Sorry about the delayed update, I've had a really busy week.

Hope you like the chapter, please review! :)

The Funeral

They've set a date for the funeral. Which is impossible, because Sherlock isn't dead. I keep on expecting the door of 221B Baker Street to bang open, and the crazy-haired detective would rush in, sometimes covered in blood, sometimes wielding some sort of weapon that looks like it hasn't been used since the fourteenth century or sometimes muttering and moaning or jumping up and down in excitement about a case. But no one runs up the stairs, the wind's just blown the door open and then shut again with a loud thud, reminding me that I'm still alone.

Over the past week, I have hated this loneliness, as I long so much for some other sort of human company. I was so used to having someone else with me, Sherlock was around almost all the time, but now there is just me. However when I get the opportunity to meet someone, when the phone rings or there is a knock at the door, I find myself unable to answer them, because all of a sudden I prefer to be alone. I'd much rather shrink into my own shell and not be disturbed, I get angry when I discover that I am no longer alone, and I want nothing more than the person who has disturbed my peace to leave, and quickly.

So now some people (I don't know who they are, I certainly have nothing to do with it) have organised a funeral and sent me this solemn invitation - little A5 piece of card through the letter box, slim, black letters, slim, black border - and I find myself unsure if I should go.

My therapist says I should, she claims this will help set in my mind that Sherlock is gone and will not come back, and therefore help me to move on. For once I see her point, not that I really believe it will work, but it's worth a try, and I also think it should be the right thing to do. It's important to pay your respects to those who have passed, other people will be there too, looking glum and talking in soft whispers. People will expect me to join them on this sad occasion, so perhaps I should.

But on the other hand I don't want to go, because I don't want to accept the fact that Sherlock is dead. The thought of him being lowered into a hole in the ground to decay seems impossible, something that cannot even be imagined, but it's not in my head, it's happening for real. And I don't want to see the people who will be there. I'm not entirely sure who's going to be there, but I'd be surprised if Mycroft wasn't there, or Molly, or Mrs Hudson. Lestrade might even be there, despite the fact that he and Sherlock never really got on and he did try to arrest him at one point. I'm not sure about Donavan or Anderson, they never did like Sherlock and were the first to doubt him.

The trouble is, I don't think I'll be able to stand being around these people. Mycroft was the one who told the whole of Sherlock's life story to Moriarty, so he was able to spread the lie that ultimately destroyed Sherlock (God, I hope it was just a lie) and it was all for Mycroft's own, selfish needs. Does he even care that his brother's dead? I hate him for what he did to Sherlock. Then there's Molly and Mrs Hudson, who I don't want to talk to as they just make me think about my best friend more, and the fact that he's dead. Molly was probably the one who signed off his body, and, bless her, it will probably crop up in conversation if she starts talking to me, she's never had good conversational skills. I've been avoiding Mrs Hudson as much as I can, because she knows I'm upset and wants to try and talk to me about it, but I don't. If I go to the funeral I can't really avoid her or ignore her. Lestrade in the meantime probably hates Sherlock for making him look like an idiot and lying to him all this time, and I don't really want to talk about that either.

On the day of the funeral Mrs Hudson comes upstairs to see if I'm coming with her. I still haven't made my choice, so I tell her that I feel unwell but might come later if I get better. I can see in her eyes this makes her even more worried, but she just nods and leaves the room, and a few minutes later I hear the front door close as she leaves.

Then I am consumed with guilt.

How could you? Growls a voice in my head, how could you just hide away at home while your best friend is being buried? How could you be such a coward?

And I feel like I need to see proof again, like when Sherlock jumped, I need to know it's him being buried, I need to be certain that he's dead, because in my mind, he's so alive.

Coward. Repeats the voice in my head. Where is your respect?

That's it. I grab my coat and rush out of Baker Street as if the bitter voice in my head is chasing me down the stairs. I hail a TAXI and head to the churchyard, I shouldn't be too late, I can still see it happen.

It doesn't take me long to reach the Church and the graveyard, so grey and dull despite the shining sun. There are no birds in the trees, the flowers seem drained of colour, even the grass as turned brown. It looks like life if slowly being drained from my world.

I see a few black figures in the distance, looking like crows surrounding something I cannot quite see. A man in white stands before them and talks in a low murmur. As I come closer I can see a grave and a coffin between the black figures.

Sherlock's funeral.

I don't get much closer after that, my approach creates a slight disturbance and a face turns around and looks at me. It's Mycroft.

Rage fills me. Despite the fact I knew he would be at the funeral, I don't want him to be. What right does he have? He killed Sherlock, I wouldn't want my murderer at my funeral. And he looks so solemn, as if he is so surprised and saddened by this occasion. He shouldn't be surprised, he caused this, and his sad face makes him seem innocent in the whole thing. In my eyes, he is no longer an innocent man, there is blood on his hands.

I can't go any closer. I don't want to disturb the funeral or get any closer to Sherlock's murderer. He'll probably try to talk to me, and I might end up punching him in the face. Once again I feel like a coward for not going up to the grave, but I don't care, so I keep my distance by the trees that circle the graveyard and watch the funeral from there.

Within a few moments of standing by the trees the coffin is lowered into the ground and lump grows in my throat. The figures around the grave are silent while I want to scream. Because it's not Sherlock in that coffin, this can't be Sherlock's funeral. How could he be dead?

Thank God I'm only watching this from a distance, if I was within that crowd I would break down.

After a couple of minutes the mourners turn away from the freshly dug grave and walk through the grim graveyard. I sink into the shadow of the trees so I am not noticed. I recognise the faces that go by. Mycroft (I try not to scream his name in anger), Mrs Hudson (it pains me to see her so sad), Molly (why does she look so awkward, as if she feels like she shouldn't be here?), Lestrade (trying to keep a straight face, but his eyes give away his sadness and confusion) and surprisingly Donavan (she looks a little angry about something, perhaps she was dragged here.)

Unfortunately I quickly discover that my hiding place was not the best choice, as a few notice my silhouette and stop and stare, trying to work out who or what it is. Mycroft probably knows it's me, but he walks on, deciding not to bother me. Molly and Donavan both catch sight of me, but both just look confused and then quickly move on. I breath a silent sigh of relief when all the figures disappear from sight. I didn't like that one bit, it's not nice having to hide from your friends, but it could haver been even worse if they found me.

At least I am alone now. I consider going up to the grave and pay my respects, maybe dig it up to make sure it's not Sherlock in there. Because how could Sherlock be in that coffin? It's impossible.

But then I realise I'm not alone.

There's a figure, hiding in the trees like me. I can just see their silhouette, but because they're on the other side of the graveyard it's hard to recognise them.

It's a very tall silhouette, tall like Sherlock. Could it be...?

But then I blink, and the figure has disappeared. Just my desperate imagination, no person, no Sherlock. I just hope the whole event hasn't turned me mad.

With that heavy thought in mind, I forget to go to the grave and pay my respects, I just walk home with my head down.