A/N: I can't believe this is the last chapter. O.o It's such a weird feeling. Sorry this one is, I think, the longest chapter so far... It's just what happened with the chapter breaks. :P

I got a few people sending me death threats last chapter. :D :D Thank you! I love death threats. They make me feel like I've done something right. XD

DISCLAIMER: Don't own Sherlock. Do own Sheila though. And... yep, I've worn out my creative juices. Blah. :P

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:

FOR SHEILA

Sherlock stared out the window of the black limousine his brother had sent to carry them to the funeral. He hadn't felt in the mood to protest and take a cab instead.

He fiddled with the edge of his scarf, ignoring the pain that still radiated along his rib cage with every movement. He wore a black scarf in place of his normal blue one, matching the rest of his black suit; the mourning clothes society deemed it proper to wear to an event like this.

"How... how do funerals go, John?" Sherlock spoke up, keeping his voice cool and level. "What usually happens?" He had never been to a funeral in his life, though he had seen plenty of cemeteries. He'd never been interested; there had always been other more interesting things to do.

John bit his lip, not wanting to have to answer the question, but relief flooded him because Sherlock was talking.

Over the past few days, Sherlock hadn't spoken much at all to anyone. John knew Sherlock had warned him when they first met that sometimes he wouldn't speak for days on end, but this... didn't feel right. So while his heart hurt to have to try to explain it to Sherlock, he found he was extremely relieved to hear his voice again.

"Well, it's an open casket, so there will be a little while before the ceremony where people can view the body if they wish," John started. "Then after that the ceremony will start. You'll get up and say a few words about her, if you're still sure you want to." John paused to see if Sherlock would say anything.

Sherlock looked at him. "I'll do it. I just don't know what to say. I'm not good at this kind of thing, John." He moved to fidgeting with his sleeve cuff button and looked back out the window.

"It's alright. You don't have to be."

Sherlock looked back out the window. "Go on."

John hesitated, then continued. "After that, we'll go to the cemetery, where we'll..." John silently cursed himself as his voice caught. "Bury her."

"I don't like funerals," Sherlock stated, his voice flat and monotone.

The car came to a stop and the driver opened Sherlock's door. Sherlock didn't move to get out.

"Sir, we've arrived," the driver said, tentatively. He realized this was obvious, but didn't know how to prompt his passenger out of the car without ordering him. And he'd been told that that was a bad idea.

Sherlock didn't get out.

"No one does," John said softly. "Don't do it because she's dead. Do it because she was alive."

Sherlock hesitated a second longer, and then stepped out of the car. Mycroft stood in front of the chapel, leaning on his umbrella. His usual smug, self-satisfied smirk was gone though, in it's place a somber look. Sherlock hadn't seen or spoken to him since the call in the alleyway. He didn't speak to him now. He walked by him without a word.

Mycroft watched him pass and then nodded at John. "John. Nice to see you again, though I'm sorry it has to be under these circumstances. How is he?"

John nodded back. "He's... I don't know. He's barely spoken five words since coming back home. He's not eating or sleeping... but that's normal." John sighed. "I don't know. I think he feels... guilty. She saved his life. I'm not sure he understands what he's feeling."

Mycroft gave a sad smile. "He rarely does. And guilt is not something I imagine he's accustomed to." He sighed, shifting his weight and moving his umbrella slightly. "I suppose that you would know what to do with him more than anyone, John. But if for any reason you have any trouble with him, call me. He'll need… support, for awhile, even though he might hate us for trying to give it."

John nodded. He knew very well Sherlock wouldn't accept help from Mycroft. John could only hope that Sherlock wouldn't block him out. After a momentary pause, he asked, "There's one thing I don't understand yet. How did Sheila get Sherlock's memories?"

Mycroft glanced down at his umbrella, then back up at John. "There are still questions being answered. Baskerville is due for months of investigation, in which we hope to clear up the rest of the mystery."

John nodded again, sighing, then went into the chapel to find Sherlock.

Sherlock stood motionlessly in front of the casket, looking down at the pale, still face. It didn't look like her. He'd been around dead bodies enough to understand that's what happened when someone died, but it was… strange. He wondered in a detached way if he would look similar when he died.

He felt Mrs. Hudson's gentle hand on his arm. "Come on, dear. It's time to sit down."

Sherlock whirled away from the coffin and hastily took a seat at the very back of the chapel.

John came over and sat down next to Sherlock. He looked at him, debating whether or not to say anything. He bit his lip, then whispered. "You alright?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, staring ahead at the casket. "When do I have to speak?" he whispered hoarsely.

