First of all, you should all know we operate under a strict 'no apologies for feels' policy. That being said, we thoroughly apologize for the feels in this story. From the beginning we knew it was going to be a sad one, we just underestimated just how heartbreaking killing off the British Government could be. Caring was most definitely not an advantage for us but we hope you like it anyway!

And if you like this story, or even if you didn't like it, check out our other Holmies story: The Adventure of the Kidnapped King! It's a similar feel and no one dies.

Thanks! Let us know what you think! ~G&A

Mycroft Holmes didn't insist on doing many things himself. He had people for that. Minions he could command to do menial tasks while he focused on doing the sort of work that toppled governments and smothered wars before they had a chance to start. He was a man of power to the few who knew the nature of his position, and a busy man to any and all who asked.

Except when it came to his family. Mycroft preferred to deal with matters himself when it came to Sherlock, or their parents. He deferred only what was prudent to a handful of people he trusted and even then he insisted upon overseeing their work to be safe. He made all compulsory phone calls when it was necessary to make phone calls at all, and took his private car, with Sherlock in the passenger seat, to family gatherings during the holidays.

Currently that family gathering happened to be Christmas at the Holmes estate, the first after the incident with Charles Augustus Magnussen the year before. He'd checked his phone only once, preferring to focus on his driving and the road ahead. An old but persistent habit when driving with his little brother in the car, like eyeing the speed every so often or checking he'd buckled his seatbelt. He wouldn't put his life in danger while he was behind the wheel.

Sherlock was looking out the window as they made their way from Baker Street out of Central London. His sharp blue eyes focused on the passing buildings, decorated in a thin layer of snow. Sherlock was quiet. John and Mary were celebrating their first Christmas with their daughter and didn't want to intrude on the Holmes family Christmas this year. Sherlock didn't mind, stuck in the car with Mycroft for the drive wasn't so bad now that they were on their way to repairing their relationship. Years of scores and resentments were forgiven, life carried on.

"You know if I hadn't wrapped up that last case last night, I wouldn't have come." Sherlock commented. "This is two years in a row. Mummy's going to be gushing."

"There's no doubt in my mind. I suppose it's only fitting, given last year's events," Mycroft replied. "At any rate, she insisted and there's only so much I can do. We can survive one more family dinner." He peeked at his brother. "I trust there will be nothing in the punch this year?"

"No promises." Sherlock quipped. "But I forgot my chemist."

Mycroft hummed in disapproval. "It's only a day. Lord knows I'd drug myself to get out of it, but I did promise. Besides, you need to eat something substantial."

"I was on a case, an eight at that." Sherlock protested. "You know I don't eat when I'm working."

"I know." Mycroft glanced at him. "You'll starve yourself one of these days if I let you."

Sherlock scoffed. "Careful. You make it sound like a challenge. See how long it would take you to force feed me. At least that's not a game I'm intent on playing."

"Good, because it's not a game we'd be playing for long," Mycroft retorted as he signaled a left turn. "It'd be for your own good, at any rate."

"Always, apparently." The younger brother quipped. He sat in a thoughtful silence looking out the window for a bit before he spoke again. "At least I don't mind as much. I mean, I've never liked you trying to run my life, but at least you've gotten better."

"Not nearly as overbearing as I used to be, am I?" Mycroft still smiled faintly to himself. "I appreciate you saying so."

"It's Christmas. Though I'm short a cigarette for sentimental confessions." Sherlock commented casually. "Maybe later."

"Later, definitely. I won't have you smoking in my car."

"Of course, it's in pristine condition. No smoking, fooling around in the backseat, or joy rides through mud. I'm very impressed." Sherlock quipped, taking off his scarf and tossing it in said backseat with a boyish smile.

Mycroft stopped at a red light and flicked his eyes towards the back seat. "And of course you'd choose to litter it with your belongings to christen it." He turned his eyes ahead. "Why would there be fooling around in the backseat?"

"I dunno." Sherlock said innocently, shrugging and slouching in his seat. "Surely everyone can't be a goldfish. What happened to that American?"

"Naomi," he corrected smoothly. "And she's gone back to the States, not that it's any of your business. Don't mention it to Mummy, will you? I'd hate for her to get the wrong impression."

