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Friday 10 August  21:00

He was in the Yard when his mobile rang. Greg was just about to leave - he already had his coat in one hand and case in the other. Greg sighed, knowing that the end of his day was too good to be true. It was probably going to be another case handed to him, off-the-clock be damned. "Hello?"

To Greg’s surprise, the voice on the other end was John Watson, and he sounded a bit anxious.
"Greg, hi. I was wondering if you'd want to join me for a pint tonight?"

He glanced at the clock. His wife was probably waiting for him to come home, but Greg wasn't really up for her nagging. He smiled to himself. "Sure, where do I meet you?"

"I was thinking The Black Lion, off of High Street. Do you know it?"

"I can find it easily enough.” He peered at the clock again. High Street was a good distance away, but Greg didn’t mind. He had time to kill. “See you in 30?"

"Yeah, sounds good. See you then." Greg slipped the mobile back into his pocket, and headed out the door. He turned off the lights.

As usual, he was the last one for his shift left in the station.

As he had been the past couple of weeks. There were cases he needed to look into and solve, and cases that he’d solved that he had to look back into. And it was all because of Sherlock Holmes.

It was always Sherlock’s fault when Greg had to stay in after cases. It was either Sherlock had tampered or touched evidence that he shouldn’t and Greg had to magic it away, or he needed to magic his report that would show Greg himself making the deductions and the decisions.

Greg had seriously given thought to being a fictional writer, since he looked like he was doing a bloody good job of it.

But then Sherlock had to be found out, and Sherlock had to die. He threw a curse down Moriarty’s path, and another down the chief’s path. And maybe two in Sally and Anderson’s general directions.

Sherlock had to die, and pretend to be fake (because he can’t have been a fake- too much of an arrogant prat to be fake), now Greg had to work more hours each day and look at and assess all his former cases that may or may not have been touched by Sherlock and...

Greg sighed. This was all very... what was that word Sherlock used... tedious.

The cab dropped him off in front of the pub. He walked inside and looked around, hoping to find John. He saw John in a corner booth, already nursing a pint.

When the other man saw Greg, he waved him over. "John." Greg said with a tired smile, taking a seat in the booth. He dropped his things on his seat, and leaned back lazily.

The two men had been meeting every few days for a pint and to talk. Greg knew John could use the distraction, and hell, Greg needed it too. Especially now, since the Yard was convinced that he had to prove his abilities by overworking his arse, not to mention looking into all his case files to see if he should keep his job. After what had happened with Sherlock, the Yard had been keeping him under strict observation.

Greg looked like he'd been through hell. His wife always pointed out the additional wrinkles that gathered around his eyes, and that his hair seemed whiter.

John looked like he’d been through hell, too. Deep blue eyes, normally clear and alert, were piercing him with the misery of a man who had lost so much. His normally resolute shoulders were slumped, even if his natural military air was still present.  

Greg supposed that seeing your best friend jump off a building would do that. "Greg, thanks for coming on short notice. How's the Yard?"

"It's been hell. They’ve been looking into my records, lately." Greg said, choosing his words carefully. "They sent me some reports on cases they think I could have managed without Sherlock's help." Greg grimaced. "I needed this drink - your timing is excellent."

John gave a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry to hear that. Sher-" The man's voice gave slightly, and Greg tried not to wince -  "Sherlock would probably disagree with their assessment."

" I disagree with their assessment." Greg wasn’t ashamed to admit that. It was the whole reason he’d gone to the consulting detective. He went to the bar to grab a pint, taking a large mouthful of the frothy drink when he returned. Honestly, Greg was concerned with how the doctor was coping. Hopefully he’d be able to pull it together with time.

 "How have you been holding up?"

John took another drink from his mug and swiped across his mouth before leaning heavily on his elbow. "It's been...it's been bad Greg. I turn to ask if he wants tea and...I remember he's not there." John appeared to sink into his chair, and his shoulders slumped further.

