Dawning
Summary: In front of the altar stood two white coffins, both covered with sprays of pink roses. From where he sat they looked identical, but Sherlock knew that the left one held John and the right one Mary.
Notes: This is inspired by shootbadcabbies' amazing art, and is supposed to be a prologue to something longer, but I don't really know what yet.
-x-
The church bench was hard and uncomfortable. Sherlock didn’t pay any attention to it though, because in front of the altar stood two white coffins, both covered with sprays of pink roses. From where he sat they looked identical, but Sherlock knew that the left one held John and the right one Mary. If he’d somehow forget, there were small plaques at the head side of each lid with their names. It wasn’t standard, but Sherlock had thought it best since the coffins otherwise looked the same. They were going into the same grave, under the same stone, but the thought of not knowing who was in which coffin had made him very uncomfortable for some reason.
Hence, the plaques.
Other than the names, the coffins were standard selection. Nothing about a funeral was cheap, Sherlock had learned, but he saw no rational reason to pay many hundreds of extra pounds for softer paddings or more expensive wood when all would be cremated in a few hours. The finality of that made it hard to breathe, but it had actually been the easiest of all the choices Sherlock had been forced to make these last couple of days. John had mentioned it once - an offhand comment when they had been in the morgue - that he’d prefer to be cremated rather than buried. Even without that comment, Sherlock would have gone with cremation, because the thought of John and Mary slowly decomposing made his stomach turn. So, standard coffins.
Sherlock had stripped away as much as he possibly could from the funeral service as well. Only one hymn (Mrs Hudson had insisted on I am waiting for the dawning), there were no readings of scripture, no prayers, and no creed. The priest had promise to keep the mentions of God to a minimum, but Sherlock had approved all talk of eternal life - it was stupid, and he didn’t find comfort in stupidity, but right now he wished he would.
He really, really wished he would.
It had surprised him that his first thought had been to have a funeral in a church. He’d never had any religious faith, his family had never been churchgoers, and he found the whole concept of institutionalised spiritualism of any kind ridiculous. Still, his first thought had been of a church. Deeply rooted social traditions, probably, and he had fought against it for three days before giving up. When it came down to it, the place was unimportant, and churches were convenient. He’d taken out John’s old ID tags to see what denomination he’d pretended to be part of and set things up accordingly. After all, John and Mary had both tried very hard to stay inside the social traditions (even if they’d failed daily), so perhaps it wasn’t more than right to do this in a church.
The hardest decision had been the flowers, because at that point Sherlock hadn’t been able to muster up the energy to care anymore. It was flowers, what did it matter? They - like John, Mary and the coffins with the small plaques - would be turned into to ashes. Red roses? Yellow roses? White lilies? They would end up as grey sot and ashes no matter what. They were pretty to look at, they smelled all right, and they were supposed to be there, but Sherlock didn’t care. It didn’t make it better. Nothing made it better. He had looked at brochures of sprays, reading about randomly appointed symbolism, and wondered if anyone really thought it made a difference, that it would hurt less if the flowers were just pretty enough. Sitting on the hard bench, he knew it didn’t hurt less, but he also knew he had picked the pink roses because in one of the brochures it had said that it symbolised gratefulness and thankfulness. He would have hated himself for falling for that kind of marketing if he’d had the energy to do so.
He had no energy left for anything when it came to it. He had even asked Bill Murray to hold the eulogy, because he’d known he wouldn’t been able to do it himself. He didn’t even manage to concentrate enough to listen. Sherlock didn’t really like Bill, but John had enjoyed his company a lot. Not to mention that if it hadn’t been for Bill, then John probably would have seen the inside of a coffin long before he met Sherlock. Bill Murray had kept John out of a coffin, Sherlock had put him in one; it was only fitting that it was Bill who held the eulogy.
Sherlock had put John in this coffin. Not literary. He hadn’t actually seen the bodies after he’d made the official identifications, but it was his fault. He had told them to meet him in Richmond Park; they had been at home, he had been working late at Barts. He’d heard the guns firing half-way through the park. Two of them. Running towards a gunfight was idiotic, but there had been no other choice, and when he got there, there were three bodies on the ground.
John, Mary and the forger Sherlock had been after.
