A/N: Thanks for the reviews, favs and follows. :)
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not owned by me.
Molly worried her lower lip as she paced around her living room, waiting for the minutes to tick by before she would leave her flat and head towards the cemetery. Beside her, Sherlock was typing into a laptop that Mycroft had passed him yesterday, seemingly oblivious to her anxiety.
It was only when she started cracking her knuckles loudly did he look up from his computer, an annoyed expression on his face. "Relax, Molly. It's just a funeral."
"Just a funeral?" she echoed, completely astounded that he thought that way. It wasn't just a funeral to her. She would have to put up a façade again, acting like she's mourning over his death while he was sitting in her flat. She would have to face the others for the first time since he jumped, and she wasn't sure she could handle seeing the pain on their faces or hear the sadness in their voices. She was afraid that she might accidentally blurt out the truth as well. But Sherlock didn't seem to think so, since he was unnervingly calm.
"You already know I'm not dead," he said in a patronising tone. "So you're spared from the emotional pain that comes with my death. Just go there and put on an act. It's very simple."
Molly suppressed an urge to snap at him. It wasn't wise to get angry before going for a sad ceremony. But she was stuck in a constant limbo between wanting to tell the truth and needing to keep the secret to protect them, which was making her more short-tempered than usual.
Her flat suddenly felt very stuffy and she desperately wanted to feel the cool air against her skin. It would probably help her clear her head as well. She slipped on her coat and was just about to walk out her door when Sherlock called her.
"What?"
"Remember to cry convincingly," he said nonchalantly, before resuming his typing.
It was fortunate that Molly didn't have anything close by to throw at him.
There were only three of them at the funeral. There was no religious figure present to deliver a farewell since Sherlock was an atheist and would scoff at the whole idea. There was no headstone erected yet as well, and the only indication that there was a coffin there was the absence of grass on the patch of soil that had been dug up.
Molly stood between John and Mrs Hudson, alternating between trying to console each of them. Mrs Hudson was sobbing openly, while John tried his best to control his tears, only allowing a few to slide down his chin.
It turned out that Sherlock didn't have to worry about her not being able to cry convincingly at all. Her tears came naturally the moment she saw John and Mrs Hudson's grieving faces. Both of them looked to be in a horrible state, with John being worse off. The shadows under his eyes were darkened and stood out prominently. His eye bags looked bigger and his skin was sallow. The only comfort Molly got was that his limp had not yet returned.
She put an arm around Mrs Hudson and tried to soothe the old lady with some comforting words, softly telling her that Sherlock would never have wanted to see her crying over his death like this. Everyone knew she had seen Sherlock as her own son, and the fact that she thought he had departed this world before her was absolutely heart-breaking. Molly's other hand held John's own, and he was gripping it tightly as if it was the last precious thing in the world.
After a while, John moved forward to place the bouquet of white lilies that he had brought along on the soil.
"I know he hated sentimental things like these but I…" He sniffed, wiping the tears away from his cheeks.
"I think he would've appreciated it, John," Molly whispered. "He felt more than he let on."
John gave her a wobbly smile before holding her hand again. They stood there in silence for a long time, momentarily united by the one man they all loved so much.
Sherlock was standing in the perfect position. A large statue easily obscured him from the view of the three who were mourning his passing, making him able to watch them secretly. He also had a good view of the entire graveyard, which would give him ample of time to escape if he saw a suspicious figure lurking about. He knew he was risking detection being out in public so soon, and Mycroft would reprimand him if he knew, but pride had forced him here. He wanted to see how his death was affecting his friends. He knew it was rather revolting that he was concerned about his worth to others while they were still grieving, but if the words of the majority were anything to go by, he did have a large ego.
