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Sherlock cuts a lonely figure in the graveyard. Lonely? Melodramatic. Gothic, almost, with the collar turned up, and the hair and the cheekbones. It’s even raining a bit; the sort of grey, drizzly London afternoon that’ll give way to a nothing sort of night, minutes and hours smearing forgettably together until bedtime, when they’ll both be thankful it’s over.
As if either of them could forget today. But they might wish to, and they will in years to come, he thinks; when they’ve done this enough times, and the pain is less, and there’ll be too many visits to remember any particular one. Maybe they’ll even stop coming. Who knows?
John turns back to the headstone. Sherlock gave him space last year, and he’s done it again now. He’ll be along eventually, no doubt.
‘So, yeah. Another year,’ he tells Mary, and crouches down to lean against her stone, thinking the thoughts he doesn’t want to say out loud. Still can’t say, even now two years have passed.
*
He finds Sherlock staring at his own fake headstone. He’d forgotten it was there, never having come back once he knew it was all made up.
‘You all right?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I thought you were going to come down and…y’know. But you don’t have to, no pressure.’
‘No, it’s - - yes, sorry. I’ll go down now.’
He looks white, Sherlock. Whiter than usual. Probably sleepless over a case, or an experiment, or maybe he just wasn’t looking forward to this. God knows John didn’t sleep much last night. He watches him walk down the hill towards Mary’s grave, and looks back at the headstone.
SHERLOCK HOLMES
‘Wasn’t Mycroft going to take this down?’ he asks the back of the Belstaff. It doesn’t yield to his question.
‘Was he? You’d have to ask him.’
*
He doesn’t ask him. He forgets about it entirely, what with juggling work, and Rosie, and still trying to go out on cases with Sherlock whenever he can. And their social life; that too. Friends. Molly, Mrs Hudson, Greg. They all come ‘round, they all help, they’re a wonderful group. It’s not a usual life, but it is a good one. Sherlock’s not a usual man, but he’s a good one. And John…knows he’ll never be as good as they give him credit for, but he does his best to live up to their expectations. They’re worth it.
The third year anniversary has him standing with Rosie’s hand in his. He spends the time talking about Mary, making sure she’s a memory their daughter will always carry with her, even if she doesn't remember her face. There is nothing more important than Rosie knowing she was loved, is loved, will always be loved, in this life and beyond. John’s not much of one for Heaven, but he won’t rule it out. And he won’t take hope away from his girl.
‘Mummy will always be with you,’ he says, and Rosie looks up with the clear eyes of the innocent.
‘Why’s Sherlock there?’
She points a chubby finger to where he stands up the slope, looking at…he’s back at his own grave, John realises, and quirks his brow.
‘I don’t know, sweetheart. We’ll ask him in a bit, shall we?’
‘Yes. Sherlock!’
And she’s gone, pulling her hand free and running up towards her godfather with stretched out arms, the tassels of her hat flying everywhere. John smiles, his heart suddenly full, as Sherlock looks up and spreads his arms on instinct to welcome her advance. He would never have expected him to be so good with her, but he is. He’s wonderful.
He turns back to Mary’s grave, and smiles. And then he’s crying, but that’s all right. They’re busy up there, no one will see.
Later, back at Baker Street, which is where they always end up on this day of the year, Rosie says, ‘Sherlock was sad,’ and John has to try and find a way to tell her that’s different from all the other ways he’s told her, that Sherlock loved Mummy too. He knows it’ll stick one day.
‘Sherlock and Mummy were good friends,’ he says, and Rosie looks at him, and nods.
‘He said he missed him.’
‘Her, darling. Remember? Boys are him and girls are her.’
Rosie blinks, and says, ‘Milk please, daddy?’ and he nods, and gets up to fetch it.
Later still, he sits opposite Sherlock in their chairs, each with a whiskey in hand. He does look sad, John thinks. It’s still a bit hard to tell with him, when he hides behind his face. He doesn't do it as much any more, but sometimes.
‘Why’s it still up after three years?’
‘Mm?’
‘The gravestone.’
‘Oh. Sort of a joke, I think. Didn’t you ask Mycroft?’
‘I forgot. Why’s it a joke?’
‘I’m not sure. Something about people going to see it when they thought I was dead, and they still go now. I don’t know why. People are very odd.’
And if it’s Sherlock Holmes saying that - or even noticing - it must be truly weird. But John lets it drop, because today is about Mary. They both like to sit and think on this day, separate but together, united in memory.
