Distasteful Profession

Friends and family... and the Watsons...

The end of the week came and the weather was utter rubbish. John sighed heavily as he fixed his bow tie and straightened his hair. He walked out to the sitting room, where Rosie was gazing at a picture of Sherlock as if trying to memorize it in case it was destroyed. John picked her up, and she was silent the entire drive to the funeral home. John unbuckled Rosie and hoisted her up onto his hip and closed the car door with his free hand. He looked at her and faked a smile, but she didn't return it. John turned his coat collar up against the wind and covered Rosie as they ran inside, to be sheltered from the rain. When John entered the room, he saw the people there, gathered, standing, talking, some of them crying, most of them laughing. He kept his head down as he quietly made his way to the front and sat down. He took in a deep breath and held Rosie in his arms. They both were silent throughout the service that had been given. He procrastinated him looking at He coffin that lies there, holding and supporting a body full of lifelessness. "John? Are you okay?" Someone's voice asked. "Mum?" John asked as he looked up to use his mother's honey blond tinted locks and she was wearing a black dress. "Mum," John muttered as he felt tears stinging his eyes as he stood up and hugged her. "I'm sorry for the loss of your flatmate, dear." She said. John's heart stung with an unimaginable pain.

Once the eulogy began and John stood up to speak, his mother held  Rosie close to her chest and her breath long in her lungs. "DI Gregory 'Gavin' Lestrade once said," John started, looking over the crowd before finding the dark, tired eyes of the very man he was quoting, "Sherlock was a very great man. One day, if we're very lucky, he'll be a good one." John swallowed hard. "Sherlock wasn't the nicest kitten in the box, he had lots of enemies and few friends," John admitted with a chuckle, "But, he was the best man I have ever met. He's my best friend and way more. He acted s a father to Rosie as the truth behind Mary was discovered. He has the most brilliant mind that I have ever known, and he is the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last before I go to sleep." John only glanced at Mary, who was standing in the back left corner of the room, leaned against the wall. He looked to his mother and said, "because Sherlock Holmes is and will be the love of my life, forever." John held up his left hand, to show everyone just how much he loved Sherlock, showing off his steady hand, clad with a single silver band on his ring finger.  After a few more loving words on how brilliant or how aggravating he was, or the time he put Sherlock's stapler in Jelly and claimed it wasn't him while eating jelly, he sat down and let others speak.

"You were engaged to this man?" His mother asked. "And, this is why I don't tell you things," John responded, taking Rosie back in his arms. "We need to talk about this, John." She said in almost a whisper. "Look, I'm trying to get all of the grievings out of my system so I can be a proper father to my child. If you really want to bring this up in a conversation, you can leave and wait for me after the service, since you're disrespecting my late fiancé's wonderfully put together funeral service." He flat out said. John's mother stood up and walked out of the room. John never even thought of looking back.

After the service, some people lifted the casket up and placed it in the otherwise empty hearse. Before John got into the car to follow them to the grave site, Mycroft stepped in front of him. "How are you feeling?" He asked. John scoffed. "No offence, Mycroft, but I think you're the third to last person I want to talk to right now." Mycroft raised his eyebrows in amusement. "Oh? You've made a list, have you?" John chucked. "Oh, yes. There's my mother, Jim Moriarty, you, Irene Adler." John listed the names and was using his fingers to emphasize what place Mycroft was in. Mycroft smiled. "Well, nice to know that you'd talk to me over that Jim," Mycroft said as he contorted his face in slight disgust. John chuckled again. "So, what now, Officer Dr Watson?" He asked. "Go through this, then go home, quit the whole police thing, might want to go back in the line of fire," John listed all of the possible outcomes. "I wouldn't suggest going back to the army, John," Mycroft warned. "Why's that? I've already arranged for Mary to take care of Rosie." John asked. Mycroft mused a hum. And just as he was about to answer, Greg was already calling for him. "Well, there you are." Greg huffed, out of breath. "Greg, I'm going to have to turn in my letter of resignation," John muttered, climbing into his car and lowering the window. "Oh, I understand." Greg sighed.

