The Last Goodbye

The day of Mary's funeral seemed to arrive very quickly, or perhaps that's merely what happens when one is dreading something. Amelia had been so grateful to Mycroft that he had pulled a few strings and managed to secure the release of Mary's body to the funeral home early, given the fact that she had been technically murdered, standard procedure would say that an autopsy must be performed and an investigation conducted, all of which dragging matters out even longer. Thankfully, Mycroft had ensured that everything was dealt with by the end of the week and in the meantime, Amelia had attempted to keep John distracted by funeral arrangements, a rather horrible distraction, she had to admit, but she knew what it was like to be in his place and she understood very well that it could help chip away some of the shock, having to be faced with making plans and picking out flowers, those sorts of things. She couldn't help being reminded of a time, just a little over a year ago now, when she had done the same thing for their wedding.

John didn't want a big funeral, nor did he wish for her to be buried, instead he decided to have her cremated with the future intention of perhaps spreading her ashes somewhere nice and peaceful, perhaps once Rosie was old enough to remember and understand, so that she could be a part of it, too. So Amelia made the plans for it, finding the best possible crematorium in the city that had a lovely, peaceful and rather pretty little church that they used to conduct the services in, and while she organised that she also called her own favourite florist and planned for the church to be filled with deep, brilliant red roses, not only her favourite flower, but Mary's also, plus her namesake and the colour of grief in floral language. Most people thought it was only for love, but curiously enough red roses could also be a symbol for grieving. Amelia thought it was fitting and most importantly John had liked the idea.

There was a small guest list sent out, but no great announcement made in the press or papers, just a simple message in the paper that made the declaration of Mary Watson's death and the wish for privacy during this difficult time for her family and friends, while a small mention of a private service intended to take place in the coming week at an undisclosed location. It had been John's wish to keep the service quiet, Amelia understood that he feared the possibility that the press might become far too curious and attempt to crash the service, or perhaps mob them as they left. It was a possibility, because while they might not be A-listers, they did have a pretty significant following online and the media did love to cover their cases, even their private lives, if there wasn't anything more interesting going on for them to splash across Page 6.

All of the planning had given Amelia a chance to focus her own grief onto something else, anything other then what had happened that day, focusing on every last detail that she could possibly think of, right down to even helping John pick out his tie and a black dress for Rosie. She knew she was only putting off the inevitable, when she would have to finally snap and break down herself, but she couldn't afford to do that right now. Matters were far too delicate, John had refused to even utter Sherlock's name since that day and Sherlock…he had tried, practically every day, to call and text John, but they all went unanswered. Amelia had tried to bring up the subject the day before the service, but John had very quickly cut her off and given her such a fiercely cold look that it had been enough to make even her tongue freeze.

It hurt her, so very much, to see how much pain John was in, but it wasn't just John who was suffering. She saw it in Sherlock, too, how much guilt he held over it all, how much it pained him to know that John considered him to be the cause of Mary's death. John hadn't outright said it, but they all knew it was what he thought, and it broke her heart. It truly did. In this moment they should have been a united front, supporting John and Rosie, but…they were anything but. Amelia feared for what it might do to Sherlock, but she also feared for how it was impacting John, even though he was still to freshly grieving yet to even notice. They needed each other, their little group…it was practically their own form of therapy, solving cases together because the alternative was simply too much worse to consider. Sherlock and his sobriety counted on it and John and his need for something to fight for. And Amelia…well, they were her family, Sherlock her other half and John the brother she longed for James to have been, and now it was crumbling and spinning out of control, and it seemed to be that she was the last remaining thread left tethering them together, but for how much longer?

Amelia caught her gaze in the full length mirror she stood before she swallowed, hard. The dark, almost black eyes that looked back at her, rimmed with waterproof kohl, looked almost fearfully back at her, tinged with redness from lack of sleep and seemingly constantly just on the verge of filling with tears these days, tears that she refused to let shed. She feared for many things, she supposed, her friends most of all, the state of Sherlock and John's relationship, her own struggle as she found herself stuck between the two of them, attempting to act as John's support, while also attempting to support Sherlock. She felt almost torn in two. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head sharply, opening them again to find her gaze simply looking tiredly back at her now, her expression forced back to reflect a sense of calm and quiet sorrow, but never the truth. No, never that.

"Would you like a hand?" Sherlock's smooth, deep voice almost startled her, her eyes darting up to the corner of the mirror to find his reflection in the doorway of their bedroom behind her, his footsteps seemingly having gone unnoticed during her moment of weakness.

She swallowed and lifted her chin, "Please," she dropped her hands down to her sides as he crossed the room to stand behind her, reaching up to grasp the delicate, golden zipper of the back of her fitted, black dress that snitched in at the waist to drape a corner of loose fabric artfully down from off her right hip.

