She couldn't actually remember walking through the gates. Worse, she had no idea where she was going. Wandering around a graveyard wasn't just creepy, it felt like she was spying. People who had actual loved ones here were mourning. People who had lost husbands or wives, parents, children, sisters and brothers. What had she lost? A man who'd chosen immortality over her. Who'd chosen power and greed instead of a life with her. In plenty of ways, she was glad he was gone, and it felt strange wanting to see the grave. Maybe she just needed that reassurance that he was dead. Maybe then the nightmares would stop. She'd read that her pregnancy would make her dreams more vivid and if they got much more so, she'd never sleep again.
She also didn't notice when she first saw him. Just another mourner in the smattering of those doing so. She'd been ignoring the people around her. Despite the late summer heat, she was wearing a large sweatshirt to cover her slowly growing stomach and to attempt to ward off the severe chills she had more often than not. She was getting there, surviving, but it was slow. And her body language showed it. She was curled in on herself as she walked, holding her arms tightly to her.
But there he was, several feet away, his sandy hair catching the sunlight. It was ironic, in a way. It was sunny out and yet she knew, for her at least, it felt like the sun was long gone. And just looking at him, she thought maybe he felt much the same. It didn't make it easier to see him.
She didn't blame him for what had happened. Of course she didn't. She'd asked him to do it. Given him all the tools he needed to do the one thing she couldn't. She'd given the only man she'd ever loved to him to do what needed to be done. That wasn't his fault. The anger he'd been dealing with had radiated from him and she felt for him. But at the time, the only thing she'd felt was misery. Intense, bone deep misery that hadn't allowed her to reach out to him. And she didn't really deserve to. He had friends. People who cared about him. The one time she'd tried, she'd been put rightfully back into her place. To him, she would only ever be the woman who hadn't stepped up in time to save Sherlock.
And that was something she'd have to live with forever. No one knew it like she did, not even him.
She didn't say hello. It seemed pointless. She didn't walk away, either, though. For a moment, she merely watched. His suffering was her own for that moment, his pain echoed like an airwave, bouncing off the other tombstones and hitting her directly. This was what she deserved. To stand and watch someone hurting because of her actions. It was her fault, in the end. Even if not directly, even if she hadn't played a part, she'd let it happen. And she deserved to watch human suffering for it. She needed to see what her too late choices had cost.