*
He sees Mycroft quite often, but only remembers to ask about the grave after three months have gone by.
‘Oh,’ he hears, and gets a supercilious little smile, ‘taking it down seemed more trouble than it’s worth. Not effective use of taxpayer’s money - quite the opposite now, actually.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, you know. He has fans. They make little pilgrimages to it. Hang hats off it, that sort of thing. I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I’ve no idea why, but anyway, it brings tourists. Some sort of local curio. The church has allowed it to stay, for a regular donation.’
‘And that’s effective use of taxpayer’s money, is it?’
Mycroft just smiles one of his smiles, one among many John simply can’t be bothered to interpret. It’s not important, just like the headstone isn’t important. Just part of the legend building up year on year. It’s weird, knowing full well there are going to be books written about his best friend one day. Him too, probably. They do sort of go together. But he can’t think of himself as a character in a story not yet written. Anyway, living the legend is more fun and in between all of that, life still goes on as normal.
*
By the time Rosie’s eleven, the routine is well established. Sherlock hangs back to let them have time together, even though John has told him year on year it’s not necessary. They go and talk to Mary - or maybe less of that now, more talking about her, taking the chance to remind Rosie that her mother was real, and is real, and would have been so proud. Her daughter is as smart as she was, as quick-tongued as Sherlock, as kind as Molly, as full of passion as her father. She is going to be a force to be reckoned with, they all know it.
And when they’re done, John stands for a moment in silence, his fingers touching the stone. Rosie lets him be, walking back up the slope to Sherlock. She knows he feels guilty at having married again, even though no one blames him, and no one suggests he shouldn’t have. Quite the opposite. His real guilt, he supposes, is the fading of pain. He knows it’s a natural process, and a necessary one, and one he should feel grateful for. But he’d rather hurt, so he doesn’t have to face the fact of having got used to her being gone.
He looks up the hill eventually. Sherlock and Rosie stand hand in hand, looking at the grave. John smiles, as he always does when he sees them in a quiet moment together. They’re usually bickering back and forth, his daughter long having learned the art of intelligent banter. Their daughter, really. He walks to join them and when he’s close, sees Rosie murmur something and Sherlock look up, then turn away, blinking as if brought out of a deep reverie. Or as if-
‘Are you all right, dad?’
He looks from one to the other, and smiles. ‘I’m all right. Are you, love?’
She nods, and comes to give him a hug. He presses his face to her hair, marvelling at how tall she’s got, while still being a waif of air and bone. She smiles up at him after, and when she steps back he sees that Sherlock’s gone, walking off down the hill to pay his own respects.
‘Is he all right?’ he asks out of nowhere, not having meant to. And Rosie scoffs, as she should, and prods him in the arm.
‘He’s your husband, dad. Shouldn’t you be asking him that?’
*
‘Are you all right?’
They have the same chairs, even if they spend more time on the sofa now. The chairs are about work, and clients, and them in a certain light of history, but they’re not practical for sprawling over together, the three of them watching a film - or two of them really, with Sherlock pointing out everything wrong with it until he’s told to shut up. But they always sit in the chairs today, like it’s 2010 again, or 2012, or sometime before.
‘Sherlock? Are you all right?’
Sherlock looks into his glass, glinting light off untouched whiskey. Eventually he says, ‘what do you say to her, John? Not details, just-‘
His hand gesture makes a broad stroke, and John watches it complete its arc before he tries to answer.
‘These days, I tell her I’m sorry. I always did, just - different reasons now, I suppose.’
‘You feel guilty.’
‘Yeah, I do.’
Sherlock looks like he’s about to say something, and then closes his mouth. He shuts his eyes briefly, and then smiles, and then downs his whiskey. John watches with concern mounting in his chest. Sherlock lost his mother this year, and Eurus two months ago. It’s been a long stretch of death, and there are still times he doesn’t cope so well. His sister’s suicide - though no one was surprised, in the end - hit him really hard. Understandable; he hadn’t missed a visit since the first time he went back to Sherrinford after that whole mess. He remained the only person she ever let close to connecting with her. Of course he’d feel her loss.
‘Do you think she’d mind? About you and me.’
‘No, I don’t.’ He has asked himself this, of course. A thousand times. The answer’s always the same. ‘Not even a bit.’
‘You’ve never wanted to keep it a secret, have you?’
‘Of course not. Why would I keep it a secret?’
‘Because that would a bit not good, wouldn’t it, John? Not telling people about someone you love.’
‘Sherlock-‘
‘And you tell people you were married to a woman. That you loved Mary.’
