Our Dearly Departed

A Final Farewell

    "I first met Sherlock Holmes, um, a couple of months ago, not long." John cleared his throat rather awkwardly, looking at the solemn faces staring back at him in the crowd. He shuffled his notes and tried to ignore the emotional hurricane going on in his stomach. "We were in the same class, science, and we became lab partners. I had never heard of him before, to be honest, I hadn't even noticed him before. Eleven years in the same school, same grade, and that boy completely slipped under my radar. Well, after we met, I noticed him, and he noticed me. We became closer, friends even, and our eyes began to linger and our hands began to brush, and, well, from lab partners to life partners I suppose. Except, not life. Not all of it at least." John quickly brushed a tear falling from his eye, a quick, sneaky little tear that had wanted to slip out of his eye and embarrass him in front of all of Sherlock's friends and family. He took a deep breath, trying not to look down, trying not to notice what lay before him on the ground, kept his eyes fixed on the crowd, his mother, Sherlock's mother, his brother sitting stiffly and staring determinedly at the ground. Both John and Mycroft were obviously trying to hide their emotions, the emotions they both knew they had.
"You never fully appreciate someone, I don't think, until they're gone. I don't think you really understand them until you stop figuring out the new little things, the things that you never really thought mattered. I never knew how he liked his coffee, I never knew what type of morning routine he had, I never knew the name he would've given his first child, I never knew who his first crush had been. I never asked, I never, well, I never cared. I knew enough about Sherlock Holmes, or at least I had thought I did, I knew that he was beautiful, I knew that he was intelligent, and caring, and I knew that his smile, however rare it was, was bright enough to light up a room. His happiness was like a lightbulb, and in these dark times, well, I think we all need him here, to light the way. More than ever. I think that maybe, if I had appreciated him then, as I do now, if I had loved him and cherished him as I do in this moment, that maybe things would be different. If I had thought we really could be life partners maybe this wouldn't even be happening." John felt a tear slip from his eye, but he ignored it, because he noticed that a lot of tears were falling in the church, a lot of tissues passed around and a lot of women holding their face in their hands, as if embarrassed to admit how much John's speech was affecting them.
"I can't help but think that this is all my fault. That you all sit here, and I stand up here, and Sherlock..." John took another deep breath, "And Sherlock lay down there, because of me. Maybe if I had loved him then, like I do now, maybe this wouldn't be happening at all. And I apologize, to all of you, but mostly to Sherlock, as he lay there, not hearing anything I say. I try to tell myself that it's better this way, that he chose this and he's in a better place. But that's a lie, and everyone knows it. There is no better place; this is the best place, on earth, in life, with the ones we love. And maybe he's not suffering, maybe he's at peace, but I know I'm not. I know that his family isn't, his friends, his classmates, we're not at rest. And it's not better this way. Not at all." John nodded to say that he was done, collecting his little speech from the podium and blinking away the remainder of his tears, the first of many to fall in this church. He stepped down from the alter and scurried up to where his family sat in the pew, his mother clutching a Kleenex to her face, trying hastily to contain the tears that were falling, his father sitting stony faced, unbelieving, and Harry staring at the head in front of her and not looking attentive at all. As soon as John sat down Mrs. Watson pulled him into a one arm hug, choking out a sob and letting him lean his head on her shoulder.
"That was beautiful John." she insisted. John nodded, straightening up and making sure that his tie hadn't crinkled, rubbing the last of the tears from his face as he watched Mycroft take the stand. He looked as if he had stared Medusa right in the eyes, his mouth tight across his face, his eyes glassy, his posture as straight as a board. In fact, Mycroft moved so little, and looked so emotionless, that when he opened his mouth to talk, John was actually surprised. He looked at Mycroft, and Mycroft only, as if nothing on that alter interested him except Sherlock's brother. Mycroft took a deep breath, fishing notecards out of his jacket pocket and setting them on the podium without giving them much of a glance. He had probably memorized his speech already, or he had something different to say. You could never tell with Mycroft Holmes.