He swiftly brought the zipper up her back, his other hand gently smoothing the fabric out over her upper back so that it wouldn't accidently snag, a trick he had learnt early on in their romance. She allowed herself to lean back into his touch, smiling very softly to herself in the mirror as she watched his gaze carefully track the movement of the zipper. Even as he brought it to the top, he still remained still, though his hand left the zipper now and delicately traced down her back, sending a shiver down her spine, until it fell to rest on the smooth jut of her hip outlined perfectly through the dress. Her hair was swept up in a smooth bun at the base of her neck, while the golden chain of her single pearl necklace hung beneath her hair, Sherlock's fingers of his left hand slowly drifting up to ghost along the clasp of it. She closed her eyes at that touch, smiling fondly. This was the side of Sherlock that others never got to see, only her, the gentle, tender Sherlock Holmes that could be shockingly slow and peaceful when it was the just the two of them, alone and unguarded between them.

"You look nice," his voice was barely above a whisper, his breath brushing her flesh along the back of her neck, warm and far to inviting.

Amelia opened her eyes to catch his in the mirror above her shoulder, her heels still sitting over by her dressing table, making her just that little bit shorter, "It truly must be a terrible day," she said with a slight title of her head, "If you're actually complimenting me properly, and not merely teasing".

His eyes shifted, then, darkening very slightly before his features smoothed out once more, "It is just slightly ridiculous that you're choosing to wear an outfit that costs more than our rent, Amelia," he remarked, though with perhaps less humour then he ordinarily might have, his fingers on her neck ghosting down over her left shoulder and down her arm, almost agonisingly slow in its progression, his gaze moving to watch it thoughtfully.

"That's a tad more like the Sherlock Holmes I love," she smiled slightly more widely, though it was also lacking in something, too. The spark from her eyes was gone, her smile just slightly too bright to be truly real…but she tried. It did grow a touch more real when his finger finally reached her left wrist and his hand circled it, his touch oddly feather light, almost tickling her.

"Hmm," he hummed lightly, his gaze darting back up to catch hers in the mirror, "Your pulse is elevated, Amelia…" he lifted an eyebrow, "Am I bothering you?"

She rolled her eyes and swiftly turned around to face him, pulling her wrist from his grasp easily, since he made little attempt to hold it, "I somehow suspect yours is much the same, Holmes," she said knowingly, and brought her hand up to his own neck, pretending to consider it as she pressed her red polished index and middle finger against his pulse point, her eyes finally flickering up to his eyes when she felt his pulse jump, "Ah, there we go," she smirked, "The proof".

"What proof?"

Amelia pressed herself just a touch closer to him, though they were already close enough, her chest brushing his as she brought her painted red lips up to his left ear, her every movement very slow and carefully measured, "That Sherlock Holmes is completely and utterly…" she lightly pressed the corner of her lips against the shell of his ear, "…in love with me, too," she pulled back from him sharply and shrugged, as though she was completely unaffected, "Not that we didn't already know that, of course, but it's nice to have confirmation".

Sherlock scoffed, still making little move to step back from her, "Of course it is," he said with a mock sigh of exasperation, "Really, Amelia, your sentimentalist ways are terribly predictable".

She merely shrugged again and moved forward to press a quick kiss to the corner of his lips, something he would have had to been expecting, leaving a slight, smudged stain of red lipstick there. She turned on her bare heel and crossed to the corner of the room, sitting down at her mirrored dressing table to immediately expect her makeup again. She lightly used the tip of her right index finger to carefully clean up the edges of her lips, while she noticed Sherlock using the back of his hand to wipe the mark on his face clear.

"I take it you won't be joining me today?" she asked, unable to keep up the pretence of acting as if today was just another ordinary day. She flicked her eyes back up to see Sherlock very brief pause in his movements in the corner of the glass, his expression immediately growing guarded again. It made her instantly regret asking, but she had to, "Sherlock?"

"I don't think John would like me there".

She sighed heavily, feeling her heart instantly grow ten times heavier as she turned around in the clear plastic chair to look at him, "Sherlock…" she said softly, giving him a soft look, "He's grieving, he…needs time, that's all, but that shouldn't stop you from going today".

Sherlock looked away from her, "I doubt Mary would have liked me there, either," he murmured, almost too quietly for her to hear.

Amelia instantly frowned and rose from her chair, crossing her arms firmly across her chest, "Mary loved you," she told him firmly, her gaze narrowing sharply on him, "She would have wanted you there today, Sherlock, you know that".

"I got her killed, Amelia…"

"Mary knew what she was doing when she threw herself in front of you, Sherlock! It doesn't make it any less tragic or painful, it doesn't make it any better, but you didn't kill her. She made her choice in that moment, for better and for worse, and while your actions leading up to that moment might have caused the events to unfold, it wasn't you who used Mary has a human shield! She did that herself".

Sherlock released a sharp sigh and turned away from her, facing the dark grey, fabric padded bed, made up with sheets covered with giant, printed pink and red roses. Amelia had turned his old bedroom into something much nicer then it had once been, moving her own things from the bedroom upstairs down into his room, while keeping her clothing in the wardrobe in the other room. Sherlock had been oddly okay with her plans, they had began sharing a room after their night together at John and Mary's wedding, it had only been natural for them to do it, but Amelia, of course, wasn't about to sleep in Sherlock's old bachelor pad of a bedroom. She had even managed to sneak in several pretty decorative pillows for the bed and a throw rug that draped over the end of the bed, something John had found hilarious upon discovering it, teasing Sherlock for being officially just like every other boyfriend on the planet now. That memory made a painful stab go through Amelia's chest.