Greg shut his eyes, and sighed. He massaged the bridge of his nose. "I'm... sorry, John." He offered lamely. "We've been having some hard cases he would have enjoyed." He laughed bitterly. "Anderson's about to pull his hair out because of it. He almost admitted that he wanted Sherlock around." He frowned at John, at a loss on how to help him.

John gave a small chuckle. "Anderson? Miss Sherlock? I think it's the end-times Greg." They sat in silence, neither sure what to say. John opened his mouth a couple times, before closing it again. Greg watched John curiously, trying to decipher what the man had on his mind.

John's voice was quieter when he asked the question he'd been clearly mulling over. "Where...do you think we go when we die?"

Greg knotted his forehead in confusion. "I... why are you asking me this, John?"

John's gaze was fixed on the pint in front of him as he spoke. "I was just wondering where he's at now. I don't know what to believe. Heaven, Hell, Reincarnation...nothingness. Surely he can't just be...gone."

Greg had a sinking feeling that he knew what John was talking about, planning on doing, but he refused to acknowledge it. "I wouldn't know." He finally said, and took a long drink. "Some bloke in the Yard got shot once, and woke up proclaiming he saw heaven. Another insisted he floated above his body for a minute." He looked away.

There was silence between them. Greg exhaled audibly. "John, please don't do anything stupid."

John smiled at Greg bitterly. "Floating? That's interesting. Maybe he's a ghost now then, haunting his grave." John finished his drink and stood up. "I think I'm going to walk to clear my head. Don't worry, I won't do anything rash tonight. Bye, Greg."

"John, wait - " Greg stood up, his hand comically stretched out towards John, but the man was already too far for him to reach. He simply shook his head, before deciding to get another pint. Hopefully that would get rid of the knots in his stomach.

Chapter Text

Sunday 12 August 16:20

John was sitting on the sofa thinking, when Mrs Hudson knocked and stepped into the flat with her tea tray.

"John dearie! Are you in? I brought you some tea." she said warmly.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson. Just the woman I wanted to see. Tea's lovely, thank you." John gestured to the sofa. "Would you stay, please? I need to talk with you."

Mrs Hudson started in surprise, but then nodded. "Of course, dear. What is it?" She asked, obviously avoiding the elephant in the room.

"I'm planning to do something in a few days and I don't want you to worry." John said, looking at Mrs Hudson solemnly.

A look of confusion stole across her face. "What do you mean, John dear? I already know you're moving. It would be sad to see you go, but I understand completely."

"I'm afraid this is a bit more than me moving out." John breathed deeply, and decided to cut to the chase instead of leading slowly to it. "I'm going to fake my death, and I couldn't just go ahead without letting you know." He stared at Mrs Hudson for a moment, who looked more confused than ever. "Besides, you're a wonderful actress."

"What are you talking about, John?"

"I can't...be John Watson anymore. People who knew about Sherlock and me, they just stare at me like I'm some lost little puppy." John sighed. He hated feeling helpless.

That was what Sherlock made him feel. Helpless. When John watched him jump and there was nothing he could do... John shook his head. He knew he was far from helpless. Only Sherlock, really. Only Sherlock.

John looked into Mrs Hudson's eyes. "I need a fresh start and the only way I know how to get that is to fake my death."

His landlady seemed to be thinking over his plan, obviously concerned for his safety. "Will I see you again, John?"

"Oh, I expect so. You're my favourite landlady. I'll check in when I can." John smiled in reassurance.

"Glad to hear that." Without missing a beat, Mrs Hudson smiled, and patted John's knee. "Be careful then, dear."

John smiled. He felt like Mrs Hudson was taking the news rather well, like John was just going to take a walk to the park or to the nearest pub. "I want to warn you though, about the mess I'll be making up here. I'm going to have to shoot a corpse in the head and splatter my blood on the wall. I'm sorry about that in advance."

