White Rose / Sherlock Holmes x Reader Fanfiction

Chapter Three: The Meeting

The tombstones were everywhere, seeming to have no pattern at all. Their grey and white slabs stood out like flowers on a harsh snowy winter. Some were big, some were elegantly carved, some had statues instead.

Mycroft's voice was heavy. "Come along Doctor." They marched up the footpath, their feet echoing on the ground in the silence.

"She was ill." Said Watson, his voice a whisper.

Mycroft nodded, wheezing slightly. "She was born with a small heart which affected everything else. I tried everything I could to keep her alive."

"Holmes said she left. So I thought-"

Mycroft barked a laugh. "Sherlock has never accepted that she died. He has never even said it. He always uses the terms, 'she left', 'went away' 'gone', but he won't say that she died out loud. He didn't even come to the funeral." Now the slope ended and Mycroft took a left though there was no path, as if he had come this way a hundred times. "I had to arrange everything. The coffin, the grave, the tombstone, the funeral, while Sherlock didn't eat and just sat in the garden for days. He wouldn't even sleep inside. I doubt he even slept those horrible days. The only contribution he made was the epitaph."

Suddenly they came to a halt. In front of them was a large marble tombstone, beautifully engraved with flowers on its edging. Watson looked at the simple words and felt the wind rush out of his lungs as if he had been kicked in the chest.

In memory of
(Y/n) "Daisy" (Y/m/n) Holmes
Loving wife, daughter and friend.
If only to meet again, the tears would not have been waisted.

Underneath were the years but Watson did not glance at them.

"Hello darling!" Mycroft said, cheerily. "Look who I brought today. This is Doctor John Watson, Sherlock's partner and friend." Watson tipped his hat, not knowing whether to say anything. "I told you you'd meet him someday. As for me, I'm doing quite well as you can see. Lost a bit of weight so that's an achievement." He patted his stomach, the brightest smile Watson had ever seen on his face. It was as if he was looking at a stranger. "I think Sherlock's quite alright too. But the doctor would know better. Well Doctor?"

Watson jumped. "I'm sorry?"

"Talk to her. She wants to know how her husband is."

"This is madness." Watson groaned.

"Just have a go. You just soon forget it. It's as if she's actually right here listening."

Watson gulped. "What do I say?"

"Sherlock." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Oh yes, Holmes, I mean Sherlock. He's fine. A little quiet but good in health, and as sane as he can be. If you know what I mean. His most recent case had him running all over London. And I mean literally! He ran past our place at Baker Street three times in one day. It was really hilarious. If it wasn't for my bad leg I would have been following him at his heels. He really is quite something else but I'm sure you know that." He smiled, before remembering that he was talking to a grave. "This is crazy." He sighed. Mycroft smiled at him sadly.

"I know. You did quite well for a first time. I come here almost every week. Just to calm down, tell her what I did, how's London, the world. She likes it here but she gets lonely from time to time."

"She asked to be buried here, didn't she?" Mycroft nodded. "And Sherlock doesn't know she's dead?"

"No he knows. He just doesn't exactly accept it. He wouldn't leave her side when she died and I had to wrestle him away from her when they took her to the morgue. He sobbed and screamed like a child. Begging them not to take her, screaming that she wasn't dead." His voice broke. "It was all my fault."

"Let's go. You don't have to tell me." Watson comforted him. "Let's not talk about this in front of her."

Watson led him away and sat him down on a bench. Mycroft took a deep breath, his chest heaving and his watery grey eyes sparkling. "I only cried twice in my life. The tears simply came when I came here alone the first time. But the only one time I actually sobbed was when she told me to bury her right there. She held my hand and told me everything would be alright as if she wasn't the one dying."

Watson and the elder Holmes sat in silence, the birds chirping and the wind rushing through the trees empty branches.

"As a child, I was normal." Watson looked at Mycroft, realizing that this was the first time he had spoken so much to him in their entire time of acquaintance. "I knew and felt emotions. Sadness, happiness, anger. The hurt, fear, the pain. And I didn't like them. They made no sense to me. I shut them away, destroyed them. So when I was seven and Sherlock was born, I didn't want him to feel what I had been through. I taught him to shut it all away like I had."

He stopped. And Watson continued. "So when he met (Y/n), all the emotions he had bolted in came loose. He fell in love and everything went haywire."

Mycroft nodded. "He became human. Like you and any other average person. But only towards her. To any other person, he was still his usual self. To her, he became a mess of emotions. Absolutely did anything for her. Worshipped the ground she walked. And she let him. She had to. You should have seen the way they looked at each other. She made him complete. So when she died, he broke."

The crunch of leaves interrupted them. Mycroft's coachman came up, telling him it would soon be late. They went back to the hansom, the feeling of grief in the air. Watson turned around before getting in, and gave a little wave in her direction before realizing what he was doing and quickly got in. The coach drove them back into the village. Watson hopped out and turned around to say goodbye.

"Doctor." Mycroft called. "My brother will never be the same as he was. But a fraction of him came back when you entered into his life. He will never be the man she made him through the love that she gave him, but so long as he has the care of a friend, he'll be alright. So, I thank you, on behalf of her, for being there for him. Truly."

He jumped back as the horses went off on their usual gallop, the dust flying up into the air. He sighed, thinking about the bright smile in the photograph, the dull cloudy look in Holmes's eyes and the crack in Mycroft's voice. He turned and headed for the station, but half way back he had to stop. He slumped against a tree and heaved deep breaths, his sobs stuttering in his chest as he realized he was crying over someone he did not and would not ever know.