"John doesn't see it that way, Amelia," Sherlock eventually said, his tone grim. He finally turned back around to face her, meeting her eyes with a dark look, "And nor do I".

"Maybe not now," she agreed quietly, her lips tightening, "But you both will, once the grief is less fresh and the pain passes".

"If it ever does," he looked away from her again, and he pressed his lips into a hard, grim line.

"It will," she insisted, moving a step closer to him, reaching out to lace her fingers through his own, his hand hanging limply by his side, "It will, Sherlock. I promise, grief may seem endless…but even it must pass and become something else, something…bearable".

Sherlock looked up at her, his gaze dark and grim, saying nothing to reassure her that he believed her. She hadn't expected him to, even after all the grief she had experienced, she had to admit that she knew that sometimes believing in the hope of the possibility of grief ending could simply be too far out of reach, but she knew it wouldn't always be like this. Time would heal, slowly and differently from how it once was, but it would still heal. She just hoped that the new pieces they had left over would resemble the life she once knew.

….

The services began at 10:30 and had already ended by eleven, short and sweet, John had wanted it. He hadn't wanted any of it to be dragged out, hadn't wanted any great, long speeches or songs sung, but it was still a lovely service. Molly and Lestrade had come to the service, along with a few more people that Amelia recalled from John and Mary's wedding, and Mrs Hudson, naturally, was there, too. There was no sign of Sherlock or of Mycroft, though it was hardly surprising on Mycroft's part. Sherlock's absence was very noticeable, however, but given the circumstances no one brought it up to Amelia as the service ended and she lingered outside the church doors, watching as John spoke to a middle aged couple that Amelia was positive she had been introduced to once before, though she couldn't recall their names, for the life of her. She was grateful to her friends for not asking her about where Sherlock was, she wasn't completely sure what she would have told them, lied and said that he was simply too upset to make it, or tell them the truth and admit aloud that John was refusing to speak to Sherlock and that Sherlock had thought it wouldn't be wise to come. A part of her desperately wanted to protect that truth, though she knew that everyone likely knew or suspected the shift in their once such a tight bond, but still. Somehow admitting it aloud to others made it all the more harder.

"How are you holding up, Amelia?" Molly asked as she came to stand next to Amelia within the doorway, her eyes tinged with red and lightly wheeling Rosie's pram with her, parking it alongside them. Rosie had slept through the entire service, much to Amelia's relief, and she remained perfectly peaceful in her white, wool blankets. Molly was dressed in a rather sweet black, knee length dress, which while a little old fashioned, perhaps, suited her nicely, while a black cardigan covered her arms. She had even worn a pair of very small Mary Jane heels that Amelia had convinced her to buy several years ago.

Amelia sighed grimly, "As well as anyone could be in a situation like this, I suppose," she murmured, adjusting her black satchel handbag as it hung over the crock of her elbow, just to give herself something to toy with.

She nodded sadly, biting her bottom lip as she glanced over towards John, his eyes glazed over as he vaguely listened to something the woman of the couple was saying, "It's just so horrible," she sighed, "I still can't believe it, poor John and then there's little Rosie…" she broke off with a tearful sniff, retrieving a rolled up tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan to dab at her nose, her eyes briefly dropping to the baby girl.

Amelia reached out and placed a hand on her upper arm, feeling her own throat tightening with the verge of tears and her eyes stinging, "Things…will get better," she said firmly, though her voice shook very slightly and she had to press her red lips together briefly, just to try and stop herself from bursting into tears. She swallowed thickly as Molly lifted her slightly watery gaze up to her, "I mean, John and Rosie have a wonderful support system. They'll…they'll get through this".

"You're right," she sighed, and gave her a tiny, watery smile, screwing up her tissue in her fist, "We just have to be there for them now," she glanced back over towards John, who was now being approached by Lestrade, who looked terribly mournful and sombre, reaching out to offer his hand to John. Her lips pulled downwards, however, considering John from afar, "But something tells me it isn't going to be that smoothly, is it, Amelia?"

"No," she breathed, turning her gaze onto John, her heart sinking, "No, I don't think it will be, but…" she inhaled deeply and briefly closed her eyes, just as a very slim bream of sunlight managed to break through the gloomy, overcast sky, "We've got to hope, haven't we?" she opened her eyes to look at Molly, giving her almost a hopeful look, as though searching for her reassurance.

Molly instantly nodded, her brown eyes instantly brightening, "Of course we do," she told her, giving her another, slightly to thin and bright smile to be completely believable, lightly bumping her arm against Amelia's, "And you know, we're all in this together," she went on, obviously making an attempt to be cheerful and positive, and while it did fall slightly flat, Amelia appreciated her efforts, "If there's anything you need, Amelia, anything at all, you know you can always call me. If you just need to talk or get away or anything…"

Amelia hadn't realised until that moment just how desperately she had needed someone to say that to her. Of course, she knew that she could talk to Molly, they had been friends for so long now, and she knew that she could always go to Mrs Hudson, if she needed someone with slightly more motherly advice…hell, even Mrs Holmes would have happily have listened to her, but it was nice knowing that she did have people she could turn to. She couldn't turn to Sherlock right now, he was dealing with his own issues and struggles with this situation and she had little desire to make it any harder on him, and the very thought of going to John was simply impossible. She felt as though she had to be the strong one for the boys right now, be their rock and help them through this time, but that didn't mean that she wasn't grieving just as painfully. It almost gave her a sense of permission to admit that she was struggling, knowing that she could turn to Molly, and while she likely wouldn't do it, because she feared that once those flood gates were open they would never close, it helped.

