The Science of Sacrifice//Book Four

Chapter 20~ The Funeral (Part Two)

Teddy's P.O.V

I limped down the aisle, looking at each face that I passed as I made my way towards the front. There was Angelo and Mike Stamford, and Lestrade and Molly- I hadn't been able to talk to Molly, she had disappeared inside the church before I had the chance- and a few other faces that I didn't recognize. The church was about half full which was great considering all the rumors flying around about Sherlock. I was glad to find a small handful of people still believed.

When I approached the front I slowed down, my eyes passing over Victor who was up and preparing himself for the service. There, just a few steps in front of me, was the coffin my brother lay in. The lid was closed, something both Mycroft and I had wanted. I wouldn't have been able to handle seeing my brother lying inside it. White lilies were placed all around it, bright against the dark color of the coffin. There were no pictures, no notes of love, just a huge mass of flowers.

I didn't realize I had been standing there for so long until I felt someone tug at my arm. Turning, I saw it was John. He stood beside me, his eyes glued to the coffin, his hand on my arm. There were tears in his eyes but they hadn't fallen yet. By the way John was swallowing I knew that they hadn't fallen yet because he didn't want them to. He was trying to hold himself together but I could see that he was falling apart inside.

"Come on," he whispered, his thumb rubbing my arm through the lace material. "It's going to begin."

I let him lead me slowly towards the seats and with slight difficulty I sat down beside him. When Victor stood up to open the service John grabbed onto my hand, squeezing it so tightly I felt as though I was getting no circulation to my fingers. I didn't care though. I was his anchor and he was mine. Together we held onto each other. Victor's words became a steady hum in the back of my mind and I found myself focusing on the rain, listening to it fall onto the church and the ground outside. It seemed that even nature itself was in mourning. I closed my eyes and in my head I prayed for this pain to end.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 A prayer, a song, and three speeches from three different people later, Victor called upon John to come up and talk seeing as he was Sherlock's best friend. John looked at me, his face still dry but his eyes still filled with tears. I smiled encouragingly at him, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"It's okay," I whispered. "It's okay, John. Stand up, speak a bit, then sit back down. It's okay."

With a little nod John stood, straightening out his suit jacket before making his way up to the front. He stood beside the coffin but he did not look at it, his hands trembling as he pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. He looked down at the words, cleared his throat, then looked up at the people before him.

"U-uh, um, well, I'm John Watson. I am- I was Sherlock's flatmate and-uh- and best friend. Or, at least, I think I was. He never said I was his 'best' friend but he did say I was his friend, so... Anyway, um... Sherlock was... He was..." John trailed off, looking back down at the paper, his eyebrows furrowed and his nose scrunched up as if the words were hard to read. I stared at him, frowning in concern.

"Yes, um... Sherlock was a..." John swallowed and I knew instantly what was wrong. Although he had everything down in writing the emotions were becoming too much. His throat was closing up and I knew that those walls he had up were beginning to crack. With a small, shuddery breath John looked down at me.

"John..." I whispered. "John, it's alright."

"But it's not, is it?" John trembled, his bottom lip quivering. "It's not alright because my- my best friend is- Sherlock, he's-"

With a choked sob John's hand wrapped around the piece of paper, scrunching it up, while the other hand came up to his mouth to muffle the noises he made. The tears he had been holding back since this morning came flooding down his face. I pushed myself up with my crutches and limped over to him, stopping in front of him and covering the people's view of him. As soon as I had come to a stop John leaned forward, his forehead pressed against mine as he continued to break down in tears. I pulled out Mycroft's handkerchief and began dabbing softly at John's face, wincing at every broken sob he made. It was as though his soul was slowly being torn away from him and there was nothing I could do, nothing I could say, to help him. I tried, though. I tried.