Sherlock chuckled quietly. "No promises. It might just...slip out. I can be bribed to keep quiet though, I'm quite sure."

"Typical." Mycroft scoffed. "Fine, name your terms. I offered you a cigarette before. Does that cover it? I could hide the pack, in theory."

"Hmm... I want the whole pack though. Save for later. It is Christmas after all." He agreed, victorious. He made a shooing motion next as the light changed. "Green means go."

"Are you in a hurry to get to Christmas dinner, brother dear?" Mycroft turned his eyes forward and pressed his foot down to accelerate.

"Anxious for that cigarette." Sherlock quipped back.

If he'd known what would happen next, he never would have said anything. If he'd known, they would have just kept talking about Mycroft's new friend and Christmas cigarettes and matters of national security. But Sherlock was a detective, not psychic. And some things just happened.

Mycroft didn't see the truck run the red light. He didn't see it barreling towards his side of the car at full speed. Didn't hear car horns blaring in warning or see the flash of headlights too near until it was too late. The bumper hit the door junction first, but it was the metal grill that forcefully shoved his body towards the passenger's seat, cracking glass and rending metal. His head smashed against something hard even as his seat belt cut into his skin, holding him in place. His vision blurred and went black at the edges, but through the fog he still had one pressing concern.

"Sherly?" His voice was shaky and weak and his eyes were closing of their own accord. "Sher..."

It had happened in slow motion for Sherlock, the crunch, the shouts, the skidding, the shattering of glass. All mapped out as his mind predicted what was happening. Mycroft's car was pushed several dozen yards before it came to a stop in the freshly fallen snow. There was a ringing in his ears and his eyes fluttered open. He hurt so many places he wasn't sure exactly where it was stemming from. But that pain was soon secondary, because his dilated eyes landed on the mangled form of his brother.

Mycroft was bloody, far more bloody than a person should be, and crushed between the crumpled door, his own seat, and the broken steering wheel. Sherlock reached a shaky hand for him, who was only inches away now, his other hand working to get his own seatbelt off. "My?" The childhood nickname came out hoarse. "My? Wake up."

Mycroft's eyes fluttered and he opened them as if in a haze. He didn't move otherwise. His head was bent forward and so bloody he had to blink twice to get it out of his eyes. "Sherly," he managed to get out, but it was more of a wheeze. "I can't."

Sherlock coughed, wiggling his seat belt until it finally broke apart. His leg was broken, he knew that for sure. Everything else seemed to be relatively functional. In stark contrast to his brother. Someone would have called an ambulance, they had eight minutes. He bit his lip and shifted to get better look at Mycroft, supporting his brother's bloody head in one of his shaking hands. "You have to, My." He said. "Because I need you to...okay?"

"Okay." Mycroft coughed and the taste in his mouth was metallic, but he pressed on. He only had to hold on until help arrived, so Sherlock wouldn't be stuck inside a car with his big brother's corpse. That wasn't the image he wanted to leave him with. The emptiness of loss. He could hold on a few minutes. "It'll be... fine. Are... you okay?"

"Broken leg…not like that's a first. I'm okay." Sherlock said, his eyes sweeping over his brother. "You're...um…"

"A little scratched," he finished for him with a bit of a wheeze. "A little bruised. Not the... first time." He half chuckled, half coughed. "I'll be fine." He breathed in and out for a few seconds. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry? What for?" Sherlock asked, shifting to get a better look at Mycroft's face. Bloody, dilated eyes, blood just visible on his lips, too pale skin.

"For the cigarette," Mycroft joked in spite of the circumstances. He didn't want to die. And he especially didn't want to die in front of his brother, but his body was shutting down on him. He recognized the signs though his brain had slowed to a near crawl. Perhaps it was what ordinary people felt like on the daily basis, but the idea held no humor for him now. "I'm sorry... I wasn't better," he wheezed. "I love you... Sherly. 'S all it was..."

"No, no, no, no. Don't." Sherlock replied, a catch in his voice at the overwhelming conclusion his mind presented him with. His brother was going to die. Mycroft Holmes didn't just outright admit sentiment. There could be no other reason. "You're not allowed to die." He said, gently taking Mycroft's head in his hands. "I...I need you. I'm not...not ready."