"Oh, Molly…" she blinked back tears as her eyes welled up, her voice instantly growing chocked with grief and relief. She turned and threw her arms around her, biting her bottom lip so hard that she feared she would drawer blood, Molly's arms instantly wrapping around her back, "Thank you," she whispered, struggling desperately to hold back the tears, "I honestly think I'd be lost without you sometimes," she pulled back from her, giving her a sad smile, "Everyone needs a touch of your positivity in their lives".

Molly blushed very slightly, though she was smiling shyly, "I don't know about that…"

"Don't you dare sell yourself short, Molly. I mean it. You've always been such a wonderful friend and I've never really told you how much I care about you, but you need to know that I do love you. You're my best friend".

She blinked very slightly in surprise, her cheeks reddening even more; after all, Amelia didn't often just come out sprouting random declarations of feelings. Sherlock liked to tease her for being a sentimentalist, but even she wasn't this soft and gooey with feelings, but she supposed that the death of Mary had shaken her. It had made Amelia realise just how much she needed to enjoy the people that she had in her life, how important each one of them was and reminded her that she needed to express to them more that fact, since they could so easily be gone tomorrow. Plus, Amelia had to admit she was pretty sleep deprived, stressed, and highly emotional right now, which wasn't the greatest combination for being considered emotionally stable.

"I…love you ,too," Molly slowly gave her a soft smile, looking rather touched.

Amelia smiled and cleared her throat, casting another quick look over to John, who was now saying his goodbye's to Mrs Hudson, who was practically fussing over him. She would have to go to his rescue, Mrs Hudson always meant well but…she could be a little much, sometimes. She sighed and turned back to Molly.

"You're taking Rosie tonight, aren't you?" she asked her, and Molly nodded in confirmation. She reached out and lightly grasped her arm again, "If you need a hand at all, call me, okay?"

"Yeah, of course. Same goes for you, Amelia, if…" she hesitated, her eyes knowing and gentle, "Well, if you want to talk about anything".

Sherlock's name was left unspoken between them, but Amelia knew that he was the one she had been thinking about. Once again she found herself grateful that Molly hadn't outright said anything about Sherlock, she truly was very empathetic and good at reading people, much more so then most people tended to notice, Amelia thought. She gave her another, slightly weak smile and allowed her gaze to linger just a touch longer on Rosie, one hand fisted in her blankets, sound asleep, even in her black dress with a little white collar.

"Thanks, Molly," she said softly, bringing her gaze back up to Molly, "I'll keep that in mind. Have fun with Rosie," she lightly squeezed her arm before dropping her hand from her, turning away to make her way over towards John and Mrs Hudson.

Poor John, he barely seemed to hear what Mrs Hudson was saying, while the older woman went on and on to him, filling the silence with almost nervous babbling. Amelia would have laughed at any other time, usually because Sherlock would have been here and probably would have been rolling his eyes in exasperation at their land lady, but he wasn't and John really didn't look up for dealing with Mrs Hudson's well-meaning fussing.

"…and you'll have to come 'round for tea, John," Mrs Hudson was saying gently, giving him a sympathetic look, "When you're feeling up to it, that is, and you can bring little Rosie with you…"

"Mrs Hudson," Amelia cut in smoothly, falling into line bedside John, giving the elderly woman a warm smile, "Are you about to head home?"

She blinked very slightly, looking briefly taken off guard, while John glanced sideways at Amelia with blank eyes, "Oh, well, I suppose so…" she began, giving her a small smile.

"I don't suppose you could do me a favour on your way? Only I've had so much going on and I completely forgot to put my purse in my bag when I left, and I was meant to grab some milk and teabags on my way home. You know how Sherlock gets if he doesn't have his tea, I'll never hear the end of it…"

Okay, so maybe she was laying it on a bit thick, but technically it wasn't a complete lie. She had been planning to duck to the shops on her way home and they had run out of teabags that Sherlock liked, and Sherlock did tend to get a little moody when he didn't have the right ones in the flat, but Amelia couldn't think of a better excuse to get rid of Mrs Hudson in the moment. Plus, she was rather hoping that it would play on Mrs Hudson's desire to see Sherlock feel better, even if teabags were hardly going to do that. Instantly, Mrs Hudson's expression softened, completely missing how John tensed the mention of Sherlock's name.

"Well, if it will help…" Mrs Hudson said slowly, before sighing and nodding, reaching out to take Amelia's hand, lightly squeezing it, "Oh, of course I will, Amelia, dear. Don't worry about it; I'll sort it all out. Is it any wonder you forgot you purse, you've been so stressed, dear, you really should rest more, or you'll make yourself ill".

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Amelia gave her a slightly tighter smile; "I'll see you at home, okay?"

