Title: Final tag to "Sunset's Wake"

Author: Still Waters

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.

Summary: John no longer believed in coincidence. He had been brought here to say goodbye.

Written: 11/15/15

Notes: In the back of my mind, I always knew there was one more chapter for this character. It's been six months since I wrote anything. Earlier this week, as a hospice nurse, I had the privilege of spending over two hours with a dying veteran who had no family, not wanting him to be alone as he moved closer to taking his final breath. This morning, I spoke with my grandmother, and as soon as the call ended, this story came out like a shot. This chapter is dedicated to my grandfather, who passed away last month. We spent hours discussing writing by phone and he always encouraged me to keep it up. I'll miss those calls and his enthusiastic support. As always, I truly hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading. I cherish every response.

John stood just beyond the water's reach, stifling a shiver as a deceptively soft, but bitter, wind slipped icy fingers under his scarf and down the back of his neck. Settling into the relaxed familiarity of 'at-ease', he watched Major Sholto cast the last of the ashes into the gray expanse, several white-capped waves peaking like the rows of headstones at too-familiar cemeteries as the sea accepted the last fragments of another good man gone too soon. Sholto stood silently, sharp eyes watching the air as if waiting until every last grain was taken up before executing a tight right turn and striding to John's left side. Passing the empty urn to John, Sholto waited as he placed it in the sand in front of them with the solemn reverence of a wreath on Remembrance Sunday, before leading the small group of men in a final snap to attention and salute of farewell.

"Thank you, sir," John said, brushing the sand from the base of the urn as he picked it up again, tucking it under his right arm as the rest of the men dispersed with quiet words and brisk handshakes under weary eyes. "Andy would have been honored, having you here."

"He was a good man." Sholto's eyes shifted from the few departing veterans John had been able to find on short notice to the softening sky, gray giving way to a hint of pink - the chance of a sunset brighter than another overcast day.

"He always respected you, you know. And not just because you out-ranked him."

"Even good men can be fools sometimes," Sholto sighed, eyes out at sea.

"Well, I suppose you'll be walking back with another fool, then," John said simply as he started down the beach.

Sholto fell in step alongside him, eyes softening with a hint of a touched smile. "You were with him in the end?"

"He died about forty-five minutes after I left the hospice."

"There was no one else?" Sholto's eyes remained on the expanse of sand ahead.

"Only child, parents died years ago, no wife or kids. All he had was this," John gestured lightly at Sholto's uniform.

"Thank you, for being with him," Sholto said quietly, the thick words of a man who found expressing gratitude a war of its own.

John swallowed, hard. "No one should have to die alone," he said equally quietly, eyes haunted. "But some can't make that final step until they are."

Sholto nodded as John roughly cleared his throat and tightened his step.

They walked in silent companionship, steps unconsciously regimented, years of unwanted memories painfully back at the surface; eyes unwavering in their focus on the open space ahead as the claustrophobic pressure of history strove to drown them. But there was a reason Andy had wanted to be scattered to the openness of the sea - the same reason Sholto hadn't hesitated when John phoned him about the memorial's location. Because when the past sought to drown the present, it was, ironically, at the sea that men like them became most free. The open space reminded them that there was more than the confines of their own bodies; the crash of waves white noise against the memories shouting for control. The breeze, icy though it was that day, swept up those thoughts closest to the surface and sent them out to be buried at sea, or frozen as icicles hanging off the cliff faces.

A cleansing by ice, perhaps, rather than fire, but a cleansing all the same.

The sky sighed, dark gray fading into white smudges of cloud tinged with hints of pink and orange. The wind whipped John's scarf with a snap echoed by the crunch of something under his shoe. Looking down, he found a brilliantly red piece of sea glass, perfectly smooth after being tossed by countless waves. Andy's favorite color. John wasn't much of a collector, but even he knew the color was rare. He pocketed the piece, running it through fisted fingers.

Sholto paused a few steps later, eyes on a growing swirl of color on the horizon, the changing sky tinting his scarred face back to the deep red it had been at the start of the healing process years before. His irises were shaded as deep and distant as the gray sea as his mind went back, until a rough burst of wind shook the memory from him and he tucked his weak left arm against his body, eyes clearing to the present, and resumed walking, John falling back in step as if they had never stopped.

Neither of them spoke until twenty minutes later, when another group of dark-clad figures appeared at the water's edge. Altering their course slightly further up the beach to avoid interrupting, they soon realized that they hadn't been the only ones who had found the sea an appropriate place to say goodbye that day.

There were about thirty or forty people there, hunkering down into coats and scarves against the increasing wind in the dying light, holding onto memorial boards plastered with pictures tinged with the pink and orange of the fading sun, trying to keep the wind from taking those memories too. John felt the weight of the urn under his right arm as he saw a man with jet black hair shot with white, tears unashamedly running down his face in a combination of grief and the sharp whip of sand in his face.

The wind brought his voice over the heads of the mourners.

"You know, she was afraid of fire ever since she was a little girl. But over the last few years, our flat became filled with candles. She'd sit for hours, watching the flames. Said it helped her let go. And….." He paused, voice catching in his throat. "I think she knew, somehow, that she was going to…."

John stopped. Even the wind couldn't take away the memory of that same pain in his own voice, the finality of that single syllable coming through a raw, swollen throat in a cracked half-whisper at Sherlock's grave.

Don't. Be…. Dead.

The man took a shaky breath and scrubbed at his eyes. Despite the cold, he wasn't wearing gloves, as if he wanted there to be nothing between him and the simple black urn, adorned with a vibrant purple ribbon. He still couldn't say the word; pressed on instead. "Because that night, just before bed, she turned to me and said, 'I want to be cremated. Bring me to the sea at sunset and let me go.' Just like that." He chuckled fondly through a wet sniffle. "Guess that's what comes of having an undertaker for a mum."