Mrs Hudson frowned and tutted softly. "Well dear, I hope you do intend to still pay your last month of the rent, then. New wallpaper and furniture cleaners aren't cheap, you know." She smiled, and gave John a motherly hug. "I will miss you, John dear."

John grinned, and wrapped his arms around the woman. "Thank you for everything. Mrs H. I'll leave the rent for you before I go."

"Now you take care of yourself. When will you do it?"

"In three days, probably afternoon." John paused, and look at Mrs. Hudson. "Would you be able to be downstairs while I...you know?"

"I will gladly stay away from your nasty business. You know how I am about blood." Mrs Hudson said.

"Right, okay. Thanks for the tea Mrs H." Mrs Hudson was going to do just fine without him around to take up her flat.

John smiled to himself. He wasn't worried about her at all.

Chapter Text

John knocked on the door of 221A, rent money tucked into an envelope with a nice and succinct thank you note for Mrs Hudson (he promptly ran out of words to say after ‘thank you for everything’, and had to push through to end with ‘take care’ after a couple more lines). He’d dropped the bin bag in front of the door to the street so he wouldn’t be holding rubbish when he said goodbye to his landlady.  Mrs Hudson was already speaking as she opened the door.


“John dear, what are you doing? The neighbors will have heard that racket.” She tutted softly, concern written all over her face at it wrinkled around the edges. John knew that she knows what would happen, and he could read the worry in her eyes.

That was almost enough to make him reconsider , but no, no, too far to back out now.

“It’s showtime, Mrs Hudson.” He said instead, handing her the envelope. “Here’s the rent, as promised. Do me a favour and call Greg Lestrade after you call about the body? Number’s in the envelope if you need it.”

“Of course, John. Now, you get away from here before someone sees you and the mess you made in my flat is for nothing.” Mrs Hudson chided gently, giving John a kiss on the forehead before sending him away. “Take care of yourself.”

John nodded and left, grabbing the bag on his way out. He walked to Laurie’s ‘94 Accord and tossed the bin bag into the boot before getting in and starting the engine. He’d gotten a block away when he pulled over. He couldn’t resist the urge to stay and watch. To make sure everything had gone smoothly, he told himself unconvincingly. It was because he wanted to see if everything would go according to plan, he insisted, not because he was having a hard time letting go of the life that he had.

John walked down the alley that would allow him to see 221 without being spotted. He watches as Mrs Hudson step outside, crying rather believably. She probably would have made a great actress on West End. Not even a minute later, Lestrade’s car screeched to a halt, the man virtually jumping from the driver’s seat.

John watched with apprehension as his friend ran into the flat, waited as the sirens grew louder and louder before the emergency vehicles crowded the space in front of the flat. Barriers were erected, keeping back the small crowd of people who’d been on the street.

He exhaled a breath that he was holding as he watched Anderson step into the flat, knowing that the man would take care of most of the details. Everything was going according to plan, and as pleased as he was by this, he felt a lot more sorry for the others he was leaving behind.

John was startled from his passive watch when a tall man with curly, ginger hair stopped sprinting in front of his vantage spot of 221. The man was turned away from John, facing the flat, and to John it appeared as if the man was more apprehensive than he was. As ‘John Watson’s’ corpse was wheeled out of the house, the man fell to his knees, shaking like something devastating had just occurred. Concerned that the man was having a heart attack or something similar, he watched as the man stretched out an arm to support himself against the building wall. John reacted automatically like the doctor he was and, without even thinking, broke his cover to check on the man.

His hand touched the slumped shoulder and was about to ask if the stranger was alright when he was batted away. John shook his head, exhaling again, and backed away. He knew that he would need to fight his impulse to act like a doctor, to help people. Doctor John Watson had just died and it wouldn’t do for someone who looked like him to possess the same skill set. At least, not publicly.

John glanced up from the stranger to see a flash of silver hair exiting the building, and he turned away from the scene. He didn’t want to see the look on Greg’s face - he could imagine it very well and did not want a visual confirmation. John felt bloody awful for putting the man through this. He quickly walked back to the car, eager now to put some distance between himself and his old life.