Mrs Hudson looked rather tempted to remain longer, but she glanced at John and seemed to recognise the same, vacant look in his eyes that Amelia had. She gave him another sympathetic smile and reached out pat his arm, before turning to start walking away through the graveyard, back towards the road. They watched her go in silence, now the last two left, and eventually, John sighed heavily and reached up to run a hand down his face.

"You forgot your purse?"

"No," she shook her head, just barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes, given what today was, "I just said that to get rid of her. You looked as though you needed some help," she gave her a soft smile.

He uncovered his face to give her a tired look, "Yeah," he murmured flatly, "Everyone being here, coming up to say how sorry they were…" he trailed off and shook his head, his expression heavy.

"It's a lot, isn't it?"

"Yeah".

"I know," she nodded, turning her gaze back onto the graveyard ahead of them, littered by old, leaning and moss covered headstones. The graveyard was no longer used for burials here, but it had once been and still remained strangely peaceful. She had often found herself thinking of old graveyards as being beautiful places, creepy at night, mind, but lovely and calming in the day.

"I didn't see Sherlock," John said after a while, gazing out ahead of them, his tone flat.

Amelia considered him, attempting to discern just how this might go…it could go only two ways, one very, very badly, and the other a tiny bit hopeful for the future, though she somehow doubted it, "No, he thought it might be best that he didn't come," she said carefully.

"Good," his tone grew instantly cold and hard, something dark flickering in his eyes, "He wouldn't have been welcomed".

She closed her eyes and lifted her head up towards the sky, drawing in a deep breath. She felt as though someone had literally just reached inside her chest and gripped her heart at the bone chilling anger that practically radiated off him in waves seemed to hit her. It hurt, so much, she just wanted to reach out and hug him, but she also felt as though she needed to try and defend Sherlock, but nor did she feel as though it was the time, nor place for such a conversation to take place. She couldn't blame John for his anger towards Sherlock, really, she couldn't, but she still hated it and wanted to make it go away. It...just wasn't going to happen today, probably not even by her meddling, either, she suspected that the only two people who could make any of this right was Sherlock and John.

"John…" she began heavily, though she felt at a loss as to what to even try and say.

"Thanks, Amelia," he cut her off, turning to face her properly, giving her a tiny, weak smile. His eyes, though, they remained cold and empty, as if he had shut off a part of himself, just to try and cope. Perhaps he had, "Everything you've done, you didn't have to…"

"I just wanted to help, John," she reached out and grasped his hand, her expression softening, "You know I'll always be there for you, right? And if you ever need anything, anything at all, you just call and I'll be there".

John gave her another weak smile and squeezed her hand back, silently thanking her again, before he heaved a sigh and untangled his hand from hers, "I think I'm going to head home," he said softly, turning his back onto the graveyard ahead of them, but his gaze was distant again, as if he truly wasn't even present with her right now, "It's been a…day".

Amelia nodded slowly, her heart breaking all over again and her eyes burning with tears that, once again, she pushed back down, "Okay," she said with a heavy sigh. She considered offering to go with him, perhaps grab some rubbish takeout and spend the rest of this lousy, horrible day just eating carb riddled, greasy comfort foods and probably zoning out to some boring movie that neither of them would really watch, but it was better than the silence…but she stopped herself. He needed time to himself to process on his own, she'd settle for phoning him later. She adjusted her handbag on her arm and went to walk away, when she paused and spun back around to face him, giving him another gentle look, "John…please don't drink too much tonight. Believe me, I know how tempting it is, but it's only going to make you feel worse".

He ducked his head very slightly, but his smile was very slightly warmer when he lifted his gaze back up to hers, "Yeah," he agreed lightly, "You're probably right. Goodbye, Amelia".

She allowed herself to linger for a moment longer, thinking to herself that she had never seen someone cast a more lonely figure then John. She just wanted to stay with him and make sure he got home okay, that he had a nice cup of tea and spent the evening doing something better then drinking himself into a whiskey coma just to try and deal with the pain…but she didn't, instead she turned around and began to walk away, her heart heavy and her eyes stinging, because at the end of the day, John had to find his own way of dealing with his grief and if he had to spend a few nights drowning himself in alcohol, then who was she to judge? She just hoped those few nights remained a few, for his own sake.

…

Amelia left the crematorium, catching a cab and instructing the driver to take her to Kensal Green Cemetery. The look on the man's face upon her request and his obvious glance over her black dress under her red trench coat instantly made the Type two diabetic's expression morph into one of sympathy. She didn't bother to correct him about his assumption as she climbed into the back seat and instead immediately engrossed herself with watching the city streets and buildings pass her by in the back seat. How long had it been since she last stepped foot in that cemetery? Nine years? Eight? She had sworn to herself that she never would go there again, either, but yet, here she was. She supposed Sherlock probably would have made some dry comment about it being the theme of the week: Breaking vowels.

