White. Majestic. Callas were everywhere.
Clear morning. It was going to be damp later at some point; after all it was June. The month angel's ascended and bridal choruses rang as bright as the sun. He had helped Mycroft and their mother plan. They had asked he give the eulogy.
He was treated as a member of their very small family, being placed to the left of Mrs. Holmes during the service in the small chapel at Hailsham. Sherlock had always loved their quiet cottage home in this quiet part of East Sussex, and the family had told John he may stay there as long as he wished.
They had never had a chance to make it out of the city other than on a case. They had spoken of it, especially after the Baskerville incident. They both personally admitted that there were some residual issues that seemed to linger, though it was more the trauma of feeling that exacting paranoia and fear on a chemical level that screamed wrong-ness.
It had stayed with Sherlock the worst.
Then shortly after, to have the arsehole Moriarty play that wicked game with his psyche. He knew what he was doing. He had known that there was a slim chance that either Sherlock or I would start doubting. Perhaps even Lestrade. He had been dosed up pretty well that night.
To get home, go through all of that, he'd sworn up a blue streak and pled with Sherlock to leave the minute the jurors found M not guilty. They immediately started to try to access what the tyrant had on the seated and on the magistrates as well. That was when they found out that the gentleman who had carefully constructed himself a cloak of obfuscation to become a viable member of the legal community was a sham. He was tied to M in some way, but they had not worked it out as yet.
Things, loose ends left to John now; he would be damned to hell if anyone was going to walk free for this. Seated, he listened to the beatific words, the homily, and the hymns. Then he stood, more smartly dressed in the custom bespoke ensemble than he ever had in his life, walked the stairs up to the pulpit, and gave his heartfelt yet subdued words that were meant to begin the healing process, meant to commiserate.
They were to remind everyone that even though the greatest man he had ever known had died in the midst of a firestorm, that the man was a hero and true friend. They found out about the threats on all their lives, how he had jumped to save the Met, Baker Street, and St. Bart's from the mad bomber that committed suicide leaving Sherlock no other choice but to do the same.
His phone had been on, the brilliant man. He had recorded the confession. They were well on their way to beginning to corroborate all the information given. Soon, justice would be dolled out. Today was not that day, but soon John would be given the chance to make it right for his dearest companion, closest friend.
Saying what was appropriate, earning a few shaky smiles, he felt he had done well. Gliding back down the stairs, as he passed the coffin, he allowed his fingers to graze the ebony casket. If he could not feel his face, at least he could remember the feel of this, his final bed.
The Lord's Prayer said most of the church emptied. The men donned the mourning gloves; their bands had been firmly in place since reaching Bart's that morning. Molly had stayed with Sherlock all through the night in the old autopsy theater he loved to work in. God love that woman. He had not been alone after all.
Lestrade, Stamford, Dimmock, Algar, Lomax, Mycroft, and himself the only ones left with the casket and the man within. Everyone holding their breath, waiting for John to take the position of the first right, close to the feet, Dimmock to flank him. He took a moment to compose himself, and thanked the men for Sherlock's care. The second he began to lift, the others were synchronous.
Raising him to their shoulders, they walked through the chapel, out of the doors. Through the flanking of people that had lined up as a procession to his grave, John allowed the tears to track down his face. There was no shame in this. His heart was being buried today right alongside the brilliance that resided in the casket he bore.
Very few words were said once they were graveside. One more prayer for the departed, and for solace for all there. Mrs. Holmes had interlocked her arms with his and Mycroft's. He considered it an honor. They were the first to leave, to drive to the larger estate. They were expecting the other mourners shortly. Not very many had been invited to the mourning house, but there were those who were close enough to be allowed into the home.
John spoke with Sherlock's mother in her office as she explained the will and trusts and lands that would be going to him. Mycroft and she would see no less. Sherlock had wished it, so it would be. She wanted him to look on himself as her son, as he had no mother or father, she would be more than happy to fulfill that role for one of the men instrumental in bringing her son back to the family before his untimely demise.
Mycroft came in, very quietly, and placed his hand on John's shoulder, lending himself for bolstering if necessary. Letting John know he still had on hundred percent of Mycroft's resources and help in dismantling what was left of M's web. He was so very grateful for everything.
They all went together to meet the guests, to socialize, and later when the men retired, to war counsel. Lestrade and Dimmock had stayed behind to help combine their efforts into what was going to occur within the Met. There were quite a few who were going to be in jail very swiftly, others that were going to lose their job and possibly never return to society. None of the men questioned this, or spoke of it. This was just understood.
Thanking them again, John took his leave promising to be back in two days at the main house, heading to the quietly cloistered cottage in the wooded area two miles away that now belonged solely to him. The house had a few small lamps on and a cheery fire had been lit to welcome him and warm the place for his joints that he was refusing to admit were strained due to stress and fatigue.
Looking he found a good stock of wines, found a good Pinot Grigio, a glass and sunk into one of the two massively overstuffed chairs in front of the fireplace. Filling his glass, not giving an arse about it, he downed half quickly. Choosing to finish the last half watching the fire gathering wool to knit all the fond memories together.
It took him just over an hour to finish the first bottle. He was half way into the second when the tears came again. Placing his glass on the table that was between his and the other empty chair, he grabbed the older thin quilt and curled into his chair embracing the wracking sobs, knowing it was apart of the grieving.
The loss was so compounded here. Knowing now what Sherlock had seen as their future together, knowing his final wishes were that of the elevation of the regard a spouse would have received. A brother not born into the family, but given the niche as a place of honor knowing that was what he not only had earned in their eyes, but as apart of the wishes of his dear friend.
It was dark and growing very late, but he had to go see him just once more by himself.
Locking the place up, he headed toward the cemetery through the forested path to town. When he reached the edge of the cemetery, the night air had helped sober him. Going to the site, he sat beside the large bed of calla's that had been bolstered by new bouquets from other mourners, people wishing to show support.
Taking the cards, he pocketed them for later to read when he went back to their cottage.
He sat, speaking in quiet tones, singing to the bones of his lost love until the moon was high and the night became crisp. Saying his goodbyes, patting the loamy ground softly as if tucking his friend in snug, he stood. Taking one of the bunches, the one he knew was from the Irregulars; he strode off back down the path towards his new home.