Once back behind the wheel, John navigated back onto Marylebone Rd, heading west to Paddington Station. It only took him 12 minutes to get there with the traffic, which, thankfully, wasn’t enough for him to ruminate over what he just watched. He parked Laurie’s Accord in the car park and grabbed his things from the back seat.

He purchased his one-way ticket to Exeter St. David’s with the last of his quid. Luckily the train was departing in 10 minutes and he was quickly able to find a seat in relative privacy. He pulled out his new mobile to send a text to Doctor Laurie.

Left your car at Paddington Station. Getting rid of the things in the boot can be your apology for your car getting me pulled over. I only paid for an hour, so you better hurry.
-JW

Switching the phone off, John, no , Arthur settled in for the 2 hour trip. Taking one last look at the station, he knew the next time he came back, John Watson would be no more.

 

Chapter Text

Mycroft was in a very important meeting when the call from his surveillance team arrived. He stood and smiled diplomatically at the Ambassador. If he was annoyed, he didn't show it. "If you will excuse me, I'm afraid I need to take this call."

"This had better be important, Jasmine." His assistant had recently moved on to Disney Princess names.

She answered quickly and succinctly. "It's about John Watson. He made a visit to your brother's grave today. He was saying goodbye."

"Well that hardly seems worrying." Mycroft answered, annoyance seeping into his words a little. His brother's grave. References to the 'incident', as he and his brother termed it, were not welcome and it made him feel a little unbalanced. "He's done that twice a week the past few months. It's nothing new."

"It was how he said it, sir. I think he means to kill himself."

Mycroft sighed. If John Watson died, Sherlock would fall to pieces. How tedious. He did not want to see his brother that way. It would distract the both of them greatly. "Very well. I'll take care of it." He disconnected and sent a text to the emergency mobile his brother was keeping.

Return to Baker Street. Doctor Watson wants to die.

MH

Time to return to that meeting.

-----

When Sherlock got that text, he was an hour away from the flat. He wasn't too concerned about being recognized, but he was very anxious for another reason entirely. Surely John wouldn't – he was a soldier. He'd seen plenty of his friends die. It simply wasn't logical for him to do this. Right?

Sherlock could feel his stomach twisting anyway. He felt as if he needed to hurry. That was irrational, he thought to himself. Why would he want to hurry? Why is he anxious? John would never kill himself. It is not in his character, not in his behaviour.

Right? Right.

He ran from the tube stop anyway. He stopped when he was almost across from the flat. He could see the emergency vehicles crowded around Baker Street. Sherlock took a few shaky steps closer.

"No..."

There was a body being wheeled out of 221B.

His world began to spin.

Sherlock Holmes had killed his only friend. He collapsed to his knees, feeling ill. His chest hurt and he couldn't breathe. He steadied himself against the wall with one hand, and felt someone touch his shoulder but Sherlock waved them away.

He had never felt so human and he hated it. The first time he'd let his walls down since childhood, allowed sentiment to have some hold over him and he hurt. He hurt a lot.

His cheeks were wet. It wasn't raining.

'Friends protect people.'

Sherlock had failed.

 

Chapter Text

 

Mycroft's mobile rang.

He knew what had happened before he even heard him speak. He hoped he was wrong. He wasn't.

"M-mycroft. Mycroft." His younger brother sounded distressed. No, Mycroft corrected himself. More than distressed.

He sounded devastated. Forlorn.

He was crying.

"Sherlock, breathe." Mycroft said softly.

"Mycroft he's dead. John. I didn't make it in time. I - "

His little brother cried harder. It had been years since he heard Sherlock cry, and Mycroft's reportedly icy heart twisted at what he was hearing.

"I couldn't stop him Mycroft. He's dead. And it's all my fault."

Mycroft pressed his lips together, and shut his eyes.

