Wow, okay...I've made a few mistakes. In the last chapter, I wrote "I don't much talking to someone I can't see." LOL! There was supposed to be a "like" in there. Thank you to "nans" who found it. Another small mistake found was when I said the "nest chapter"...obviously, that is NEXT chapter. I deleted that chapter and added the new one which has the corrections.

To "nans" and "HADES" –you should both make profiles so I can talk to you in a message rather than in my story! HAHA!

WARNING: this chapter will show Holmes vulnerable...just a bit. He's going to be a little different from your average Holmes (mind you, he is dealing with his best friend's death which we never see in the stories by Conan Doyle-so bear with me...this is what I think Holmes would do...) I also looked up Victorian funerals...didn't find much so I suppose it's not much different from nowadays.

The funeral snuck up on Holmes. Watson stayed with him through the night, talking quietly by the fire. Though Holmes could not see him, he was glad to have company. He was dressed quickly in his nicest-cleanest- clothes. Over top, he donned his black arm band-a sign of mourning.

Mrs. Hudson left earlier than the two men, with them trailing about ten minutes behind her. Upon reaching the church, Holmes felt panic make its presence known within him. He didn't want to go.

Staring at door, he whispered " Watson, I'm glad you're here-even if you are a figment of my imagination-because I really couldn't do this by myself."

Watson ignored him repeating that he wasn't real and told Holmes he'd be right beside him if he needed him to be.

"Thank you."

Holmes took his seat in the very back pew of the church.

"Holmes, for christ's sake, it's my funeral. Can you please ignore you hatred of society and sit a little closer."

"I'm sorry, Watson, but I simply can't." He protested. "If the real Watson asked me to, of course, but you can't possibly be him so I will-"

"Just do it."

Holmes raised himself to his feet and walked to the very front pew. "Happy?"

"Very."

"Good, now if you ever happen to meet the real Watson, which I sincerely doubt, then you must tell him that I would like a word with him."

"A word with- ugh, Holmes, look, it really is me. I am Watson. I'm your Watson...not some imaginary version. If, however, you'd like me to leave it can easily be arranged."

"No! I never said that-"

"Then believe it is me."

Holmes stopped talking once he noticed a few people looking at him from the further pews. The funeral was due to start soon, but a few members of Scotland Yard came to the front of the church to greet him and give their condolences.

The funeral started and the priest said a few kind words and prayers. Holmes looked around him and saw that there were many more people than he expected. Most of them, he gathered, were probably readers of his.

"Now," said the priest, "John, as we know, had many friends but Mr. Sherlock Holmes was the closest. I now ask him to come up to say a few words about our departed."

"Holmes, did you know this was going to happen?" Watson asked.

Holmes nodded and took his place at the front of the church.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I reckon that most of you know me as the subject of my dear friend's stories. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I've worked with John in many cases spanning over seventeen years of the twenty three I've been acting as consulting detective. I never imagined that losing him would be this hard. Our friendship was outlined in his writings but never fully explained. I loved Wat-John, as I would love a brother. He was that and more to me in the years we shared at Baker Street-so you can imagine my pain and guilt when I found that he was killed on behalf of a previous criminal we encountered. Watson was loved by many people and I'm sorry for the pain caused to each of you. He will not soon be forgotten."

Holmes, upon sensing tears, quickly made his way back to his seat where Watson sat beside him.

"Thank you, Holmes, but it wasn't your fault. You do know that, right?"

"No."

"Wait, don't talk. People can't hear me, but they can hear you."

When the ceremony was concluded, the attendees of the funeral were escorted outside to the cemetery for the burial after each made their way to the casket and said a last goodbye-a tradition.

Holmes remained seated the entire time.

"Sir, we'll be gathering outside now." Said the priest.

"Father, if it's no inconvenience, I would like a few minutes for a final goodbye. I never saw him, you see, after it happened."

"Holmes, what are you planning?"Asked Watson, desperately.

