A/N: Hello, and welcome to what feels like the longest chapter I've ever written. Thanks again to those who have read, reviewed and added. It's so encouraging! This is a depressing chapter. The next one's already written and I'll upload in a few days. Strange things are about to happen to John.
There's a poem in this chapter by Henry Scott-Holland, as well as a mention of Pachelbel and a few lines from 'A Study in Pink'. Obviously, if you recognise anything, then it isn't mine.
When I wrote this chapter, and indeed this whole story, I've been inspired by the song 'You Walk With Me', which is a beautiful male duet from the Broadway soundtrack of The Full Monty. If you have Spotify or similar, then I suggest you have a listen. It sums up how I feel about Sherlock and John's friendship. Anyway... Onwards...
The car pulled up at the kerb outside a beautiful Victorian building with white steps which led to dark wood doors with shiny brass fittings. John thought it was both the most elegant and ominous placed he'd ever seen. Suddenly, his limbs didn't want to work anymore. He stumbled out of the taxi, which drove off steadily. John swallowed hard.
Mrs Hudson walked briskly up the steps and pulled at the heavy door. John's hands felt heavy by his sides, and they began to tingle. He put it down to a lack of oxygen and decided to breathe more often. He hurried up the steps after Mrs Hudson, and the pair entered a large reception room. The room was bright, with a high ceiling, and blood-red carpet. Several paintings hung on the walls.
John was genuinely surprised at the number of people gathered in various social clusters. He scanned the crowd, looking for any familiar faces. Lestrade was there, of course, looking incredibly formal in black. John thought that the man had aged considerably since he'd last seen him. There was also the man that owned the restaurant, who always spoke so highly of Sherlock. What was his name? John screwed up his face in effort of recollection. Angelo. Angelo with his restaurant on Northumberland Street. Angelo with his beard and his big grin. Angelo with his candles on the table. John wouldn't have known of this man at all, any of the people in the room, had it not been for Sherlock Holmes.
It was obvious, from the amount of people present, that not all were here to celebrate the memory of Sherlock Holmes. John knew full well that there must be at least a handful of criminal associates, coming to see for certain that the infamous man was truly gone. He hoped they'd be satisfied after today.
Beside the well-stocked bar, which ran along one wall of the room, John saw the man from the bank, which had gone to University with Sherlock. He couldn't remember the man's name, but as the banker laughed heartily with his companions, John remembered he'd formed the opinion that the man was a bit of a dick-head.
John scanned the room looking for the familiar, looming presence of Mycroft Holmes. He spotted him, hurrying through a set of double doors at the far side of the room. Mycroft look drawn and pale, his face a strange shade of grey that John had never witnessed before. He looked like a man under a huge strain. The weakness was gone in a flash, replaced with a welcoming smile as he made his way socially around the room. John probably wouldn't have seen the man's anguish if he hadn't been so used to reading Holmesian expressions. As Mycroft passed, he neither looked at nor spoke to John, but placed a hand on the man's shoulder so briefly that it wouldn't have been noticed by anyone. John felt the weight of his touch long after he'd walked away.
Suddenly, people were being ushered into the next room, through the double doors. John didn't feel ready. He hadn't prepared himself enough for going in. His ears suddenly rang, and he felt himself becoming clammy. He ushered Mrs Hudson towards the door, mumbling that he'd just be a moment. On bandy legs, he made his way hurriedly to the men's toilets where he threw himself onto the cold tiled floor and was sick into the nearest toilet bowl. He paused there for a moment, allowing his heart rate to slow, before rising and heading to the sink, where he splashed his face with cold water.
Get a grip!
Taking a few deep breaths, he walked steadily back through the emptying reception room towards the memorial room. This room was equal in size to the previous room, with frosted windows lining opposite walls. As John walked down the aisle between the rows of wooden chairs, he felt as if he were above himself, looking down on the scene in the dreamlike glow of the room. His limbs moved slowly, as if he were wading through water. From a speaker on the wall, violin strings played Pachelbel's Canon in D major. John smirked. Sherlock hated Pachelbel. It was a wry move on Mycroft's part.
John found Mrs Hudson, who'd taken up a seat on the end of a row. He shuffled past her to sit next to her, knowing she'd done it deliberately, probably to stop him from doing a runner. As John's eyes fell to the front of the room he noticed, to his horror, a striking white coffin with brightly polished silver fittings, stood on a dais. He actually groaned aloud. Why on earth had Mycroft felt the need to display a coffin? It was so...theatrical. Though John knew it was empty, it still made him feel uncomfortable. He tore his eyes away from it, as an officiator began to speak.
"Good afternoon and welcome. Thank you for attending the memorial service of Mr Sherlock Holmes. I didn't have the pleasure of making Sherlock's acquaintance, but having spoken to his brother, and indeed some of you this afternoon, I am understanding that he was a very unique man, one who was dedicated to his work as a private detective."
"Consulting," mumbled John under his breath.
"What?" Mrs Hudson whispered.
"Consulting detective. He was a consulting detective," John said under his breath. Mrs Hudson placed a hand on his arm, but focused her attention towards the speaker.