Her ride came to an end with just some brief pleasantries that she barely even recalled and she requested that the driver wait for her, reassuring him that she would happily pay for the time, before turning to face the stretch of newer graves that this section of the cemetery held, set apart from the more ornately decorated and gothic inspired tombs and monuments. Red rose bushes had been planted around the edges of the Catholic section and the grass had been recently trimmed, causing her heels to sink into the pillow thick grass that covered the neat rows and rows of graves laid out before her. It might have been close to a decade since she had even allowed herself to come to this place, but she remembered his grave with painful clarity and before she knew it, she was standing before the white marble head stone. Someone had been there just in the last day, judging by the bouquet of white lilies that had been left by the base of the headstone, joined by a slightly faded looking, plastic, multi coloured windmill that remained still in the stillness of the day, sticking into a small grating by the base of the stone. She ran her eyes over the inscription engraved into the marble:

Thomas Charles Kent

Beloved Son, Brother, and Husband

5/3/1978-4/10/2008

In Our Hearts, Always.

She sighed heavily as she stared down at the words, knowing that it was at least partly a lie and one that she had done little to prevent being carved into stone those years ago, but she hadn't had the strength to say anything. Guilt was funny like that. She expected that his mother had likely brought the flowers and she was grateful to have missed running into her here today, she had spent all these years avoiding Tom's mother and sister, cutting off ties with them until even the customary Christmas and Birthday card exchanges had become nothing but politeness for what they had once been to each other. But it did bring her some relief to know that someone did still come here, even if she didn't, even if she felt as though she had little right to. It pleased her to know that he hadn't been forgotten.

"So…." she licked her lips, frowning slightly as she cast as quick, slightly uncomfortable glance around her. There was no one to hear her speaking to thin air, though, but she still felt slightly silly, even as she turned her gaze back to the stone, "It's been a while, Tom," she cleared her throat, forcing herself to push on, "I'm…not even sure why I'm here, to be honest. It's not as if I believe in the afterlife or heaven, so all I'm doing is speaking to a slab of carved marble, but yet…."

Amelia trailed off and closed her eyes, lowering her head briefly. This really wasn't going well, certainly not how she expected it, though, to be fair, she hadn't exactly planned to come here today, but seeing John grieving for his wife…she supposed it made her remember a time when she had been in the same position, grieving for her own spouse after a tragic accident. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, fixing her gaze back to the headstone.

"One of my best friends is suffering," she went on softly, her throat briefly constricting with the urge to cry, though she forced it down, like always, "And…my partner is riddled by guilt, and I want to help them, I want everything to go back to how it was…but there's nothing I can do. Nothing I can say," she curled her hands into fists by her sides, her fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palms, "It's just so horribly unfair and I know it's only going to get worse, so much worse, but…I don't know. I just want to help them, but I can't. Not this time, not about this…" she drew in a deep, shuddering breathe, "Which is why I'm here, I guess, speaking to your grave as if it might actually help, because the truth is…the only person I can speak freely to is you, Tom. Molly would listen, she would always listen, so would Mrs Hudson, but they're also grieving and dealing with this, but they're also to close to the situation, to close to Sherlock and John," she shook her head slowly, miserably, "I can't burden them with my own grief or fears".

And God was she afraid, she was terrified, in fact, terrified for what the future held for Sherlock and John. She feared from the very bottom of her heart that this might just be the end of them, and then where did that leave her? She would try to remains friends with them both, but how could she share her life with two men who would refuse to be in the same room as each other? There would be no more Christmases together or birthdays, no more cases, no more little moments between her and John were they would simply look at each other during a case and exchange this look, caught between exasperation and fondness, when Sherlock had one of his little moments. No more moments where she and Sherlock would get lost in the thrill of the case, babbling together deductions or facts that only they could seem to understand, only to be interrupted by John, who would bring them back down to Earth with one simple, usually very confused question, but it was enough to slam their moment of ego and excitement back into the ground, bringing them back to reality. All of that would be over, those little moments of friendship that she had come to love, the moments of random amusement that would pop up, of just three friends hanging out and enjoying each other in their own, unique way.

"God," she breathed, her entire body briefly rocked by a shuddering gasp that she dragged in, her eyes squeezing shut, "I...can't believe I'm here, telling you this...if heaven even does exist, I expect you'd probably be pretty upset that I came to you to vent to," she opened her eyes and shook her head miserably, staring at the engraved name across the marble, "And I know things were pretty bad before...well, before the accident between us, so I wouldn't blame you for being cross at me, honestly. We were far too young when we married and we rushed it, you know we did," she gave the headstone a sad little smile, "You were so desperate for us to start a family and I should have told you from the start that I wasn't ready for that, but we never talked about it before it was too late and everything just...went downhill, didn't it?" she shook her head again, "But I did love you, Tom, we just didn't meet at the right time in both of our lives and it cost us both, and we never even got the chance to try and make things right between us. I think that's why I've avoided coming here all this time..."

They had started off so wonderfully, she had loved him, she truly had, Tom might not have truly understood her desire to solve crimes, but he had been the first person she had met who made her feel as though he understood her, even a tiny bit, and that had been enough. It was one of the things that drew her to Sherlock today, only it had worked out much better between them, then it had between her and Tom. This marriage had taught her many things. They had only known each other six months before Tom proposed and married by another six months, but things had quickly began to crack. He wanted children, she didn't, at that point, and that began to spiral to other disagreements about their lives, until she reached a point where she even demanded that he leave their home. They never told anyone about it, she never spoke of her decision to start divorce proceedings, not even to Tom, in the end, because by that point the accident happened and he died, and suddenly Amelia became the grief stricken widow to everyone, but no one knew the real truth. Her tears hadn't just been because he had died...it was because she felt guilty. Lestrade knew the truth and then she told Sherlock, but no one else knew the story. That's why she never came to his grave, that's why she never spoke of him or to his family. She didn't feel as if she had the right.

