The part one of this chapter is the last one with angst (for now...). Next part the fun'll return. Yes, that's for you CJcraziness.
Music: Time - Hans Zimmer
Disclaimer: Guess who owns Sherlock now! NOT ME!
A Week Later…
12:30 AM (Living Room)
John walked out of the kitchen with a hot cup of tea on his hand. For a week, the TV team was forbidden to film Sherlock and any of his family and friends. At this moment, the cameras were already in the flat filming. However, no one talked, the silence hanging in the air.
John looked at Sherlock's sleeping form on the couch. The detective was sleeping peacefully after sleepless nights. The day Mycroft told his brother their father had died was terrible. Sherlock cried, screamed and John felt helpless, not being able to do anything to aid his suffering friend. The young man fell asleep on the armchair five hours later.
Despite the anguish he was feeling for Sherlock, John never found himself more proud of the dark-haired man.
Four days ago was the funeral of William Holmes senior.
The entire Holmes family was there. Sherlock, Mycroft and Éloise (obviously) and more distant relatives and friends. John stood closely to Mrs. Holmes at the entrance of the mortuary, giving handshakes and thanking the presence of people he never saw in his life. Cousins, nephews, all of them stepped close to the cold body of William, giving their goodbyes. Sherlock remained in the back of the room the entire time. Most of the relatives tried to get close, give him their condolences. He shooed them right away.
An hour later the hearse arrived, two men jumping out of it and getting in the mortuary. They asked for permission to take the coffin. Éloise nodded slowly. People started walking in direction of the car park. Sherlock put an arm around his mum's neck and hugged her tightly. She started sobbing, tears falling on the expensive coat of his son.
"Let's go mum. The morticians are waiting."
"Ugh. Morticians. Is such an ugly word." She cleaned her face with a handkerchief. Sherlock gave Éloise a small smile.
"Indeed."
John and Mycroft walked on their direction. "Ready to go?". The blond received no answer. Sherlock sat close to the car window on the left, his brother on the right and his mother in the middle. John didn't go with them, but with Mrs. Hudson.
The car travel seemed never-ending. Every now and then Sherlock would sigh, staring at the world passing outside. When the hearse stopped at a traffic light, he noticed a little boy and his father entering a pet shop. Inside, he saw the kid pointing at a Golden Retriever. The adult gave a hand full of money to the shop assistant and took the dog. Sherlock noticed how huge the smile on the boy's face was. The car set off and they arrived at the cemetery.
Time passed, the priest ignored by everyone. "Now, Mr. Holmes has some words he wishes to say."
Mycroft got up. He moved next to the priest, occupying his place and gave a beautiful discourse. Éloise began to cry once more, her hands gripping Sherlock's hard. The detective put his chin on the head of his mother, humming silently a song. Mycroft finished and the priest called another person "Mr. Holmes, the younger, also has some words to say."
Mrs. Holmes put herself right and encouraged her son by pushing him slightly. Sherlock climbed the pedestal and coughed. He looked up and observed everyone. He looked down at the paper on his hand and looked up again. The people once silent now whispered to the closest. Sherlock bit his lip. "I'm sorry, I can't do this." The young Holmes run away from there the fastest he could.
"Sherlock!" John tried to chase after him, but he lost the detective of sight minutes later.
"He escaped?" The doctor jolted from the low voice of Mycroft.
"Jeez, where did you come from?"
"You didn't give a response."
"I don't have to, do I?"
None of them spoke anymore.
The funeral reached his end. People left, leaving Mrs. Holmes, Mycroft, John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade alone. "Time to go home, mum."
"Yes. I'm so tired." The Holmes were about to go when John interrupted them. "What about Sherlock? I tried to call him. His phone is turned off."
"You know him, John. Probably he's wandering around, cleaning up his mind a bit." Lestrade moved ahead. "Mycroft, I need to talk to you. If Mrs. Holmes wishes so, I can take you home."
"That's very nice of you, and I appreciate it. But I rather take a cab with Martha. You have your time with Mike." Mrs. Hudson came over with a purse over her right shoulder. "Shall we?" Éloise leaned to left so the old lady could pass. Giving a short smile, they left.
"We'd better be off too. Good afternoon John. Call us when you find him."
John was alone now. Having no idea where Sherlock could possibly be, he took a walk around the cemetery. He saw a woman putting flowers on the grave of her possible husband. He saw the outstanding dark soil relatively to the light green grass, meaning someone also died quite recently. 'Poor guy' he thought.
He kept walking. He stopped walking. He watched sad families. He immediately regretted.
John finished his walk when he approached the grave of Mr. Holmes. He eyed a tall man next to it. The messy hair was recognizable miles away. Sherlock. He went step by step, quietly, hiding behind a tree, close enough to hear the detective. He was talking to his dad.
"Hi dad." He gave a laugh. "I can't believe I'm actually doing this. John told me that talking to my grave helped him. He thought I didn't hear him, but I did. I always do. It's something we hav… we used to have in common. Hum… When I gave up on you, I… I had to repeat myself it was the best for me and for you. I didn't want to think that the good times we spent together were over, just like that. I kept remembering the night you brought Redbeard home, my loyal Redbeard; I kept remembering the day you taught me how to play chess; I kept remembering when I barely knew how to ride a bike and you pushed me of the top of the street, me ending with a broken arm; I kept remembering when you took me with you on your air balloon and we made a voyage around the globe; I kept remembering when we used to pretend we were pirates and Mycroft was the terrible Kraken; I kept remembering when you burped the alphabet at dinner and I laughed so much that pasta got off of my nose… There are so many more stories…" Sherlock sighed, lowering his head, the voice becoming less than a whisper "There's a saying: with time, everything heals. Since you left the hospital, I believed blindly on that. Though, as we both know, that didn't happen. Mum prayed to God. Mum! She's a science's woman and yet, she prayed to God. I did it once or twice. Not worth it." Sherlock paused for a while. He clenched and unclenched his hands. "God isn't real." A tear rolled down his cheek. "He isn't. I asked him to help you. Just one thing. To HELP you! He never helped me. Because of HIM, I had to text you and you went to jail, almost died and… and…" Tears swamped his face "I felt like you actually died. You didn't remember me…" A long pause "For years I blamed myself for what happened to you. I still do. I blamed myself for leaving you. I won't anymore." Sherlock looked up and gave a small smile. "If I didn't, I would not have met John. Lestrade. Molly. Mrs. Hudson. They are my friends. And I'm so happy I met them. I would do anything for them. They wrecked my walls. But I'll never admit it to them! To anyone! I'd rather die than tell it out loud for everyone to hear. Maybe, one day, I will. Who knows? I'm different dad. I'm finally moving on. But I promise, I'll never forget you.