A/N: This idea came to me out of nowhere and I was powerless against it, soooooo… (smirks a bit sheepishly)

WARNINGS: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, SLASH, sadness, emotions, a bit of language, perhaps some blood and such, adult themes… (glances around) Uh… Where'd ya go?

DISCLAIMER: Pfft! As if… But I suppose that having dreams of the series doesn't count…?

I'm gonna kick start this before I'll change my mind, sooooo… (gulps loudly) Let's go! I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

A Sonata for Two

Left Behind

The sun is shining brightly, making all the dust lingering in 221B Baker Street entirely too visible. Sherlock Holmes scowls, his nose wrinkling as though he would've smelled or tasted something incredibly foul. The sun shouldn't be shining today.

Not when he's forced to say goodbye to his whole goddamned world.

He hears steps and stiffens, his arms folding in a defensive manner. The steps pause but not with hesitation. He hears a heavy, suffering sigh. "Why am I not surprised?" Mycroft Holmes' eyes are full of disappointment and something else that infuriates Sherlock. Sadness. Pity. He does not want pity from his brother. The man offers a suit towards him. "Put this on. Right now."

Sherlock glares at the older, narrowing his eyes in a manner he hopes conveys the exact degree of his reluctance. "No." He hates how scratchy and unused his voice sounds. Like he'd screamed until his throat became raw.

Mycroft's left eyebrow twitches, as does one corner of the man's lips. But his brother maintains his composure in a true British manner. Mommy would be proud, Sherlock muses a great deal more bitterly than he's strictly proud of.

When he looks away, already imagining that he's won this one, Mycroft finally speaks. "I'm not asking for my sake, Sherlock." That tone sure catches his attention. As does the touch of ache that a careful ear manages to catch. Surely it isn't possible that Mycroft is missing John, too? But then again, perhaps it is. With the amount of attention there's been since that day he's gotten a rather clear picture of just how many hearts the doctor touched. "I'm asking for John. And Hamish, too. He'll never forgive you if you make him face all of this without you."

Sherlock shivers and tells himself that it's because of the chilly weather. He folds his arms even more tightly, swallowing against the blockage building up in his throat. "What difference would it make?" he spits, like the words were poison. "He already blames me for…" The words fail him.

Mycroft takes a deep breath. It takes exactly four seconds before his brother speaks in a oddly soft tone. "He's seven years old. What happened to John… He barely understands it. But he does understand if you're not there beside him today, holding his hand, when he says goodbye to his daddy. And that, brother dear, is something that he'd never, ever forgive you. Neither would John."

Sherlock grimaces from the impact of the low blow. Well played, Mycroft. He grits his teeth together tightly to refrain from speaking and glares pointedly at the window.

Mycroft sighs, sounding years older than his actual age. "There's a car expecting you", the British government announces, steps already distancing. "You have five minutes."

Sherlock makes the mistake of assuming that the conversation is over. But then Mycroft's voice sounds once more. "Oh, and Sherlock? I'm sorry." With that the door closes.

Sherlock can't remember when he fetched a glass of water. Did Mrs. Hudson give it to him? But at the moment he knows very well what to do with it.

With absolutely all the strength he can muster he throws it at a wall, feeling a great deal less satisfaction than he'd been hoping for while watching the water and shards hit the floor. Each piece and drop shining like a diamond in sunlight. All of a sudden his eyes hurt a lot more than his head does.

Hamish Watson-Holmes trembles while he sits in one of uncle Mycroft's cars with his arms wrapped as firmly as possible around his mid-section. His chest feels tight and it hurts to breathe. His stomach doesn't feel right, either.

A sob erupts despite his best efforts and he wipes away the tears quickly, only to discover that new ones come instantly. The frustration only succeeds in making him cry harder. The next sob is a lot louder.

He wishes, from the bottom of his tiny heart, that his daddy was there with him. Holding his hand. Telling him that everything's going to be alright.

But that would be a lie, wouldn't it? Nothing will ever be okay again. Because daddy is never, ever coming back.

