AN: In order to set the mood/tone for this story better, I suggest that you listen to Lindsey Stirling's cover of "My Immortal" while you read.
The glossy casket shimmered in the late afternoon sunlight. Everyone was dressed in somber hues of black for the occasion. Sherlock stood on the outskirts of the gathering crowd, taking it all in. He focused on all of the mourners that gathered around the closed casket. Among the people at the front of the mourners was a woman with short blonde hair who was balancing a small girl of about two on her hip. Tears that were rapidly pouring from her eyes caused the mascara that she had under her eyes to run down her face in two black rivers. Her eyes were veiled slightly by the film of tears that quickly gathered to take the place of the ones that had already fallen free. She reached out her free hand to lay its black gloved presence on top of the casket whispering, "I love you"s to the deaf ears of a dead man.
Sherlock turned away as the soldiers that stood on the outskirts of the black group of mourners raised their muskets into the gray air overhead. He didn't want to see them fire it. He didn't want to believe any of this. He was still convincing himself that it was still some nightmare that he was going to wake up from eventually.
He looked down at the violin that he was clutching tightly in his hands. He hadn't been asked to play at the funeral. In fact, no one had really invited him. He understood that he hadn't been on the best of terms with everyone gathered here, but regardless, he still viewed the man as his best friend. Dead or not, John Watson would always be his one and only friend.
He placed the violin in its position on his shoulder and softly began to bring his bow across the strings to allow a beautiful yet sorrowful melody play across the graveyard. It was a haunting tune that didn't seem to grasp anyone's attention. Sherlock didn't want the attention anyway. He wanted to be able to grieve over his best friend in peace.
In the months leading up to John's death, Sherlock and John's relationship had become a rocky one. John had found Sherlock in a drug den a mere month or two after he had married Mary. He was increasingly angry with him as the days drew on. Sherlock knew that it was because John felt as if he was tasked to babysit a child who should have known better than to do such damaging actions. Eventually Sherlock cleaned up his act for a bit only to end up shooting Magnussen to keep John's family intact. If it wasn't for Moriarty's sudden resurrection, he would have been exiled. The days after Sherlock's exile was revoked, he found himself slipping back into his drug habit again. Moriarty reappeared with his "Did you miss me?" tag line and then vanished again. Sherlock grew restless and bored. Days past by with not even a soul looking his way. About a week after he started taking drugs again, John showed up at the flat. When he entered, he took one look around and saw him lying sprawled out on the sofa. Sherlock could remember the dark look that passed over his face. John had stayed frozen in the doorway for several minutes, gripping the doorway tight with his hand. Then, without a single word to him, he turned and left the flat. Sherlock never saw John again after that. He figured that he had just pressed John one too many times. He wished he could apologize for what he did. He wanted his best friend back, but now it was much too late.
The shots were fired into the air as Sherlock continued to play. Soon the priest stood near the casket; his black suit reflecting off the shine on the lid. Sherlock fixed his eyes on the sobbing woman near the casket, Mary, as she gently set her daughter down in the dewy grass. The small child walked close to the casket and lovingly put her small hand out onto it. She was too young to realize that the man inside was her father and by the time she did realize it, many years will have passed. However, despite the child's small size, she did realize that someone dearly loved lay inside the casket. The child turned to look at her mother; her small blond hair drifting upward in a sudden gust of cold autumn air.
"Mummy, who is sleeping?"
The dear child thought that someone was sleeping inside the casket. Mary gave her a tight lipped smile as her face became even more wrought with emotion than it had been before.
"A dearly loved man, my sweet Clara."
Clara turned back to look at the casket in silence.
"I wish Daddy were here. He was a doctor. He'd know how to make sure the man was comfy."
More tears ran red tracks down Mary's cheeks as she nodded her head weakly in agreement.
"I wish your father were here too, Clara. I know we'll see him again someday though."
Mary purposefully remained vague. She didn't want her dear child of only two to realize her father was dead. She watched as Clara bent down and uprooted a small daisy from its grassy home. She gently teetered forward and tried to place the daisy on the top of the casket. Seeing her struggle to do so, a figure stepped forth from the crowd and picked her up gently to help her accomplish her goal. The man that did so was Gregory Lestrade. After Clara had placed the daisy on the top of the casket, Greg placed her back down and watched her wander back over to her mother.
Sherlock smiled softly at the tenderness that Greg had just displayed by doing such an act. Greg was always there when he was needed. He was always there for a shoulder to cry or lean on. Sherlock was sure that Mary would be happy to have his presence nearby during this difficult time.