He huffed out a breath of air quietly as he took in the sight several metres away. It was clearly obvious that all three of them were crying, and it seemed like Molly was doing a commendable job of keeping up her façade. He swallowed hard when he saw Mrs Hudson sobbing into Molly's shoulder, feeling a strong rush of guilt in the pit of his stomach. She had always been a mother figure to him, more so than his own mother, who didn't really bother about his affairs. She probably felt disgraced by his "suicide" and had opted not to come for the funeral. She had always cared more about her status than her family anyway. Mycroft probably excused himself by lying about having some meeting of national importance.
He frowned a little when he saw John placing some lilies on the ground. He wanted to laugh at the sentimentality of such an action. A dead man was never going to know even if one placed a thousand stalks of flowers on his grave. But somehow, he found himself unable to disregard this act of respect and affection. It was oddly comforting to know that John cared for him enough to want to offer him something even in death.
He took one last look at them before walking out of the cemetery.
Molly sat across John at a café table, silently sipping her coffee while the army doctor stared out of the window absently, watching the throng of people on the streets. Mrs Hudson had declined coming along, choosing to go back to her herbal soothers and telly instead. Molly had wanted to rush back home after the funeral and bury herself under her blankets with Toby, but she knew that John needed some company.
She could see that something was bothering him. He was chewing on his lower lip incessantly and his eyebrows were creased deeply, as if he was in deep thought. She could hear the light drumming of his fingers on his knee.
"Why do you think he said that?" he finally asked, breaking the silence.
"Sorry?"
"Sherlock told me he was a fraud right before he jumped," he explained, a pained expression in his eyes. "Why would he say that?"
"He probably thought you would get over his death more easily that way."
"But he was my friend, Molly. He should know that I will never believe that lie."
"Well, he wasn't exactly the best reader of emotions and relationships, was he?"
"No," he agreed. "For a genius, he really was an idiot." He let out a soft chuckle as he remembered something. A look of horror crossed his face when he realised he had actually dared to do that. Molly reached over and touched his hand.
"It's not wrong to laugh sometimes, you know. It might seem horrible at first, but that's the only way you're going to be able move on." She remembered the very first time she had laughed after her father's death, and how she had hated herself for that, only to realise that it was crucial to healing emotionally.
John graced her with a soft smile. "You're really great, you know that?" Molly blushed at his comment, not used to compliments. "And you probably don't believe it, but I know Sherlock was fond of you."
Molly shook her head. She knew he was trying to make her feel better, and it just made her stomach sink more. "I highly doubt that."
"No, you don't understand," John said. "That Christmas, when he apologised to you…it was unbelievable."
"He was probably just feeling remorseful."
"Yes, but he never apologises for his deductions. He made an exception for you. If that wasn't something significant, then I don't know what is," he smiled. "I just wish he had been brave enough to tell you that before he…" he trailed off and looked out of the window again.
They descended into silence once more, Molly choosing to leave John to his thoughts. He was frowning again, but at least he was drinking his coffee now. Any calories he could get into his body would be good at this point. She was pretty certain he hadn't been eating well, and it worried her. She made a mental note to invite him out more often. That way, she could make sure that he at least ate something while he was with her.
"Are you still staying at Baker Street?" she asked him gently. Sherlock would probably want to know about that.
He shook his head. "I'm at my sister's now. Can't bring myself to go back yet."
"I understand."
"Maybe I might leave London soon too," he muttered, a distant look coming into his eyes.
Molly knew this would come eventually. John had far too many memories of Sherlock and London. It was the city where they had met, the city where they had become friends, the city where they had solved crimes in. She knew it would be better if he stayed someplace else for a while. But it still didn't stop her from feeling as if someone had placed a large boulder on her chest.
The sun was beginning to set when Molly finally reached home. The moment she unlocked the door to her flat, she knew that something was terribly wrong. It was far too quiet. Her heart started racing and she called out his name.
It took her a minute before her panic-filled mind finally accepted the truth.
Sherlock was gone.
I know that in Reichenbach, Mrs Hudson and John are seen at the graveyard. But I don't think that was Sherlock's funeral since headstones actually take a while to be put up. My headcanon is that some time had passed when they went to visit his grave again. What that means, I leave you to your deductions. :)
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