"I stand before you all, and I think you expect tears. I think you expect me to pour my heart out to you all, gush about my brother, about all the wonderful things he did, about how tragic this is and how sorry I am for his loss. I'm going to say right here, that's not going to happen. Sherlock chose this, he made his decision and he did this to himself. And looking through the crowd, I have only seen maybe a quarter of all you, the faces staring up at me in the crowd. I see family, extended family, the Watsons, and that is it. All his classmates, who can only pay attention to someone after they're dead, who don't seem to cherish the beauty a life has until it's gone. I'm talking to you all now, who ignored my brother, who pretended he didn't exist, to whom he was just the nerd in the back of the classroom, and I ask you all politely, to leave. You're not at his funeral to pay your respects, to come up to this microphone and talk about all the good times you've had, all the memories you shared. You're here for the drama of it all, to ogle at Sherlock's family, to watch the tears shed while your own eyes stay dry. You never cared about my brother in life, so why care about him in death?" Mycroft's words rung through the church and John saw a lot of Sherlock's relatives crane their necks towards the back, at the strangers flocking to the church, to stare at the classmates that showed up for the refreshments at the end. But no one left, as they shouldn't, and the church stayed as silent as ever, with an air of awkwardness and shame hovering over the back of the church. John didn't want to say that Mycroft's words were necessary, but they were true. Everyone had thought the same things when they saw half the football team in the crowd, wearing their best suits and staring at the popular girls in the seats in front of them. John had never seen those boys pay any attention to Sherlock, at least when they weren't shoving him into lockers and calling him a freak from the back of the class. Mycroft took another deep breath, staring stony faced into the crowd with a scowl, his black eyes sweeping over everyone as if reading their minds, accusing them of things they haven't even done.
"My brother was always an outlier; I knew that from the beginning. He followed in my footsteps down the intellectual path, in my mind, the practical path. If he hadn't wandered, well, as Mr. Watson put it, we wouldn't be here. But he was a good brother, and son, and human being, even if no one else could accept him for who he was. Sure, he was odd, he liked books more than people and he fancied boys, so what? It's no reason to ignore him, to submit him to this hopelessness, the feeling he felt as took his own life. Just because he was different, he suffered. Because he was different, he had never had happiness in his life, not until a couple of months ago. And when that happiness diminished, he was left in such a fragile state, with a feeling of such loss, such fear, that he saw no other way than to just escape it all. So here we are. There he is." Mycroft sighed, looking towards the casket and quickly taking his eyes away, remembering that he was in front of a big crowd, all of which expected him to be strong, to be as emotionless as he made himself appear. He leaned into the microphone once more, and John was expecting him to say something else, a deep, meaningful memory that would leave the crowd in tears.
"Thank you." Was all he said, maybe for listening, maybe for coming. Or maybe it was sarcastic, maybe he was telling that directly to John, thank you, for pushing him over the edge. Thank you for being the one to ensure his little brother's death. His suicide. Mycroft stepped off the stage and walked back to his seat, hunching over and leaning his chin on his fingers, staring back at the ground. His mother didn't acknowledge him as he sat down, his father didn't pat him on the back or comfort him. The whole family was still, motionless, almost as motionless as their second son, lying in his casket in front of them. When the priest said his last words everyone got up to say their last goodbye, a steady line of people got up from the pews and went over and stand next to the casket, to cautiously pat Sherlock's shoulder and draw their hand away from his corpse, looking the body over again before shuffling off to sanitize. John sat in his seat, long after his parents had gone up to get in line, like a lunch line, moving slowly over the casket as if it were no more than sloppy cafeteria food. Most people walked away unaffected, others, mostly family, cried their way out of the church, shaking hands with Mr. Holmes and hugging Mrs. Holmes, congratulating Mycroft on his horrible speech and walking out into the sunlight and going on with their life. Not knowing that even after they had left the church, the pain still hung through the family, the friends, the boyfriends. Maybe they could forget about Sherlock Holmes easily enough, send flowers and a sympathy card, never appreciating the weight a death could have until they lost one of their own loved ones. And even then, they'd be so caught up in pitying themselves they would never even think of the poor Holmes family, long after their little boy had been sent into the ground. The church slowly emptied and John sat in the pew alone, leaning his head on the wooden bench in front of him and staring at his shoes, thinking about Sherlock, about his life and his love and his loss, trying to blink the tears out of his eyes