Content warning: death, funerals.
Ten days After, John stands at their sitting room table, the morning post in his hand, another sheaf of condolence cards. The letters come mostly from London, others from as far away as America, Greece, and Russia. More notes come pouring in at The Science of Deduction, dozens of messages flooding the forum queue.
John flips through the new envelopes, some of them muted, sickly pastels; others, fine linen stationary. He traces the lines of the handwriting with his fingers, the edges of the cards cool and sharp against his skin.
The letters are all variations on the same theme: I am so sorry to hear of (his) passing, (he) helped me when no one else could, I will miss (him), I will keep (him) in my prayers. Each letter spills out over him, the swirls of handwriting turning from blue ink to cold steel, every word ripping away the scabs engulfing his heart.
He feels it keenly now, this double-edged blade of caring held by everyone he sees, their sad, kind gazes and pitying smiles slicing him open to his core. Mrs. Hudson, flitting about the flat with extra tea and biscuits and never once saying not your housekeeper. Sarah, looking at him not with soft, open wanting, as if his eyes were rumpled bedsheets to play in, but like he was a wound to be sterilized and bandaged.
(His) words from the nights of Moriarty's games, begun with another envelope so long ago, ring in his ears: Will caring about them help save them?
No, he thinks now. It hurts. Please don't touch me. Please just let me go. Let me pretend a little longer that I am normal and fine. Let me pretend I'm not losing my mind. I will only weigh you down. Please let me drown. I don't want to come up for air because when I do (he's) not there because he died for me and I can't breathe without (him).
Bundling up the thick stacks of cards, he tosses them into the rubbish bin, unread.
Among the swaths of ivory, peach, and pink, the delphiniums are striking: long, strong, yet slender stalks, blossoms spiraling up the center in a double helix. The flowers are bright stars of violet and indigo, brash, alien in their intensity. The stems cascade over the black lacquered wood, their deep blue complementing the dark surface.
John stands alone at (his) coffin, half an hour before the visitation begins. His grey suit and tie, not worn since Harry and Clara's wedding, feel odd on his body after so many years in military fatigues or comfortable jumpers. His leg throbs, and he shifts more of his weight to his silver cane.
It is the first time they have been alone together since That Day, and John has no idea what to say. (He) had always been the one better, faster with thoughts, weaving all the little puzzles of words he found at crime scenes into a clear, perfect picture; and then there John was, reacting to (his) beautiful words with ones of his own: brilliant, amazing, fantastic. It was always because of (him) that John wanted to speak, to encourage (him) so he could feel the web of wild magic envelop him.
John's ears strain against the silence, aching to hear (him) say he's an idiot, or complain that they're out of milk again, or yell nonsense at the telly. There is only his quiet breathing, the faint whispers of the heating system.
He rests his hand on the coffin lid, just above (his) feet, marking the glossy surface with a trail of fingerprints. Slowly, John brushes his hand up its length, ghosting lightly over each piece of (his) body:
(his) long feet that slapped through alleyways, toes curled up on the sofa, leaving just enough room for him to sit beside. (His) impossibly tall legs, strides that took three of his steps to match. (His) lithe, pale hands that coaxed music out of a violin for him. (His) chest, the laughter that once burst it open. (His) delicate, yet bold mouth, curled into a smile at the thought of danger, at the praise he gave (him). (His) piercing eyes, twin silver suns that shone only for him. (His) brain like a thousand supernovas exploding at once, that filled his life with light.
His hand drifts down again to the spot above (his) chest, pressing his palm into the wood, as if trying to clutch (his) heart through the solid wood. John wants nothing more than to open the casket, crawl in beside (him), close his eyes, and shut the lid.
Above his hand rests the casket spray, the delphiniums' sapphire blue reflecting in the polished lid like small pools of water. He fingers the petals, soft and cool under his touch.
He plucks one of the blooms from its stem, cupping it in his hand. The blossom is light, almost weightless against his skin. John's fingers close around it, squeezing hard, crushing the petals. When he opens them again, black lines of bruises crisscross the flower's folds, staining his palm blue with its blood. He stares at the blue lines in his palm, the juice seeping into the wrinkles of his skin. John lets the flower slip through his fingers to the floor, a wilted, crumpled, broken mess.
AN: This chapter shares its title with a song by Greg Greenway.
The delphinium is more commonly known as the larkspur.