Amelia swallowed, thickly, "And now it's almost like history is repeating itself," she murmured, "John never got to tell Mary his truth, and that'll haunt him, making the grief all the harder to bare, but I can't help him. I can't help any of them, Tom, and I...I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do," she covered her face with her hands, barely resisting the urge to fist her hands into her hair or to scream in frustration, feeling as though she was being crushed under the weight of simply too much emotion. Slowly, she sunk down onto the cool grass, her knees pressing into the soft blades as she kept her face covered. Still, she refused to cry, "It's just...too much".

Something wet dripped onto the back of her neck and she shivered, lifting her head and uncovering her face, looking up at the gloomy, cloudy sky above her as more raindrops began to fall. How ironically depressive, here she was, kneeling before the grave of her ex-husband in black while it began raining...Other people might claim it was some sort of sign, but Amelia didn't believe in any God or higher power, but she had to admit. It suited her mood perfectly. More rain fall onto her face and one came close to landing in her left eye, making her lower her face, her gaze falling back onto the headstone. She slowly rose, reaching out to touch the stone cold marble, her red nails stark against the white of the stone.

"I have no clue what I'm supposed to do to help my friends," she said softly to the stone, feeling the rain starting to fall slightly more heavily, "But I do know that standing here in the rain, speaking to a headstone of a man long gone, isn't going to help them, but...I think I needed to come here to remind me that I will get through this," she lifted her chin higher, "So will John and Sherlock, what will be will be, and nothing we do can truly make much of a difference in this situation. But Tom, I want you to know, if there is any chance that you might hear me at all, I wish you to know...I am sorry," she lifted her right hand up to her lips, pressing a kiss against her index and middle finger, before she placed them down on top of the headstone, as if she was kissing it, too, "I'm sorry for everything that happened between us. Goodbye, Tom, you're not forgotten".

She turned, then, and forced herself to start walking back towards the road, where the cab was still waiting for her. It likely was going to cost a fortune, but that was hardly an issue for her. She couldn't say that she felt any less conflicted or confused by what to do to help her friends, but she did feel...calmer, perhaps, as if slightly less pressured to have to fix everything, because untimely, there was nothing much she could do to fix the issue. She doubted the feeling would last long, but it was a brief comfort, at least, and she finally felt as if she had closure on her first marriage, after all these years, that as a victory, at least.

….

The drive to Baker Street felt significantly better then when she had left for John's this morning, she had to admit, and as a bonus, the brief stint of rain had stopped during her journey. She still felt the crushing weight of pain and grief on her chest, but it had eased very slightly, as though a shift of burden that she had long grown used to carrying had been lifted. She paid for the cab as it pulled up in front of Baker Street and she used her key to unlock the door as the cab pulled off into the street, slipping inside the hallway. Mrs Hudson probably wondered where she had gotten to, but she decided to go down and see her later, pay her the money owed for the teabags and milk she was supposed to get on her way home, if Sherlock hadn't, already, though it was fairly unlike if he had. She climbed the stairs and reached the landing to find the living room door open, stepping into the room, already pulling her trench coat off herself as she entered. Sherlock was sitting in his usual armchair, his fingertips pressed together beneath his chin and a small curve of a frown between his closed eyes, his blazer left unbuttoned.

"How was it?" he asked without opening his eyes.

She slipped her coat off, draping it over the end of the sofa with her handbag, "Like you weren't there to see it, Holmes," she scoffed, turning around to face him, crossing her arms across her chest. He opened his eyes at that and turned his head to look at her, his eyebrows very slightly lifted in surprise. She rolled her eyes and crossed the room to drop into John's old armchair across from him, crossing her bare legs, not taking her knowing, sharp gaze off his, "I don't know where you were hiding or how you managed it when there were less than ten people present, but I know you went today, Sherlock. You wouldn't have missed going for any reason, I know you wouldn't have".

Sherlock considered her briefly, "The roses were a nice touch," he commented lightly, turning his gaze onto the empty fireplace grating.

"Thank you. I thought so too".

He hesitated, or at least Amelia had the impression that he was, he did seem to be eyeing the fireplace far too intently, "How was John?" he eventually questioned.

"A mess," Amelia sighed, her expression briefly screwed up with misery for the heartbreak her friend was experiencing right now. Sherlock's gaze immediately darted to her and she met his eyes tiredly, putting her elbow up on the armrest and leaning sideways in the chair so that she could lean the side of her head on her palm, "He's in a dangerous period right now, Sherlock," she told him grimly, "He's trying to hold it all together, bottle up all the pain, grief, anger…but it's only going to feaster until he finally deals with it all, and in the mean time he'll start to isolate himself. Lash out at everyone around him, including me, before much longer".

Sherlock's expression hardened and he pressed his lips into a tight line, "How…" he paused, before pushing on, "What do I do to help him?"

He must truly be desperate if he was actually admitting and asking for help from her, this openly, about something emotionally related. Amelia's expression instantly softened.