John's heart ached for his friend. "There'll be a song sung, then you'll go up. But if you changed your mind, that's fine. I can let them know."

Sherlock shook his head, and listened attentively to the song that was played. Jordan's Stormy Banks. Slowly he stood up and walked to the front, turning to face the attendees.

"Sheila is here today because she died in someone else's place. She told me, right before sh-" He broke off and gestured with his hand, clearing his throat, "before it happened, that she did it because she was only a shadow, an echo, and that echoes never last long. But she was more than that. Sheila was real. She is real. And I know most of you never met her. But if you know only one thing about her… it has to be that she was Real."

He went back to his seat, trying to ignore the gazes following him.

John struggled to keep himself composed. He had to be strong, for Sherlock. He looked over at his best friend as Sherlock sat down next to him. He knew now probably wasn't the best time to speak, he knew that Sherlock would most likely resent any effort John made to get through to him, but he knew he had to try.

"Sheila's death wasn't your fault," John whispered, as another song started to play. "She didn't just sacrifice herself because she thought she wasn't important. She gave her life to save you. You did it once for me, remember?" He asked quietly. "It's what friends do. They protect each other."

Sherlock stared at him blankly for a moment, then nodded silently.

The preacher announced it was time to go to the cemetery. Major Barrymore and Corporal Lyons stepped forward in dress uniform to help bear the casket. Lestrade took a handle, and Sherlock took his place across from Mycroft. He felt a strange sense of respect for Mycroft being willing to help with the service of moving the casket to it's final resting place. And then of course, John was beside him, too. John was always there, helping in any way Sherlock ever needed him to. Sherlock felt a pang as he realized that Sheila had never known what that was like to have her own John.

And then they were in the cemetery. Sherlock looked around. He could see the London Eye from here, and a tube station was nearby. Traffic and subway sounds filled the air. He noticed Mycroft watching him, and nodded. In the heart of the city. Still part of the noise and activity and excitement of London, even in death. That was good.

He watched as the casket was lowered into the ground, and Molly and Mrs. Hudson put flowers on the grave. He didn't see the point in that. She was dead. She couldn't see them. They did her no good. But he supposed it was the thing people did, and he appreciated that they did it for her.

He wanted it to be real.

After the funeral, Sherlock walked off without a word. John shot Mycroft a concerned look, who gave him a look that almost looked sad. John said a brief goodbye to everyone, then rushed off to find Sherlock. He got to the front of the chapel just in time to see Sherlock getting into a taxi. John hailed his own and told the cabby to follow Sherlock's cab.

The taxis stopped outside of Baker street, and John paid his cabby and got out, as Sherlock unlocked the front door and walked inside, closing it behind him.

John stepped inside. "Sherlock?" He called. He heard a door close upstairs, and he went up the stairs into the flat to find Sherlock's bedroom door shut.

John hesitated, not sure if he should follow and see if Sherlock was alright, or leave him alone. John decided to give him some space, and walked slowly over to his chair, picking up his laptop and trying to think of how - or even if he should - he was going to write this up for his blog.

Mrs. Hudson tapped on the door frame and peeked her head into the room. "Just checking on you both, dear," she said, kindly. She was still wearing her black mourning dress, and her eyes were red. "Picked up Sherlock's prescription on the way home; didn't think he'd bother to."

She went into the kitchen and dropped the white paper bag on the table, before busying herself making the kettle usable. It appeared to have some sort of hardening glue inside. She sighed, but in sadness rather than annoyance. She wasn't sure if the glue had been Sherlock or Sheila.

A few minutes later, she came back into the living room and set a steaming cup of tea at John's elbow. "Where's Sherlock, love? Hasn't he come home yet?" She looked concerned.

John sighed and accepted the cup of tea. "Thanks, Mrs. H. He's in his room," he answered. "I thought it might be better to give him some space for a bit."

Mrs. Hudson nodded understandingly. "Things like this take time to get over. But you know our Sherlock. Never does anything by halves. He'll be down for a bit, but when another case comes along, he'll bounce back. You'll see." She patted his shoulder affectionately. "Call me if you need anything, love; I'll be downstairs for the rest of the day."

"Thank you," John said. He watched Mrs Hudson leave, then took a sip of his tea. He sighed again. Yes, things like this did take time to get over. He knew that as well as anyone. He'd had more than his fair share of grief. But he was really concerned for Sherlock. He knew that his friend didn't understand emotions. It was all John could do to keep himself from knocking on Sherlock's door and asking if he was alright.

