The Science of Deduction Does Not Extend to Relationships

Chapter 20: A Good Man as Well

Chapter 20: A Good Man as Well

            The days between Sherlock’s death and the funeral were all a blur to me.  I hardly got out of bed and the only contact I had with others was John’s occasional checking in on me and Mycroft’s visit to set things right for the funeral.  They were the only two who I had told about the ring I had found with Sherlock.  Other than them I had no contact with anyone, not even Spence or my family.

            I had not gotten a full night’s sleep since the fall and the nights I did sleep, I was woken with nightmares in which I was forced to watch Sherlock die over and over again.   When this happened, I lay in bed looking at a picture John had snapped one night of Sherlock and me.  In it, I was sitting on the arm of Sherlock’s armchair looking at him as he stared intently at his laptop screen. John had happened to capture the exact moment that Sherlock turned to give me a half smile and our eyes were locked, ignorant of John’s camera.  I would lay in bed for hours staring at this photograph, along with others of Sherlock and I, and immerse myself in memories.

            On the morning of the funeral, I dragged myself out of bed after a completely sleepless night and just sat on the sofa staring at the wall Sherlock had once shot out of boredom, thinking.  I had no idea how I was supposed to go and watch them bury him.  However, I knew I had to so when I could no longer put it off, I took a shower and changed. 

            Once I had my underwear and black gloves on I felt a sudden wave of grief wash over me.  I fell back to sit on the bed and put a hand to my mouth, hyperventilating and willing the tears not to fall for the millionth time.  Luckily, I was able to hold off the tears because I was certain that, if I had begun, I wouldn’t have been able to stop. 

            John came to 221B to pick me up in a cab; he had been unable to spend a night there since the day Sherlock died so I had been living there on my own.  Together we drove to the cemetery to say our final goodbyes.  There was quite a crowd that had turned up: Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, Spence, Mark, my family, some members of the force (surprisingly, Donovan and Anderson had shown), and a number of people who Sherlock had helped over the years.  On top of this, a variety of reporters had shown up, including Kitty.  I wasn’t a fan of turning Sherlock’s funeral into a spectacle but there was nothing I could do at this point so I didn’t make a fuss. 

            I surprised myself by making it through the priest’s blessings and the short speeches from John and Mycroft with only a few tears.  This was mainly due to the fact that I was standing with John on my one side and Spence and Mark on my other.  Basically, as long as I stayed clear of Donovan, Anderson, and Kitty I would be able to hold it together for the most part.  Oh, and then there was Mycroft; John had told me all about how Sherlock’s brother dearest had let slip Sherlock’s entire past to Moriarty.  In other words, I knew that it was all Mycroft’s fault Moriarty was able to create Rich Brooks who was, in fact, not real.  I would stand by that statement until the day I died.  Even if nobody else believed it, I would always believe in Sherlock. 

            It wasn’t until they began to lower and bury the casket that I really lost it.  The tears I had been barely holding back flowed freely once more and I all but collapsed into Spence and he had to hold me up for the remainder of the funeral.  Kitty and the other reporters were giving me weird looks while Donovan and Anderson couldn’t quite look me in the eye.  Mycroft moved to put his arm around me in comfort, but I shoved him off.  “I don’t want you anywhere near me,” I spat through my tears.

            He gave me a pained look before taking a step back.  “What did I do to upset y—ah, so I assume our dear Doctor told you of my involvement in Moriarty’s knowing Sherlock’s life story.”