It's days before he can visit the grave. That makes it permanent, real. He's less angry now, but it still hurts so much, like a hole has been ripped out of his chest and he's been left gasping.
"There's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me," he says, pleading, hoping even though all hope is gone. "Don't be dead. Would you do that?"
He has nothing to offer, nothing to bargain with but himself. "Just for me. Just stop it. Stop this."
Stop this being dead and you'll have everything I am or might be, he thinks.