before they fell onto the dark carpet below him. After a while, when John looked up, he didn't see his family, he didn't see Sherlock's family, he didn't see anyone, they all must be outside, mingling. It was only John and Sherlock, the way it used to be, two people but only one beating heart. Whenever they were alone in a room, the two of them used to get very uncomfortable, very nervous. Sherlock's hands would always start twitching, fiddling, his toes tapping. John would stare at the desk, feeling Sherlock's eyes take very quick glances before pretending to be interested in something else, before he would continue reading his book or doing his homework, and John would go on pretending he didn't notice. And they wouldn't say anything, and they would go on ignoring each other all while knowing very well that they were the only two in the room. Very aware of the other's presence in an empty room. And now, when the church was empty, John got to his feet, straightening out his jacket, clearing his throat, and doing a quick sweep of the church before making his way down the aisle, taking slow, deep breaths as he saw the brown casket getting closer and closer. He could see Sherlock's pale skin, paler than it had been before, he had always needed more sun but now he looked like a ghost, like every drop of blood had been leaked from his veins and all that remained was the milky white skin, stretched tight over his bones. John walked closer, and finally he was standing in the midst of all of the flowers, donated from the school, from Mr. Holmes' work, from numerous families from around the neighborhood. He knew that there was one bouquet, filled with roses somewhere among the multitude of vases, one from the Watson family, one that John had picked out himself. It was something you never wanted to do for your high school boyfriend, pick out the flower arrangement to sit on the alter at their funeral. Finally John looked down, for the first time, and saw Sherlock's face, his beautiful face, lying on a silky white pillow, his eyes closed as if was doing no more than sleeping. His hands were folded over on his chest, and he was wearing his favorite purple button down shirt, black jacket, and black slacks. His hair was curled and brushed and clean, his skin pale yet beautiful. Beside him lay his favorite book, some book of detective stories that his father had read to him as a boy, and he later read to John. They had been sitting on his bed late at night; his green eyes alight with excitement as he read the words the author had left for them, looking up at John every so often to make sure he was paying attention. John would just smile softly, nodding for him to go on without really listening to the story, he was more so admiring Sherlock's beauty in the light of the flash light, his deep voice, the contrast his black pajama shirt had with his pale skin. The aura of life, surrounding the boy, that wasn't present as John stared at his corpse. There was also his violin, the beautiful wooden instrument that Sherlock had played for John a couple of times, sitting on a bench in his backyard. The Holmes family had a large dogwood tree, and in the spring it would bloom with beautiful white flowers, and there was a little wooden bench underneath it on which they would sit, and Sherlock would sometimes bring his violin and play soft, sad melodies for John to enjoy. His eyes would be closed and his breath calm, breathing in the music and rocking slowly to the rhythm. It was almost difficult, to look at Sherlock and tell himself that he was not going to open his eyes, he wasn't going to spring to life and leap out of his coffin and drag John out of the church to go to the library, he wasn't going to smile that beautiful smile or talk about random facts he had learned from his science books. Sherlock was never going to move, never going to talk again. John felt more tears fall but he had no one to judge him, so he did nothing about it. Sometimes you just had to let them fall, you just had to cry. John cautiously hovered his hand over the body, feeling a cold air rising up from his skin, tempted to hold the white hand, tempted to lean his forehead on Sherlock's chest and sob, but he pulled his hand away, for some reason the idea of touching his dead skin made shivers go down John's spine. He had held that hand when it had been warm, soft, when the fingers had twitched in his own and his pulse beat ever so softly through his wrist. He knew that he would feel none of that if he took it again, so John just stood over the casket, trying to think of words, anything to say to Sherlock before he got buried. But then John remembered that it wouldn't matter, and whatever he said, Sherlock would never hear it anyway. This was the last time he would see Sherlock's beautiful face, but his last words were long expired. If he had wanted to declare his love he should've done it that night, if he wanted to apologize and cry on Sherlock's chest, he should have done that instead of walking out the front door. Maybe instead of preparing his own last words, he should've listened to Sherlock's. So with that he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to imprint Sherlock's face in his mind forever, and mouthed a silent goodbye, no words ever leaving his lips. Because even if he did say something, Sherlock wouldn't hear it. John heard footsteps behind him, dress shoes scuffing over the hard carpet as someone walked down the aisle into the empty church. Well, almost empty.