-By the way, in this chapter and the next there will be a lot about religion, so beforehand can I say I don't mean to offend anyone by the topics brought up.

The Daily Telegraph, 12th September 2010.

Deaths

WATSON – Dr John Howard died on the 8th September aged 30 years in a tragic accident. Former soldier who served in Afghanistan as an army doctor. Much loved brother, colleague and friend. Funeral Service at -, in London on Thursday 14th September at 3.30pm.

XX

Very few people went to John Watson's funeral. It wasn't that he didn't have many friends, it was that most people didn't want to have to go to something so wrong.

Sarah went. She cried and cried all the way through until it ended, when she retreated back to her house at a fast pace, not even bothering to hide the tears.

Lestrade went, but reluctantly so. Such a tragic affair, and he admitted that he had liked the good doctor. But he was a police officer, these things happened, and he had to learn to accept them. So accept them he did, taking off his hat, paying his respects and then wandering solemnly back to work.

Mrs Hudson went. She wore an expression of sadness and regret, and occasionally dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, but it seemed to apply the tears rather than get rid of them. She hadn't known the poor boy that well, but she knew he was a nice fellow and they had talked over cups of tea once in a while.

There were a couple of soldiers, also back from Afghanistan, who had known him and felt they should come and pay their respects too, but no-one knew how close the three had really been.

Stamford went. He stood through the whole thing looking awkward and like he didn't know quite where to look. Afterwards he sort of edged out of the scene and escaped to the world where happiness could infiltrate the air.

Sherlock went too, if only to force himself to believe that it was happening.

Sherlock Holmes

'I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me shall live, even though he dies. And whoever lives and believes in me shall never die.'

The priest's voice was monotonous, nonchalantly drilling into my mind like a woodpecker. He finished the religious sentence and I stared stoically at the ground as the coffin neared, closer and closer. I'd fished all the reactions out of my mind and locked them in a box. I would not lose my composure. I wouldn't. Just watch the grass, don't think.

I waited patiently for the interlude of grief to end before the priest began to drone again.

'For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, so that whoever believes in shall not perish but have eternal life.'

On and on about eternity. I wasn't a very religious person – none of the facts added up and therefore I did not believe them. I didn't understand why millions of people could have faith, even devote their lives to, something that had no conclusive evidence of existing. So religion still intrigued me. Not because I didn't believe it, but because I didn't understand it.

Heaven and Hell. That didn't make sense either. If this God was meant to be forgiving to everyone, how could he condemn so many people to eternal torture?

Oh, there was the coffin. Brown and quite an interesting shape. And inside it was my old flatmate.

A couple of reactions seeped out of my locked box. Had to shut it tighter.

The box was being blessed. What was the point? It wasn't going to change anything.

Someone spattered water on it, which wouldn't change anything either. I was beginning to get confused. A cloth was placed on the shell of souls, along with a Bible and a crucifix.

Dr John Watson, my old flatmate, colleague, doctor, blogger… friend. Before him the word was foreign. John, the man who agreed to stay with me, helped me on my cases, complained about my experiments, and wore the jumpers. Who had always been right behind me as the plot unfolded. Not this time.

The box had cracked, and the emotions trapped inside leaked out like silver air, and suddenly my composure was holding on to last straws of strength.

This didn't make sense. I wasn't meant to feel emotion: I was a sociopath, dammit. So why wasn't I acting like one?

Look at the grass, concentrate on the grass. Crystal clean. Crystal green. For a minute I found this ridiculously funny for no reason, and could barely contain my laughter. Suddenly I felt a gaze on me, and I glanced up to be caught in the beam of Lestrade's look. We held each other's eyes in our own for a long time, before I turned back down to survey the grass once more. I was getting bored already.

Urgh, this funeral was taking forever. I felt a sudden desperate need for the end of the ceremony, wanting to get away.

Liturgy. Sermon. Prayers. Hymns. Boooooored…

'Sherlock?'

'What?' I snapped my head up in surprise. Lestrade was next to me, and the rest of the congregation were all watching me.

'Do you want to start?'

Start? Start what? Oh, of course. This part. Where we all had to go up and be generally nice about the deceased. Well, it was more interesting than the rest of it.

'Don't worry, you don't have to do it yet, I'll start.' Apparently my silence had been taken as a hesitation. Stupid, everyone was so stupid!

Lestrade stepped up next to the six-foot hole that had been dug, and cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly. 'I… um, I haven't known Dr Watson for a long time, but he was good, loyal and enthusiastic.'

The rest was lost on me. Random praises from random people who evidently did not have a clue what to say. I was getting restless.

Then they turned to me. I strode up, confident in the black clothes I had refused to wear, instead choosing my normal attire.

But when I reached the edge all the words and phrases shimmered out of sight, out of mind. Instead there was a great gaping white silence for me to fill. As I searched for a place to start, I started talking without even planning to say what I did.

