The Fall Of Sherlock

There's nothing 'fun' about Funerals.

The crunch of dry autumn leaves declared the fact that Sherlock Holmes was, as far as anyone was concerned, a dead man walking. John Watson had walked back up to the church to rejoin Mrs Hudson, unlikely to be able to bear looking back over his shoulder and towards his best friend's grave, but Sherlock still hoped with every ounce of his being that he would do it anyway. Because then he'd know. He'd see him, despite all odds, and he'd know.
I'm alive, John.
Standing over his own grave didn't feel nearly as odd as it perhaps should have done for the infamous detective. He found the grooves in the damp grass where his best friend had stood and assumed the same position. This was the closest he'd get to John for several years, he thought - he had to savour it.
Despite the morbid situation, he laughed to himself. How funny it was that John didn't know his birthday. That's why there was no date on his gravestone, and perhaps John didn't think it right to only put a death date on the bottom and disregard all the adventures they had embarked upon together. Because Sherlock Holmes had been more than his untimely 'death', yes?
Copying what he had seen his dear friend doing only moments before, Sherlock walked closer to his own headstone and took a pale, slender hand from his pocket to touch the top. He knew he couldn't actually feel the warmth of his companion's hand lingering, but it was almost as if his senses were preventing him from accepting that logic in that moment purely out of desperation. He stooped down, removed one set of flowers from their graveside vase, and scooped the recording device from the underside of the lid. He trusted that the microphone would have picked up anything said by his graveside a mere few minutes ago.

Back up in the church, after having asked Mrs Hudson for a lone moment amongst the pews, John Watson found, however stupid it felt, that he was praying for his friend. However stupid Sherlock Holmes himself would have found it, for John to have been praying for him, he decided he didn't care. He wasn't entirely sure he believed in anything at all. He had believed in Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock Holmes had proved he was just as mortal as the rest of us.

"Let him... please, Lord, just... let him finally be... be at peace..."
He moved his fingers that were currently slotted between one another, and shuffled awkwardly on the pew. That wasn't what he wanted at all.
"Don't let him be dead. Please don't... don't let him be dead."
He cleared his throat, guilt rising with it. He rubbed his face, his agitation growing, having to deal with a day he had no idea would come so soon.
"Sherlock, this isn't... this isn't fair, okay?" He murmured into his hands, his eyes finding the point where the wall met the ceiling, and cursed under his breath.
"Stop. This. Stop this. Please, just... you are- were my best friend, and I don't know why-"
Out of the corner of John's eye, he saw a figure amongst the gravestones through the window. He turned his head, viewing his friend, clear as day, walking away from his own resting place.

John had been seeing Sherlock a lot lately. Everywhere there was some quiet, or some absence, Sherlock Holmes seemed to fill it like the lack of anything at all in a very large vacuum. Sherlock Holmes pervaded all areas of John's life in his death more than he ever had in his life. And they'd been roommates. Among other things.
He closed his eyes, shook his head thoroughly, and then opened them again. He was right. No Sherlock Holmes. Not anymore.

Pull yourself together, John. Soldiers. Remember?