The average time for an ambulance in London was eight minutes. They’d been in the middle of a park; it had taken twenty-two minutes for the ambulance to get there after Sherlock had found himself enough to make the damn call. John had bled out before then, right there in the grass. A bullet had ripped through his femoral artery and Sherlock hadn’t been able to stop the bleeding. With his last breath, John had told Sherlock to stop trying and to help Mary instead. Mary had died on the operating table. Sherlock didn’t know what her last words were. She had never regained consciousness.
Sherlock still couldn’t wrap his head around how he was alive, and they weren’t. He didn’t understand how it was possible for him to wake up every day in a world without them. Quite frankly, he didn’t understand how he ever managed to fall asleep at all anymore. During paranoid episodes he wondered if someone drugged him, because how could he ever sleep when he knew how it felt to have John’s blood pulsating out over his hands?
Every day he scrubbed his hands raw, and yet he still saw blood stuck at his cuticles, under his nails, he saw it run down his wrists, his arms… Mrs Hudson had sent his coat to the dry cleaner, so at least there were no bloodstains left on it. It was clean, but his hands weren’t. Their blood on his hands - a terrible metaphor he couldn’t shake. He scrubbed his hands until they bled, until his own blood mixed with the blood he knew wasn’t there.
And he kept waking up morning.
Without them.
It wasn’t fair.
To anyone.
Sherlock didn’t hear the service anymore. Nor that he ever really had or that it mattered; all that was left now was empty words, empty religious platitudes about eternal life that didn’t comfort him. And then it would be over. All of it. The funeral. John and Mary. Their life. Their life together. Planning the funeral had been the one thing that had held him together for the last five days, the one thing he’d had to do, and now it was almost done. And he was breaking. He was falling apart.
Someone grabbed his sleeve, making him flinch and turn around. A blond, three year old girl reached for him, and mechanically Sherlock took her from Mrs Hudson’s lap to his own. The girl moved around for a while before settling, leaning back against his chest. Sherlock looked at her, one arm firmly around her to make sure she wouldn’t slid down on the floor, and then he looked back up at the coffins. It struck him yet again how truly unfair this was.
When it was all done, Sherlock didn’t carry John and Mary’s coffins out of the church, but he did carry their daughter. Because maybe there was still something left for him to do, after all.
Notes: This is inspired by shootbadcabbies' amazing art, and is supposed to be a prologue to something longer, but I don't really know what yet.
-x-
The church bench was hard and uncomfortable. Sherlock didn’t pay any attention to it though, because in front of the altar stood two white coffins, both covered with sprays of pink roses. From where he sat they looked identical, but Sherlock knew that the left one held John and the right one Mary. If he’d somehow forget, there were small plaques at the head side of each lid with their names. It wasn’t standard, but Sherlock had thought it best since the coffins otherwise looked the same. They were going into the same grave, under the same stone, but the thought of not knowing who was in which coffin had made him very uncomfortable for some reason.
Hence, the plaques.
Other than the names, the coffins were standard selection. Nothing about a funeral was cheap, Sherlock had learned, but he saw no rational reason to pay many hundreds of extra pounds for softer paddings or more expensive wood when all would be cremated in a few hours. The finality of that made it hard to breathe, but it had actually been the easiest of all the choices Sherlock had been forced to make these last couple of days. John had mentioned it once - an offhand comment when they had been in the morgue - that he’d prefer to be cremated rather than buried. Even without that comment, Sherlock would have gone with cremation, because the thought of John and Mary slowly decomposing made his stomach turn. So, standard coffins.
Sherlock had stripped away as much as he possibly could from the funeral service as well. Only one hymn (Mrs Hudson had insisted on I am waiting for the dawning), there were no readings of scripture, no prayers, and no creed. The priest had promise to keep the mentions of God to a minimum, but Sherlock had approved all talk of eternal life - it was stupid, and he didn’t find comfort in stupidity, but right now he wished he would.
He really, really wished he would.
It had surprised him that his first thought had been to have a funeral in a church. He’d never had any religious faith, his family had never been churchgoers, and he found the whole concept of institutionalised spiritualism of any kind ridiculous. Still, his first thought had been of a church. Deeply rooted social traditions, probably, and he had fought against it for three days before giving up. When it came down to it, the place was unimportant, and churches were convenient. He’d taken out John’s old ID tags to see what denomination he’d pretended to be part of and set things up accordingly. After all, John and Mary had both tried very hard to stay inside the social traditions (even if they’d failed daily), so perhaps it wasn’t more than right to do this in a church.
