The funeral director was draping a white cotton shroud over Sherlock's coffin when I re-entered the church. There was a large crucifix cross-stitched into the fabric and the man fussed with it, making sure it was straight.
The organ music had begun to play "Abide with Me," and everyone had taken their seats, except John. He was still standing beside the coffin, clutching Julie's flowers to his heart.
I approached him quietly and touched his arm, whispering his name. He blinked hard, and fresh tears coursed down his cheeks. "I can't do this," he whispered.
"Can't do what, John?"
"I can't just… I can't just leave him here alone."
"He's not here, John," I said. For a moment, I thought he'd look up, questioning my choice of words. But he shook his head miserably. "I know, it's just a body," he whispered. "But it's Sh-Sherlock's body. It's all that I have left."
For the hundredth time, I wanted to tell him the truth. The casket was empty, except for the sandbags Mycroft had added to give it a credible weight.
Instead, I circled his shoulders with my arm and urged him away. "Come sit, John. You need to sit down for a bit."
"Yeah. Yeah, okay." John dabbed at his eyes with a soggy handkerchief and brushed his fingers along the coffin one last time.
"Goodbye, Sherlock," he whispered, and allowed me to lead him away, to escort him to the front pew. Mrs. Hudson was sitting there with Mycroft and Sherlock's parents; when she saw John she reached for him. He sank heavily beside her, but when I stepped away, he turned to me.
"Stay," he murmured. "Please. Please stay."
"Of course," I said. "Whatever you need."
The funeral director rolled the coffin down the center aisle, leaving it in front of the altar. John couldn't take his eyes away from it.
The funeral wasn't very long, but I watched John throughout the service. He didn't sing along with the hymns, he didn't meet the priest's gaze. He simply sat, holding the wilting bouquet.
When it was time for the eulogy, he handed the flowers to Mrs. Hudson and walked slowly to the pulpit. I prayed he'd be able to make it through this part; judging from the pallor of his skin, I wasn't convinced he would.
He clutched at the pulpit, his knuckles white. After a few concentrated deep breaths, he was able to raise his eyes to the mourners before him.
"Sherlock Holmes was many things to many people," he began. "To some, he was a lunatic. To others, simply a man with terrible manners."
There were a few scattered chuckles from the congregation.
John continued. "To many, Sherlock Holmes was a hero."
He inhaled sharply and chewed on his lip for a moment, trying to gain control. After a long moment, he exhaled and began to speak again.
"To me, he was my best friend. He taught me many lessons that I will never forget. I… I made a list…"
He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and flattened it on the podium in front of him.
"'What I learned from Sherlock Holmes,'" he read. "'Number one: 'Never stop learning. And learn about everything you can.'"
He cleared his throat, struggling to keep his emotions in check. "Number two. 'Keep your eyes open and banish any prejudices you may gather from first impressions.'"
He had to clear his throat again, and I tensed, willing to intervene and finish the list for him if he couldn't make it.
But John drew from an unseen well of strength inside himself, and continued.
"Number three. 'All problems have more than one solution, and all problems can be solved,'" he said.
"Number four. 'When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth.'"
John tucked his list back into his jacket pocket, and fixed his eyes on the coffin before him.
"There is one more thing I learned from Sherlock Holmes," he said. "And this is it:
'A true friend will lay down his life to preserve yours.'"
My eyes widened. Did he know? Did he suspect the truth?
No, he didn't. The devastation was written on his face as his mouth began to tremble. "And… and I'm sorry…" he whispered. "I'm s-sorry that I didn't have the chance to do the same for him."
In the pews behind us, I heard several people sniffle as John made his way slowly back to our pew. When he sank heavily between me and Mrs. Hudson, we each held our arms around him, and he wept in our embraces. She returned the bouquet, and he buried his face in the blooms, choking.
Mycroft sat on Mrs. Hudson's other side, his face pale but expressionless. Beside him, his parents wept quietly into handkerchiefs.
There was another hymn, and it was over. The pall bearers came forward to carry out the coffin. I recognized a few of them: DI Lestrade, whose eyes were wet and red; a woman with curly dark hair and a man who reminded me, strangely, of a greasy-haired weasel. The other three wore police uniforms. I wondered if they were truly friends of Sherlock's, or merely present for security reasons.
We stood and watched the coffin's recession as it traveled the long aisle, finally disappearing outside through the church's tall wooden doors.
We filed out in its wake, but when we were only halfway down the aisle, I heard John mumble a curse beside me. The flower bouquet slipped out of his hands, scattering petals and blooms over the church's hardwood floors. For a moment, he merely stood there, staring at nothing, not moving an inch.
My stomach sank. "John?" I shook his shoulder. "John!"
John's eyes rolled back and he followed the flowers' descent to the floor.