Chapter 36: Sentiment
"Due to the circumstances behind our gathering, it is within my obligations as a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard to attend this, um—"
Lestrade took one last look at his flashcards, eyes hollowly tracing the scrawled bullet points he had written; or rather, what the Board of Directors had written for him as part of protocol. A cool breeze rushed around as he stood at the podium, facing the audience that sat patiently in the white lawn chairs that were laid before him. It was a beautiful, early fall afternoon; the sun's warm rays seeped through the branches of the tall trees that surrounded the open field. Leaves fluttered across the grass, tumbling in the light gusts of wind. A coat was all that needed that day, though; a notice of the coming winter mixed with the reminder of the fading summer. But the coats were all black, a solemn reminder of what they were all there for.
John and Sherlock sat in the back row of the audience, purposely as far away from the weeping foster parents as they could be. It was a small congregation of mentors and school mates that sat in front of them, each bearing a white flower in their hands. Neither John nor Sherlock had any reason to associate with those strangers, so they chose to remain isolated; bystanders to a loss that no one else there could fathom the truth extent of.
That was because nobody else knew the entire truth. Nobody knew who Elise Houlton was, or of her existence twelve years ago. Nobody knew about the constant threat she lived under, or the fear of being found that she had suffered throughout her entire childhood. And nobody would ever know about the time she spent with Sherlock and John and Lestrade as they sought answers to the musings of a psychopath. All they knew was that Anna was interning at the Scotland Yard one day and dangling out of the Doll Maker's window the next. They knew nothing about what happened in-between. Perhaps it was better that way.
The mourners watched as Lestrade ran a hand through his hair with a deep, melancholy sigh. From where he stood, he could see into the open casket.
Anna Huntington's body lay on the smooth satin, surrounded by clusters of white flowers. She looked almost no different than when she had been found; the paralysis compound had preserved her body in its youthful beauty. A simple black dress hung along her neckline, revealing the ethereal neckline and collarbone, and settled along her thin figure. Her long dark hair was spread all around her pillow, framing her pale face much like Millais's painting of Ophelia in the river. Long eyelashes feathered along her closed eyelids, and her lips parted slightly. A doll; she looked like a sleeping doll. But even in her peaceful state, Lestrade could see the intensity that she had always given him; that defiance, that acuity. To him, it would forever be in her features.
A frown settled on his face. It was decorum for a Detective Inspector to speak at funerals for officers and detectives, but never had it been considered for a trainee. Then again, trainees usually weren't kidnapped; trainees usually didn't die. The Board of Directors had initially settled upon sending a teacher from the Academy to speak on their behalf, but Lestrade intervened. If anyone was going to speak for her, it would be him. Now that he was on the podium, though, it was harder to say the words he had though would atone for things. Much harder. The cards were thrust into the wind.
"Look," he began again, his voice this time much more commanding. "I've done this before. I've had officers die in the line of duty. I've had to speak at their funerals and tell their loved ones that they died fighting for what they believed in. They died to preserve justice, to maintain order, to protect those around them, and things like that. Some people believe that that is the most honorable death of all. But to me, a death is a death; it never glorifies itself.
"Anna Huntington was the most brilliant young woman I have ever met. Anyone who has ever known her could have seen that. She had a spirit and a strength that I have rarely felt in any intern at Scotland Yard. She was a fighter; never let me push her to the sidelines. I remember she said to me 'don't you dare think my age gives you or any other person the right to bully me into taking the sidelines.' There was a look in her eyes when she said that, one that I will never forget.
"She was absolutely incredible; nothing ever threw her off. Just talking to her, you could see how quickly she comprehended everything. She was observant, focused, dedicated; everything you need to be a detective. In my mind, she would have been the greatest asset to the Scotland Yard. I mean, she could outsmart at least half my sergeants any day, and she was only eighteen."
Lestrade's voice shook as he said that. "She was only eighteen, for Christ's sake." He paused, trying to figure out how to proceed. There was only so much he was allowed to say. Gazing into the audience before him, Lestrade found Sherlock and John in the back. Sherlock didn't seem to be listening, lost in his own thoughts as he observed the casket. John nodded reassuringly.
"We all know how she died," Lestrade continued, "but few know the full circumstances that surround her death. I won't tell you anything specific, as the Huntingtons have asked for privacy concerning that matter and they certainly deserve that. This is a terrible loss for them. But it is also a terrible loss for everyone here, so I will tell you this:
"Anna Huntington gave herself up to the Doll Maker as part of her investigation of the case. It is because of her efforts that he is done. I know this is vague, but it is important that you know that. It is important that you know this girl, with absolutely everything to lose, sacrificed her own life so we could beat the bloody bastard. She was not a victim; she was not the helpless child that everyone believed her to be. Gambling is a harsh way of putting it, but that's what she wanted us to do; gamble her to end twelve years of fear. And we did; we won. But Anna's life was the price we paid to catch the Doll Maker."
Lestrade's dark eyes became hollow. The lines on his face were of infinitely distraught with sorrow, pain. He took one last look down at Anna's body as he murmured something that was barely audible to anyone. Anyone except Sherlock and John in the back row; they knew what he was saying.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
He stepped down from the pedestal, replaced by a grave priest who began the final prayers.
"Well," John sighed as he stood up from the white lawn chair.
He looked down at Sherlock, whose gaze remained solely on the coffin. It hadn't been diverted anywhere else during the service. In his usual dark navy coat and scarf, he fit the gloom of the occasion, but that was the extent of it. There were no expressed grievances or restrained sobs. To a passerby, he looked cold; to a friend, he looked blank. There seemed to be nothing in those pale eyes of his: not anger, not grief, not pain, just the uncompromising focus of…Sherlock. John knew the man had no last sentiments to give to the girl's body, so he simply muttered, "Give me a minute, will you?"