When they were younger, Sherlock would come running to him when a pet died.

Sherlock would start crying over his 'bestest friend ever', cradling the poor animal in his arms. 'He's dead, Mycroft." He would sniff. "My hedgehog died. James died."

Mycroft would give him a hug. Together the brothers would put the critter in a shoebox and bury it in the backyard. Sherlock would wrap his arms around Mycroft, press his face into his older brother's stomach, and cry.

The very next day, Mycroft would bring him a new pet. A new friend to take his mind off the creature they buried in the backyard.

Sherlock would be ecstatic. He will immediately take his new friend into his room, and spend the whole day with it.

It never failed to make his younger brother happy.

Mycroft opened his eyes.

His younger brother still sobbed into the phone, but sounded like he was trying to pull himself together. It didn't do good for a Holmes to cry, after all - this was something taught to them since they first understood what the word cry even meant.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." Mycroft said. "I'm so sorry."

The phone clicked off, and Mycroft stared at it for a moment before putting it down.

Mycroft sighed. He buried his face in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." I can't help you now, brother.

I can't replace your best friend.

 

 

Chapter Text

It was too nice outside, far too nice to bury someone. Funerals were supposed to have grey skies and pour down rain that hides the tears. It had rained at both her dad’s funeral and her grandmum’s, and it had felt like the world was rightly grieving along with her family. But today, instead of rain, the sun was partly hidden behind white clouds. It wasn't too hot, nor too cold. Molly wished it was a bit more overcast, because the sunny weather made it seem like John Watson wasn't dead. The day was just too nice for such a sad event.

Molly was no stranger to death, but she’d never expected to be attending another funeral so soon. Not that Sherlock’s really counted, as he’s not dead...she only wished John had known. Molly glanced around, smiling sadly. There were a lot of people at John’s funeral, people that cared about him. It was sad that he’d felt so alone.

To be honest, she couldn’t help feeling guilty. She knew something, knew what John needed to know, but she couldn’t tell him. She could have prevented his death, Molly knew, and she could’ve done something.

Sometimes, she couldn't help cursing that promise, that horrible promise she made to one Sherlock Holmes that she could not tell anyone that he was alive. It wasn't fair to blame him, Molly thought, since she agreed after all, asking him what he needed, and besides, it wasn't as if she knew. She should have known (but, no, that wasn't right to blame herself either, was it?) what kind of repercussions this might bring on John.

Molly realised that she didn't really know John well enough, and for that she was really sorry. But still, she at least wanted to be at John's funeral, keeping watch for his not-really-dead best friend. She made a mental note to bring him vase of flowers every now and again, and make sure that the area was clean, even if others would probably do that as well. She didn't owe Sherlock or John anything,  she simply wanted to do a kind thing for another soul.

She felt a bit like an outside observer, so that's what she did. She observed.

The ceremony was small, obviously only close friends were invited, and those who cared enough came. There was still a stigma attached to John and Sherlock's names, and she thought that there would probably be more people - even a military ceremony - if there weren't all these horrible rumours surrounding Sherlock's death. And now John’s too, she supposed, especially since the man killed himself so close to his best friend's suicide. The tabloids would have some sort of horrible Romeo-Juliet story if they caught wind of John's suicide, and it only took a phone call from Sherlock to his brother to stop any news coming out about John.

She felt a bit awful that she seemed to be slinging around the words death and suicide a bit callously, even if it was only in her mind.

The casket had been carried by Greg, Mike, Anderson, and a few other people Molly didn't know. For a second, she was grateful that Sherlock was not here to see this, because Molly didn't think she could stand to see the same crushed look in Greg's eyes transfer to Sherlock’s crumbling façade whenever he thought he was alone. Sherlock still thought no one else saw, but Molly did. Molly saw how this whole situation was already taking a toll on the man, even if his eyes were half hidden by ginger curls and intense concentration.