But he knew he wasn't.

When 12 hours had passed without any sound from Sherlock's room, John started to get even more concerned. He knocked on Sherlock's door, telling him he was going to go to bed and to let him know if he needed anything.

John slept restlessly, and when he woke up in the morning to find Sherlock's door still closed, a sinking feeling started in his chest. He knocked again. "Sherlock? You alright? Can I get you something?"

After no response, John pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed Sherlock's number. From inside the room, he heard Flight of the Bumblebee. He made a mental note that he needed to change the ringtone.

John bit his lip as the call went to voicemail. He decided to leave a message anyway. "Hey, Sherlock. I just want to know if you're alright. Please answer?" He wasn't sure what else to say. "I'm here for you. I understand. I... Just let me know when you want to talk, alright?" He slowly lowered the phone from his ear and pressed 'end', still staring at Sherlock's closed door.

Sherlock sighed as John's voice came over voicemail. He was worrying John. It had been awhile, after all. If he didn't respond somehow, John might do something drastic like call his brother, and the last thing Sherlock needed was an awkward meeting with Mycroft at the moment. Who knew, it might actually help to hear John talking to him and telling him all the stuff people say when someone dies. He'd never thought about it before, but he guessed there was some purpose in... whatever it was people said to each other in the event of a death. Maybe it actually did help somehow.

"I'm here," he said, with an effort. "Come in."

His voice sounded strange to him after so long of hearing only his own thoughts. It was exhausting, feeling this way. He didn't like it.

Relief flooded through John. He hadn't wanted to barge in uninvited, but Sherlock had been scaring him. He grasped the door knob and pushed the door open, walking into the room.

Sherlock stood in front of the window, silhouetted against the light outside. His hands were clasped behind his back and he stared out into the street without moving.

"Sherlock," John said quietly. "How... how are you doing? I was worried about you."

"Well, I'm not dead," Sherlock said, without turning around.

John cleared his throat awkwardly. "That's, um... good." He hesitated, wondering if he should walk over to the window where Sherlock stood facing, his back to John. He decided to try talking. "Um, do... do you want to talk about it? It's alright if you don't," he added hastily. "I understand. I, um..." John stammered. "I can just leave you alone if you'd rather."

"No," Sherlock said, quickly, turning to face John with something that might have been panic in his eyes, "No. I don't...I don't want to be alone."

He looked a little embarrassed at the admission, and brushed past John into the living room. He hesitated in front of the sofa, staring at the wall. He reached out and gingerly touched one of the bullet holes.

John closed his eyes, knowing all too well Sherlock would know whose it was. He swallowed, not sure what to say.

A moment of silence passed. Then Sherlock uttered the two words John expected him least to say. "I'm sorry."

John blinked. "What?"

"I… I am sorry. For leaving. For letting you think I was dead." His voice was thick, and he turned his face away. "I know… I know how you… felt now."

John's throat constricted, and he swallowed, struggling to keep his face clear. He shook his head. He wanted to tell Sherlock he didn't have to apologize, but he knew what effort it had taken for his friend to admit it, and he suddenly got a frightening glimpse into perhaps how shattered his friend really was. "I've forgiven you," John said quietly. "It's all fine now."

Sherlock gave a curt nod, then walked across to the other side of the room, where he drew himself up in his chair with his arms encircling his knees. He stared at the fire silently for a minute, and then took a deep breath. "In the past...how long has it been? A day? Two days?" He stopped his explanation and looked curiously at his friend. He honestly had no idea how long he'd been standing in his room.

John came and sat down in his chair across from Sherlock. "Day and a half." He leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees.

"In the past day and a half, I've tried almost everything I could think of to make… how I feel go away. Not drugs, I didn't touch those, but various mental techniques. I tried to distract myself, to cover it up. I deduced everything I possibly could about every person that passed below me in the street. That was a failure. So I tried simply blanking my mind out, forcing nothing to go on in my head but a uniform whiteness. It worked well, for everything except what I was trying to get rid of. That stayed." He paused, then continued, "So instead of trying to ignore it, I studied it. I analyzed every facet of it, which is one of the most baffling things I've ever attempted, I'll add. I figured that if I understood it, I could isolate it, and lock it away somewhere where it couldn't make any trouble. But I couldn't isolate it. It slipped through my every attempt; like water through a sieve."

