The funeral was a few days later, and like Mycroft had said, he'd arranged everything.
He had a military funeral. It was packed. Sherlock wasn't surprised, John had a lot of friends. He knew a lot of people, had saved a lot of people.
He didn't really like it. There was far too much procedure that he didn't understand or know about.
He mostly just sat there looking at the hole John would be put it.
It was next to Sherlock's grave.
He remembered the day that he stood behind a tree and watched John speak to his grave, beg him to not be dead, and walk away.
Somehow, he didn't think John would be doing the same to him.
Although, there was the tiniest bit of Sherlock that hoped John was only doing this for payback, because of what Sherlock had put him through with his suicide.
But Sherlock had felt John's cold skin for himself, had seen the incisions where they had opened him up to take his organs to place into others, pat them down nicely, and sew them up, much like putting new batteries into a toy. That couldn't be faked.
The grieving mind had hope for impossible things.
Sherlock looked away from the grave as they lowered the coffin into it.
He accepted the flag they gave him. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with it, but he took it anyway.
Mrs Hudson played the role of the grieving mother, Lestrade of the grieving father, and Sherlock supposed, he was the grieving widow.
Not entirely inaccurate.