There was a pastor who said the traditional bit of ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and uttered a small prayer for those whom John left behind. Molly didn't really have a strong belief when it comes to God and religion, but she said a small prayer for those John left behind as well, thinking especially of Sherlock, who still had a job to do.

Molly sighed, looking up at the sky, and hoped that wherever John Watson was, he could see how not alone he really was.

---

A few days ago, her brother had dropped by to say good bye, and he lied to save her pain.

Not that it helped, that bastard. Mountains, her arse, he definitely wasn't talking about heading off to the Paradise when he talked to her the last time. What he’d meant was out of London into the New Jerusalem, meet me at the Pearly Gates, and all the metaphors of heaven from church when they were children.

Harry eyed her little brother's casket. Pine stained red mahogany. It was beautiful, and it reminded Harry of their mother's coffin. During Mum's viewing, she remembered that her mother had looked so beautiful, so peaceful. All the lines of stress had faded, and she looked as beautiful as she did in the wedding pictures that hung over their mantle.

Even her dad hadn't looked like he was angry and disgusted with her, like he was when she came out to her parents. He just looked peaceful, asleep really.

Harry wasn’t able to even look at John's face because the casket was closed. When they told her how he died, she knew it wouldn’t be pretty, and to be honest she would rather imagine John as he was in her memory and in pictures. She did not want to see her baby brother look like a wax museum piece. Reconstruction would take hours, was expensive, and she honestly just wanted to get this over with.

There was no sense in prolonging the agony for everyone, especially for her.

Clara reminded her that she should speak about John. She didn’t really want to at first, but Clara, sweet Clara, had convinced her. She was the only family John had left, and she hadn’t even been good at that.
Harry really didn't know what she wanted to say, what she should say, and Clara had helped her through a night of blurred eyesight and shaky writing.

God, Harry really did still love her, and it took her brother dying to realise it. Typical John, fixing her mistakes. Even in death he just wouldn't stop taking care of her.

This was almost enough to send her giggling in sad hysterics, and she had to take a few deep breaths to stop herself. Clara squeezed her hand, and sadly glanced at the microphone in the front.

It was her turn to speak, and good lord, she really didn't want to. She stood up and went in front anyway, hand clutching a small handkerchief just in case, and started to read.

“John was my brother and...and we barely got on at the best of times,” Harry began, struggling to read the cards in her hand.  She closed her eyes, settling herself.

She didn't really need the flashback of every single fight and every single reconciliation they'd had.

"But I love him so much."

She swallowed. Just go through with it, finish the damn cards, as fast as you can, so you can sit back down.

"I'll never forget how he stood by me when I came out to our parents."

She told him first, really, before she told her parents, and his response was to buy her ice cream and bicker about whether they were taking the Tube or a cab home. It was reassuring to her, to know that nothing would change between them.

When she blurted it out to her parents, her father had been so angry and so disgusted, and before her mum could step in, she'd already yelled back. Her dad raised his hand to hit her -

And John stopped him. He was only fourteen, though with considerable strength in his own right, and John shook as he pulled their father's hand back with a quiet "No, please Dad, that's still Harry."

It made Harry see her insufferable little brother in a new light.

She exhaled slowly to get herself back under control, tightly squeezing the handkerchief in her hand. "He was the sort of bloke that everyone just likes instantly - nobody really knew what it was about him, but he got on with everyone he met, which was a bit funny, really, because he was the kid who came home with multiple bruises every month from fights - though nowhere near the face, the lucky git. And it wasn't that he was fighting for himself - it was because he was defending some poor sod from a bully."

Harry was rambling now, and she knew she was, but she didn't care. This was what speeches were good for, rambling, especially about her brother, her lovable brother. It helped, somehow, to talk about him in any way.

It felt like she was preserving his memory, somehow, by doing this.

