POV: Watson
"John?"
"Yes?"
"It's time."
Groaning, I take a deep breath and step into the light of the church. It's the moment I've been dreading, Mary's funeral.
_____________________________________________
Three Weeks Ago:
"Please Sherlock, can't we wait?" I pleaded to the detective frowning at me
"No John, it's been almost two months. You need to get out there and face Mary's death." He said firmly.
Cringing slightly at the mention of death, I tightened my firsts, feeling a flip in my stomach. Feeling the emotions rolling in me again, I swallowed the lump in my throat and turned away.
"Fine."
He turned me around to face him, and his eyes softened slightly at my obvious pain.
"I'm sorry, but we have to do this eventually. The funeral, and..." Sherlock trailed off, his eyes piercing into mine.
My breath caught slightly in my throat, when I noticed again how extraordinary his eyes were. They were three different colors, yet the gold, green and blue blends in perfect harmony.
I found myself yet once again entranced by him. Noticing a sudden heat creep up my neck, I realized I was staring at him. Shaking the strange thoughts away, I looked away embarrassedly.
"John? Are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, just... I'm just worried." I muttered.
"All right." Pausing to study me once again, "we can start the search for a place to hole the ceremony tomorrow. Judging by the average time it takes to plan a funeral, we'll probably be able to schedule one in seven months, but I know a service that owes me a favor so we can get one planned in a month or so."
Biting my lip, I looked away again. Four weeks... That's not a lot of time for me to be ready. I'm not prepared to face the harsh reality of this all, and Baker Street for me has done such a good job of concealing everything. I could still pretend that Mary was still out there somewhere, and I was just on a visit to my best friend's.
Letting out a shaky breath, I nodded in agreement.
_________________________________________
Present:
The sympathetic looks from everyone in the church are the first thing I see when I step into the room. It is almost funny in a dark, twisted ironic way. These faces are of the same ones that came to my wedding, only a year ago. A year ago, before everything changed. Before Mary's secret, before Sherlock's crime, and before Moriarty's return.
Clearing my throat, I open up the eulogy that I wrote last week. Looking up again, I see the encouraging look from Sherlock, and it gives me enough strength to temporarily forget my own sorrows; and to focus on this speech.
"Ladies and gentleman," I start, catching the attention of the small crowd. "Thank you for being here today." Pausing, I prepare myself to not break down during the speech. "We're all here to remember Mary Morstan, but what is there to remember? There aren't many things that are worth remembering. Remembering that her favorite thing to do was to play the piano doesn't do anything. The only thing that truly matters is that I will remember the print that she's left on my life, the print that I will carry for the rest of my days."
"I only spent two short years with her, but those two years changed my life in ways you cannot understand. There used to be only one person that was important to me, and when that person left me, I stopped knowing who I am. I didn't break down, I was still John Watson, I was still a doctor coming from Afghanistan. Yet, there was a part of me that died when he did." I don't bother to conceal that I am talking about Sherlock; everyone already knew.
"For a year, I walked around empty. I walked with no purpose, except to work and then go home. There no longer was any excitement in my life. Mary Morstan managed to fill that hole up the second I met her. She made me love her with all my heart. I will never forget that she fixed me, and that she made me better. Mary had her secrets, and she may not have always told the truth, but I know that she was a good woman who tried her best to love all of those around her. Mary has saved my life in so many ways, and I've never thanked her enough for that." With that, I finish her eulogy.
I manage to keep the tears inside during the entire speech, but before leaving the platform, I scan the room to find Sherlock, and I see that he's trying not to cry. The entire church is crying, but it shocks me that it affected Sherlock that greatly. I know that Sherlock had loved Mary, but I didn't think it stretched this far. The sight of him like this tugs at my heart, and I run off the platform before I have a chance to break down in front of everyone.
___________________________________________
When we get back to Baker Street, we had steadied ourselves. Sherlock, pretending as if the scene at the church didn't happen, went on with work as usual. But, the memory of his face, so open and vulnerable, stayed in my mind.
