Chapter 16 - Disbelief
Katrina stepped out of the townhouse and into the soft golden warmth of late morning. The sun kissed her skin, but the wind was brisk, curling around the edges of her coat and tugging gently at the hem of her dress. She tilted her head slightly, feeling the breeze against her cheeks — a familiar touch, like the sea reminding her it was always near.
With one hand holding the smooth curve of her cane and the other resting lightly on Ciri's harness, she made her way down the winding path toward the shore. The Labrador moved with steady grace, guiding her around the uneven pavement and over patches of dry grass until the path turned to pebbles.
The rhythmic crunch beneath her boots told her she was close.
When the breeze grew stronger and the scent of salt thickened in the air, she knew she'd arrived. Ciri led her to the edge of the esplanade, to the old wooden bench she often stopped at. With a sigh, Katrina sat down slowly, resting one hand over her belly and the other on the bench's sun-warmed armrest.
The sound of the waves greeted her like an old friend — gentle, rolling, constant.
Above, sea gulls called out to one another, their cries sharp and distant in the wind. She smiled softly, letting her shoulders fall, the tension leaving her for the first time that day.
The world was still here, moving around her.
And for a little while, that was enough.
—-
The taxi ride was a blur.
Katrina gripped the edge of her seat so tightly her knuckles ached. Her heart thundered in her chest, each second dragging heavier than the last.
The driver didn't speak. Maybe he sensed it. The fear. The urgency. The way she kept whispering under her breath, "Please, let me be in time."
When the car screeched to a halt in front of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, Katrina was already reaching for the door. Ciri leapt out ahead, alert and tense, as if even she could sense something was terribly wrong.
Katrina didn't need anyone to guide her — her feet knew the way, her memory sharp with every step she had taken here before. But the air felt different now. Tighter. As though London itself was holding its breath.
She heard John's voice the moment she reached the courtyard.
"Ok, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met. The first time we met, you knew all about my sister. Right?"
Katrina froze.
"Leave a note when?"
John was standing several feet away, his phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline. His voice was cracking, urgent, desperate. She could hear the pain in it. She could hear him on the other end — Sherlock, distant, calm. Too calm.
Her stomach dropped.
"No," she whispered, stumbling forward, hand gripping Ciri's harness tightly. "No, this isn't happening."
"John," she called, her voice catching. "Where is he?"
John turned, startled, his voice breaking: "Katrina—he's on the roof."
A sharp gust of wind cut between them.
And then—
A silence, thick and unnatural.
Followed by the sound she would never forget.
A single, heavy thud.
The scream died in her throat.
She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her knees buckled beneath her. She dropped to the pavement, one hand gripping the cold concrete, the other trembling over her stomach.
"No. No, no, no…" she whispered, over and over.
He was gone.
And he didn't even know.
Didn't know that she loved him.
Didn't know that she was carrying his child.
—-
Katrina sat still on the worn wooden bench, her hands resting in her lap. One of them gently stroked the soft fur of Ciri's head, which now lay nestled against her legs. The dog let out a quiet sigh, content but watchful, her warm weight a small anchor in the stillness.
Katrina's fingers moved slowly, tracing absentminded circles behind Ciri's ears, her other hand resting instinctively over the gentle rise of her belly. The baby kicked — just a little. A flutter. A reminder.
She turned her face toward the sea, eyes closed, letting the scent of salt and the lull of the waves surround her. The breeze carried with it the faint calls of sea gulls and the distant laughter of children playing along the boardwalk. Life was still moving, still unfolding.
But inside her, the memory had returned too vividly.
The rooftop. The moment the world cracked.
She didn't cry anymore when she thought of Sherlock. Not the way she used to. The grief was quieter now — deeper, settled, like the tide. It came in waves, always would. But it was no longer drowning her.
Still, there were days like this, when the sea mirrored that emptiness. When she could feel him more than ever in the spaces he used to fill. When the sun was warm but couldn't reach her bones.
Ciri nuzzled closer.
Katrina smiled softly, brushing her hand down the Labrador's neck. "You always know, don't you?" she whispered.
The sea answered her with a gentle hush against the shore.
She leaned back against the bench, letting the breeze carry through her hair, and for a long while, said nothing at all.
—-
The rain hadn't stopped all morning.
It fell in a steady curtain, soft but unrelenting, soaking through the grass and turning the cemetery paths to slow rivers of mud. The mourners stood in silence, umbrellas clustered like black blossoms around the open grave. A grey mist hung over everything — thick, cold, and utterly still.
Katrina stood at the front, her fingers curled tightly around the handle of her black umbrella. She wore a long coat, buttoned to her throat, her shoulders hunched slightly against the cold. The fabric clung to her in places, the dampness seeping through. She didn't notice.
Beside her, Mrs. Hudson clutched a tissue in one hand and held her umbrella in the other. Her quiet sobs trembled in the air between them, barely louder than the rain tapping on the canopy above. John stood on Katrina's other side, unmoving, his hands folded in front of him, his gaze locked on the coffin as it was lowered into the earth.
He didn't cry — not visibly. But Katrina didn't need sound or sight to know the grief that gripped him. She felt it in the way his breath hitched beside her. In the tight, almost unnatural stillness of his posture. In the pause between each heartbeat, like he was forcing himself not to break.
They said a few words. A priest whose voice was low and respectful. Lestrade read a statement. Someone from the Yard laid a small bouquet by the stone. But Katrina heard none of it. The sound of the rain drowned everything out, or perhaps it was just her mind refusing to let anything else in.
The world blurred.
And then they were all leaving — slow, reluctant steps as umbrellas bobbed away through the mist. One by one, the mourners disappeared into the greyness. John touched her arm before he left, just briefly. A grounding gesture. But he didn't try to make her leave.
He knew.
Katrina stayed.
Alone now, she stepped closer to the grave. The wet grass soaked into the hem of her trousers, her umbrella sagging slightly to one side. She knelt — carefully, quietly — resting her free hand on the newly turned earth.
"Sherlock," she whispered, her voice so soft it was nearly swallowed by the rain. "You brilliant, infuriating man…"
She paused, breath catching.
"I loved you."
She didn't say it like a confession. Not anymore. There was no one left to hear it but the earth.
Her hand moved to her stomach, where life had just begun, where he still existed in some small, secret way.
"I still do."
And the rain kept falling.
