Prompt: Grave
From: W.Y. Traveller
…
Tears pricked at my eyes as I lain a wreath down at the grave of my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes whom I had lost in that wretched spring of 1881, when he plummeted down Reichenbach Falls, taking down his mortal enemy, Professor Moriarty.
Although I knew Holmes would lay down his life for the truth, and for justice, I still cursed the monstrous Moriarty, the one whose deeds had been so nefarious that my Holmes had to risk- and ultimately lose- his life to protect London.
"Holmes"- I spoke, my voice trembling. "Holmes, I must confess that you were- you were right, about sentiment. It approaches my first Christmas with you"- my voice broke, fresh tears pouring down my cheeks, piercing my skin with their icy wetness. "-with you not here, and I am finding it difficult to cope without you, my friend."
I never spoke of this aloud, but I had fashioned noose after noose with my ties, idly toying with my gun in my deepest throes of despair, and many a time I passed the Thames, I contemplated throwing myself off a bridge and into its freezing depths.
My friend would not want this fate for me, and yet I had no desire to live here without the man who had helped me heal after Afghanistan. Who brought laughter and adventure to my life, who taught me the meaning of science and logical thinking. He comforted me, cheered me and teased me in good jest when I needed him most.
His affection was more subtle than most, yet, I had no doubt his rare displays were more sincere than anything I had ever witnessed, for his heart, although seldom seen, was as great and as powerful as his unique and marvellous brain.
I missed the simple things most- the acrid smells of tobacco mixing with chemicals in our sitting room; the glint in his steely eyes when he was on the scent of a criminal; the way his hand snaked onto my shoulder, or slipped into my own, at such moments when I needed a friend's kindness.
Not a day went by when I didn't berate myself for leaving his side that fateful day!
Dear, sweet Mary, my darling angel, reminds me that I had no blame in his death, and that he would not wish me to hold myself accountable. Mrs. Hudson, the good woman, was quick to assure me likewise, when she deduced the turmoil of my heart.
….
I stroked the stone of his grave tenderly, as though rubbing his shoulder affectionately (and a part of me still longed for flesh and blood under my gloved hand, not snow-covered stone)
"Fret not about dear Mrs. Hudson, Mary and I will spend Christmas with her, as she is too grieved to travel. Mycroft is staying home, but I shall send him a message giving my regards for the season… and see how he is."
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
"Merry Christmas, my dear friend. You were- and will always be- the best and wisest man I've ever met, no matter much you drove me up the wall." I chuckled ruefully. "I will come see you again in the New Year, and come spring, I will tend to your grave properly, as only you deserve."
Giving the stone one last affectionate pat, I affixed my scarf tighter around my neck, and turned for the gate leading to the city, and to home, where my darling wife and dear landlady were waiting.