The Final Goodbye

Chapter 1

I lay the final rose on his grave right before the long black, embedded with white edging, coffin is lowered six feet into the ground. My best friend is in there. I, John Watson, will never be able to see him again. Mrs. Hudson and I were the only ones at his funeral. If only I could tell Sherlock what I really thought of him. If I had a chance to say my final goodbye to him, or feel his touch one more time, I would be happy.

"John," Mrs. Hudson said as she grasp my arm, "we better leave." I turn back to see dirt getting thrown on the casket. I turn to her and nod.

The next few days I was a mess. I didn't  get out of bed, bathe, or even ate; just laid there crying, in Sherlock's bed. I don't think Sherlock realized my potentials for him. The flat is quieter without him, if that was possible. I felt another knot in my throat and began to cry. "Dammit Sherlock, why did you have to die?" I grab and hold his pillow close to me.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door, she was surprisingly taking Sherlock's death rather well, "Can I come in?" I nod to her. She enters and sits on the edge of the bed resting her hand on my back to comfort me. "Maybe you should go and visit him?"

I hadn't been to Sherlock's grave since the funeral. "Alright," I say to her. She had been my only friend during this time.

She exits the room so I could get ready, finally, I bathe and put clean clothes on. I walk out of the room and give Mrs. Hudson a hug goodbye and leave. I walk down Baker Street for a bit before getting a cab, it was a better day than it had been in the past. It was still cloudy and cold but it was not raining.

"Where are you going to?" The cabby asked me before realizing who I was, "You're John Watson, that fakers side kick." I nodded letting him know that he was right," So where are you going to?"

"81 Swain's Lane," I say to him, lowering my head to ignore anymore insults to my best friend. The car ride was mostly blabbing his big mouth about my friend.

Once I got to my destination I get out and pay the cabby "accidentally" dropping the money on the floor in the car. I turn and look at the cemetery I wasn't prepared to see him so I walk to a florist shop a block away and buy a yellow rose. I walk back and to his head stone, placing the rose gently on top of the black headstone.

"I'm not going to be hear for very long," I say like he is right in front of me, "So all I'm asking is for one miracle Sherlock, for me. Don't be, dead." I sigh, "Just for me. Just stop it, stop all of this." I look at his grave and sigh. I gather my things and walk away. I was about ready to leave when I felt someone looking at me, "Hello?" I call out looking around for something, someone, maybe just maybe, "Sherlock is that you?" I call out again expecting an answer back. Nothing, no sound but the slight ruffles of the leaves. It felt like I was being watched, I pulled my jacket up and left.

I called another cab. "Where are to headed to?" The cabby asked, he turned around and he had Sherlock's dark curly brown hair and bright eyes, but he was at least the age of sixty.

"221 Baker Street," I politely say to him. Looking out of the window I see a man walking his dog. He had a coat like Sherlock's, but he had blond straight hair. Everything today was reminding me of Sherlock. If only I could let him go, but it wasn't that easy.

Once I had gotten to Baker Street I paid the cabby. It had started to drizzle so I walked gingerly inside. "John is that you?" Mrs. Hudson coos from her kitchen.

"Yes Mrs. Hudson, I came back from visiting Sherlock," I say walking to her flat and there she was making tea as usual.

"How was it, do you feel better?" She hands me a cup of tea with sugar. To the amazement I did feel better. I felt like what I needed to say was off of me, but not all of it. I felt like he was listening to me. For once in my life, I was allowed to talk first without getting interrupted by him.

"Yes, I might go back tomorrow and visit him again," I say to her.

"Well tell me what you said to him," she says as she walks and sits at her small square table that had a hand made knit table cloth around it. Bringing her cup with her, hands were shaking, probably from the old age.

I sit on the other side from her, "I just wished for him not to be dead. For this just to be an act." I pause to to take a sip of my tea. "It was weird though," I continued. "When I left I felt someone watching me."

"Maybe your wish came true and it was Sherlock." I nod as we sat there and talked about this, that, and the other. She was saying how she wanted to see if anyone wanted to buy the upstairs bedroom. We finished our drinks and I collect both cups and put them in the sink.

The rest of the day was quiet, then at night Mycroft called me. "John, how are you dealing with the death of my brother?" I did not get along with Mycroft and wanted to hang up on him.

"Why do you need to know Mycroft?" I said defensively, "I know you didn't get along with Sherlock, or me and always tried to ruin us."

"I want to pay my respects to my brothers 'friend'. I apologize, I was not able to get to you sooner I've been busy with the government. So I heard you visited my brothers grave today, how was it?"

How did he know that?

"Goodbye, Mycroft," I angrily hang up the phone. For a few moments I sit there in my chair; pondering, just pondering if the person watching  me was a spy for Mycroft. Eventually, finding the courage to move and actually get ready for the sleepless night once more. I just can't stand it, not having someone in this flat. It makes me feel empty, and cold.