Prompt: Grave, from W.Y. Traveller

You know how much I love angst...

1891

I lingered by the headstone after the other mourners left to return to their own lives. There were far more than I had anticipated; surely Holmes would have had some sardonic remark to make about the entirety of Scotland Yard making an appearance at his funeral after the way they had clashed in life. Lestrade was good enough to say a few words of condolence, though I admit I was hardly in the frame of mind to receive them. I had hardly been in any frame of mind since my return from Switzerland, and had Mycroft not arranged the memorial service, I do not believe I could have done so myself. I reminded myself to thank him, when I saw him next. He did not attend the service today, though knowing him as the most solitary of men, I was hardly surprised.

I sighed and returned my attention to the stone. Was it right to call it a tombstone? This was no grave. I had been unable to retrieve Holmes's body from the Reichenbach Falls, and so this gravesite was a mere memorial, and an impersonal one at that. The stone was black, with words etched in white listing only my friend's name and the dates of his life. It was austere, and lifeless, with nothing to show of Holmes's lively and unique personality. Though I am certain he would have picked such a stone himself, had he had the choice.

It is for the living, Watson. What the deuce does it matter to me what marks my grave?

I chuckled aloud at his words in my head before a lump rose in my throat and I hastily caught my breath. Not in time to stop one small sob from escaping, nor the few errant tears that I wiped quickly away. It would not do. Such displays of emotion were frowned upon. Yet the loss, so unexpected, had left me reeling in ways I had little experience with and had never anticipated.

It simply seemed so utterly wrong that Holmes should be gone.

Since my return from Afghanistan, I had been able to count on his near constant presence, sometimes confusing, sometimes infuriating, but always exciting. For someone whose life was so very unpredictable he had soon become the most steady part of mine. I would miss the cases, of course, but perhaps it would surprise those who knew me only as his assistant that the loss was much deeper than that. The world had lost a great detective that day at Reichenbach Falls, but I had lost a great friend, though surely that would also surprise anyone who only wondered how I managed to live with indoor gunfire and chemical smells for so long.

They were not privileged to know Holmes as I had. They did not sit by the fire with him in the evenings, where his conversation was filled with fascinating details of subjects I knew little about (nor did they realize that he was not only willing, but eager, to sit and listen to me in return, when the subject was one he wished to learn). They had not spent nights chasing criminals with him, when we worked as a seamless team and he trusted me as he did no one else to watch out for him in all manner of dangerous situations. Nor did they accompany him on holidays, where we invariably ambled throughout most of England and simply relaxed in each other's company.

I could continue. Holmes's affection was not obvious, and most would not have known it for what it was, but I, who saw how very different he was from the masterful detective the public saw when we were alone in our shared rooms, knew how comfortable we had been together. From small matters, such as the playing of my favorite pieces whenever he brought out his violin to larger ones, such as his solicitude when my leg was especially paining me…well, for someone so famously aloof and unfeeling, Holmes had proved a remarkable friend indeed.

The loss was all-encompassing. I kept turning around to tell him something, only to remember that he was not there. I continually expected him to appear in disguise, as he so often had before, and my days seemed so much quieter now that he was not at my side deducing the passers-by. The thought that I would not see him again was sinking in slowly, though every time it did I felt as if I were back at Reichenbach Falls, in the first moment I realized he was gone.

I laid a hand gently on the stone. It was cold to the touch, and the thought that there should be truly nothing left of my friend but his name on a slab of marble was abhorrent. "Forgive me, Holmes," I said quietly. "For not being there when I should have been."

Instantly, I felt foolish. I was talking to nothing, and Holmes was dead. He would never hear me again, and no doubt would have said that I was apologizing to myself, for he was past all need to hear it. It was I who was not past the need to say it.

"John?" Mary, who had been waiting patiently, saw me sink to my knees in front of the stone. "Come, John, let us go home." She lifted me up gently, and though I could do no more than squeeze her hand to let her know I was grateful for her presence, I knew she understood. Thank God for her. I knew not how else I would survive this.

1894

"Wait a moment, Holmes, I shall not be long." I opened the gate to the cemetery and made my way to the stone I had erected so short a time ago.

So much had changed since then, yet Mary's grave remained exactly the same as it had the day I buried her. I had chosen a smooth grey for the stone, engraved with her name, the dates of her birth and death and the simple word beloved. I could not distill what else Mary had meant to me, or indeed, to everyone who had known her, in any better way. It was cruel that she should be taken so young. She had survived so much and deserved better than the slow, agonizing death by consumption, years before her time.

I laid the flowers I had bought by her grave, the bright colors incongruous against the hard, cold slabs and stone in black and grey. Mary had loved bright colors in life. I would not leave her alone in this colorless place.

"Holmes has returned," I said at last. Speaking to Mary's grave did not feel unnatural as speaking to Holmes's memorial had. I had the feeling that she was listening, somehow. Perhaps I had had some premonition, even then, that Holmes was not dead. More likely, I knew that Mary truly was here, while Holmes had never been. Whatever the reason, I liked to hold conversations with her, imagining her answers. Gradually, I knew I would do so less and less, but as a way to heal, it had proved helpful so far. "It seems he was not dead after all. I suppose that is not surprising."

Hardly.

I nearly smiled at the response my memories supplied. "I am grateful. I do not know what I would do if you both were truly gone." Those lonely months had been some of the worst in my life. My memories might be a comfort now, but when they are all one has, it is lonelier than if one had been alone all along.

"I am back to assisting on cases again," I said. "Perhaps I will return to live at Baker Street. I am not sure yet." I heard footsteps behind me and knew without turning around that Holmes had followed.

"You must think I am silly, speaking to the dead," I said.

"Certainly not," Holmes said. "Grief is hardly a logical process. We each must go through it as best we can." He studied the stone, pensive. "I hope you do not mind the interruption. I missed the funeral and wished to pay my respects." He placed his hand on Mary's grave and closed his eyes for a moment or two.

"She was an excellent woman, Watson," he said finally. "I was very sorry to hear of her passing."

"She deserved better," I said thickly.

"As did you," Holmes said quietly.

I took a shaky breath at that and Holmes said nothing else, merely placed a comforting hand on my shoulder, before leaving me to make my farewells.

As I turned to leave, we passed the tree under which Holmes's memorial headstone had been placed, now removed. No doubt Mycroft was glad to end the subterfuge. I raised my walking stick and pointed it out. "That is where we placed your memorial," I said. Another day at a tombstone, only that day Mary had been comforting me. How things change. I sighed. "If only that could happen again."

Of course it could not. One miracle was far more than I had any right to expect, and I turned from the now-empty plot to Holmes, alive and well next to me. "Thank you for accompanying me, Holmes."

"Not at all, my dear Watson," Holmes said. "Not at all."