The Inevitable (The Untrue) - 4/8
IV.
John is seated at the front of the church. He’s probably not quite as surprised by this as he should be. Sherlock has - had - a small immediate family, consisting of just his mother (who is too frail to travel, particularly to the funeral of her youngest son) and Mycroft and, while his extended family is, well, extensive, he has had no close relations with them, none that would make them better choices.
He sits in the first pew, between Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson clutches a handkerchief and cries quietly into it. John expected her to be hysterical; he expected her to cause a scene so that he could escape this by needing to escort her out. But she is quietly composed, a woman used to grief, and preferring the dignity of it.
During the service, a memorial more than a funeral, Mycroft touches John’s knee three times. He doesn’t mind as much as he thinks Sherlock might. Perhaps it’s because Sherlock’s no longer available. Perhaps Mycroft’s reaching for his brother as much as John is. Either way, the elder Holmes is composed and eloquent when he gives the eulogy. (John was asked. It just wasn’t in him.)
There’s an empty mahogany coffin at the front of the church that probably isn’t fooling anyone. Among the small group of people Sherlock would have tolerated at his funeral, most have heard the story of his death. They know there’s no body as well as John does. He finds it comforting to have something to look at though. Listening to the reverend talk about a man that he didn’t know at all would be difficult without the grounding presence of a coffin Sherlock would have found respectable and not impossible to sleep forever in.
There has been a sour taste in his mouth since he came home, and no matter how often he cleans his teeth, and no matter how much tea he drinks or toast he eats (because he can stomach little else, right now), he can’t erase it. He’s angry at Sherlock, and he feels it’s completely justified.
On some level, both of them knew they weren’t going to grow old together. They knew that one day, it was going to come to this. One of them, or both of them, was going to die like this. They were too lucky too often to expect that they could get through every encounter and every murderer and always come out unscathed.
John always thought he would be the one to succumb. He always thought that was the fair thing to have happen. The world is not going to miss an invalided army doctor who chased a madman around the city for no reason other than that it made his blood pump in his ears and who sometimes wrote the stories of his mad detective in a blog.
He is not the great man that Sherlock Holmes was. He does not deserve the sacrifice that Sherlock made on his behalf. He is angrier at his detective than he ever has been, because this was one decision he should not have been allowed to make without him. He could have done it. He could have chased Moriarty to the Falls. He could have tackled him off the cliff and into the water. He could have faced his death like that; he’s done it before.
Sherlock would have moved on. Perhaps he would have mourned. Perhaps he would have kept his skull on the mantel to talk to from time to time. But eventually, Sherlock would have understood that when a person dies, they go nowhere. They exist no longer. He would not have dwelled on it when there was work to be done.
John could gladly have died if it meant Sherlock could continue to do his work.
Part V.
John is seated at the front of the church. He’s probably not quite as surprised by this as he should be. Sherlock has - had - a small immediate family, consisting of just his mother (who is too frail to travel, particularly to the funeral of her youngest son) and Mycroft and, while his extended family is, well, extensive, he has had no close relations with them, none that would make them better choices.
He sits in the first pew, between Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson clutches a handkerchief and cries quietly into it. John expected her to be hysterical; he expected her to cause a scene so that he could escape this by needing to escort her out. But she is quietly composed, a woman used to grief, and preferring the dignity of it.
During the service, a memorial more than a funeral, Mycroft touches John’s knee three times. He doesn’t mind as much as he thinks Sherlock might. Perhaps it’s because Sherlock’s no longer available. Perhaps Mycroft’s reaching for his brother as much as John is. Either way, the elder Holmes is composed and eloquent when he gives the eulogy. (John was asked. It just wasn’t in him.)
There’s an empty mahogany coffin at the front of the church that probably isn’t fooling anyone. Among the small group of people Sherlock would have tolerated at his funeral, most have heard the story of his death. They know there’s no body as well as John does. He finds it comforting to have something to look at though. Listening to the reverend talk about a man that he didn’t know at all would be difficult without the grounding presence of a coffin Sherlock would have found respectable and not impossible to sleep forever in.
There has been a sour taste in his mouth since he came home, and no matter how often he cleans his teeth, and no matter how much tea he drinks or toast he eats (because he can stomach little else, right now), he can’t erase it. He’s angry at Sherlock, and he feels it’s completely justified.
On some level, both of them knew they weren’t going to grow old together. They knew that one day, it was going to come to this. One of them, or both of them, was going to die like this. They were too lucky too often to expect that they could get through every encounter and every murderer and always come out unscathed.
John always thought he would be the one to succumb. He always thought that was the fair thing to have happen. The world is not going to miss an invalided army doctor who chased a madman around the city for no reason other than that it made his blood pump in his ears and who sometimes wrote the stories of his mad detective in a blog.
He is not the great man that Sherlock Holmes was. He does not deserve the sacrifice that Sherlock made on his behalf. He is angrier at his detective than he ever has been, because this was one decision he should not have been allowed to make without him. He could have done it. He could have chased Moriarty to the Falls. He could have tackled him off the cliff and into the water. He could have faced his death like that; he’s done it before.
Sherlock would have moved on. Perhaps he would have mourned. Perhaps he would have kept his skull on the mantel to talk to from time to time. But eventually, Sherlock would have understood that when a person dies, they go nowhere. They exist no longer. He would not have dwelled on it when there was work to be done.
John could gladly have died if it meant Sherlock could continue to do his work.
Part V.