It was quite some time before I began to return to awareness. I remember nothing of being carried from the church, or of the journey back home; it seemed I drifted in and out of delerium for a time, in which waking was worse pain than the dreams in which the past three days had been but a terrible nightmare, and my dearest love was yet alive and well. In dreams I managed to convince myself that it had all been a mistake; that Holmes had simply fallen asleep upon the tigerskin rug as he had so often done before. In dreams, I did not cradle his lifeless form, begging for death to take me too; I did not stand over his body in the morgue with the blade in my hand.
And yet in waking moments, it all came flooding back to me in terribly clear fashion; there was the body, there was the knife, there was the coffin, the open crypt ready to receive his mortal remains alongside those of deceased relatives that had gone before him; and I wept at such cruel pain and begged to be allowed to return to the peace of my dreams. I may have been feverish.
I think that eventually Mary called a doctor to see me; certainly I remember the prick of a needle in my arm, and then the longest time in which I must have slept without dreaming at all.
It was two days after the funeral that Mary came to me as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I think I had lain there for some time after waking, not moving. I remembered how often Holmes had lain thus in one of his black moods, and I thought that perhaps I now understood a little of what he must have felt during those dark times. Though the thin winter sun streamed through the window, brightening the room, it seemed as though everything were grey. I had no energy or inclination to move; even thinking seemed to require an effort I was unable, or unwilling to contemplate. I merely lay there, mute and existing. It were as though my heart had been removed and all that was left was this numb, empty space. I could not have told you what time or even what day it was. Nothing seemed to matter to me any more; my mouth tasted of ashes, and a great, hopeless despondency lay upon me.
Gradually I became aware that Mary stood by my side and had been calling my name gently for some time. I blinked, stirred, and turned my eyes upon her.
"John, the inspector is here to see you," she repeated quietly.
"I will see no-one." I turned my face away, listlessly.
"John, it is important. It's about Mr Ho-"
"Don't say it!" I cried. "Mary, if you love me then I pray, don't speak his name!" The mere mention of him was like a physical pain through me, and to my shame I found I was weeping again.
"John, you must listen! You have to hear what he has to say!"
"Go away, leave me! I can't bear it!" I wept, turning away; but Mary leaned down and shook me roughly by the shoulders.
"John, he's alive! Sherlock is alive!"
I stared at her, aghast. "Dear god. Mary, how could you be so cruel? What mischief is this?" I shrank away from her touch. "No, don't touch me! I saw him with my own eyes, he is dead, Mary, dead, and he is not coming back!" My voice had rose to a shout, and as I sat up and pushed myself further away from her I could hear footsteps in the hall outside the door. I glared at Lestrade as he paused in the doorway, Clark but a step behind him, and I knew that the maid also lingered there - listening in appalled fascination. I turned my anger upon Lestrade, ignoring my wife's stricken face.
"Lestrade, what is the meaning of this? How dare you, sir, come into my home and make such ridiculous claims? How dare you?"
"Doctor, please, calm yourself-"
I pushed myself from the bed and reached for my dressing gown and cane. I advanced towards the inspector, brandishing the cane at him. "Sherlock Holmes is dead. I certified his death myself!"
"Easy now, sir. Put the stick down please; let's take this all calmly, shall we?" said Lestrade soothingly. "I know you've had a terrible shock and the past few days have been very trying on you. But please believe me when I tell you it's the truth. Mr Sherlock Holmes is alive and well-"
"Well, not exactly well, sir," interjected Clarky; Lestrade shot him a warning glare.
"Mr Sherlock Holmes is alive and -" he glared again at Clarky, "And is as well as can be expected under the circumstances. He is at Baker Street now at this present moment, having arrived there late yesterday evening, from what Mrs Hudson has told us."
I stared from Lestrade to Clarky, and then to my wife. Shakily I sank down onto the edge of the bed.
"It's not true," I whispered. "This is all a horrible fever dream. It can't be true." I held my hand out to Mary. "Please tell me this is all a dream..."
She took her my hand between her own and squeezed it reassuringly. "What the inspector says is true, John. He really is alive. Isn't it wonderful?" Her voice held a note of hope. I stared up at her, aghast.
"But then - but then -" I felt the blood drain from my face and clutched at my head in horror. "Oh dear god. What have I done?"
"John?" Mary's voice quavered with confusion; bewildered, she turned wordlessly to Lestrade and Clarky, looking for an explanation, but in their eyes I could see they understood.
"I buried him alive," I whispered.