'You're… so stupid. You all are,' I said quietly, not making eye contact with anyone, but I could hear the murmur of commotion race around everyone's heads. I turned to the coffin, 'Even you. Especially you. You're. So. Stupid! I hate you, I hate you!'

And I broke away from that scene just like before, racing to the trees at the back of the huge graveyard and out of sight.

Mycroft Holmes

This situation was obviously worth it. I had had my doubts at first, seeing as Sherlock hadn't seemed to mind too much, but this made things certain.

I repositioned my umbrella in the ground as it dug in, listening to the distant murmurs of the sermon. I had come in case Sherlock did something stupid, which was a possibility. He had grown an obvious deep bond with that Watson chap, against my advice. I told him, but he didn't listen. Now look what had happened.

So I had decided to come and lurk at the end of the graveyard amongst the trees. On reflection, I probably should have sent an assistant to do it for me. Why had I decided to do it myself anyway? Brotherly affection, I suppose. Odd. I wasn't aware I had any. I was concerned for Sherlock, obviously, but affectionate? Definitely not.

Still, I was here in the cold and damp – for it had been raining the last few days – waiting for my brother to do something stupid.

He did always like a touch for the dramatic.

Sure enough, I could soon hear my brother's voice rise above the buzz of the scene like a voice clear above the crackle of a radio.

'-stupid! I hate you!'

Oh dear. Matters were worse than I had hoped. Why were things never simple with Sherlock?

Footsteps muffled by the soft ground came padding nearer like a heartbeat getting stronger. Eventually my brother appeared in the small clearing surrounded by the sky of trees. He looked up and saw me, and wasn't even surprised.

I observed him quickly. Wearing normal outfit – semi-casual suit and long coat, which I thought he had got almost subconsciously, because it was dramatic. At first glance he appeared fine, but I knew him better and could see that he had a very thin grasp on his self-control. The death had hurt him.

Now I had to get him to accept it.

'What is it now, Mycroft?' he said bitterly, putting his hands in his pockets, 'It must be important if you forced yourself to actually come out for the occasion. I would have thought an assistant would suffice.'

'You are childish.'

That made him look up. 'Oh, is this just a let's-yell-at-Sherlock session? If so, I've really got places I need to be.' He turned away, to the barricade of wood as a sign that he would leave at any minute. I didn't doubt it either.

'Don't be ridiculous,' I told him sharply, 'You need to pull yourself together. And don't – look at me – don't even try to begin with the whole "I'm fine" façade. You honestly think I can't tell?'

'Shut up, Mycroft. I don't need you, I don't need anyone! Everyone keeps assuming I'm a wreck, and I'm not!' Sherlock snapped, gaining power like a car speeding, 'I'm completely OK! Why does everybody have to crowd me! I'm… I'm…fine.'

My brother was insufferable sometimes.

'Sherlock,' I said in my most authoritive tone, 'You will see sense. You will accept that John Watson is not coming back because he is dea-'

'Shut up!' he hissed, spinning around to face me.

I was getting somewhere.

'Go back to the grave… see, the funeral party are leaving.' He sighed and looked to the sky in annoyance.

'God, it's just like Lestrade all over again.'

But I knew I had convinced him. We brothers are funny like that. So, not wanting to stay in this frankly unpleasant clearing, in a field of dead bodies, I wandered off, knowing that I shouldn't say goodbye.

Sherlock Holmes

I hated Mycroft. I hated him even more when he was right.

I was standing in front of the fresh grave, and I placed my eyesight on the stone when my eyes wouldn't willingly look.

R.I.P

John Howard Watson

Died 8th September 2010 aged 30 years

"The Lord hath given him rest from all his enemies."

I repeated the phrase in my mind, seeing it from every angle in a strange sense of awe.

It struck me I should talk.

To start with I was planning to kneel, but in a wave of some peculiar emotion I couldn't quite place I sort of fell to my knees instead, well aware of what was just six feet away but I could never reach again.

Six feet separating him from the world for eternity, separating him from me.

How could he?

'John,' I began awkwardly, 'Um… hi. I don't know if you can hear me –who am I kidding, of course you can't, because you're dead!' a soft chuckle escaped me, but it sounded more like a growl, 'Dead, dead, dead! You left me, you bastard! I hate you! How can you be so cruel? I can't believe you!'

Without even noticing, I had leapt to my feet and now I couldn't put a stop to the fury bubbling out of me. He left. He left. God, he was an idiot. A stupid, cruel idiot, and I hated him.

'Well, you know what? I won't even miss you! Not a bit! Not now I know what you're like! How could you do this to me? How?'

I kicked the grave hard, so hard my foot reverberated pain, and I abruptly felt a need to leave. Go. Anywhere but there.

Dammit, what had I done? I ran out of the graveyard, back into the peaceful normality of London. Past the shops, past the gardens, past the offices and almost past the church.

-Ta-da! This chapter came slightly early because I suddenly had a lot of spare time. Thanks for all the reviews! And all the people who have favourite/alerted etc. I warn again that next chapter there's a lot about religion and I don't mean to offend anyone by it. Right, onwards once more!