Ten: Sing Me to Heaven (Adoramus Vocal Ensemble)

If you would mourn me

And bring me to God.

Sing me a requiem

Sing me to Heaven.

John cinched his tie around his neck as another wave of tears splashed down his cheeks. He stilled for a moment, allowing his sorrow to billow up around him like the sail of a ship around its mast. He looked up into the mirror, watching as the salty liquid cut tracks down his cheeks. In the back of his mind, he heard his father's voice cursing at him. Men never cry, he used to say. Well, John Watson knew that was utter bollocks. He returned his attention to his tie.

Movement in the mirror caught his eye, and he looked up again to see Sherlock Holmes move up behind him with all the silent grace of a feline. John saw that Sherlock's eyes were rimmed with red and slightly puffy. They stared at each other in the mirror for a while before Sherlock dropped his gaze. He leaned over and wrapped his long arms around John's middle, burying his face in the junction of his neck and shoulder. John leaned his head back into Sherlock's dark curls and rested his own hands on the man's spindly arms. In the mirror, he looked at the identical silver bands that adorned both of their ring fingers and allowed the embrace of the cool silver metal to swallow his heart.

Finally, John sniffed and pressed a long kiss into Sherlock's hair and the two men parted. They went to the living room and gathered their coats, checking their pockets for mobiles and wallets and the like. John retreated to the kitchen to pick up the large bouquet of white lilies. Sherlock appeared behind him momentarily, leaning over the table and gripping the edges with his hands.

"John," he choked. "I don't think I can do this." His eyes were dry but the voice was filled with quiet desperation and hollow sorrow.

John laid a soft hand on his lover's cheek, caressing the cheekbone with a calloused thumb. He didn't feel the need to say anything. Frankly, he didn't trust his voice at the moment anyway, knowing that it would be weak and sad just like Sherlock's. Instead, he spent a few moments tenderly rubbing Sherlock's cheek, trying to impart strength on the man even though he had none himself.

Sherlock sighed deeply and then put his hand up to meet John's hand. He laced their fingers together and then lowered them, squeezing tightly. John squeezed back just as tight and together the two men exited their flat and went down the stairs. As they happened upon the hallway that led to Mrs. Hudson's door, they both stopped, the air suddenly too thick around them.

John looked at the dull brass numbers on the door. 221 A, home of Martha Hudson; their landlady, their surrogate mother, and most definitely not their housekeeper. A wave of memories washed over the consulting detective and his blogger as they stood outside her door.

There's two bedrooms, if you'll be needing two, that is.

You rest your leg, I'll get you that cuppa.

How about those suicides then, Sherlock?

It's okay dear, I've got a hip.

All excited about a murder, it isn't decent.

I'm putting this on your rent, young man.

I'm in my nighty!

I had to sign for it, funny name…German.

Sherlock! How good to see you.

I'm not your housekeeper.

"Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall," Sherlock choked out in a whispery voice. That's when John lost it.

0000000000000

Two hours later, there was a small gathering in a small cemetery in a small, out of the way place outside of London. The weak spring sunshine was filtering through small wisps of cirrus clouds and there were birds singing in the trees, the rich scent of pine filling the air. The world around the little party was filled with light and hope and the promise of new beginnings. But the people gathering around the grave of Martha Hudson were hard-pressed to see those things.

John glanced around at the small assembly of people. He and Sherlock were there, of course, as were Mycroft and Anthea. Lestrade was there, standing beside Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Hudson's sister. Her son would be flying in to Heathrow tomorrow to take care of her estate. It was the soonest he could get away.

Mrs. Turner began to speak first and was followed by Mrs. Hudson's sister. The two elderly women turned and walked away from the grave, unable to hold themselves together. The five people that were left looked at each other, no one trusting themselves to step forward to speak. Sherlock stepped forward and laid the lilies they had brought on top of the simple pine casket.

What happened next surprised everyone.

John began to sing. He wasn't a great singer, but he was good enough. He was surprised when his voice ascended smoothly into song without a hitch or a blip anywhere. His smooth tenor voice lifted into what he knew to be Mrs. Hudson's favorite hymn. It's sad, she had once told him, but I just like the way it sounds.

When peace like a river attendeth my way,

John's voice only hitched slightly when he heard Sherlock's silky baritone come in at the next bar in a perfect harmony.

When sorrows like sea billows roll.

The two men's voices rose on the soft breeze. A tear rolled down Anthea's cheek.

Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

The world's only consulting detective and his blogger sang the chorus and another verse of the hymn, their voices blending and complimenting almost as well as their personalities. Together, hand in hand and under the watchful eyes of their friends, they sang their beloved Mrs. Hudson to heaven.

After they had finished, Lestrade, Mycroft, and Anthea had silently retreated, leaving Sherlock and John alone at the grave. John took Sherlock's hand and together they stood in companionable silence. And then, they turned to leave.

About ten steps from the grave, John stopped to look back. There was the simple grey headstone, smooth and etched with the name Martha Hudson. But John's eyes traveled to the headstone that sat next to hers. It was a glossy ebony color with the name 'Sherlock Holmes' printed in muted gold lettering. John squeezed his hand, just to reassure himself that the man was actually standing next to him. Sherlock squeezed his hand back and then pulled the shorter man into his strong embrace.

They stood like that for quite some time. No words were exchanged. After all this time…they hardly needed to. And as they stood in the hallowed meadow, a soft, warm breeze filled with the scent of pine and hope wrapped around them, nestling the two men in a gentle embrace.

A/N: Wow, what HAVE I done? That was…just not cool. Ach! So much angst.

Well, that's the end, folks. If you've been reading along, THANK YOU SO MUCH! It's been a pleasure. I'm taking the time to expand upon some of the story lines I carved out for this fic (not the one where Mrs. Hudson dies, no worries), so please feel free to look for those in the upcoming days. Again, if you've been reading, following, favoriting, or all of the above, thank you so much. :-)