Sherlock's frustration showed in his voice. He paused and rubbed his hands over his face before going on. "So I thought I might just have to wait it out. Which is what I was doing. But I hadn't tried this yet, so I guessed it was worth a shot. What did you do, John, when I left?"

John looked down at the ground and was quiet a moment before speaking. Even now, after all these years, he still didn't want to talk about it. But he had to help Sherlock in anyway he could. "I, uh. Well, I wouldn't really recommend what I did." He laughed tensely. "I guess I tried to do sort of what you were trying to- tried to make it go away. That wasn't my... my first experience with death, but it, um..." he paused and cleared his throat. "Was the most difficult. Um. I blocked everyone out. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft. I blamed them all for your death. Lestrade... even though he tried to help us and was only doing his job. Mycroft, because I thought he'd betrayed you. I blamed Mrs Hudson for not being shot." John laughed a bitter, quiet laugh again. "I even blamed Molly for signing the death certificate, because... because you couldn't be dead. I wouldn't let anyone help me."

John played with his hands, watching them. "I shut them out, and ended up hurting everyone, including myself. I was bitter. Threw myself into work at the surgery, hoping that I could just go back to everyday life and pretend I'd never met you. Went back to seeing Ella." John gave a sad smirk. "Not sure I would recommend a therapist for you though." The therapist would end up needing one, he thought wryly, but didn't speak it aloud.

"Anyway, I, um." John sighed. "Nothing helped. I could still remember you, and I would see you in every patient I tended. At first I thought that was a bad thing, but then I realized that... maybe that was how I could get through it." John clenched his hands together in an attempt to stop his voice from trembling. "In every patient I tended, no matter how grave or small the injury, I would pretend I was helping you. Um, because..." John licked his lips, them suddenly feeling dry, but forced himself to finish. "Because the person I blamed the most for your death was... myself. I... I couldn't help you. So I helped others instead. In your name." John's voice cracked slightly on the last word. He cleared his throat and forced himself to look up at Sherlock.

"I... I'm so very sorry, John. Really, I am," he said, his voice sounding just a bit strange. He cursed himself silently and cleared his throat, looking away and blinking rapidly for a minute. A minute later he looked back up at John. "Do you know you're the only one that's been able to make me do that? It's getting bloody irritating. Would you stop already?"

John smiled slightly. "No."

Sherlock smiled back, then it vanished and he sighed discontentedly. His knee started bouncing. "So... what do I do now? I know what Mrs. Hudson would say. And Molly. And everyone who knows how this stuff is supposed to work. They'd say to take it easy on myself and let it run it's course. But I can't. I can't John, I can't sit still and do nothing and be miserable for who knows how long. I need to do something."

Unable to stay in the chair anymore, he hopped up and began pacing. Suddenly he stopped short by John's chair. "Are you hungry? I'm hungry."

John nodded. He understood Sherlock's need to keep himself busy and distracted completely. He smiled. "Actually, yes, I am. Angelo's?"

Sherlock nodded back, and handed John his coat. His phone began to ring Flight of the Bumblebee. Sherlock answered it quickly, before it could get very far into the song.

"Sherlock Holmes. Really? No, Lestrade...it's fine...where? Hold on." Sherlock pulled the phone away from his face and looked at John. "There's been a murder. A young girl found dead somewhere she had no business being. No marks of violence on the body. Do you want to eat, or...?"

John found himself smiling, and stood up. "Let's go." He paused, then added softly. "For Sheila?"

Sherlock said a quick, "On our way," into the phone and hung up. He looked at John and nodded, solemnly. "For Sheila. We'll do this case in her name. For her."

Suddenly he thrust his phone at John. "Now change that ringtone!"

And then he was halfway down the stairs, shouting to Mrs. Hudson that they were going out.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

JSYK, I started writing this before Series 3 came out, even though it does take place after Sherlock's return. Which is why Mary doesn't feature, and I had to come up with a different reason for John to have gotten over Sherlock's suicide. So apologies that it's slightly AU.

An epilogue will follow soon, so stay tuned!

THANK YOUS & ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

Super big thanks to sherlock'sthename! She wrote practically half of this in form of roleplay/character lounge. Thank you so, so much, dearie! Darling, without all your help, encouragement, brainstorming and love, this would never have gotten finished. You're amazing.

Thank you to everyone on the One Year Adventure Novel forum who proof read! I love each and every one of my Retarded Seals. :)

Thank you to everyone who read, followed, favourited and especially reviewed! It always makes my day to see I have people reading and caring about what I write.