Sherlock Imagines

Graveyard Blues (MoranxReader)

Prompt: 10 (She took a sip of wine and tried to pretend she hung out in graveyards all of the time)[This is an AU—Both Sherlock and Moriarty are dead.]
Character: Any (I'm using Moran- just to shake things up)
Requested by: @Just_A_Sherlockian

You could feel the autumn air whisking all around you. Feel the almost silent rhythm of the leaf's delicate dance as you hurried to your destination. Many people wouldn't believe that anything that could be considered 'sinister' could be going on when the world around was this gorgeous. The stars overheard whispered twinkling secrets to their friend, the moon, who beamed with a soft glow. The evening was gentle and sweet, not cold but not hot. It was an evening most would consider romantic, maybe even perfect.
You wished you had time to think like that. Instead, you were swiftly swerving in and out of happy couples, trying to avoid eyes lest you expose yourself to their joy. Your pain. Continuing to move forward to the haunting place you still, to this day, couldn't describe. You'd been there before, when your dear friend had passed. You'd stood next to his brother and bestfriend, feeling nearly faint when his parents asked if you two had been involved. You weren't sure how to respond to that, after all, their son's blood was partially on your hands. Even if it was just a few droplets.
Your thoughts had become so distracted that you'd nearly missed the entry to the cemetery. You didn't, however, and slipped in, praying that you wouldn't attract too much attention. You weaved in and out of headstones, looking for the one.
When you found it, you had to stop. Stop moving, stop breathing, stop thinking. He'd been your friend, years ago, but still. Written across a dark headstone was a name that haunted many, all, even. In one way or another.
James Isaac Moriarty III
You wished you'd brought flowers or something. The stone, large as it was, was barren of anything but dry dirt and dust. Gingerly, you knelt down, lightly removing the coat of dirt from the stone with your sleeve.
"How sweet of you." His voice was tougher than you remembered, but that might've just been the sarcastic snap of his words.
"You missed the funeral, I'm afraid. Only by a year or so, though." Bitter, upset, angry. You couldn't blame him for feeling any of it, but it still left an ache in your chest.
"He was my friend, too." You tried, voice croaking out barely above a whisper. He laughed, but the sound wasn't pleasant. It was vicious and violent. The kind of laugh that would send fear in the hearts of anyone who'd dare cause it.
"Your friend!? Is that why you abandoned us—for some stupid detective!?" His words sank their teeth into you, refusing to let go before they tore you apart. Without a single thought, you stood and spun around to face him, hand making contact with his cheek. He staggered back, eyes wide with shock.
"I abandoned you!?" You snapped in return, eyes brimming with tears, "If my intention had been to abandon—I wouldn't have come. And I wouldn't have come if I had known this would be my treatment!"
Running his fingers over his still stinging cheek, he nodded, "Alright...Alright. We had an agreement, let's get this over with..." He mumbled, handing you the bag. Taking it, you nodded in return before fishing out the glasses and the bottle. It wasn't long before the cork was out, wine poured, a glass in each of your hands.
"You should go grab it..." You said softly as he reached for his glass, "You told Jim that if he—that you would do that for him..." He watched, a bit of dismay in his eyes as he saw the pain in your own. He'd been so concerned with losing his friend that he hadn't thought to stop and think about it. He'd lost his friend, that day. You had lost two.
"I'll be right back..." He agreed, voice barely above a hushed whisper as he staggered off to his car. For a long while, you just waited. Listening to the eerie sounds of a moonlit graveyard, eyes drifting between the stone beside you and the one only a short distance away, just past the willow. All you could do is try to distract yourself.
"Ah, I can see it now, Jim," You said to the stone, a sad smirk on your lips, "It'll be written on my stone: 'She took a sip of wine and tried to pretend she hung out in graveyards all the time. Then, she collapsed from being poisoned.' That's what it'll say. Maybe something about how I betrayed you both...not only Sherlock and you, but Sebastian..." A tear rolled down your cheek.
"He hates me for it, but then again, you were always the one who understood—"
"She's not like us, Seb. She doesn't like seeing people hurt.' That's what he said to me when you left." Sebastian's voice broke in, tone flat as he looked at you.
"He was right. You never had a the same thirst that we did." He knelt before the grave, gently placing down a small box.
"Yeah, well, I was never as vengeful." You knelt beside him, taking a sip of wine.
"For a man who doubted I'd come, I'm a tad surprised you brought to glasses."
"Just because I was doubtful doesn't mean I didn't hope." He grumbled, laying out the box's contents. Your eyes scanned the photographs. Old pictures of the three of you, some from as far back as when you were five.
"How'd you know I hadn't gotten rid of these yet?" He stared solemnly down at them, eyes glistened over with what you could only assume to be tears.
"You're my husband, I know you better than anyone."