Hello!
... I do hope someone at least glances at these, I don't want to seem like I'm talking to myself...
Anyway, part 2. I did the best I could under the circumstances; please enjoy.
...
The rush of the city went on, as usual, in the weeks that followed. 221B became virtually silent, a faraway place now; John had gone, left to a small, gray flat closer to the business district of London.
On the other side, in a completely different room, a selection of glossy photographs sat on a kitchen table. Molly sat on one side, her hands wrapped around a yellow mug; Sherlock's fingertips hovered over the prints, his green eyes flitting around the borders.
"He wore size 9 shoes. Weighed about 80 kilograms… maybe two meters tall, no more. The shoes were worn, he used them a lot… yes… they're running shoes. Wide-shouldered. Moving briskly but not running, that's good, no one would have thought to look twice at him if he wasn't moving especially quickly…. He wore overlong jeans, he trod on the hem once, you can see it just there." Sherlock sat back in his chair and took a sip of tea.
"He lives in a house with blue carpet."
"What?"
Molly slid a hand lens over the picture. "There. That, right there, it's a bit shiny. It looks like a carpet fiber."
The detective looked slightly impressed, if not a bit miffed that he hadn't found it first. "I didn't notice that…."
She looked up at him, half amused and half scolding. "While you're making your deductions I've learned to notice the things you don't. Well, sometimes, I mean…."
The faintest of smiles crept onto his face as she turned back to the pictures… but vanished quickly as a memory surfaced.
Abruptly he scooped up his mug, finishing the contents before setting it down in the sink. "I'm off to bed, if you don't mind…."
He was almost to the doorway before Molly called his name. He turned back to her to see her still sitting at the table over the abandoned photographs, gazing at him earnestly. "What are you going to do after this?"
"What do you mean?" He was stalling for time, he knew exactly what she was speaking of.
She sighed, glancing down at her own mug. "You said yourself that you were leaving after a week or two; it's been nearly four. You're getting restless, I can see it, you want to be out there on your own but you know that if they found you…."
"That's why I've been doing all this, I need to keep them safe… John and Ms. Hudson and Lestrade and all the others. I'm going to go back, but I refuse to keep them in danger."
"You're avoiding my question, Sherlock."
He dropped his gaze. Molly might not be particularly apt in conversational skills at times… but she had him.
"… I was planning to leave tomorrow night."
"You never said anything."
"What if I did, what if I did mention it beforehand, and someone found out? They're still trying to find me, for all we know someone could be watching us at this moment. Whatever happens, I need to keep you safe, too."
She smiled a bit, quaveringly but bravely. "I'll be fine. I've lasted this long." She stood, arranging the two mugs neatly in the dishwasher to have something to do. He watched her, a strange look on his face.
"I'm… I'm going to stop by the cemetery tomorrow, before doing anything else… do you want to-"
"No, I think you need to go alone. What makes you so sure that John will be there?"
"He's got an appointment with his therapist beforehand; he's going to pick up Ms. Hudson afterwards and they're going to the grave." He carefully avoided saying "my grave"; he'd made the mistake once, he didn't want to again.
She frowned. "You are aware that if he sees you-"
"I know the consequences and I'm willing to take the risk. He's going to be out of sight for I don't know how long; I'll be well hidden. He won't see me."
Molly sighed slightly, closing the dishwasher. He caught a fleeting glimpse of sadness in her warm brown eyes, but it was gone as she turned to face him again. "Be careful."
"I will."
She nodded, looking at the ground. "Good night, Sherlock."
"Good night." He paused again at the doorway. "And… thank you."
She smiled at him again, small but brave, and turned away.
He wouldn't see her again for a long time.
…
The taxi on the way to the graveyard was completely silent.
Both passengers wore black- Ms. Hudson in her funeral dress, John dressed in a dark jacket and pants. Simple. Effective. He'd always hated stiff formal wear, and didn't quite think it appropriate to wear a suit just to visit the grave.
Sherlock wouldn't want it.
Ms. Hudson carried the flowers. It was a small bouquet, nothing special, but they had felt that it was enough. And it was proportionate to the shiny black headstone, the newest and smallest in the vicinity; not quite roughened, unfamiliar to the lichen that spotted the other, older names.
It was a few minutes before Ms. Hudson broke the silence, in a small voice.
"There was… always the noise… firing guns at the wall, for heaven's sake… bloody specimens in my fridge, imagine keeping experiments where you keep your food… and the arguments that shook the floor, day and night-"
"Ms. Hudson."
She ducked her head, fighting off tears and not quite succeeding. "Yes, yes, dear, I'll let you…." She glanced off in the distance, made a shushing gesture seemingly to herself, and walked back, the way they'd come.
Now John was alone. He stood and stared at the gold-lettered name on the small slab of stone, contemplating what to say, there was so much, but he had to say something… he took a deep breath and stepped back. The words burst forth, unconsciously.
"You told me once… that you weren't a hero. Um… there were times I didn't even think you were human, but, let me tell you this… you were the best man and human… human being… I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, that's… uh… there.
"I was so alone, and… I owe you… so much."
He turned, as if to go, but then on a sudden impulse, faced the grave again.
"Look, please… there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me….
"Don't… be… dead."
His breath caught and he stepped back, trying to stay strong, trying to keep from crying… "Would you do that, just for me, just… stop it. Stop this!"
He buried his face in his hand, tears overwhelming him for a second because it had finally hit him… his best friend was dead. Was dead and wasn't coming back.
Ever.
He pulled his head up sharply, eyes dry; John turned on his heel in a military about-face and walked away, hurrying back to the car, back to the world.
…
There was someone, though, several meters away, concealed behind a headstone, watching him go.
His face was impossible to read; he stood completely still in the shade of the tree, watching John slowly disappear. He carried a small bag at his side. His coat collar was turned up, as usual, the same coat that had seen through so many ventures into the unknown; he looked the same as ever.
But he grieved.
He would not see John, or Ms. Hudson, or anyone for quite a while, he knew that. It was the truth. And he had to accept it.
He turned, walking away from the grave with a firm, steady stride.
He had work to do.
...
Oh, I almost forgot-
I do not claim to own or be affiliated with Sherlock or BBC; this is purely a fanmade work.