The hardest decision had been the flowers, because at that point Sherlock hadn’t been able to muster up the energy to care anymore. It was flowers, what did it matter? They - like John, Mary and the coffins with the small plaques - would be turned into to ashes. Red roses? Yellow roses? White lilies? They would end up as grey sot and ashes no matter what. They were pretty to look at, they smelled all right, and they were supposed to be there, but Sherlock didn’t care. It didn’t make it better. Nothing made it better. He had looked at brochures of sprays, reading about randomly appointed symbolism, and wondered if anyone really thought it made a difference, that it would hurt less if the flowers were just pretty enough. Sitting on the hard bench, he knew it didn’t hurt less, but he also knew he had picked the pink roses because in one of the brochures it had said that it symbolised gratefulness and thankfulness. He would have hated himself for falling for that kind of marketing if he’d had the energy to do so.
He had no energy left for anything when it came to it. He had even asked Bill Murray to hold the eulogy, because he’d known he wouldn’t been able to do it himself. He didn’t even manage to concentrate enough to listen. Sherlock didn’t really like Bill, but John had enjoyed his company a lot. Not to mention that if it hadn’t been for Bill, then John probably would have seen the inside of a coffin long before he met Sherlock. Bill Murray had kept John out of a coffin, Sherlock had put him in one; it was only fitting that it was Bill who held the eulogy.
Sherlock had put John in this coffin. Not literary. He hadn’t actually seen the bodies after he’d made the official identifications, but it was his fault. He had told them to meet him in Richmond Park; they had been at home, he had been working late at Barts. He’d heard the guns firing half-way through the park. Two of them. Running towards a gunfight was idiotic, but there had been no other choice, and when he got there, there were three bodies on the ground.
John, Mary and the forger Sherlock had been after.
The average time for an ambulance in London was eight minutes. They’d been in the middle of a park; it had taken twenty-two minutes for the ambulance to get there after Sherlock had found himself enough to make the damn call. John had bled out before then, right there in the grass. A bullet had ripped through his femoral artery and Sherlock hadn’t been able to stop the bleeding. With his last breath, John had told Sherlock to stop trying and to help Mary instead. Mary had died on the operating table. Sherlock didn’t know what her last words were. She had never regained consciousness.
Sherlock still couldn’t wrap his head around how he was alive, and they weren’t. He didn’t understand how it was possible for him to wake up every day in a world without them. Quite frankly, he didn’t understand how he ever managed to fall asleep at all anymore. During paranoid episodes he wondered if someone drugged him, because how could he ever sleep when he knew how it felt to have John’s blood pulsating out over his hands?
Every day he scrubbed his hands raw, and yet he still saw blood stuck at his cuticles, under his nails, he saw it run down his wrists, his arms… Mrs Hudson had sent his coat to the dry cleaner, so at least there were no bloodstains left on it. It was clean, but his hands weren’t. Their blood on his hands - a terrible metaphor he couldn’t shake. He scrubbed his hands until they bled, until his own blood mixed with the blood he knew wasn’t there.
And he kept waking up morning.
Without them.
It wasn’t fair.
To anyone.
Sherlock didn’t hear the service anymore. Nor that he ever really had or that it mattered; all that was left now was empty words, empty religious platitudes about eternal life that didn’t comfort him. And then it would be over. All of it. The funeral. John and Mary. Their life. Their life together. Planning the funeral had been the one thing that had held him together for the last five days, the one thing he’d had to do, and now it was almost done. And he was breaking. He was falling apart.
Someone grabbed his sleeve, making him flinch and turn around. A blond, three year old girl reached for him, and mechanically Sherlock took her from Mrs Hudson’s lap to his own. The girl moved around for a while before settling, leaning back against his chest. Sherlock looked at her, one arm firmly around her to make sure she wouldn’t slid down on the floor, and then he looked back up at the coffins. It struck him yet again how truly unfair this was.
When it was all done, Sherlock didn’t carry John and Mary’s coffins out of the church, but he did carry their daughter. Because maybe there was still something left for him to do, after all.