Title: Making the Connection
Summary: A year after last seeing Sherlock John goes to visit him. Post-Reichenbach, prompt: Glory.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Moffat, Gatiss & SACD.
A/N: The prompt came from the incredible floppybelly (whose "Oneword prompts: Sherlock" you should definitely check out, it's amazing!). Depending on whether or not I get another prompt I will continue (if you have any suggestions you can prompt me in the reviews).
When they had first ordered it everything had to be rushed. They had decided to keep it plain and simple, a black headstone with only his name engraved in it. It was the first headstone he ever had to order. Of course he had seen many people die before he had to watch his best friend jump off a roof, but he never had to organize a proper funeral. Mycroft had simply not taken his calls in the days after Sherlock's suicide, it was Anthea who texted him with the request that he should take care of the arrangements.
John still remembered the undertaker going over the funeral protocol with him. Did he want a priest to be there? What kind of coffin did he want? What flowers did he want on top of it? Did he know that since Sherlock jumped he was strongly advised against saying his goodbyes in person? It was so much it made John's head spin, so when it came to the engraving of the stone he just wanted it to be over.
Now, exactly one year and ten days after Sherlock's death, John stood before his grave once more. He had come by often, not every day but always more than once a week. Whenever he didn't feel strong enough to go home after work, whenever he needed to be on his own to think, whenever he missed Sherlock so much that he simply had to see him John came to visit his grave.
That was the reason why he had started to collect pebbles from all over the city. Whenever he saw one that he liked he put it in his pocket and left it on the headstone when he next visited Sherlock. It was a Jewish custom, he knew that, but it seemed somehow appropriate even though neither he nor Sherlock were religious in any way. It was more practical than getting flowers and it was definitely more permanent. It felt like a little tribute to Sherlock each time he took the time to crouch down and look at a pebble. They were cleared away every few weeks, but still the amount of little rocks carefully placed on top of the simple headstone was a subtle way of showing that somebody still cared even though everybody else had seemed to have moved on.
Sherlock's name had been cleared a few weeks prior to the anniversary of his death. John had been very pleased with his accomplishment at first. He was proud of the 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement he had inadvertently started and participated in. But then an official press conference was held. Now every tabloid and magazine printed features about Sherlock's old cases and many people who Sherlock had helped over the years came forward and gave interviews. His genius was finally recognized by the public, which was the reason why there were at least a dozen bouquets on his best friend's grave today.
John couldn't help the hostility inside of him. Yes, he had wanted to clear Sherlock's name but he was still outraged that he had to do it in the first place. Sherlock had been right, people believed what they wanted to be true. When he had been alive it was the scandal of him seemingly being a fraud that they wanted; now it was the story of the tragic hero who had helped so many people yet was never understood by society. It sickened him. All of this could've been prevented if people just weren't so bloody stupid all the time.
On the anniversary of Sherlock's death he had visited the funeral home once again. Since his picture had been everywhere over the last few weeks he was ushered into one of the little offices right away.
"What can I do for you, Dr Watson?" asked the friendly undertaker that had planned Sherlock's funeral with him.
"Do you remember that I did not want an inscription besides Sherlock's name on his headstone back then?" As the other man nodded John continued. "Well, I'd like to change that now."
So here he was again looking at the new inscription that had somehow only taken half the time it usually would. The Latin words were written in italics and went beautifully with Sherlock's name. It was a quote by Martial, a Roman satirist who had written snide poetry about his acquaintances. John had found it in the only book on poetry that Sherlock owned and thought it to be the closest to perfect he would get.
He went around the flowers, crouched down and let his fingertips run over the inscription of Sherlock's name.
"I hope you like it as much as I do", he murmured and placed the pebble from his pocket on the ridge of the black stone.
When he was already ten yards away he looked over his shoulder once more and read
Cineri gloria sera est
Glory paid to our ashes comes too late.