An hour later, he's still sitting on the sofa looking through cases that Lestrade gave him. I can't stand the guilt that has been eating away at me, so I break the silence.
"Sherlock?" I ask tentatively.
"Mmm?"
"At the funeral..." I trail off, unsure of what to say next.
"Yes? What about it?" He questions, glancing up at me momentarily before going back to the files.
"Well... You were crying."
He freezes for a moment, before relaxing and going back to the files.
"Yes. It was a moving speech. Everyone thought so."
"I know, but... you know,"
"I know what?"
I feel like growling at him, this man has to be difficult in every way. He is not making this easy.
"I just meant," sighing at his obliviousness. "Are you okay Sherlock?"
He stops reading the files and looks at me with surprise in his eyes. Staring at me for a while, pondering his answer. I swear, if he is going to say he is fine, I will go over there and personally tear his files apart. I know that he is not fine, I have never seen him cry before and he cried today.
Sherlock finally responds dejectedly with a sigh, "No, not really."
I walk over to his chair, feeling even more guilty by his answer.
"Please tell me what's wrong, and I'll help you." I ask the detective.
He doesn't respond, so I continue. "I know you loved Mary too, so please let me help you." I stop talking when I notice Sherlock shaking his head.
"No, it's not Mary."
"Then what is it?" I ask.
Sherlock doesn't answer again, and I was about to walk away and give up, when he finally answers, stunning me.
"It's you, John."
Unable to respond in astonishment and confusion. What does he mean by me?
My confusion shines through my features, and he explains after a few seconds of silence.
"I feel guilty that I caused you so much pain when I left. I didn't think that anyone would ever grieve for me if I died. And in your speech, I saw that I really, deeply hurt you John. I was crying because I never knew how important I was to you and because I," he stops, looking up at me with his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I never really apologized for that. The one in the train wasn't a good one. So please John, I'm so sorry for everything."
At this point, I've had enough of his apologies. I'm already on the brink of crying, and any more words out of him would certainly make me feel worse.
"Shut up." I say shakily to him, my own voice unsteady.
Sherlock stops talking and looks at me in surprise.
"-and let me talk," I continue. "I forgive you, I forgave you a long time ago. But, understand this. You will always be important to me, and don't you ever try to step out of my life again. Okay?" I say to him, masking my heart in with a slightly raised voice.
He nods at this with wide eyes.
"You mean that? He asks me cautiously.
I start laughing at the irony, I cannot believe that the great Sherlock Holmes thought he wasn't important. He just furrows his brows, probably thinking I'd gone mad.
Sighing again at his obliviousness, I went and sat down next to him.
"Of course," I say earnestly
He turns around and looks at me. Sherlock finally lets down his walls, and what I see is a frightened man who has had to conceal his feelings his entire life. His eyes are stormy and I could see that he desperately needs someone to care for him, no matter how much of an arsehole he may pretend to be at times.
He needs me more than ever, even though I should be the one that needs comforting. Sherlock is the one who's been holding everything back for so long, he's really the one who needs help.
I grab the remote and turn the telly on before leaning back on the couch. Flipping through the channels, I remember that there is one channel that he likes. I think it is some boring channel about forensics science or something. I find it, and turn it on. I withhold a groan, it doesn't matter how boring it is, as long as Sherlock enjoys it.
Sherlock turns and looks at me for a moment, before turning his eyes back to the telly.
If he is going to watch this, at least I could take a nap. I am really tired. Getting up to leave, I turn and see Sherlock shaking his head, raising his hand to tug at my sleeve, the very same gesture I had done weeks ago.
I sigh, and I sit back down. At this point, I don't really care what anyone thinks anymore. I lean my head against his shoulder, and I feel him tense up at first. I shift slightly, to find the most comfortable position. He relaxes beneath me, and I count his slow, steady breaths to fall asleep.