Shadows of the Past (BBC Sherlock) -1-

30. A Long-Awaited Answer

As you could imagine, things got a little awkward since test result day.

The days went on as normal, conversation was awkward. We didn't know how to really deal with this. I knew how to handle the news internally; I kept my relief buried deep inside. The mystery was finally put to rest.

I never expected my father to be from a different country, let alone be right in front of me this whole time while I was in London. I was glad someone figured it out, otherwise John and I would have probably never known.

I yearned to know about my mother from John, but I was finding it hard to bring it up. You would think it would be easy, right?

It was also weird to see him in a new light now. He was my father. Though it was true, it was hard to believe. Who would have thought it? The very man I'd been looking for had been living in 221B with a consulting detective.

It was another stay-in day for me and another out-day for John. It was weird for me to still call him his name. For a while, I'd been debating on whether or not to start calling him "Dad". I mean, he was my dad, but I wasn't sure how well it would sound. I was so used to calling him John for months.

Ever since that day, I was secretly thankful for Sherlock living up to his promise. I felt forever grateful. It hurt me to know that I could never repay him. Well, I guess that's not true. I could be watching over John—my dad—for him.

I really needed to get used to that fact.

Suddenly, I didn't feel like today should be an in-day for me. With a plan in my head, I lurched out of my comfy bed and headed straight for the bathroom to shower. I'd only visited the place once, but it would be nice to visit again despite how depressing it could get. Even though I knew there was no chance in hell that he would hear me, I needed to express my gratitude to him. A letter wouldn't cut it.

I had to go visit his grave.

* * *

"I won't be long," I told the taxi driver as I got out.

I remembered the last time I had come here. I'd been with John and Mrs. Hudson. My mind thought about the little old lady. I needed to make a note to visit her sometime, if I was willing to bring myself back to Baker Street.

I felt like I was replaying the day in my head. I could see our trio standing in front of the grave I was walking towards with snail slowness. I could see me kneeling down before the headstone and then taking off because I thought I saw a flash of black. That hadn't been real, that had been the start of me briefly losing my mind.

Sherlock was dead. I'd watched him fall off the roof of St. Bart's. There was no way he had survived the fall. End of story.

A sense of déjà vu rippled through my veins as I glared down at the black headstone. I was ashamed of myself for forgetting to bring something to place on the grave. I felt like I was disrespecting the dead. But I reminded myself that this was Sherlock Holmes' grave, so I doubted his ghost would care if I brought anything or not.

I smiled solemnly, wondering about the poor souls on the other side who were encountering him. I could see his ghost trying to find a case on the other side, deducting people. Even in death he wouldn't stop. I wondered what he'd do if he got bored on the other side. Haunt people?

At that thought, I decided to stop thinking about it all together.

Like last time, I dropped to my knees, watching my reflection in the marble headstone.