‘Of course I do. What’s going on, love?’
Sherlock stares into his glass again, and then gets up to pour another. ‘Ignore me. Sorry. I just noticed that everyone’s dying. But that’s what people do, isn’t it?’
‘…I suppose so.’
He wonders if he chose those words on purpose, or if they sprang straight from his subconscious. He’s not sure which would be worse. He’s very still as Sherlock leans down to kiss him, the burn of alcohol on his lips. He’s a little unsteady when he straightens up, and John finds himself wondering if he was drinking earlier too.
He catches his hand before he can walk away.
‘Next year, come down with us. You don’t have to stay away. You’re not a secret I’m hiding from her. She’s dead, Sherlock.’
‘I know that. I don’t entertain ludicrous fantasies about God, and-‘
‘Yeah yeah, I know. Just…you don’t have to give me and Rosie space. We’re a family. We would be even if Mary were still alive, you know that.’
Sherlock stares down at him for a long time. Then he smiles, and squeezes his hand. ‘Thank you. But it’s all right. I mean - yes, maybe. It’s just a good time for me to reflect as well.’
He walks towards their bedroom. John sits very still, and then shakes it away. It’s been a long day, it always is. And Sherlock reflecting over his own headstone - these days adorned with graffiti and fan mail, the occasional death threat, declarations of love and worship, and the ever-present moniker I believe in Sherlock Holmes…well, it’s nowhere near the weirdest thing that goes on in their lives.
Really, he thinks, getting up to follow Sherlock to bed, daily life is the weirdest bit now. There are so many strange cases. The magic comes from being able to have a drink together, and then go to sleep. And he’ll never think that’s not enough; never again wish for it to be rocked by violence and danger.
*
He pays a visit to the Diogenes Club a few days later. Mycroft is retired now, has gained some weight, but is still the sharpest mind hidden behind the sharpest smile. Age has done nothing to soften that intellect, and John is as glad of it as Sherlock is. Some things should never change.
They talk for half an hour, with the cordiality of family by marriage, bonds of service and blood. It’s Mycroft’s version of love, and John is glad to have this conversation with him rather than with Sherlock, because he’s spoken to as a solider, and a man who understands the Holmes way of being. Better that, than to be a husband, with a lot of messy emotions involved.
He thinks he’ll be angry, when his suspicions are confirmed. He isn’t. It makes a strange kind of sense. He thinks he should feel betrayed, as if this knowledge will rock a foundation built on something unstable. But he doesn’t, because he understands Sherlock like no one else. Anyway, he was there. He saw, didn’t he? And Mary…Mary would understand. Because of this, he hears her voice clearly for the first time in years and years, and he’s grateful to have that back. Married an assassin. Yes, he did. That’s who he is. And this is who Sherlock is.
He says nothing, not for a full year. And for the first time ever, he leaves Rosie alone with her mother. He asks for time, just a little time, to talk to Sherlock Holmes. And there comes another suspicion when she doesn’t argue, or look hurt, or do anything except look relieved, and nod.
It’s a long walk up the slope, despite only being two hundred yards or so. John comes to stand next to the great detective first, the man he loves second, staring down at the headstone that still bears his name.
‘Do you suppose they keep all the things they clear away?’ he says eventually, of the spread of cards, and letters, deerstalkers and magnifying glasses spread out from the thing. I believe in Sherlock Holmes.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t asked.’
John nods, carefully. Then, ’do you suppose he minds all this on top of him?’
Sherlock was not moving, but he goes even more still. John finds he’s glad Mycroft didn’t warn him. Maybe it’s petty, but he does enjoy the very few chances he gets to surprise this man.
‘…I suspect he’d find it funny.’
‘Yeah, he probably would.’
They stand in silence for a while, looking at it. John’s left hand makes a fist, so he stretches his fingers out on purpose to feel the air between them.
‘I asked you once if you wanted to be buried here for real, do you remember?’
‘Yes.’
‘You said no. You laughed - sort of - and said no. That was before we were together, even.’
‘I know. I meant it.’
‘I didn’t know it was already occupied at the time. But you could have said yes. If we’d never got together, it would even make sense.’
He can’t look up, but he knows Sherlock’s face is stricken. No one knows Sherlock like he does.
‘I don’t want to be buried here, John,’ he says, eventually. ‘Not even then. Not with all this-‘ there’s a twitch of a hand towards the fan mail, ‘-they’re here for the idea of me. Of you and me, really. But that’s not the truth.’
