Bad Genetics (a BBC Sherlock fanfic)

Chapter 2

Hello, all. Irene here. So, after three weeks of writing, I finished writing Chapter two. Here you go, lovelies!!!!

CHAPTER 2: The Grave

It had been three weeks, two days, eleven hours and thirty minutes since Sherlock decided to commit suicide. And I’ve been visiting his grave ever since his funeral, begging him to quit the act and come back, cursing him for leaving me (to pay the rent, of course.)

    I think the first day that I came to visit his grave was the worst because I was still in shock from watching him fall.

    I came with Mrs. Hudson that time, since she was also still grieving for Sherlock. She was telling me – or complaining, really – about all of his science equipment in the kitchen and having no idea what to do with it, and maybe giving it to a school so they could have decent tools and material.

    While we were still walking to Sherlock’s grave, Mrs. Hudson turned to me. “Do you think you could maybe come” – she started to ask, but I knew where she was going with it, and I just couldn’t let her finish.

      “No, I can’t. I just c-can’t go back to the flat yet.” I hadn’t even set foot in 221B since Sherlock died. It felt … wrong without him there. It was odd to even be there and to think, to know, that he wasn’t just going to show up suddenly, or wake me up with his yelling at the telly while watching crap television, or spend the night playing on his violin, or randomly start shooting the wall…

        We were standing over his grave now, Mrs. Hudson holding the bouquet we had bought him in her hands, and me just awkwardly standing there, unsure of what to do now. When I visited the graves of those who served with me in Afghanistan, it was easier. I didn’t know the poor guys that I visited well. It was just a good thing to do.

        But I knew Sherlock, which made the situation completely different for me. When I paid my respects for the others, I just stood there silently for a minute or two and then moved along. But I felt as if I had to say something to him, and I wasn’t very good at that sort of thing. I never had been.

         “You know, I’m just so mad at him.” I spoke aloud this time. Mrs. Hudson smiled in sympathy and patted my back. “Oh, John, that’s normal. That’s how he made everyone around him feel.” I laughed once without humor and nodded – it was true, after all.

          She sighed and continued. “I just remember how destructive he was when he was bored, or how his science stuff would be scattered all over the place, or how he’d keep dead body parts in the refrigerator. Imagine it: keeping fingers where you store food! And the fighting! He drove me up the wall with his goings on” – she was practically yelling, so I put my hand on her shoulder to stop her. “Okay, I’m actually not that mad.”

       She nodded and cleared her throat. “Alright, well, I’m just going to wait in the cab.” Without another word, she set the flowers on Sherlock’s grave, swallowed a sob, and then turned and walked away.

       I sighed and stared down at the black, shiny tombstone that stood over on the ground, over his grave. I inhaled before speaking. “Ah… You told me once that you weren’t a hero. There were times when I thought that you weren’t even human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, and the most human … human being that I’d ever known, and no one will ever be able to convince me that you told me a lie, so…” I stopped, getting myself worked up. I couldn’t stand looking at his gravestone; it just made it too real. So I walked closer and put my hand on it and stared straight ahead. “I was so alone, and I owe you so much.” I patted the stone and started to walk away.

        But there was something else that I needed to get off of my chest, so I turned back around and said what I needed to say. “Oh, please, there’s just one more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t. Be. Dead.” I choked up on the last word, but I sobered. I really needed this out. “Would you just stop this? Just for me. Just stop this. Stop this.” I started to sob again, so I forced myself to calm down, fix my expression – I needed to be strong – and I walked away. I was hoping for him to come back after I spoke, but I knew that he wasn’t.

         He was gone, and he was never coming back.

         And, as I left the graveyard that day, sitting silently in the cab with a dry-sobbing Mrs. Hudson, I realized something: Sherlock was right – caring was a disadvantage.

+++++++++++++++

Sherlock stood there, hidden in the trees a few feet away from his grave. He’d seen every expression that John had made. He’d heard every word that John had spoken, and it had honestly hurt Sherlock to hear. He hadn’t meant to hurt John, only to save him.

    John would have been dead if he hadn’t jumped, and Sherlock would secretly be damned before that happened.

     Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his hair in pure frustration. He wasn’t yet used to all these emotions just yet. Before John, he had only known boredom, anger, frustration, and then the occasional happiness that surged through him when he was able to solve a murder or a quadruple suicide with only one note. That is what he used to live for. But now, after meeting John, he started to experience other emotions: fear, sadness, confusion, panic, and hurt. Hell, he was even happier now that he and John were acquainted. It was something he didn’t expect, and something he wasn’t quite sure if he liked.

       As he watched his friend compose himself and walk away from his grave, he got the feeling that someone or something was watching. He looked carefully at everything and everyone around him. He soon spotted it: a camera atop a concealed wooden pole in the trees near him. Ah. Of course Mycroft would still be keeping tabs on everyone and everything.

       He sighed and rolled his eyes. Damn it, he even missed his arce of a brother. Now if that didn’t say anything about how his emotions changed, nothing would.

       A thought occurred while looking at the camera, and he cursed himself for not thinking of it before. If Mycroft has eyes and ears all over London, who says that Moriarty, even in death, wouldn’t also have cameras and spies everywhere?

       It made sense, after all, and he cursed himself for not thinking of this sooner. He couldn’t make his reappearance as he thought he would or as quickly as he could. He’d have to wait.

       And waiting was sadly necessary, he realized. Though he didn’t die when he fell, he did cause massive injury to his ribs (four broken, one bruised), a fractured bone in his leg, and one hell of a migraine. In summary: yes, he would have to wait to make his return for a number of reasons.

        Boring…

All right, my pretties. A new chapter for ya. Now, I'm off. But please, do not forget to fan, comment, and vote! Thanks <3