"Of course," Sherlock replied, obviously still withdrawn in his own thoughts. He listened as John's heavy footsteps brushed through the grass, no doubt towards Lestrade and the coffin; the coffin containing the body of Anna Huntington. Sherlock was aware of John's emotions, even if he didn't understand them.
The army doctor had held up fairly well after that day in the ambulance. Once Anna's heart had stopped, once the machines' shrieking alarms had flat-lined and fallen silent, Dr. Watson quietly announced the time of death to the crowd that had formed outside St. Bart's emergency ward with the detachment of a medical man. While everyone else had been shocked into stillness, he stepped out of the ambulance with heavy solemnity and simply walked away. But what everyone else saw was not what Sherlock observed. When the paramedics, under Molly's tearful direction, began to roll the body towards the mortuary, Sherlock wandered into the ward and found the examination room farthest away from the main hall. Opening the door to the dark room, Sherlock allowed the light from the hallway to illuminate the space.
John was exactly where he had expected him to be, but not in the state he had predicted. Chairs had been flipped over, and the spare table had been thrown on its side. There was a new scratch along the lower edge of the wall, formed a by dent that most likely came from a sudden, heavy kick. Sherlock could deduce a hundred things about the room and its patients of the day within seconds, but the destruction was unfathomable. Along the wall closest to the door was John's shadowy figure; his forearm was raised against the faded white paint so he could lean his head against it. His eyes were closed and his breathing was heavy, tense with the aftershock of the violent storm of anger. And although Sherlock couldn't really sympathize with the sudden angst, he remained in the doorway. He knew for Dr. John Watson, that was enough.
But Sherlock's thoughts were distracted. Another set of footsteps, with a stick dragging behind, were moving towards him; a looser sound along the grass, but a familiar pattern nonetheless. After all, who else would carry an umbrella on a cloudless day?
"Paying your respects to the dead, Sherlock?"
"As you seem to be, Mycroft."
Mycroft settled himself in John's seat. He was in impeccable order, as always; his dark suit neatly pressed under the black wool coat, his hair combed back so not a strand lifted out of place. The lines along his face were somber in his usual cool, collected way. As the rest of the funeral procession made their way up to pay their final respects to Anna, they remained seated in the back, both eyes resting on the dark coffin rather than on each other. It was fitting for Mycroft Holmes. His only relation to the girl was watching from afar; he would say his farewell from afar.
"It really is a pity. She had potential."
"I doubt she would have taken your offer," Sherlock remarked, never turning to face his brother.
"Why is that?" Mycroft asked evenly.
"Sentiment."
"Sentiment?"
"Yes, sentiment. Making becoming an agent would mean leaving behind too much. Lestrade was going to offer her a position as a detective at Scotland Yard; he would never let her go after this case. And John's presence alone would have been enough to keep her in London. He's always had feelings for her, and it was quite obvious; I wouldn't be surprised if she was starting to feel the same."
"And what about you?" Mycroft turned to face Sherlock, studying his brother's blank visage. "What 'sentimental' reason did you give her?"
"I gave purpose to her life." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the dramatic statement, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes before elaborating. "I was the only person who took her desire for revenge seriously. I was the only person who could help her. Therefore, she trusted me. Trust seems to be a catalyst for emotions; I'm not going to pretend I understand it."
The two of them watched as John and Lestrade stood over the coffin. Lestrade's head hung over his black jacket, his face angled away from their view. But neither of them needed to see his face to know he was hurting. John placed a hand on his slouched shoulder, saying something that couldn't be heard from that distance; words of comfort, words of support, words that neither Sherlock nor Mycroft could ever offer. Mycroft thought back to the time the situation was reversed, when it was Lestrade's hand on John's shoulder.
"The last time they were here, Sherlock, was for your funeral."
"I wasn't dead. She is."
"You aren't regretting this, are you?"
Sherlock gave no reply.
"You can't save everyone."
"I had her!" Sherlock snapped quietly. "I won! I had her in my arms; the counter-solution was there. I did everything perfectly; it's not my fault Parsons changed his procedure, his—"
"It was her or the Doll Maker; you knew that the entire time," Mycroft said coolly. "You took that risk and you won. Leave it at that."
"She should be alive!"
"I know."
Silence split between the two. The breeze brushed between them, making Sherlock's curls waiver along his forehead. Again, Mycroft glanced at John and Lestrade, still holding a hushed conversation of their own.
"Look at them," Mycroft said. There was no sarcasm in his voice, only the intonation of scientific observation. "They believe they can help people. A doctor and a police detective; they devote their lives to others around them. In their world, there is no one who cannot be saved. But look what happens when you accept that belief; you end up watching those you swore to protect perish. It is heart-wrenching to have that belief destroyed, so they act solely to elude mortality as a consequence. We cannot afford to be like that, brother."
"What makes us any different?"
"We are the people that must make the difficult decisions when people like them cannot. It is a role we must accept, or else what happens to civilization and society? To logic and reason? Sacrifices must be made; ignore that fact and everything that you have sworn to maintain is jeopardized. You know that, Sherlock. Anna Huntington knew that. Caring does nothing in the end."
Sherlock stood up, tiring of the conversation at hand. The last thing he wanted was a lecture from the British government. But Mycroft was not done.
"I know you were growing fond of her," he remarked.
Sherlock strode away, leaving Mycroft in the empty field of white lawn chairs.