"I remember the only time he came home with a black eye - he'd been careful until then. It was the only time Dad actually asked him about his bruises, because that one was just horrible. One of his mates was some boffin named Edwin, I think, who was far too smart, and you know how horrible it was to not be an idiot in school especially if you weren’t part of any athletic teams. Despite being a popular bloke on the rugby team, John befriended Edwin. Didn't really do any for Edwin's status, but John always fought for him whenever someone called him a loser, a creep, or a freak. Until one day, some blighter decided to give Edwin a beating, and John was there to see it. You can just imagine what happened. Oh don't worry, John beat the other kid's face in."

This elicited a bit of laughter from the others, and Harry brightened a little. She was the one who broke up that fight, she remembered, by hollering for one of the teachers. John had actually almost punched the other kid's face in and had reduced him to a crying mess, and all he got was a blackened eye for his troubles.

"Johnny really cared about people, wanted to help them, " she continued, eyes bright. Tears were starting to threaten the edges of her vision again. She just... She'd never see him again, see John all beat up, in bandages  and looking like some unsung hero from a pub brawl. "It was why he joined the RAMF in the first place, and why he became a doctor."

How John decided to become a doctor had been part of the worst day of Harry's life, until now. It was how their mum died, with the idiots claiming to be doctors completely missing the signs of the stroke. They thought her chest pain was a heart attack, but by the time they’d figured it out, it was too late. John swore that he’d be better than all of them.

John reacted to what had happened with his stubborn strength and determination. Harry simply started getting pissed more often.

She was actually pissed the day he told her he was enlisting. When she asked if he wanted to leave her, he’d said no, and Harry knew he was lying. She could see it in his eyes that he wanted to leave, desperately. It wasn’t his responsibility to take care of his poor sister who couldn’t cope with losing her mum, but she knew he’d have stayed if she asked.

She’d let him go.

Harry closed her eyes, and gripped the microphone tighter, afraid that she might let go. Her voice broke a little. "It was easy to forget that he was actually my younger brother. He- he tried to take care of me and I admired and resented him for it. I remember the phone calls and the occasional visits to check if I was sober - it was like I had a probation officer." She smiled sadly at the memory, and out of habit, pulled out the phone from her coat pocket. "God, I promised him I'd phone him today." She shuddered involuntarily, and stared down at the mobile in her hand.

She expected John's name to flash on her phone. Any minute now. Any minute.

She turned around, her vision focusing in on the coffin. Funny, she thought she was done remembering stories about the things. They had been stuck at the funeral home as kids, bored to death. Harry and John had wandered to where the caskets were on display, and though it gave Harry the chills, John had run ahead and hidden in one of them, waiting for the right time to slowly push it open and groan like a zombie.

Harry almost hit him over the head with a nearby urn.

"John, just… please - " She breathed, walking to the casket. Harry ran a hand on the rails, expecting the lid to fly open any minute now, and John laughing, like when they were kids - "John please, Johnny, stop playing around! GET OUT OF THIS CASKET NOW YOU GIT! THIS ISN'T FUNNY ANYMORE!"

Someone was screaming. Why were they screaming? Too loud. Someone just died, they really should be quiet, she was mourning, just mourning her baby brother. Arms wrapped around her shoulders, and Harry vaguely registered that Clara was guiding her away under a tree, far from the others.

"Please, John I'll stop drinking, I'll do anything, just... I'll stop. I promise...just please… please don't - "

She broke into sobs, holding on to Clara, sobbing openly.

Harry just lost one of the few people she knew who cared, who loved her, and it just… hurt.

-----

Greg tried not to stare as John's sister was escorted away. This wasn't easy for any of them, especially him, and he couldn’t even fathom how it felt for her. He stood and picked up the microphone. "I…." he started, staring at the piece of paper in his hand. Greg rubbed the bridge of his nose, and looked up at the crowd, slightly crumpling the speech he made. "John Watson, is a man who....” He paused to centre his emotions. He didn't want to just start crying in front of all these people. He worked with a fair few of them.

It was just too soon, much too soon. He just buried - god, he just buried Sherlock a month ago.