A ripple of choked laughter went through the crowd.

John was rooted to the sand, white-knuckled fingers grasping the sea glass in his pocket as he planted himself against the pull of the wind, the memory of swaying, alone, on gray pavement marked by thick blood; the place where his best friend, knowing he was about to die, couldn't say the word either.

This phone call…..it's my note.

Goodbye, John.

John forced bile down as the gray sea tinged pink with the setting sun, the color of blood diluted by late-day rain. The crash of waves the rushing sound in his ears as he struggled to Sherlock's side. The cramp in fingers clutching sea glass the creak of his therapist's armchair under spasming hands. The icy snap of the wind the cold of the flat as he sat alone, feet bare in the unheated space, too numb to even consider that there was a remedy for some of the chill he felt.

Sholto stood at John's side, a silent pillar of support who didn't need to look into the painful emptiness of John's eyes to know exactly where he was. Sholto could feel the ripples of Sherlock's death coming off John in waves as white-capped as the sea itself; could feel the echo of a phone against his ear, the agonizingly sharp edges of John's ragged breathing as words remained out of reach. Of papers proclaiming the suicide of a fake genius with increasing sensationalism while the phone line ran silent with the breaths of two isolated men who had each lost what was most important to them.

John snapped straighter, jaw clenching through a shot of fire in distant eyes; the bitter anger of Sherlock's return, the betrayal that still, at times, marred the joy of rare second chances. Sholto had been privy to that anger as well, in a different sort of harsh breath over the phone late at night, the sound of teeth grinding and tight steps pacing. It was one of his and John's greatest similarities – their fiercely controlled processing of grief and rage.

John sucked in a breath - agonal, like a man resuscitated. Tilting his chin with a bare nod – everything back in place, under control – he appeared ready to move on. Until a woman clutched at a large photo torn from the memorial board with a gust of wind, the image coming into clear view over bowed heads.

"John?" Sholto broke the silence as John paled.

John swallowed, dropped the sea glass in his pocket, and absently rubbed at his left temple, where his head had struck the ground in the street that day. Blue skirt and blazer, white blouse, Bart's ID around her neck, gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, kind eyes glowing with laughter as she hugged the woman who now held the picture, silver watch and gold ring glinting in the fluorescent light of a hospital office…..

"John," Sholto repeated, soft command tinged with concern.

"I know her," John finally managed.

Sholto waited as John fought to resurface while the man took the lid off the urn cradled to his chest and spoke words neither of them truly heard.

"She was there….." John couldn't suppress a shiver at the memory of cold pavement through his jeans, the gentle, firm hand prying his fingers from Sherlock's wrist, the supportive arm at his back, the warm shelter of compassionate humanity, of understanding, as his world shattered into blood-stained pavement, lifeless eyes, and a broken body, and he listed into her. "When Sh - "

Sholto sucked in a quiet breath. When John had finally been able to talk about that day, he spoke of a woman - a woman with kind eyes, a rugby player's firm blocking technique, and a compassion born of those who were no strangers to death. Even after Sherlock's painful resurrection and the reveal of his convoluted deception, John had known that woman wasn't part of Sherlock's plot. There were some experiences, like repeatedly handling death and those left behind, that couldn't be faked to those who knew them well.

And John was too well-versed.

John hadn't told anyone else about the woman; only briefly mentioned her to Sholto, trusting his ex-commander's understanding and discretion.

John had seen too much in both of his careers to believe in coincidence anymore. Meeting Mike Stamford on a park bench shortly after his return from Afghanistan had only cemented that belief.

He had been brought here to say goodbye. Not only to Andy, but to her.

"It was her," Sholto said softly, almost reverently.

"It was her," John echoed, voice back on emptied pavement running thick with blood.

Both men snapped to attention as the man turned to the sea and released the ashes with a choked "goodbye, love."

John watched the ashes join the water, rippling orange and pink as the sun neared its final drop. The woman with the photo gently placed the purple ribbon on the outgoing pull of a wave's end, and then it was over. Another life brought back to nature; elements of beaches and sunsets yet to be seen.

John turned to leave as the crowd began to pack up in the rapidly fading light. But the man came through the crowd, urn tucked under his right arm in a mirror of John, and held out a hand. "I'm sorry, I don't think I know you," he said. "My mind's a bit muddled, though, so forgive me if I should."

"Ah, no, it's all right. We've never actually met," John shook his hand firmly.

The man didn't seem to notice the absence of a name. "Well, thank you for coming. How did you know my wife?"

John paused. "I didn't, really. We….." He cleared his throat as the wind kicked sand between them. "…. met in passing. She was a good woman."

"Yes, she was," the man said wistfully. Someone called his name, and by the time he turned back, John and Sholto were far down the beach.

They walked silently until they found another secluded spot, standing just beyond the water's reach as the sun sunk below the horizon, purples, oranges, and gray suddenly wiped out like a shot, leaving the sky dark with the barest smudge of red. John ran the red sea glass through his pocketed fingers; thought of Andy, a man he'd known for years, of a woman he'd only known for minutes, and the equal grief they now shared in his heart. Thought of life and death, sunrises and sunsets, friends gone to nature and friends returned to him through hardship and even death itself.

Sholto remained a silent presence at his side, allowing John to lead.

The red faded, black night taking over. The wind picked up, their coats stiff with sand and salt spray. John gave the barest of nods and Sholto followed suit, snapping to attention in a final act of respect and gratitude to those returned to the sea that night.

Then, with a click of heels muted by swirling sand, both men turned away from the waves and walked up to the road, cold air cleansing their lungs even as it stung their eyes, wind rough through their hair, and the night sky unrolling an ever-expanding blanket of stars to light their way.