A/N: I've never filled anything for anyone before, and I'm not sure if this is anything like what you wanted. Also, no beta, no britpicking or anything like that.
He's returned to London, and, since London is being its usual welcoming self, it's raining. His steps are echoing loudly against the cobblestones as he follows the familiar path. First stone, then dirt, then grass, each step reminding him that he's not back for good. Not yet - perhaps not ever, it's still too early to tell. London itself is reminding him that the city is no longer home, and that the places...and the people, that he once took for granted, now continue to exist without him. That they're moving on.
The gravesite is blissfully empty. For the first year after, John was a frequent visitor. Three days a week at first, then once a week, until now, when his visits have become more infirquent. Sherlock suspects that the reason is named Mary, she works as a nurse at the same hospital as John. He doesn't mind. If anything, he's surprised it's taken John this long to move on. He'd assumed that John found some comfort in the routine of visiting the grave, because why else would he show so much dedication to a momument dedicated solely to the death of one individual named Sherlock Holmes?
Though, when he thinks about it, he's had reports from his homeless network (who also had helped fake his death) that the others had also visited. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson...even Sally Donovan had visited what was supposedly his final resting place. Molly had even brought a ridiculously sentimental present for his birthday. As he stood there now, he wondered why they bothered. They must know it would not bring him back, that none who are dead care about the actions of the living...and yet, they persisted.
He'd seen it before. Relatives who could not let their loved ones go, who would not listen to reason, to logic. He's seen it countless times, but he'd never understood. Even now, standing where he is, living the life of a ghost, he still doesn't. They've made him a hero, of sorts. Even though he once pointedly told John that there was no such thing as heroes, and that even if there was, he would never be one. And yet, there are fresh flowers on his grave.
Even with him gone, even with the newspapers making him out to be a fraud every chance they get, there are some people...they are few, but they are there, who see fit to honour him, as best they know how. It's mindnumbingly stupid, but he feels...grateful? Yes, grateful is the word. Grateful that his sacrifice (he may not be dead, but he still consider his actions a sacrifice) does not go unnoticed, even when the people who possessed him to make it are blissfully unaware. That even when they think he is merely dead, they remember him, and that he was once a presence in their lives.
As he utters a phrase to the name on his gravestone, and to himself, by extension, perhaps he understands at least a little of the great web that make up human emotion. Because the words that escape his lips would never have been uttered six years ago, when he met Lestrade, og ever two years ago when he first met John. Only when he realised what he would have to do, did he also realise that there were people in this world worth dying for.
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Fill
Date: 2012-05-30 12:42 am (UTC)Also, no beta, no britpicking or anything like that.
He's returned to London, and, since London is being its usual welcoming self, it's raining. His steps are echoing loudly against the cobblestones as he follows the familiar path. First stone, then dirt, then grass, each step reminding him that he's not back for good. Not yet - perhaps not ever, it's still too early to tell. London itself is reminding him that the city is no longer home, and that the places...and the people, that he once took for granted, now continue to exist without him. That they're moving on.
The gravesite is blissfully empty. For the first year after, John was a frequent visitor. Three days a week at first, then once a week, until now, when his visits have become more infirquent. Sherlock suspects that the reason is named Mary, she works as a nurse at the same hospital as John. He doesn't mind. If anything, he's surprised it's taken John this long to move on. He'd assumed that John found some comfort in the routine of visiting the grave, because why else would he show so much dedication to a momument dedicated solely to the death of one individual named Sherlock Holmes?
Though, when he thinks about it, he's had reports from his homeless network (who also had helped fake his death) that the others had also visited. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson...even Sally Donovan had visited what was supposedly his final resting place. Molly had even brought a ridiculously sentimental present for his birthday.
As he stood there now, he wondered why they bothered. They must know it would not bring him back, that none who are dead care about the actions of the living...and yet, they persisted.
He'd seen it before. Relatives who could not let their loved ones go, who would not listen to reason, to logic. He's seen it countless times, but he'd never understood. Even now, standing where he is, living the life of a ghost, he still doesn't.
They've made him a hero, of sorts. Even though he once pointedly told John that there was no such thing as heroes, and that even if there was, he would never be one. And yet, there are fresh flowers on his grave.
Even with him gone, even with the newspapers making him out to be a fraud every chance they get, there are some people...they are few, but they are there, who see fit to honour him, as best they know how.
It's mindnumbingly stupid, but he feels...grateful? Yes, grateful is the word. Grateful that his sacrifice (he may not be dead, but he still consider his actions a sacrifice) does not go unnoticed, even when the people who possessed him to make it are blissfully unaware. That even when they think he is merely dead, they remember him, and that he was once a presence in their lives.
As he utters a phrase to the name on his gravestone, and to himself, by extension, perhaps he understands at least a little of the great web that make up human emotion. Because the words that escape his lips would never have been uttered six years ago, when he met Lestrade, og ever two years ago when he first met John. Only when he realised what he would have to do, did he also realise that there were people in this world worth dying for.
"You would be nothing without them, Sherlock"