"Of course, sir. I'll be back in five minutes."

"Thank you, Father."

Holmes made his way slowly up to the closed casket. He held his tears, for Watson was nearby and he couldn't afford to let Watson see him cry. He didn't want to appear vulnerable.

"Oh no, Holmes. I know what you're doing. Do not open that casket. Believe me, you don't want to see. Let your last memory of me be peaceful, Holmes...anything but this."

"This is necessary, Watson."

"Holmes-"

"I only want to see you. I can hear you and I know you're here-real or not- but I want to see you. One peek."

Watson reached out and put a hand on Holmes' shoulder to stop him but the man didn't feel a thing. Before he could try anything else, Holmes had pried the casket open. He opened the lid slowly, nervously preparing himself for what lie inside. He almost didn't want to see. But he had to. He had to see what he had done to his friend, no matter what the consequence.

Holding his breath, he closed his eyes as the lid was opened fully. He gained his composure and, ignoring Watson's shouts and protests; he opened his eyes and immediately wished he had not.

In the casket, his friend was lying with eyes closed-what was left of his eyes anyways. They had been cut. His face had been cut almost beyond recognition. What Holmes could see of Watson's body was badly cut. The rest, mercifully, was covered by clothing.

As he took in the sight, Watson fell silent.

"Oh God. Watson, I'm so sorry. Forgive me, Watson, I-" Holmes stammered. His words were barely audible and what Watson could hear were only pleas for forgiveness and apologies.

"It's not your fault. I don't even remember much. I didn't even feel anything. They came at me so fast that I didn't even know what happened."

Suddenly, as if they were only waiting for the right moment, tears dripped from his eyes and down his cheeks. The man sobbed, leaving Watson utterly helpless and at a loss of what to do.

"Holmes, calm down."

Holmes was aware that at some point, he would have to cry. He only wished he were home-at Baker Street-in private. He was so vulnerable here and out in the open. He felt himself slide to the ground in defeat. On all fours, he tried to catch his breath. Watson's calming voice was distant now as he slipped away into blackness.

Though he knew Watson was close, he had never felt more alone. Pull yourself together. You're a detective. You don't show emotion. Be neutral. Holmes tried to reason with himself, to no avail. He hadn't expected much.

A strong, firm hand on his shoulder caused him to jump back up to his feet.

"Watson?" he asked.

When he turned, it nearly tore his heart to find that the hand had been Lestrade's and not Watson's. Be reasonable, man. It's impossible for you to feel Watson's hand anyways.

"No, it's-uh, it's just me."

"Oh, Lestrade, what brings you here?"

"I suspected, after the priest told me you requested a minute alone, that you'd open the casket. I was right I suppose."

"A first."

"You never lose yourself, Holmes. Not even now. How is it you can still joke when you've just seen this?"

"Easy. The joke was at your expense."

"Mhmm-I see. Well, in any case, it's about time we get ourselves outside-"

"He's right, Holmes. Go outside now. Leave this alone."Watson said.

"Get away from me. I don't need you here."

Both men retreated.

The priest came back into the church a few moments later, seeing Holmes with his head resting on the now closed casket. A few men came to carry Watson outside and Holmes followed at a distance.

"Watson?" he whispered.

After there was no answer, he quietly reasoned that Watson had left with Lestrade.

The body was laid in the grave and dirt was piled on top after the mourners had left, save for Holmes.

"Watson? I only meant for Lestrade to leave, not you. Please come back. I know you're here. Say something."

"Goodbye, Holmes."

So, tell me how you liked it. I hope I did alright with the mourning. I'm really nervous about what people will think about this chapter so a review or private message is most welcome. I tried my best to keep Holmes in character, but it was very hard when I was faced with a strange situation, such as this one.

PLEASE REVIEW! If you have any thoughts at all on this story, kindly tell me. It only takes a couple seconds...

-Myelle W.