"Are you going to say anything, John?"

"No. No, I can't."

Sherlock's friends didn't even fill one row. The four of them huddled together in the front- Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly (who he was surprised to find was managing to keep herself together rather well), and himself. Mycroft sat away, in the back, his head bowed, possibly from the shame.

Everyone else filled in. A few people he had solved cases for, reporters and journalists eager for another chance to tell another story on the genius who became a liar. Some were civilians and hypocrites, people simply finding a way to pass more time.

There were a few reasons he couldn't stand behind that pulpit and speak about his best friend. One, there was a good chance he would have to be escorted out by the police. The people there for a stare angered him because they didn't know anything, they only knew the fairy tales they read about him in the newspaper.

Then there was the fact he wasn't sure he could say anything. There was plenty he regretted not telling the detective (why didn't I tell him, he said I was his best friend, why couldn't I tell him too?), and yet to stand and talk about him to people who undoubtedly wouldn't believe him was sickening.

And in the end, it may have just been a matter of pride. He didn't want them to see him crying.

It was the freshly piled dirt that disgusted him, the thought that six feet below that fresh smelling ground was the greatest man he had known.

Everything seemed so surreal in that moment. Somehow standing in front of the closed casket was different from standing in front of a grave that read no more than "Sherlock Holmes". Somehow this was more real, and yet, just as impossible.

He hesitated, looking at the ground before timidly stepping on it, now standing over the forever motionless body, and placing his hand lightly on the grave. He could feel his composure slowly slipping away as he spoke the words he should have so long ago.

His head fell to his chest, and he could feel them coming, the tears choking him and trying to break free. He had to leave. He could only imagine what Sherlock would say if he saw him crying.

John took a deep breath, and turned away. The feeling was nagging at him again, that this wasn't reality, and if it was, then there was just no point anymore.

"Please, there's one more thing. One more miracle for me."

He stared at the gold letters and begged them to listen, to do as he asked.

"Don't be dead. For me. Stop it. Stop this."

And he walked away, the soldier at the end of the war, still managing to struggle through the end.