BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction - Revisiting The Grave

The gravel crunched softly beneath John's feet as he made his way up the path to the grave yard. Row after row of moss covered stones reared out of the encroaching night, and the evening chorus was fading into the dusk. Clutched under his arm was a ratty old tent – clearly on its first outing for a very long time – a blanket, pillow and a packet of digestives. In his other hand he held a large torch and a thermos of tea. He fumbled for a moment to open the gate to the church yard, and switched on his torch. Humming softly under his breath, he wandered towards a grave beneath an isolated tree, and stopped. Smiling at a person who wasn't visible, he seemed to be continuing a conversation with an old friend.  "Well, what did you think I was going to do? Leave you on your own? It's – or was – your birthday…" He paused for a moment; perhaps listening to a silent reply. When none came, he continued. "We had a sort of celebration you know; Molly came round, so did Mycroft and Lestrade. We had a couple of drinks, and remembered y-your –" He faltered, tears caught in his throat. "We remembered your l-life, all the things you did. That you said, that made you Sherlock Holmes. It made me realise, I only knew you for such a short space of time: a fleeting moment, didn't I? I-I just wanted you to know it was the best bit of my life." He hung his head and a single tear dripped from his nose onto his lap. "And now it's over," he whispered. "Gone." He looked up, wiping his eyes with the corner of his sleeve. "They're worried about me, you know. Mycroft, Molly especially. They think I've taken it too hard. They think I'm not eating enough, that I'm not sleeping properly. That's why I've brought the biscuits. Want one?" He opened the packet and placed one on top of the headstone. John gave a watery smile. You never really liked digestives, did you? No. Too bland, I suppose…" He trailed off and closed his eyes, leaving the sentence hanging in the air to be stolen by the breeze. "Now I'm here," he said softly, almost to himself. "I'm here, talking to a grave. To myself. I suppose that makes me crazy, doesn't it? Well, I'm past caring now. Anyway, I think I probably am…"

The light was fading faster now, so John picked up the tent from the ground where he had dropped it and began to assemble it by torchlight. Despite the lack of light and the cumbersome canvas, it was up within half an hour. Sherlock's headstone fitted snugly at one side of the flaps, and the first stars began to appear just as John crawled in, pushing past the smooth marble that represented Sherlock's life. "It's just you and I now, old friend," he murmured as he laid out his sleeping bag and pillow alongside. "Just us. Like when we were in Baskerville – us and the wilderness. If you can call a church yard wild," he added, "although with you here you're probably causing some trouble. Solving zombie murders…" He smiled ruefully. "For one more case, eh? To relive old times? Just think of me, wherever you are. I'm going to grow old; have children maybe – a wife! Imagine me with a wife… I can see you chuckling to yourself now. However, you will stay young, athletic, perfect. You were always perfect to me, Sherlock. Always. I envied you, you know. I wanted to be like you. Didn't everyone?" He broke off. Flowers had begun to grow over the bare earth that covered his friend's body. Grass and flowers, life from death. "I always hoped you were still alive, that you'd survived. Like a phoenix I guess; rising from the flames and all that. I still hope. I went back to the building last week. Where you died? There. Then I went and stood there. Exactly where you fell – where you hit the ground. I imagined what it must have felt like, to stand up there and to just fall…" He stopped abruptly. "Fall." He repeated. "To fall to your death. I don't think you ended your own life though Sherlock. No. That's not you at all. Drugs, maybe. Smoking, definitely. Suicide?" He laughed shortly, devoid of humour. "I say that, but you did, didn't you? You k-" He choked on the word, "k-killed yourself. Why? Why!" He shouted the word, suddenly angry. He hit the ground beside him with his fist. "Why did you leave me?" He howled into the darkness, but his only replies were the soft noises of the night. He subsided into broken sobs that wracked his whole frame. Molly was right, he had lost weight – he was a shadow of his former self; a husk of the man who had shared adventures with Sherlock Holmes. "I need you -" He broke off, weeping quietly, and sobbed himself into a troubled sleep, his arm stretched out over the place Sherlock's body lay.

Outside, some nearby bushes rustled, and a head of tousled black hair emerged from the darkness.
"Oh, John," he murmured, stepping tentatively towards the glowing sliver of light that was spilling from between the tent flaps. Stooping down, he knelt on the dew coated grass and tugged gently at the last of the zip. The flap fell open, and Sherlock peered inside at his best, and only, friend. He lay there, pale as the moonlight that fell on his face, dark hollows encircling his eyes. He moaned softly in his sleep, and reached out open palmed his forehead creased in a slight frown. A tear trickled out from under a closed lid, and he lay still. "John, I-" Sherlock paused. "Sorry," he whispered. Softly, so not to wake him. How could one word contain so much meaning? Sorry; I had to pretend I died. Sorry; you are in agony. Sorry; I cannot comfort you. Sorry; you are my friend, and I abandoned you. Sorry. The most overused word in the vocabulary – yet its meaning still remains, strong and resilient. "I will return, John. I promise: I give you my word." How could he possibly understand? He had no choice, he had to disappear. How could John comprehend the enormity of it all? John, so normal – yet so extraordinary. He sighed deeply, and switched off the torch that John had left shining. "Goodnight, John. Sleep well." Without the light from the torch, the stars were thrown into sharp relief, and the moon sailed like a galleon across the velvet sky. More than enough light to see with, as Sherlock re-zipped John's small tent and crossed the church yard with large strides. The gate opened silently, and the shadowy figure of the world's only consulting detective vanished into the night.