He jumps with startle when the car's door is hauled open and doesn't quite manage to relax when his pa throws himself in. His pa appears tense and angry. Very, very angry. And sad. Hamish's mouth opens but in the end he doesn't dare to say the words dangling on his tongue. Instead he turns his head and looks out the window, fighting his hardest against the tears that want to come. He doesn't quite succeed.

They've been driving in absolute silence that's only broken by Hamish's restrained sobs for a long time until his pa speaks. "Are you alright?"

Hamish doesn't dare to speak in fear that his voice might break. Instead he shakes his head, fast enough to make himself feel dizzy. Or perhaps he's lightheaded because it's so hard and painful to breathe.

His pa is silent again. Hamish wonders if it's because of disappointment. The man, who appears terrifyingly large beside him all of a sudden, finally speaks when the car parks outside a church. "We're here", the man announces gruffly, already getting out of the vehicle. "Let's get this over with."

Hamish follows although he isn't entirely sure if he's able to stand, let alone take actual steps. He's more than a little surprised at the discovery that he can. He trembles from cold and pain while hurrying to keep up with his pa's long steps, walking in the tall man's shadow and keeping his head down to hide his tears.

And misses his daddy from the bottom of his heart and soul

The whole ordeal is long and tedious. Sherlock's foot taps and his fingers squirm the entire time as he struggles to figure out what to do with himself. He tries to find some way, any way, to rid at at least a tiny portion of the agony that seems to consuming him in whole.

A lot of people attend. Far more of them than Sherlock would've liked insist on having a speech. Sherlock detests them all. There are no words that do Dr. John Hamish Watson justice. Harry Watson, quite expectedly, makes a scene when it's her turn. As though she was the one hurting the most. Sherlock is glad that she's escorted away. He knows that there's a bottle in her purse that's calling her name. For once she has a decent excuse, he muses snarkily.

Sherlock himself doesn't speak. He wouldn't have even moved to follow the crowd and the coffin – a black one made of expensive wood, Harry's choice not his, John would've hated it – if DI Greg Lestrade didn't nudge him along.

Hamish loses all control over himself when they lower the coffin and begin to cover it. The little boy cries so hard that the child can barely breathe. Sherlock hates himself, more than a little bit, for his inability to do a thing to comfort his son. For not feeling even nearly as much for the boy as he knows is expected of him. For not feeling even the slightest urge to follow when Mrs. Hudson, crying openly herself, takes Hamish gently to her arms and begins to carry the hysterically crying child away.

It makes sense that Sherlock feels so little, perhaps, since his heart's just being buried into the ground.

And then, all of a sudden, it's over. One by one the visitors leave, giving Sherlock looks that he hates from the bottom of his heart. The pity is almost as unbearable as the words.

'Look after yourself and Hamish, yeah?' (How the hell am I supposed to do that?)

'Everything's going to work out.' (No, you imbecile! Nothing is ever going to be alright again.)

'If you need anything at all, I'll be there.' (No, you won't.)

'I'm truly sorry for your loss.' (No, you're not. You have no fucking idea of what I've lost.)

In the end it's just Sherlock, stood there before John's grave. Staring at it with eyes that see barely a thing. And right there he feels more lost than he ever has in his entire life.

"What the hell were you thinking, John?" he snaps in the end. His voice doesn't sound familiar even to his own ears. "Leaving me alone with Hamish. What am I supposed to do with him? How are we supposed to deal without you, you idiot?" His eyes sting hellishly but he fights against it, determined to maintain whatever little control he still has. Whatever little power there still is in his hands. He swallows thickly, not liking the taste in his mouth. "You promised me, John. Remember? You promised! So what the hell is this?"

Nothing but the wind answers him.

Sherlock stands there, even when it eventually begins to rain. And somehow the sky cries the tears that he can't. He wonders if he can ever make himself move again.

If he can ever make himself stop waiting.

TBC OR NOT?

A/N: Okay, that was… emotional. (wipes eyes) Those poor things! How in the world are they going to overcome this?

Soooo… Was that any good to you, at all? Or should I just demolish this immediately? PLEASE, do leave a review and let me know! It'd seriously fill my day with sunshine.

Thank you so much for reading! 'Hope I'll see you again one day.

Take care!