John sighed inwardly. This man didn't know Sherlock at all. Of course, he only had himself to blame. He had refused to speak today, after all. And what was the real harm in mis-communicating a few minor details. Nobody in this room cared that Sherlock's favourite colour was purple, that he like Marmite, that he wore odd socks and that he took his coffee with two sugars. But John had cared about the minor details, and Sherlock Holmes had thrived on them.
The officiator was welcoming Mycroft to the front on the room, and John felt that he really should pay attention. The officiator smiled warmly at Mycroft as he headed to the dais. Mycroft paused for a long moment, and surveyed the room with a theatrical air, before clearing his throat to speak.
"There are only two people," he told them, "that truly knew and understood my brother Sherlock. I wasn't fortunate enough to be one of them. One of which was our dear mother who spent much of her life in awe at this unique person that she herself had created. He was devastated the day that she died, and he swore that he'd never love another woman again. I believe he kept that promise. The second person is, naturally, sat in this room today. But he will not speak. I would so dearly like for you to know my brother better, so instead of this man telling you about my brother, I will perhaps explain to you how Sherlock felt about him.
"My brother was not an easy man to coincide with. I lived with him for many years and would not wish that upon any of you. He was an extremely intelligent man, who although was exceedingly observant, found great difficulty in functioning within society. Imagine then, to my great pleasure, when he found someone to anchor him, and make him a better person; a good person. Sherlock was so obsessed about how other people existed, that he was both astounded and quietly content to find a person that was willing to teach him how to exist.
"Sherlock, as I'm sure you are all aware, had very little difficulty in making enemies, but he had extreme difficulty in making friends. Sherlock was incredibly lucky to have found the one person in the world who thought he was worth staying around for."
There was something dark and heavy that passed over Mycroft's eyes. He seemed unsure of how to convey his next words. He swallowed hard.
"Sherlock was a very unlikable human being. But one person liked him for who he was, and that was something new to him. It meant the world to him. And it means the world to me. So, thank you."
He moved with speed from the podium and back to his seat at the front of the room. John licked his lips and tasted blood, realising he'd been biting down too hard. Mrs Hudson had been squeezing his left hand so tightly, while wiping at her face with a soggy tissue. His fingers were numb, but he was pleased for her hand being there. It stopped his hand from trembling. The officiator gave his token smile and welcomed, to John's surprise, Detective Inspector Lestrade to the front of the room. Several members of the audience bristled at the sight of the Detective. Lestrade, who had spoken in front of many a press conference, suddenly looked uncomfortable at the thought of speaking at the service. He cleared his throat.
"Many people within this city will know who I am," he began, "but not enough people will know the name Sherlock Holmes; people who should know his name. When Mr Holmes asked me to speak today, I was unsure of what to say. I know there are people out there, and indeed in this very room, who would only be interested in knowing that he's really gone. But there are also people out there, and in this room, who need to know how truly brilliant he was. There are people who owe that man their lives, for the crimes in which he has solved, and indeed prevented. I personally, would like to share my gratitude on behalf of those people. Sherlock didn't do it for the gratitude, don't get me wrong. He was incredibly pompous about it in fact, and quite frankly a pain in the arse. He did it because he was good at it, and he thought it was bloody good fun! But all of this doesn't mean that he didn't deserve our gratitude. I don't think there's anyone in this room who can honestly say that their lives haven't been changed, either for better or worse, by knowing this man. I know I certainly wouldn't be the man I am today without Sherlock Holmes. And there are people in this city and beyond who will say the same thing. And that is something pretty amazing, I reckon."
With these words, the Inspector returned to his seat. Finally, Mycroft was invited back up for a reading.
"My brother had a morbid fascination with his own death, from a very young age. In fact, he chose this himself," Mycroft told them all with a smile. "It is named Death Is Nothing At All, by Henry Scott-Holland. And I read this, not for Sherlock, but for John."
John fought the huge urge to sink down into his seat. There were, in fact, very few people in the crowded room that knew that he was John, so he decided to keep his eyes focused on the front, and pretend that he couldn't feel several pairs of eyes gaping at the back of his head.
"Death is nothing at all,
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I and you are you,
Whatever we were to each other,
That we are still.
Call me by my old familiar name,
Speak to me in the easy way you always used,
Put no difference into your tone,
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed,
At the little jokes we always enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effort,
Without the ghost of a shadow in it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute unbroken continuity.
What is death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind,
Because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you for an interval,
Somewhere very near,
Just around the corner.
All is well.
Nothing is past; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!"
The room crackled with silence.
John was vaguely aware of Mycroft uttering his thanks, and the people ushering out of the room. He heard Mrs Hudson's voice by his ear, calling his name.
"In a minute," he replied, in a voice which didn't quite sound like his own. The woman squeezed his shoulder. Suddenly the room fell silent. John was alone.
He placed his hands on the chair in front, and rested his forehead on his hands, looking down at his shoes. His ears rang from the blood which pumped in them. His chest burned with a sob which he was desperately fighting to keep in.
"What the hell are you doing to me?" he asked out loud.
John thought back to when they'd just met, and he'd chased Sherlock through the damp streets of London, seemingly for no point whatsoever.
