Eleanor placed a single white rose on the gray headstone, the headstone which she now knew stood over the grave of a stranger whom she would never know, but to whom she would be eternally grateful because he had saved the life of the man she loved and, in return, had saved her own life. Even if she didn't understand, she would believe in Sherlock. And as time went by, her faith in him tested, her mind always wondering if she had made the right choice and stood by the right man, she would always remember this moment when she stood at a stranger's graveside and felt deep gratitude that he was not Sherlock.
"Thank you," she said softly.
She turned and walked away. Behind her she felt the fading warmth of the sun as it dropped down towards the horizon. The night was getting colder. Her hands were chilled through, and she warmed them with her breath before sticking them in her coat pockets. A few months ago, she would have been scared at the thought of being out at night alone in the graveyard. But tonight nothing frightened her.
Sherlock was alive. When enough time had passed and the danger was gone, Sherlock would come find her. She felt as certain of this fact as much as she was aware that she breathed and lived. She knew it in her bones, in the space between her rib cage and her heart where all was suffused with a glowing warmth. Nothing, not the night air, nor the cold grave of the stranger who bore Sherlock's name, or the doubting mouths of the entire world, would ever convince her otherwise.
The edge of night pulled over the sky as Eleanor walked towards the main road to hail a cab. She didn't look back. Didn't look up at the night sky as the stars started to twinkle above her. The night would be long but morning would come soon enough.
"Thank you," she said softly.
She turned and walked away. Behind her she felt the fading warmth of the sun as it dropped down towards the horizon. The night was getting colder. Her hands were chilled through, and she warmed them with her breath before sticking them in her coat pockets. A few months ago, she would have been scared at the thought of being out at night alone in the graveyard. But tonight nothing frightened her.
Sherlock was alive. When enough time had passed and the danger was gone, Sherlock would come find her. She felt as certain of this fact as much as she was aware that she breathed and lived. She knew it in her bones, in the space between her rib cage and her heart where all was suffused with a glowing warmth. Nothing, not the night air, nor the cold grave of the stranger who bore Sherlock's name, or the doubting mouths of the entire world, would ever convince her otherwise.
The edge of night pulled over the sky as Eleanor walked towards the main road to hail a cab. She didn't look back. Didn't look up at the night sky as the stars started to twinkle above her. The night would be long but morning would come soon enough.
