In the graveyard

Disclaimer: Don't own it, Moffat does. I'm getting used to that idea.

*A/N* Ever since I've seen that damned scene from Reichenbach, I wondered what the other characters had to say if you put them in front of the right headstone. I'm not too happy with Mycroft, though... Anyway, all of you who have read this far, thank you!

The Whovians amongst you might notice that Lestrade sounds a bit Pond-ish. Sorry about that.


Sherlock Holmes at the grave of somebody that he used to know

A light breeze ruffled the neatly trimmed hedge that surrounded the grave. It looked flawless, it was in a better state than all the other graves on the graveyard. Gardener, obvious.

The grave was clearly regularly cared for, it was evident that someone came here about once a week, repeating the ever same movements, trimming the hedge, ripping out stray grass, watering the flowers. Could be a relative, caring for the grave. But whoever came here so often had not known the woman buried in this place or at least did not care to remember her. The little patch of ground facing the headstone looked just like the everywhere else, no one had stopped there longer than necessary. Relatives or friends would, sentiment. But, despite not having any emotional attachment to this grave, whoever worked here still did a very good job. Employed, presumably a unusually high salary, anxious to lose the job.

So, gardener it was.

Of course, this whole deduction was idle. He had known all along there was a gardener. The woman lying in this grave only had two living relatives. Himself, who had never returned after the funeral, and his brother, who had organised burial and gardener and then firmly pushed their mother from his mind.

But his brain couldn't help to prepare these explanations, as if it was waiting for someone to ask for them. He had gotten dangerously used to doing this during these precious months when he'd had a flatmate. A friend, even, who had swallowed all these deductions and taken them as the proof of genius. Who believed in him back then and still did, even though he shouldn't.

And apparently his brain also couldn't help but to show him that other graveyard, that other headstone, that other man standing in front of it. Angrily he shook his head, trying to get rid of the memory.

He stared at the engraving, reading the name, the dates, feeling nothing but the echo of a long-gone pain and guilt, not because of this grave but another.

Then he slowly turned and walked away.

The living caused so much more pain than the dead.


Mycroft Holmes at the grave of the only woman whom he had given the chance to fail him

He watched his brother as he turned his back on their mother's grave. When Sherlock had still been a kid, he had actually been sad about her death, even though he had never let it on, but now he seemed indifferent to it.

His mind was occupied with other things.

Mycroft sighed and glanced over the engraving, remembering how he'd felt when she had left them. Disappointed, that was what he'd been back then. She was their mother, and she was supposed to care for her sons.

For Mycroft, she had still tried her best. Of course, she had been intimidated and disconcerted by the unusual intelligence of her baby boy, but she had tried.

"Say hello to your baby brother, love." Mummy was looking so tired. "Here, you can hold him. Take good care of him, dear, do you promise me that? Promise you'll look after Sherlock."

"Yes, mummy. I will."

But then, when Sherlock turned out just the same, she couldn't cope anymore. She abandoned them.

Not physically. She still lived in the house, although often locked in her room for days on end. She just stopped to look after them, she didn't protect them from their father's outbursts or defend them in front of their overwhelmed teachers. If necessary, she talked to them, patted Mycroft on the shoulder for his good grades and gave Sherlock a smile for the pictures he drew her.

But she still wasn't there. And in her elder son's eyes, she could not have failed more.

When she died, there was one thing the 13 year-old Mycroft had asked to have. He took her wedding ring, and soon it fitted his finger and he had been wearing it ever since, to remind him of how greatly one could fail and not to make the same mistakes.

He had never laid this much trust in any other woman again, not in anyone, in fact. He had seen how that turned out.

"I'm still fulfilling your task, Mummy. I'm looking after him."

With that, he followed his little brother back to the car.


Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade at the grave of his friend

"Hello, old friend. Erm...I would have brought you flowers, but you never cared about stuff like that when you were alive, and if you were, you'd probably tell me there were better things to waste my money on." He gave a shaky laugh and ran his fingers through his hair.

"I've just signed the last bit of my divorce. Just thought you'd like to know that you were right, about the PE teacher and all that. Been living alone for a while now, though I haven't managed to make as much of a mess as you always did. I guess I spend too much time in the office for that…
There's this case at the moment, you would have loved it. We don't have a clue, completely in the dark. This woman just disappeared into thin air, at least that's what we see...you would have known where she's gone, I bet. Obvious. And you'd have a go at Anderson. I did, when he asked me if I wouldn't like to consult another fraud to help us with the case.

Just saying, I don't really believe it. There's all this evidence, and everyone's so sure of it...well, except John, of course...but I got this feeling, that it's all not true. You'd tell me off for that, wouldn't you? You'd say the facts were staring me in the face and I should go with that.

I'm, er, going out tonight. If you could see me, you'd already know that, of course. From my socks or the shirt buttons or something. Molly Hooper. You would have been the only one not to tell me she was too young for me. Would you even care? Probably not." He shook his head and rubbed his face firmly with both hands.

"I don't even know what I'm doing here. God, this is so stupid. I just hoped it would give me some peace, talking to you. Because, you know, you gave me a whole lot of trouble, doing what you did! They almost threw me out, and I never shouted at my co-workers before and now, look at me!" Exhaling shakily, he took a step back from the grave and looked around to see if anyone had noticed him, yelling at a headstone. For God's sake, he was losing it.

"No, sorry. I… In a way, I guess I understand. I told John once that, maybe, one day you'd be a good man. You almost made it there, you know? I just wish I'd know what really happened, that day. And it would be good to hear it's not been my fault.

Anyway...don't expect me round here again too soon, I'm not very good with graves, as you might have noticed. So, erm… bye then. Sherlock Holmes." He gave the grave a curt nod, the way he'd always given him one, and left the yard in a hurry.


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