Glass: After the Storm

The Tempest

The necklace sat inside a drawer in Margaux's nightstand, tucked away waiting for the sender's next message. But nothing ever came. As the summer months passed by, the strange gift slowly faded to the back of everyone's mind, and as autumn crept in, they had almost forgotten about it completely.

The cemetery was always quiet at 8am. A still, frosty fog settled close to the ground, skimming the tops of gravestones as the cold October morning lay dew across the grass and fallen leaves. Sherlock and John stood together beside Mary's plot as the children's giggles echoed eerily across the cemetery. Vaughan played amongst the graves as Rosie chased him on her wobbly, 1-year-old legs, her pearl blonde hair peeking out from under a woolly hat too big for her head.

Sherlock looked over as his son knelt behind a headstone to hide. "Vaughan, get up off the ground! You'll get your uniform dirty."

Vaughan was 4-years-old, a month into his reception year of primary school and excelling quickly. But of course, Sherlock expected nothing less.

"Come on mate," John called to the little boy. "You know she'll only copy you."

Just as he finished speaking, Rosie plonked herself down in a patch of mud. John pressed his lips together, sighed and turned back to Mary's headstone.

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets. "Do you want me to walk away? So you can... I don't know, talk to her or whatever it is you do."

"S'alright. I just wanted to stop past. I feel like I- I feel like I've been neglecting her."

"You come here every week."

"No, neglecting her... emotionally."

Sherlock looked down at him and raised an eyebrow. "Because you've been breakfasting another woman?"

"I don't know. I just feel guilty. Like I'm putting Victoria before her." John sighed. "Also, I've already told you, breakfast is a perfectly acceptable date, you dick."

Sherlock smiled, a small laugh shaking his shoulders. John crouched down, neatening the decorations around the plot before using his sleeve to buff away a smudge on the engraving.

"I just..." he bowed his head. "I feel like something might be missing with Vic. I'm wondering if there's even a point in carrying it on."

"Is that because something's missing with Victoria? Or because you're missing Mary?"

John stood up. "Look, I don't know. But I- By this point with Mary, I knew I loved her; I'd already bought an engagement ring by now. Me and Victoria–"

"Victoria and I."

"We're just not there. I don't think we're... anywhere."

Sherlock gazed off across the cemetery, at the blend of grey and green behind the smoky fog. "No one will ever be Mary," he finally said. "You're not replacing her. You're simply... making room beside her."

John thought for a moment, before dropping his head and breathing out a laugh. "I can't believe you're making sense. Sherlock Holmes is giving me love advice and emotional support. What the f–"

"Don't swear in a place of 'god', John. The imaginary man might smite you with his imaginary superpowers."

"Ah, there's the Sherlock I know."

Vaughan walked up to them hand in hand with Rosie. "She said she's tired."

"Aw well she's only a baby," John replied, scooping her up in his arms.

"No she's not, she's a toddler."

"And there's the Vaughan I know. You're cut from the same cloth, you two." He looked down at him. "Ever heard that expression?"