John arrived as Mrs Hudson also had. She was dressed as if she were going as a widow herself. "Oh, Sherlock..." She muttered, tears streaming from her eyes, "look at the mess you've made," She then left the stones atop the slick, black gravestone. "Sherlock Holmes. Why?" John asked, placing flowers on the newly set dirt and soil. "Why did you do this to yourself?"

Over the course of that month, John became more antisocial and irritable and depressed than he had ever had before. Merge as taking care of Rosie by now, and she had been visiting with Rosie as well.

"God, you're not my wife, Mary! Just shut up!" He shouted. She pushed a button. The Sherlock button. "No, I'm not your wife, but a used to be and I'm the mother of your child, so will you please just listen to me on this one?" She asked. "Oh, yeah. Like when you pretended to be dead for over a couple of years, just to be with someone else?! How am I supposed to listen to you?" He asked. "Sherlock's not dead; don't go in!" She shouted. That statement had prevented John from walking out of the door. "Get us." He muttered. "Get out! Mary, I swear to god, if you don't get out, I will do something the two of us will most definitely regret. So, take my warning as gospel and walk the fuck out, now!" John shouted. Mary still didn't move. "I'm going, then," John said as he shrugged his jacket on and slammed the door shut. John hailed a cab and went to the recruiting station to go back into He army. "Mr John Watson, you already served the maximum time in He military service and were afraid we cannot accept you back in." The recruiter said. "No, you don't understand; I just need to take my mind off of the death of someone very close to me and others are trying to help me, but I don't need their help and they're only making me more miserable, so the only thing I have left to keep me sane, is this." John tried to explain, but it came out differently than he'd hoped it would. "Mr Watson, I suggest you go to a psychiatric ward, not back into the military." And, sure enough, John did. Needless to say, he was a bit overqualified for that as well. "Sir, have you tried therapy?" The doctor asked. "God, anything to keep me from my traitor ex-wife...!" John said, groaning from where the sinks in his seat. So, the doctor set John up for therapy appointments. Every Thursday and Monday. John got a job at the clinic near him flat so he could just pop out and in, whenever he desired, really. "Hello, John. Uh, What Are you up to right at the moment?" Mycroft voice set off an interesting alarm in John's Head. Wednesday, no work, no Rosie, nothing to do, "What do you want me to do?! I'll do it!" John asked and responded quickly and eagerly so that he didn't have to hear Mycroft's voice. "I was wondering if you could be the best man at Euros' wedding," Mycroft offered. "What?" John asked. "Moriarty proposed, Euros said no, then proposed herself, he said yes, it's going to take a lot of time, though. Moriarty got locked up again. It'll probably take a few years for the government to allow my hands to dabble in such a case." Mycroft said, posh lay chuckling at the end. "So, there's nothing for me to do today?" John asked, sounding disappointed. "Lestrade has a case he's absolutely stumped on if you want to..." Mycroft öderes and John politely declined. "I understand; that's why I'm not going to say anything either." He actually sympathized with Kohn. Having lost his brother must've been hard. He wasn't even there for Sherlock's note. "Mycroft?" John finally asked. He only hummed in a response, letting John know that he was still listening. "If you had cameras at all places and at all times because you are the British government, why didn't you send people in to save him? You could've done something, yeah?" John asked in the most non-accusing way he could. Merely suggesting the different scenarios that could've played out. "I suppose, I could've. But, Sherlock was very egotistical and so I thought that he was too precious to himself to let himself be killed at his own hands." Mycroft said, pondering. "I suppose. That was a total out of the loop event; I don't think anyone saw it coming." John hesitantly agreed, still tentative. He phone call ended shortly after and John was left alone with himself and the Smile on the wall. "Stop smiling like that." He ordered. "You don't deserve to be happy." He continued. "Not when someone as great as Sherlock has just committed suicide to break up with me!" John stood up abruptly. "Damn it! Stop smiling!" John shouted, pulling out his gun and unloading an entire clip violently into the wall. He had tears running down his face. "Stop smiling, please..." John muttered in between rounds of bullets. "How can you sit there and smile like that?" John dropped his gun and fell to the floor, sobbing.