Sherlock had planned out his funeral arrangements in great detail.
He had the time, John supposed.
Mycroft didn't even try to butt in. Shock. Guilt. A dying man's wishes.
John didn't know. Didn't care. Was in a fog. Not a drugged fog though, that would probably be more pleasant. No, just normal dull choking fog.
It was disappointingly sunny the day of the service.
Of all things, Sherlock had wanted to be buried.
John had expected something more... strange. Like being frozen, or being cremated and having his ashes scattered in the strangest place possible, or donating his body. (Although after all the things that he did to bodies in the morgue, John supposed some sort of karmic intervention was likely, so this was probably a better choice.)
But he was buried the first time and was buried this time. Except this coffin actually contained his body. Dressed as he lived, scarf and all. And that bloody violin.
John had wanted to keep the violin. Sentiment. But he'd have no clue what to do with it, and besides, Sherlock would need something to keep himself entertained.
There was not crying from him at the funeral. He simply held others as they cried.
He had said it to John, must have been near the 5 month mark. "God is cruel. Sometimes he makes you live." John couldn't agree more.
Another condition, John did have a brain biopsy done.
Sherlock was right. Of course.