"I want to ask a favor of you."
Sherlock's words pulled me away from the book I was reading.
It was late, and I thought he had drifted off to sleep. I had sat with him in his room until he'd finally relaxed, lying limply against his pillows, trying to read a book and battling to keep his eyes open.
Apparently, sleep had not come as I'd hoped. I peered at him over the top of my reading glasses. "A favor?" I repeated. "Should I be frightened?"
He didn't smile at my half-attempt at humor. "Can I interest you in a funeral tomorrow?" he asked. "With any luck it will be fraught with weeping and depressed people in need of your services. You could drum up fresh clientele."
It was odd, hearing Sherlock's voice clinical and standoffish, as if he hadn't been crying broken-heartedly just a few hours earlier. As if he wasn't asking me attend his own funeral.
"Why?" I asked.
"I'd simply like a report as to who attends. And, more importantly, who doesn't." His eyes narrowed. "Some serial killers attend the funerals of their victims. They're drawn to the mourning, they enjoy seeing the sorrow."
"All right, but I wonder if there's more to it than that," I said. "Be truthful."
He lowered his gaze to the ground, but didn't respond.
I softened my voice. "It's John," I said. "You want me to make certain he's all right."
"Of course not," he mumbled. "He has Mrs. Hudson… Lestrade …Molly…"
"But they won't be enough," I said. "That's what you're worried about, isn't it? You'd prefer to have a professional there in case John needs one."
Despite his clinical tone, his emotions were still just below the surface, threatening to wash over him at any moment. His mouth trembled; he pressed the back of his hand against his lips to make it stop. When he had regained control, he dropped his hand and straightened his shoulders. "I let John down once," he said. "I don't want to do it again."
"Let him down? How?"
"If I had only found a way to warn him before I…"
"Jumped," I supplied, so he wouldn't have to say the word.
He nodded grimly. "If only I had just moved a little more quickly, deduced things a little faster… If I could have just found the snipers in time…
"At the very least, if I could have found a way to tell him it was an act…he could have gone on with his life without thinking that I had taken mine. He would have at least known the truth."
"You know what this is, correct?" I asked quietly.
"Of course I know what it is," he said impatiently. "Stage three of grief. 'Bargaining,' Trying to make a deal with a higher power in an attempt to fix the loss. In the third stage, people ponder what they could have done differently to change the outcome of the situation."
"People in this stage often start their sentences with the words, 'if only,'" I added. "Unfortunately, 'if only' is the most unproductive phrase in the English language.
"You can't change it, Sherlock. You just can't."
He dropped his gaze to the floor again. He was fighting his tears, but I didn't think he'd be able to hold them back much longer.
I didn't want to do this. I was reticent to leave him alone on a day that would undoubtedly be difficult for him as well. But if I attended the funeral, if I was available for John on this terrible day, would it help Sherlock in his healing process? Would it give him closure somehow?
I sighed heavily. "I'll go, Sherlock."
He raised his eyes, and a single tear slipped down his left cheek. "Thank you."
I smiled and he returned the smile. At that moment, what I was about to do seemed completely worth the risk.
"Do you think you'll be able to sleep now?" I asked.
"Yes." He turned and walked back to his bedroom. In the doorway, he turned back.
"Merry."
"Yes?"
I thought he would thank me. But in true Sherlock form, he said, "Don't forget to pick up pizzas on your way back."