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The thing about pain was, it demanded to be felt. And no matter how time passed, even if the wound had healed, a scar would replace it to remind us of the pain that once felt, tugging at our hearts with dull ache. It was a curse for the living, not for the dead, and this was why she wept for the ones who were left behind; because once the heart stopped beating, the pain would go away. The dead could not feel the anguish and sorrow, but the living would continue carrying these scars as part of their collection in life.
She stood beneath the superficial light in the morgue. She hated this feeling; the feeling of grief. She remembered watching John Watson, a brave man – one had to be to follow Sherlock around London chasing after his flatmate, she was sure – leaned against the white wall, slowly sliding down to the floor, hands still covered in his friend’s blood. He sat there, eyes unfocused and never said a word even when asked, and soon was left to his own device as he remained motionless. He wasn’t crying, not exactly, but that was what made looking at him even more difficult. She had to turn away, hiding her own brim of tears from being seen. She mourned for what John had lossed; a friend, a flatmate, and everything Sherlock ever was and ever could be to him.
And she remembered the Detective Inspector as well, arriving at the morgue with his breathing heavy as if he had just run from the Yard. Maybe he did, for all the thumping she was sure his heart did. She witnessed the crumbling of a strong man, his hand were shaky, trying his damnest to reign his tears, as he brush the curl of that raven hair caked with dried crimson liquid. There was one moment that he inhaled so sharply, his head buried at the deceased side, whispering something that she couldn’t hear. And then he straightened his back, and looked at her with eyes still glassy, lips and jaw set in a hard line, and it was all back to business. She couldn’t really blame him; it was his coping mechanism after all. He made a call to a brother that she didn’t know, and took John Watson home. As she watched the retreating back of both men, strung together by the loss of a friend, she mourned for them as well.
Now, she watched with her arms crossed her chest the back of the supposed dead man, already donning in clothes that a woman with a Blackberry constantly on her hands gave to him earlier, along with his new identity. His hair was no longer raven, but blond and cropped short. It was as if he was another man; no longer looking confidence even while standing, but weary, as if the burden of the world was placed on his shoulder.
There would be a memorial service tomorrow, she was informed, and they would watch an empty casket being buried while others who were kept in the dark mourn for a living man who would be halfway around the world by then. She didn’t know if she had enough resolve not to crumble in front of them and tell them that Sherlock was still alive. But she had to keep this secret close to her heart, or three lives would have to pay the price; or so she was told.
“When are you coming back?” it was the first time that she spoke, and her small voice rang through the silent room, and she cringed.
“I don’t know,” there was no way of reading him as his face was obscured. Not that she could before, she never could do such a thing, not correctly anyway. Then she was the centre of that intense gaze as he turned around. “Keep John safe when I’m gone.”
She didn’t know what made her did what she did. Maybe it was the finality in his voice that impulse her to do so. Maybe it was some selfish reason of her own or another. But it wasn’t important at the moment. She closed the space between them and wrapped him in a fierce hug, hiding her face at the crook of his neck. She didn’t even know if he was adverse to people touching him physically, he always seemed so aloof and distant, unless it was to his benefit, whether it was for a case or for his own selfish reasons.
She could feel his body stiffen, but it didn’t deter her one bit. He didn’t push her away, and she counted it as a small victory. Soon he seemed to relaxed a little, and placed his hands uncertainly around her.
“Stay safe,” her words were muffled, and she tried not to let her voice falter. “And come back. Promise me you’ll come back.” She stifled a cry, “If you can’t do it for yourself, then do it for John.”
She didn’t dare to look at him, because she was afraid of what she would find, though she wasn’t sure herself. But then she felt his embrace tightened around her, and it was enough. It had to be, for now.
She let go of him eventually, wiping away the tears that she could no longer control. She watched him with heavy heart, sending him along with her prayer for his safe return. He stopped as his hand hovered on the knob of the door, his head turned so that she was in her peripheral vision. “Thank you,” he said quietly. And then he was gone.
The trouble with pain is, it demands to be felt. At first, it’s everywhere, and you can’t get away from it. Then you get used to it; just a dull ache, and you forget about it. Then there’s something that reminds you of that pain, and it hits you full force. But it never goes away. You learn to live with it. It was a curse for the living, not for the dead, and this was why she wept for the ones who were left behind.