A/N: So, I actually finished this at about the same time as the last chapter, but I thought I'd give it time to sit and age a bit between postings (because apparently stories are like a fine wine? I don't know.). Anyhoo, enjoy the final installment!

Sherlock knew it was slightly irrational to spend so much time coming back to his own grave, listening as people gave what they thought was their final goodbye. But he also knew that this was a rather unique opportunity that would he would likely never experience again. Initially he had gone to make sure that everyone, John especially, was convinced he was dead, but as it went on, he found himself fascinated.

The first visitors had been Mrs. Hudson and John, something Sherlock had been expecting. What he hadn't expected was his own reaction at John's words. Hearing the broken tone, the pleading words, he had desperately wanted to reveal to his friend that he was alive, but he held back. It was imperative that John believe he was dead because if John knew he wasn't dead then soon enough Moriarty's men would know, and then John would be killed. So Sherlock refrained from revealing he was still alive. Barely.

Much to his surprise, the second person to visit his grave was none other than Anderson, bearing flowers, no less. Expecting some new declaration of hate or gloating, Sherlock was quite surprised to hear what the forensic technician had to say. He had never particularly cared about Anderson, the man barely registered to him on any level, always had been categorized in Sherlock's mind as a mere annoyance. Yet he found himself feeling oddly touched as Anderson revealed the truth of his admiration for Sherlock and his faith that Sherlock hadn't been faking his skills of deduction. He even felt vaguely proud of Anderson for proving himself much more thoughtful than the detective had given him credit for.

The last person to come had been Lestrade, which Sherlock found rather odd. He had been expecting the Inspector quite a bit sooner, but that hardly mattered. Lestrade turned out to be a bit of a surprise all around. He had expected something similar to John's speech, or some long, emotional goodbye. What he had certainly not expected was for Lestrade to start sobbing. He had know Lestrade for a long time, and he had always known the DI to be very level-headed and stable, on top of the fact that he had never seen the man all that upset, let alone crying. Only one word had been uttered the entire time Lestrade had been there, just Sherlock's name. And as he watched Lestrade run his hand over the tombstone, Sherlock felt a single answering tear run down his own cheek amidst the drops of water already there. When Lestrade finally stood up, Sherlock turned away, finding himself unable to face the man he had taken for granted for so long as emotion swept through him. He began to walk away, listening to Lestrade's steps echo his own until eventually Sherlock was alone and all he could hear was the rain.

A/N: Sigh. Another fic completed. I shall miss this story, and the reviews it has brought me. Speaking of which, thank you to all who have reviewed, and/or favorited! I love you guys so much. More than I love Rupert Graves. But only by a tiny bit more.

Oh, and before anyone gets ishy about it, Sherlock wasn't there when Donovan visited the grave, and Mycroft never visited because, in my opinion, Mycroft would be the one person to know if Sherlock was still alive. Cameras all over the city and whatnot.

For anyone interested, I've got a slightly more humorous and slash-y fic in the working, so keep an eye out if you'd like!

So, love it? Hate it? Want to dress me in lederhosen and dropkick me into a fjord for writing it? Let me know!

-badgermushroom out! :d