"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."
"And you invaded Afghanistan."
"That wasn't just me!"
He had giggled, uncontrollably at the situation around him. And as he'd laughed, somehow the barrier of 'stranger' had fallen, and he'd found himself stood next to a friend.
John wasn't laughing anymore.
He thought of the poem Mycroft had just read.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again.
John wished with all his heart that he could believe those words. Wiping tears which he hadn't realised had fallen, he rose and with deep breaths he headed for the reception room.
The hubbub of the reception room hit John in the face, and he winced at the volume of voices. He was pleased to see that very few people had acknowledged his presence. Mrs Hudson stood, looking agitated in the corner of the room. John made his way over to her. She pulled him into a fierce embrace.
"Oh," she sighed emotionally into his shoulder. "I'm so proud of you."
"I haven't done anything," John mumbled.
"We both know that isn't true."
They were broken apart by a voice from behind them.
"John."
John frowned at the young woman, and barely recognised her through her grief-stricken face, stained with mascara.
"Molly," he exclaimed in surprise. Mrs Hudson, looked between the pair, and excused herself. Molly's dark hair had been chopped into a straight bob around her face, which only highlighted how much weight she'd lost over a short space of time. She trembled as she took a step forwards, and John had to put a hand out to steady her.
"I just wanted to say, I'm so sorry for everything that's happened to you." She began to sob, incredibly loudly. John, not knowing what else to do, pulled her in to an awkward hug, looking around at the various spectators who had halted their conversations.
"Do you...want to get some air?" John suggested, and led Molly out through the main doors to the street outside.
"It feels like I'm living in some sort of nightmare," she babbled to him as they walked down the steps. "I'm just waiting to wake up, and every day that passes just makes me realise that I'm not going to; that this is real. That I was a part of it!"
John swallowed hard, expecting the inevitable. She was going to talk about him; Moriarty.
"I had no idea, John, you have to believe me!"
"I do, Molly."
"A-and Sherlock's gone a-and it is all m-my fault."
"No, Molly," John snapped at her, making her jump. He was sorry for it. He wasn't angry at her, but at the person who had put them all through this. "This isn't your fault in any way. He used you to get to Sherlock. You're as much a victim as any of those poor people were. As much as Sherlock was." He didn't want to upset her. He knew his words were harsh. But he had a feeling deep down that these words would be easier to deal with than the guilt that was tearing away at this poor woman.
He let his words wash over her, and something changed in her expression. She took several deep breaths. When she next spoke, her voice was much stronger.
"I had a little crush on him, you know."
John gave a chuckle. Little crush?
"I know."
"Oh." She genuinely seemed surprised. Bless her, John thought. Poor Molly Hooper; whose heart had been broken by a sociopathic, consulting detective and whose mind had been ruined by a psychopathic, consulting criminal. These people had seen her coming!
"Do you think he knew?" she ventured, and John smiled warmly at her.
"Molly, he knew everything."
Molly managed a smile back, stretching her tearstained cheeks.
As they turned to go back into the building, Molly placed a hand on John's arm. He looked at her, and she was studying him with a look of compassion and admiration.
"What is it?"
"It's just...I knew you two worked together. I knew you lived together. But I didn't realise until today that you were his best friend." She smiled at him tearfully before heading inside.
John found Mrs Hudson again, finishing a glass of wine. He suspected it wasn't her first.
"We should probably go," he announced, feeling incredibly drained. She nodded her agreement and took his arm.
They headed for the door and walked past Lestrade, who was talking to someone that'd obviously met before, no doubt on a past case. Lestrade nodded to John as he passed, and John nodded back, knowing with a sudden weight in his stomach that he would probably never see the man again. Who would hire the monkey without the organ grinder?
As they neared the door, John caught Mycroft's eye. He saw the man excuse himself from his current conversation, and meet them at the door.
"Thank you, both of you, for coming today," he said sincerely, kissing Mrs Hudson on the cheek, and then grasping John's hand in a warm shake.
"Thank you," John replied. "For everything you said. It...it meant a lot."
"You, dear John, have the patience of a saint, and are the most dependable man I think I have ever met. I don't think I could ever repay you for all you've done for my brother. You will have my constant gratitude." His eyes shone. "This country needs more men like you. If you ever want a job, don't hesitate to ask." He smiled warmly and John returned it, hoping to God that he was joking.
"We will see each other again, John Watson."
He wished them both a safe journey, and submersed himself into the crowded room.
"Come on John," said Mrs Hudson lightly. "Let's go home."
As they sat in front of Eastenders that night, John picking at his Kung Po chicken, while Mrs Hudson dozed next to him, her head on his shoulder, John decided that today was the day when things had to change.
He would no longer take two mugs out of the cupboard in the morning by mistake. He would no longer be a scarf sniffer. He didn't want to be the person that people like Lestrade would think back to in years to come:
Remember that man who used to run around after that sociopath?
...No.
And he would not cry anymore!
It was twenty minutes later, when he was wiping his eyes uncontrollably at the end of Eastenders, that he admitted it was going to be a lot harder than he thought.
Maybe he'd keep hold of the scarf a little longer...