Molly's funeral was beautiful yet somber.
It was outside, a quiet burial.
The trees around her soon-to-be grave were a pale pink, and the sky was clear.
There were few people attending, two of them, Sherlock and John.
As they arrived at the venue, Sherlock whispered:
" I don't think I should be here."
John looked up at him thoughtfully.
" She loved you. She would have wanted you to pay your respects."
There were about 15 white chairs set up around a shabby coffin, with a brilliant bouquet of flowers set on top.
There was a picture of Molly smiling set up next to the coffin.
Molly smiling.
Sherlock felt like he wanted to vomit as he remembered her stench of death and cold eyes when they found her.
Pale and blue, eyes half open, staring into his soul.
John seemed to sense his emotions and gripped his arm tighter as he led them towards the ceremony.
As they sat down together in the white folding chairs, they started to notice some of the other attendants.
There was Lestrade, who was desperately trying to hold himself together.
His hands were folded tightly in his lap and his eyes were full of water.
He had a soft, quiet love for Molly Hooper.
To him she was beautiful and kind and sweet.
He felt like a fool next to her.
He had too much respect for her to suggest a sweaty love affair.
He was perfectly content admiring her from afar.
And now he would never know if she ever felt anything for him.
Sherlock met his eyes and received a horrible glare which softened when he noticed that tears were running down the consulting detective's cheeks.
Sherlock looked to the ground, ashamed, and Lestrade felt the tiniest bit guilty.
Then Sherlock noticed a woman in the front row, bawling.
Her face was aged, her eyes red and puffy.
She had short auburn hair, brown eyes and a slim frame.
Molly's mother.
Sherlock put his head in his hands.
He hadn't even considered her parents.
There we're a few other strangers, presumably Molly's " friends".
Everyone seemed to keep to themselves, wrapped up in their own personal mourning.
Finally, her mother stood up in front of the crowd and everyone's crying was silenced.
" My daughter. Molly."
She already had begun to choke up.
" A brilliant girl, but a sensitive soul. We hadn't spoken in a couple years and now I can't begin to regret this decision. She needed a mother and I wasn't there."
A tear dripped down her cheek.
" We fought over such a petty feud. In which I realized I was wrong but was too proud to admit it. But it's too late and dear god, if I could go back again..."
Now she was full out crying.
" She was my only child and I could never forgive myself. Rest in peace, dear Molly."
She sat down and everyone started clapping.
Sherlock stood and placed a single rose on her coffin.
He eyed John and they both left the funeral as they started the arrangements for her burial.
Suddenly, a flood of people tore in from the entrance of the graveyard.
They all had cameras and had small ID cards around their necks.
No. Why?
He gripped John's arm as he pushed through the crowd of paparazzi.
Molly's funeral was contaminated with their filth.
But why?
Then he heard the questions.
A young woman stuck a microphone in his face and shouted over all of the other voices:
" Mr. Holmes. Do you believe yourself partially responsible for Molly Hooper's suicide?"
Sherlock paled.
John was screaming obscenities at them while Sherlock pushed harder.
He needed to get to the entrance. And get out. Now.
" Sherlock, why did you drive Molly to suicide?"
" Mr. Holmes, why were you so cruel?"
Snap. Snap. Snap. Of the camera.
" Do you believe yourself to be cruel?"
" Mr. Holmes, according to reports you claimed to be a sociopath. Is this still true for you and Dr. Watson?"
" Sherlock Holmes, did you realize these reports were made by Phillip Anderson? One of your work colleagues?"
The whole world stopped.
Anderson.
Anderson saw Lestrade punch him and call him responsible for her suicide.
Anderson knew he thought himself a sociopath.
Anderson wanted revenge.
He finally pushed through and ran to the street for a cab, clutching John by the arm.
John was his anchor, because he was about to collapse.
There was a lone cameraman running after them, and John wriggled out of Sherlock's grasp, turned around and punched the camera out of his hands.
The camera fell to the ground, the lens shattering.
Sherlock fell on all fours onto the ground and John immediately felt guilty for letting him go.
John gripped his arm and pulled him up and dragged him to the cab.
It all seemed to happen in slow motion.
They shut the door and drove off. Baker street was about 5 minutes away.
The two men spent the time panting and catching their breath.
They quickly paid and walked up the steps.
Sherlock collapsed onto the couch, and John sat next to him and held him in his arms.
Sherlock started crying, and John held his head against his chest and combed his fingers through Sherlock's hair.
When he was finally finished he looked into John's eyes and his face was dripping with rage and sympathy all at once.
He roughly grabbed Sherlock's face and brought their lips together.
Sherlock pulled the little hair John had and pulled him closer to him.
It was so good. So John. Exactly what he needed.
John pushed him over so he ended up laying down sideways on the couch, John on top of him.
Their lips were nothing like a dance. They were clashing, full of anger and sorrow.
He could only taste John, and he was the only thing he wanted to taste.
The friction between them was immense.
They would have to stop in between to take shallow breaths.
Sherlock's tongue slipped around John's bottom lip, asking for entrance.
John willingly let him in.
Pure passion was circuiting between the two men, and they forgot about the death and the guilt and the paparazzi who were probably writing them up in the newspaper right now.
All they could feel is want as they forced each other closer and closer.
Sooner or later, John ripped Sherlock's shirt off and he did the same for John.
Closer. Closer. Closer.
John was unbuttoning Sherlock's pants when he moaned.
" John...wait."
John looked up and smirked as he unzipped the zipper.
" JOHN!"
Sherlock roughly pulled his face to his.
They both were catching their breath.
" My first time can't be like this. Not on our couch after Molly's funeral."
John looked up at him sadly then turned his face away, ashamed.
" Sherlock...I...I'm so sorry. I forgot."
Sherlock smiled. Here he was, apologizing again.
" I wanted to as much as you did. But I want our passion to be real, not stress and anger induced. For now, would you let me hold you?"
John nodded and laid his head back down and felt Sherlock's breath moving in and out of him.
It would be just fine.