‘Yes. It’s all right, I understand that bit.’ He thinks, actually, he understands all of it. ‘Being buried with him, though. Isn’t that the truth? Or wasn’t it then, before you and I were-?’
‘No. No, John. Oh, it’d be…romantic, I suppose. But he and I were never that, and it’s not…him, anyway. It’s just bones, and I’d be just bones. It wouldn’t mean anything.’
It would be a different legend though, John thinks, and feels like his heart has disappeared in his chest. Sherlock looks like he doesn’t know what else to say, and John isn’t sure how much he wants to know. In the end, he can only lay out what he’s learned.
‘They needed a weighted coffin, and there was no family to pass him off to. Two birds with one stone. You let us stand over him and mourn, Sherlock.’
‘I’m not sorry for that. It’s the only mourning he got.’
‘He stole it. He’d have found that funny too.’
‘It wasn’t done for laughs. There’s no sentiment in this. It was convenient, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, I get that. But there is sentiment, because you’ve stood up here and talked to him every year for the last eleven years, and you never mentioned it.’
‘How could I?’
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s the thing that makes John turn, and stand in front of his husband, taking one of his hands in his.
‘You could’ve said. You could tell me anything. You still can.’
‘John, please.’
He hadn’t meant to raise his voice. He’s not angry, or at least he doesn’t think he’s angry. He stood over a grave he thought was full, and asked for one more miracle. Finding out it was empty didn’t change the sentiment. Finding out it wasn’t empty shouldn’t change it either. And doesn’t. They’re just bones, after all.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbles, and looks at the grass between their feet.
‘You’re scared.’
‘I am.’
‘Why?’
He takes a long breath.
‘Because you can’t kill an idea. You could be bones together, the two of you, and that wouldn’t matter. The truth’s what’s in your head, and there’s nothing I can do about that.’
Sherlock doesn’t move for a long time. And then John feels his hand squeezed, black leather over his own cold, white skin.
‘You could be bones with Mary, and it wouldn’t change what we’ve had the last ten years. And these ten years don’t change what came before.’
‘Yeah.’ He can’t argue with that, even though he wants to. ‘But do you love him, though?’
‘Do you love Mary?’
‘…yeah. But it’s different kind of love, now.’
And Sherlock tilts his head, to indicate the same should apply. John looks up, and searches those familiar blue eyes. It should be different for Sherlock; loving someone else for their intellect, their insanity, the challenge of them…but (married an assassin) he’s not sure he’s one to talk.
‘Look,’ Sherlock says, and nods his head. John turns, to see Rosie coming towards them. She’s halfway up the slope, between their graves. A skinny little streak of a thing, with brown curls and a wide mouth that’s edged with sadness, and a hint of worry. She stops, in case they need more time. Both of them just look at her.
‘She’s not you, John. She’s not Mary. You’re what came before.’
‘She’s better than both of us.’
‘Yes.’
Or at least, less tarnished. New, and full of unknowns. Exciting. John glances down at the gravestone, and can’t help but smile. I believe in Sherlock Holmes.
‘He’d have found it funny,’ he says, and nods at the earth. ‘He’d enjoy people coming to you, and getting him instead.’
‘He always did say we were the same.’
John’s hand tightens around Sherlock’s for a second. Reassurance, and disagreement. ‘You weren’t the same.’
There’s no reply, but that’s all right. John has enough belief for both of them.
‘Baker Street?’ he says, after a pause, and Sherlock nods, both of them looking at their girl.
‘Baker Street.’
*
They sit, each with a whiskey in their hand. John thinks about Mary, as he always does today. And he hopes Sherlock’s thinking about that grave, and what lies in it.
He thought it would feel worse, knowing for sure. But in the end, what difference does it make? Neither of them were each other’s firsts. Except, in a way, they really were. No matter what came before, the thing between them is new. It’s theirs. Without the others, they would never have found it at all.
‘Do you miss him?’ he asks, on a whim.
Sherlock is very still. Then he nods. And so does John.
‘I miss Mary.’
They look at each other. Smile, and raise their glasses just a little. Well. It is what it is. And what it is, is…good. Very good. Great.
‘Next year, come down to Mary with us. And we’ll come up to him.’
The space between them narrows, watched by the ghosts of those long gone. And then Sherlock smiles, and all of them disappear. They may be part of the legend, but they’re not the man sitting in that chair.
‘Time to do it together?’ he says, and John nods, yes, of course.
‘Together, love.’
Whatever the past was, this is the future. And it’s theirs.