"You're asking me?"

"You…have a unique ability to understand his position, Amelia, having endured the death of a partner yourself".

She nodded slowly at that, eyeing him thoughtfully, "It was quite a different experience for me," she pointed out, but she knew what he was really wanting to know: How had she gotten over the grief? How had she dealt with the pain of losing someone at the unintentional hands of another? In her case, a drunk driver, in John's, Sherlock's own ego. There was no wonderful piece of advice she could give him, nothing she could truly say that would reassure him or help him, not over something like this, grief, after all, was different for everyone to endure and handle, but he was asking and Sherlock Holmes rarely asked for anyone's advice, ever...even from her, "Time, Sherlock," she eventually said, her voice soft and sad, "The best thing we can do for John right now is give him time, only that will allow him the chance to heal and come to terms with what happened to Mary, and once that's happened..."

"And if not?" he cut across her, his voice flat and clear of emotion, but his eyes...they held a heaviness to them that was horrible enough to see on its own.

"If not..." she began slowly, pausing briefly to lick her lips, buying herself just a few more seconds of consideration, but there was no way of avoiding such a pointed question and in all truth, Sherlock had to know, "Then we carry on, Holmes, the best we can...without John, if we must, because that's how life goes sometimes, as heartbreaking as that is. Not all friendships last and some things are simply too much to move past. It's...the sad reality of life, ever changing, ever in flux...and we can't force John to forgive. We just have to hope and allow him time to see if things improve".

Sherlock's eyes had wondered away from her during her little speech, gazing absently at the empty grating of the fireplace, but there was a shadow over his expression and something lurking in his eyes that made her nervous, but even she failed to fully understand what was going on through his head. He was upset by what she had said, obviously disagreeing with her advice to give John time and that even that might not be enough to repair the damage that he been done, that they might just have to accept that this was the end of their little friendship circle, but he wasn't voicing any of that...that, in itself, was enough to frighten her.

"Sherlock," she said firmly, drawing his gaze back to her, his eyebrows lifting very slightly as he eyed her curiously, "Give John time, don't try...pushing things. Just...let John be the one to decide how the next months carry on between you and him, as hard as that might be for your control freak tendencies to accept," she allowed a tiny smile at the end, hoping it might ease some of the tension of the room...though it felt fake and brittle.

He rolled his eyes, then, but it felt off, not like his usual eye roll that he would usually give her when she would jokingly tease him...it felt as though he was simply doing it because he knew she expected it of him, or perhaps it was merely habit, regardless, it worried her, though Amelia kept her concern from crossing her face. She would keep an extra close eye on him, not entirely trusting that he wouldn't attempt something dramatic, some large gesture to try luring John back to them, play on John's good nature of a doctor or something, find a case that specifically required John's help to solve it...it was just the sort of manipulative tactics Sherlock would try pulling to try and get John to speak to him again, but it would only make matters a hundred times worse if he did try pulling something like that over John, who would very likely not allow himself to be fooled by it. Still, Amelia was worried.

"Yes, Amelia," Sherlock said with a slight scoff, oblivious to her concern, thankfully, "I'm not a child, might I remind you. I don't require a lecture about behaving myself".

"Yes, you do, Sherlock," she said lightly, forcing another bright smile, "And perhaps, if you actually listened, I wouldn't feel the need to lecture you, if you call giving you a word of warning 'lecturing'".

He looked away from her again, his gaze growing distant, "Don't worry, Amelia," he said softly, "I'll behave myself," he released a small sigh, his eyes narrowing very slightly in thought and his tone darkening, "I'll do whatever I have to".

Amelia swallowed slightly at that, her hand briefly squeezing her armrest, before she forced herself to release the soft fabric, watching him carefully. She didn't like the sound of that, not one bit, because she believed it. Sherlock Holmes would do whatever he deemed necessary in order to help his friends, which didn't exactly exclude very much about just what lengths he might go to and that was positively terrifying. She was terrified.

It was only going to get worse.

Ooh...it begins. I felt like I really needed to include this chapter, right before we go straight into the next episode, not just as a way of sort of wrapping up Mary's storyline more and giving an insight into how Amelia's dealing with it, but I also really wanted to explore the divide and the cracks in the friendships between Sherlock, John, and Amelia, because honestly, this story isn't just about Amelia and Sherlock, it's about the three of them, too. I feel so horrible for Amelia, she truly is caught right in the middle here between them, unable to defend Sherlock for what he said to cause Mary's death, unintentional as it was, but nor is she able to take John's side, because she loves Sherlock and she understands him, she gets what it's like to get caught up in the moment of deducing and that it was just a horrible accident, and that makes it a impossible situation for her to be placed in. The two men she loves the most in the whole world, torn apart and shattered, and she feels like she has to stay strong for them both, while crumbling herself. I also wanted to explore more of Amelia's past and sort of tie up some lose ends in regards to her past husband, who I've never really explored before now.

So, yeah, I felt like I really had to write this chapter and I'm actually very happy with how it's turned out, and I think you guys might be able to get something of an idea of how the next few chapters are going to carry out...possibly. As always, Amelia's outfit will be on my Tumblr and Pinterest, if you're interested. Please tell me what you thought and review :)