Hello Detective

Gregson Part 2

I sat in the car with Mrs. Hudson and John, dressed in all black, driving to an event I never thought I would be attending– the funeral of Sherlock Holmes.

I sat with my head down, fiddling with my skirt until it was my turn. It really was a strange event, funerals. Especially after someone has taken their own life. Funny expression that is too. Taking it from who? When you're gone it's not you who will miss it. It affects everyone around you.

I realized that Sherlock died to save John and I and everyone he cared about. I didn't want to lose him, and just wished I could hold him one last time. I understood now that he was distant to protect me, but at the end of the day nothing I said would bring him back.

It was now time for my to say my bit. As I ascended the steps to the pulpit I thought about how I should have prepared something to say. I was going to have to speak from my heart, and right now that might have been hard to do. My heart wasn't in a good place, it was shriveled and turning black, becoming cold to the world.

I looked around the filled room and saw Mycroft standing in the back. It wasn't who was there that confused me, but who wasn't. Sherlock's parents were nowhere to be seen, wouldn't they attend their son's funeral?

I lowered the mic and took a deep breath.

"Have you ever lost someone you love and wanted one more conversation, one more chance to make up for the time when you thought they would be there forever?" I began, my voice only shaking slightly.

"If so, then you know you can go your whole life collecting days, and none will outweigh the one you wish you had back. Even though he rubbed people the wrong way or didn't always say the right thing, it was a pleasure and a gift to have Sherlock in our lives." I felt my eyes prickling with tears, but held them back.

"Even if he didn't show it, he cared. He wasn't as strong as he looked. I think it was Oscar Wilde that said 'The truth is rarely pure and never simple', and the truth is that Sherlock Holmes is a great man who I loved deeply and he was not a fraud, it's as simple and complicated as that." I looked around the room, knowing Sherlock would have hated this, a bunch of people crying over him.

"Nobody can fake being such an annoying dick all the time." I smiled through a tear. This comment caused a short lived laugh to wave through the room, providing a break from all the sniffling.

"He may be gone, but he won't be forgotten, not while there are still those who care about him." I said, leaving the podium and returning to my seat.

That day was a bad day, I had been having a lot of those lately. I hated all the looks of pity I was receiving. Especially now that I was starting to show. I estimated I was about 12 weeks along. When I got home I sat on the couch and Mycroft brought me a cup of tea and sat next to me.

"I think you should do it." Mycroft said suddenly, and confusing me.

"Do what?" I asked, looking to him.

"You've been debating for the last week whether or not to go back to America for a little while. I think you should do it, spend a little time with your family." Mycroft said.

"Maybe you're right." I said. "I have some stuff back at my flat that I want to bring though."

"I can go get it." Mycroft said.

"I think I can manage it, plus I'll have to see Mrs. Astor." I said, was Mycroft acting strange?

"It's really no trouble." He pushed.

"What are you up to? Why don't you want me to go back to my flat?" I asked, suspiciously.

"Just trying to spare you any more pain." He lied.

"I'll have to go back there eventually." I said, still wondering what he was up to.

That night I found myself booking a flight back home to DC. After a considerable amount of suspicious protesting from Mycroft, I returned to my flat the next day to grab some of my things. Nothing seemed to be out of place when I got there, but there was a different feel in the flat. Like someone had been there while I was gone. I pushed the idea out of my head, and grabbed some of my things.

After the 8 hour flight I was now standing in front of my mother's house, bags in hand, and rang the doorbell. I waited for a moment before she pulled the door open.

"Adelaide? What are you doing here? Is everything okay?" She asked. I shook my head, dropped my bags and hugged her.

"Are you here for Chuck?" She asked again.

"Chuck? No, what happened to Chuck?" I asked, pulling away.

"Well, nothing, but he's coming home in two days. You didn't know?" She asked, helping me inside the house.

"No, I didn't know." I said quietly.

"Well apparently he met someone, they want to get married here next week. You will stay for that won't you?" She said, trying to micromanage the situation.

"Yes, sure, of course." I said nervously.

"What happened?" She asked, her mom senses tingling.

"I just needed some time out of London." I said, not ready to admit it.

"Because..." She pushed.

"Sherlock." I cried, placing my head in my hands.

"What happened? What did he do?" She asked, angrily. She had never seen me react this way to anything, I was always the strong one.

"He's dead." I cried.

"Oh dear... that's terrible." She said quietly.

"Nope, that's not even the worst part. The worst part is that he was forced to his death by a bloody psychopath who made everyone believe that he was a fraud, and as if that wasn't bad enough, I'm pregnant!" I yelled, my grief turning into rage.

"We can get through this, I promise." She insisted.

Two days later I was welcoming home my brother, who was just the person I needed to see right now. He was the one shining light in my dark tunnel. His wedding was beautiful and gave me something to focus on other than my current predicament. His wife was wonderful and I really liked her. She was going to be working for an international company focused in London so I might be seeing them more often. Before I knew it three weeks had flown by, and the comfort of my family had made me feel a little better.

I was now doing much better. I was still writing my letters to Sherlock and those were really helping. I was now 15 weeks pregnant and showing. I had to face my demons and return to London. My life was now there and I needed to be there too. I realized I had been neglecting my friends and loved ones back in London: Mycroft, John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade.

The words of F. Scott Fitzgerald could not have fit better in this situation. "It's a funny thing coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You realized what's changed is you."