Soon the priest finished his monologue and everyone began to walk away after the final prayer. Sherlock watched the black disperse across the grass; black tendrils that were reaching for their homes in different vehicles that lined the drive. Mary was one of the last ones to wander away, once more balancing Clara on her hip. Clara turned to look behind her at the casket, waving goodbye by opening and closing her small baby hand.
"Goodnight," she said to the casket before her and Mary disappeared into an awaiting car and drove away.
Now the only ones left in the graveyard were Sherlock and the funeral attendants who were going to place John in his new home within the ground. Sherlock stopped playing his violin and stiffened his back as the casket was lowered into the earth. As he watched the burial of his best friend, a hand reached out towards him and gently found its home on his shoulder. Turning slightly, Sherlock turned to see John standing there. He looked at him shocked.
"You're alive?!"
John gave Sherlock a sad smile and shook his head. Instead of explaining himself, he changed the subject tactfully.
"I figured you'd be here."
Sherlock, however, wasn't done with the other subject no matter how tactfully it was dealt. He pointed a finger at the descending casket.
"You are suppose to be dead."
"Sherlock..." said John slowly. "Stop..."
"Stop what?"
"You're making a big deal out of this."
"Why shouldn't I be? You made a big deal when I didn't actually die."
"This situation is different," said John with a sigh.
"How is it different?"
John looked toward the casket which was now fully submerged in its new home in the ground before looking back at Sherlock.
"Take a close look at me, Sherlock. A really close look."
Sherlock did as he was instructed and looked John over from head to toe. He seemed perfectly normal. He was dressed in a white jumper and trousers as he usually was. His blonde hair was swept off to the side and his blue eyes were focused entirely on Sherlock even though they were filled with sadness. He was just about to tell John that he looked perfectly normal until he saw the small crimson spot where his heart was. Sherlock didn't know how he hadn't missed it before. He pointed at the spot and asked, "What is that?"
"Blood," said John.
"Why is there blood on your jumper?"
"Because I was shot," said John. "Sherlock, I didn't come back from the dead as you did. I was shot and killed. I am still dead."
"Impossible," said Sherlock definitively. "You can't be."
"Impossible you say? Why do you say it's impossible?"
"Because I'm not dead and I can see you."
"Oh, Sherlock..." said John with a small shake of his head. He nodded his head towards his grave. "Do you see the gravestone next to mine?"
Sherlock turned to look back at the grave as dirt was being laid in John's. He hadn't paid much attention to the other gravestones before, but now that he was, he could see that the gravestone next to John's was his. He turned back to look at John.
"Mycroft must have forgotten to have it removed when I came back to London."
"No, Sherlock. You died. That's your grave. I buried you for real this time."
"No...you couldn't have. I don't remember my own funeral."
"Didn't you ever wonder why no one came to visit for months? Didn't you ever wonder why Mrs. Hudson stopped preparing you coffee every day?" asked John.
He paused and looked away toward the graves for a second before he began to speak again.
"A week or so after Moriarty returned, I came by to check on you. When I entered the flat, I could see your dispensed needles lying all helter skelter on the floor and then there you were on the sofa...dead."
"I was dead when you came by? Is that why you never came by again?"
John nodded.
"The day you died, I stopped going back to the flat. I couldn't take the memories. I couldn't bare to think that my best friend died there. I was so angry that you had fallen back into your drug habit again after everything that had happened that I went to a drug den to seek out the man that had sold you those infernal things. Mary didn't want me to go. She told me to drop it. For a while, I did, but two years after your death, I couldn't take it anymore. So, I snuck out while she slept and went to confront a drug lord. Needless to say, it did not end well for me."
Sherlock looked on at John in silence for a moment before asking, "Why did you do that? You knew it wouldn't change anything."
"I know, but I would just like to think that the person who put my best friend in the ground paid for what they did."
"Well, it doesn't matter now for either of us I suppose."
John just nodded his head before asking, "You think Mary and Clara will be alright?"
"I'm sure they will be," said Sherlock. "Nothing bad will befall them."
John nodded once more, seeming satisfied with the answer that Sherlock had given him. He turned to look at Sherlock once more as the graveyard started to lighten up behind them, turning the gray afternoon into a bright burst of light.
"Well, Sherlock. Here we are once more. Two friends together until the very end. Are you ready for one last adventure with me?"
John softly smiled at Sherlock as he took a step or two forward towards the bright light. Sherlock hesitated, mulling John's question over before catching up with John.
"Why not? Our final game is on, I suppose."
John smiled a bit more at that as he stepped into the light and let it engulf him slightly. Sherlock did the same and soon the two were gone from the graveyard and off on their last great adventure. Sun broke slowly through the gloom of the gray clouds overhead and bathed the grim graveyard in its perfect, joyful rays.