'He's left me' I whispered, standing frozen by the simple gravestone, gleaming black under the rapidly deteriorating sunlight.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, but I didn't acknowledge it; the thought of a different Holmes brother made me feel sick.
'You could have saved him, you should have saved him' I muttered through gritted teeth, and I felt the firm grip on my right shoulder falter slightly. I didn't feel guilty. Come to think of it I didn't feel anything anymore. Not that it mattered. Not now.
'I can't work miracles' Mycroft said quietly, his voice calm and deep. I blinked away the thought that I would never hear Sherlock's voice again, and I squared my shoulders, straightening my posture.
I heard a sigh, due to my lack of response, and then he spoke again, this time he was on the phone.
'Anthea? Yes, bring the car around, yes, yes, all is well'
I laughed at the normality of his conversation; all is well.
'If you need anything - 'I cut him off. I didn't need help from him. He could have sorted this out in the first place. 'No' I whispered, moving away slightly, and avoiding all eye contact.
Another sigh escaped the tall man's lips, and he began to walk away, moments later; he was gone.
John slowly fell to the ground, his legs unable to hold up the weight of his own body, he slid against the polished stone, his fingers feeling the intricately carved words.
SHERLOCK HOLMES
A beloved brother, partner and friend
You were always on the side of the angels, now
you can join them.
John shook his head, he hated it.
Sherlock would never have wanted brother first; he always explained how his and John's relationship was the most important. Alongside his work, of course. ''he wouldn't have liked 'partner' either'' John muttered, remembering the times when Sherlock had clearly said that that term sounded 'far too old and stable for us, John'
Not only that, but the quote. Sherlock had a habit of declaring he 'was on the side of the angels' whenever anyone told him he was doing wrong, however he didn't believe in heaven any more than John believed in fate; 'It's all bullshit' they used to shout together, laughing at the idiocy of everyone around them.
He clawed at the silver print, trying to remove the letters which made everything far too permanent.
John was raising his voice now, unaware and uncaring about the passers-by and fellow mourners who were openly staring.
The anger began to rise in his chest; 'Sherlock did this to prove a point, he didn't have to do this, he chose his work over me.'
He sat there, tears sliding down his face as avoided the thoughts he knew would soon come.
Sherlock was dead. He was never coming back
He would never kiss Sherlock's lips
Never hear him talk, shout, scream.
Never stroke his hair.
Never feel Sherlock's warm body against his own.
The noises and words erupting from John merged into a sort of strangled cry, and minutes later they dissolved into hiccups and deep, gravelly breaths.
He soon completely ran out of energy to verbally communicate how he was feeling and he closed his eyes, only opening them when he felt someone lifting him from where he had been sitting.
He took note that it was a woman, yet he couldn't distinguish her facial features, or any detail of her.
A soft voice whispered in his ear 'where do you live, honey?'
John's eyes widened in terror at the question – he couldn't go back there, not yet. He certainly wasn't going to stay at Holmes Manor any longer, either.
He violently shook his head, looking manic and rather shocking to the helpful woman.
She began to stroke his head quietly calming, soothing. 'Come with me' she added, and began to pull him towards the red Ford parked on the side of the road.
John woke up in a strange large room; it smelt fresh and clean, the bed he was folded into was soft and welcoming. Next to him was a still-warm cup of tea, 2 slices of toast and some paracetamol. A small note was propped against the cup.
At work, I'll be back by 3. Mary x
'So Mary is the girl who –'He stopped his mutterings as realisation struck him like a brick. This woman… had picked him up from the graveyard, which he had visited after going to the pub, and in which he found himself screaming and crying for Sherlock.
'She must think I'm fucking mental' he thought.
He lifted his arm to look at his watch, 2:30pm … Shit!
She'd be back in half an hour, and from what John could see from the small mirror on the bedside table, he looked a right state.
He quickly got up and went into the adjoining bathroom, deciding in moments that a hot power shower was too good to refuse.
Moments later he was washed, and redressed in his clothes he had been wearing during the previous day's escapades. He wiped as much of the dirt as he could from his pale cardigan, until he found he was just rubbing the remnants in more.
John padded downstairs into the living room, and fell into the nearest armchair – a large square thing, of the squishy, leathery sort.
Soon enough, as predicted, he heard a key in the lock.
He stood, ready to apologise for acting the way he had yesterday, and to thank the stranger for welcoming him into her home.
She walked into the room, and John stopped, his mouth gaping.
In front of him stood the stranger, Mary.
Her dyed blonde hair was pulled into a loose bun, small strands of hair were framing her face.
Her green eyes gleamed under carefully applied mascara and eye shadow, and her full red lips were pulled into a genuine, beaming smile.
John shook his head, bringing himself out of his shock enough to smile and greet this beautiful woman.
'Mary? Hello' He said, smiling more than he had for months.
Mary grinned back, and dropped her laptop case, walking towards him.
John reached out a hand, but soon dropped it as Mary pushed it away and leaned in for a hug.
'It's so good to see you looking better, John. You'll be staying here until you feel happy again, okay? You've been in all the papers, you see' her breath tickled his ear, he inhaled, sharply.
Of course I've been in all the papers John thought. He'd forgotten how popular Sherlock had become in the last few months of his life.
The last few months.
John snapped back to reality and realised why he was there in the first place, he pulled away from the embrace 'I'm sorry Miss…' John raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response.
'Oh!' she said quickly, stepping slightly further back, 'Morstan. Mary Morstan'
'Miss Morstan. I'm incredibly grateful for your generosity and kindness, but I wouldn't want to impose and outstay my welcome. I shall leave today'
'Absolutely not' she replied, crossing her arms, decided.
'Unless of course you want to talk to the flurry of reporters outside? Not everyone was going to keep quiet about your public outburst, John'
'Ah. I hadn't thought of that.'