He breathed slowly, inhaling through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. He'd slipped in at the last minute to sit in the back. It was a small affair, only friends and family - rather like this one, to be honest, and that actually made this harder than it should be.

Everyone from Sherlock's funeral was here, except Mycroft Holmes. Even the stoic soldier who had stood to one side, quiet and strong, staring out into the distance like he was somewhere else altogether was present, in a manner.

It was that stoic soldier that he was burying today. His façade finally cracked, and Greg was just sorry he couldn't mend the pieces. He felt… good god, Greg had never felt so guilty in his life. It felt like he'd killed two people, even if everyone told him it wasn't his fault. He still felt like he'd failed them. Both of them. He should never have let John walk out of that pub a week ago.

"He is - was, was a good friend of mine." Was. Past tense. How final.

He exhaled again. He didn't know how to continue anymore. The memory of John's body on the sofa was so vivid, and every time he closed his eyes, he could still see it. Could hear the words of John's note repeat in his head.

I feel so alone. I quit.

Bury me next to him.

At least they were able to honour John's last request. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock's headstone glinting in the bright sun.

"If you'd told me the short, jumper clad man who came limping after Sherlock to that serial suicide scene would have become one of the strongest people I've ever met and one of my best mates, I'd have thought you were a complete nutter,” he said. “That was the thing about John.  People underestimate him.” Greg winced, realising he’d slipped into present tense.

“He looked harmless enough, like he was something you'd want to protect. But he didn’t need protection. John was one of my best and strongest mates and - and -" And maybe I overestimated him. I still can't believe he did this.

“And I’m going to miss our pub nights, especially when it’s his turn to buy the next round.” He grinned absently at the memory. Actually, John had insisted when he learned of the long-standing tradition of Greg’s team that the last one to join them buys the next round of drinks, despite the fact that he hadn’t found a new job yet, was living on his meager army pension, and that there were almost more than ten people to buy drinks for. He never backed down from that, even if it became more and more frequent because of... well, usually it was because of Sherlock, but John never minded. He paid for every pint with a huge grin, and though for the most part he would remain and talk merely to Greg and not much of the others, the team liked John around anyway.

Greg breathed, and continued. It was easier to recount the memories, like they were someone else's. Easier than feeling the loss of his friend and the fact that he should have known and done something about it. “I don’t know if you have ever seen John handle a gun, and even if I would never admit to seeing him use one, I would never go against him in a stand-off. He never flinches, despite being scared out of his wits, and I can see what made him a good army doctor. He’s one of the few men whom I would trust to watch my back.” That night was still sharp in his mind as well as some of his nightmares, and Greg didn’t want to encounter a huge black dog at night ever again (made it harder to go to his in-laws, especially with that black english mastiff that his father-in-law had - hell, when that thing bounded up to him when they arrived around midnight he almost shot it....) And he wasn’t an idiot - Greg knew it was John who shot that cabbie, and that was a frighteningly good shot largely because it came from the other building. That one bullet had started an extraordinary friendship, and Greg went on to describe it as best he can. A huge part of his friend’s life had been solving cases with Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had a relationship that was hard to describe. It was hard to talk about one without mentioning the other. They’d become a unit in his mind. Greg could see the way John was amazed and enamoured with Sherlock Holmes, though John wasn’t one to let that keep him from saying no to the impossible man. It wasn’t just John though. Sherlock had also relied on John, in a way Greg didn’t think he’d ever relied on anyone. They were colleagues and flat mates, but above all that, they were best friends, close as brothers. In the end, John had made Sherlock a good man. Sherlock had made John a great one.

“And he is one of the best men I’ve ever known.”

---

After the casket was lowered, the flowers thrown in, and the grieving group moved away, a man remained and detached himself from the group. With one last glance towards the headstones, he stood under a nearby tree, and pulled out a disposable mobile.

“Affirmative, sir. John Watson is definitely dead, and continued monitoring would not be necessary.”