sight. We all cared for Sherlock, expressing it in our own way, but some would say that he rarely showed how much he cared for us."
"Sherlock once told me that his mind is a hard drive, that he would delete unimportant information, like the solar system, and stored critical information, like 241 different types of tobacco ash. He built in his head what he called a Mind Palace, where he stored all this information." John shifted his weight and straightened his shoulders, he wanted them to understand, the image he had in his own mind.
"In Sherlock's Mind Palace, I have imagined that there's a room, for us. It's just like our sitting room at Baker St., with a roaring fire giving off a warm glow, the skull on the mantle, and shelves of books. In this room, I could sit in my chair, pull a book off the shelf, and read some of this critical information about us, that I know he kept and would never delete. In this room I would find the evidence that shows how much he cared."
John softened his face and looked upon Mrs. Hudson. "There's a soft leather book, within it, a drawing of Mrs. Hudson's face, every inch precise, as Sherlock had long ago memorized it. Her birthday is jotted down, along with her preferred types of teas and biscuits. And a picture of her hands, which have given Sherlock so much comfort, for she was one of the few he could tolerate a hug from."
"There's what appears to be a New Scotland Yard Detective's manual, written by Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. While Sherlock would expound on all the knowledge he has given us, he learned the form and function of being a detective from Lestrade, who is one of the few DIs that Sherlock considered competent, which is a high compliment indeed." John gave Lestrade a small nod.
"There's an old, large, hard bound book. A complicated tale of a little boy who idolized his big brother, trying to do all the things he did, trying to keep up. Not always a happy tale, but the story of two brothers more alike than either would care to admit. And then tucked in this book, there's a list of Mycroft's favorite pastries." Mycroft returned John's gaze with a tight smile.
"There's a photo album, that when it's opened, a floral perfume fills the air, the kind Sherlock described as one he always associated with his mother. Between the pages are dried and pressed lilies, her favorite flowers. And snap shots of his childhood, one of him as boy sitting on his mother's lap, as she read to him about the world, lighting his mind on fire with curiosity and the desire to learn."
John gripped the podium tighter, "Everything I am is there as well, in an old paperback, so very easy for Sherlock to read. About a broken, lonely man, whom Sherlock fixed with a brisk run through London, the thrill of the game, and his unfailing devotion and friendship."
John let his eyes touch upon those he knew, before he settled to the casket in front of him. "He watched us, absorbed us, and regardless of how hard he tried not to, he cared about us. I treasured that about him, and he seemed to learn from us how to care for each other. We all know how amazing and brilliant he was. I always struggled to keep up and understand him. And I don't understand why he left us like he did; I will spend the rest of my life wondering why and how I could have stopped it. I will not only mourn the man he was, but also the wonderful man he would have become. And I will miss my friend. I will miss you Sherlock."
John released the podium from his white knuckled grip and brought his gaze back to the people in front of him. Mrs. Hudson was quietly crying, wringing her hands in her lap. Lestrade bowed his head down. Mycroft faced his mother, who held tightly onto his arm as she looked upon the casket, and as her eyes flickered up, she caught John's gaze and stared into him.
As the last speaker, John took a step aside and walked back to his seat. Mycroft looked up and gave a small nod, at which the casket was slowly lowered into the grave.
John was eager to leave, the day had been exhausting. He and Mrs. Hudson had battled the paparazzi outside their flat and endured a harrowing ride through London as Mycroft's driver weaved in and out of traffic to loose the media tailing them. And with all of Mycroft's efforts successful, they were blessedly alone at the cemetery. But now, John needed to go, he did not want to stay and see his best friend placed into the ground forever. When Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft stood, John did as well, and started to make his way to the car, when he felt a firm hand clutch his arm, he turned to come face to face with Mrs. Holmes.
At Christmas, Mrs. Holmes had asked Sherlock to come home for the holidays. He had considered it, if John would come with him. But John had wanted to stay in London.
"Perhaps it's for the best," Sherlock had told John, "My mother is a formidable woman and can be challenging to most people."
"I'm sure you exaggerate, besides, I would wager your mother would like me just fine," John had said confidently.
Sherlock raised his brow at John, "And what makes you think that?"
"Well, I'm a friendly, likable bloke. Most mothers love me. And besides, I've survived you for this long, how hard can she be?"
"I'd wager you wouldn't last 5 minutes..."
Mrs. Holmes took in every part of John's face as she gripped his arm. Her stare was just as intense, if not more so, as Sherlock's and her face maintained a flat, seemingly emotionless facade. Her raven hair was curled with a bit of grey, and her alabaster skin had just a touch of makeup, since she was a strikingly beautiful woman, she did not need much enhancement. She was dressed immaculately, and in heels; she looked down into John's eyes. It was slightly unnerving to be under such scrutiny, John cleared his throat and found his voice.
"Mrs. Holmes, please, allow me to express my deepest condolences on your loss." John looked down at her hand that held him, but she did not let go.
She gave a slow nod. "Dr. Watson. You mentioned in your eulogy that I gave Sherlock the desire to learn."
"Yes, that was a memory Sherlock had shared with me,"
"You painted such a quaint picture of a little boy perched on his mother's lap. Such sentiment," she spat out the word, "Yes, I wanted him to learn; he needed a vast intellect to continue the legacy that his father and grandfather had begun. But instead of following that path, he became a simple detective, and wasted his genius and everything I taught him."
Mrs. Holmes tightened her grip on John's arm, took a half step closer and spoke in a quiet anger. "If you truly wonder what could have been done, to prevent my son's suicide, you need look no further than yourself. You, Mrs. Hudson, that Scotland Yard detective, and Mycroft; you're all to blame for this. You encouraged him into that lowly existence, which ultimately led to his downfall."
Mrs. Holmes released John's arm and walked away, leaving John feeling like all the air had been pulled out of him. He glanced over his shoulder to watch Mrs. Holmes push aside all that tried to express their sympathies; she barked an order at her driver, who jumped to open the door, placed her into the car, and quickly left.
John turned back to look at the grave, to see Mycroft standing alone, staring at the black stone marker emblazoned with Sherlock's name.
As John started walking to the car with Mrs. Hudson in it, he pulled out his mobile, and listened to Sherlock's deep baritone in his message.
You called me, so you know who I am...
"I just met your mother, at your funeral. You were right - I owe you a £100."