"You'll be... fine." Mycroft allowed his eyes to close, lifting a hand to take one of Sherlock's. "Y'don't need me." He swallowed thickly. "We're not little anymore."

Sherlock's body was twisted half out of his seat as he focused his attention on his brother. His own physical pain forgotten, the world around them unfocused and irrelevant. He stammered, fighting tears of overwhelming sentiment in the face of losing his brother. His unappreciated anchor since birth. And he uttered words he hadn't said since childhood. "No, My. I….I, I, I love you too, I can't….lose you. Don't argue with me, just wake up!"

"Shh," Mycroft said soothingly. Everything was fading. He could barely feel anything anymore, but it was still hard to breathe. He forced his eyes open to look at his little brother. So many years of resentments and fighting. For what? He would trade his last few breaths to get those years back. To try harder with him. To right his wrongs. To be family. Why hadn't he done that before? He thought he still had time, and now he was slipping away. One last thing he couldn't make up for. "Take... care of yourself, Sherly. D—don't forget. I loved you. Don't forget..."

Slowly, his eyes drifted closed, his hand loosened its grip, and he slipped away.

"My?" Sherlock didn't recognize his own voice, small and childlike. He shook Mycroft's head just a bit, trying in vain to wake him up. To see familiar blue eyes open again. "My? Please. Please, you can't die. I'm not ready." His eyes stung as they darted over Mycroft's slacked features. He could have just been sleeping, but he was too pale. Too still. Gone.

"Did you hear me? Wake up. I need you. I'm…" A sob wrenched from his throat and he pressed his forehead to Mycroft's and pinched his eyes closed. "No, My... please, come back. I'm sorry. I love you..."

The tears fell freely as the compounding evidence placed itself in the forefront of his mind. His brother was dead. An accident of all things. Not a war, not assassins, not a terrorist group. A fluke car accident felled the most powerful man in Great Britain and left Sherlock alone to pick up the pieces.

It took the ambulance and police four more minutes to arrive, sirens blazing. And another twelve to get Sherlock Holmes out of the crumpled car. When they did break through the door, he was still holding the body of his dead brother. He wasn't moving and he hadn't since he's wrapped his arms around Mycroft as best he could in the tight space. There was blood everywhere, covering both men and the seats. The expensive leather seats were ruined, of course. Mycroft would have been appalled.

If he were still alive. The thought made Sherlock quiver.

It took three medics to remove Sherlock. To make him let go of the anchor he'd never accepted he had until it was too late. The younger brother wouldn't be pulled away, because that would make it final. Letting Mycroft go meant he was really gone. But eventually, after sedation and persistence, they pulled him out of the car and whisked him off to the hospital, leaving the broken body of the British Government. His arch enemy. His brother. His friend.

John Watson had gotten a phone call. One that he'd remember for the rest of his life. And within ten minutes of receiving that call he left an understanding Mary and their infant daughter to head to the hospital.

To be with Sherlock on Christmas.

Sherlock's injuries could have been much worse. He had multiple abrasions and a broken leg, but that was all. He wouldn't need surgery on it either, thankfully, but the A&E staff had sedated him fully to set the bone and put it in a supportive boot.

Normally in these instances, Mycroft would send a car to take Sherlock home. But all they had was John's car and no big brother to help finish the paperwork.

So John took care of it. He took care of calling the Holmeses to let them know their oldest son was dead and that their youngest was alive but injured. He texted Molly, asking for her help. And texted Greg, so he wouldn't be calling with a case or anything.

Sherlock hadn't spoken a word since they pulled him out of the wreck. His eyes were glazed over. His mind lost somewhere else. Somewhere with two boys playing pirates and curled up reading The Hobbit on the couch.

It was evening by the time John had Sherlock relatively comfortable on the couch at 221B with his leg propped up. Sherlock was obviously still in shock and John was at a loss for what to do. Since Mrs Hudson was out of town visiting her sister until the next morning, he got to work starting some soup and the kettle for tea.

Molly took a cab to Baker Street as soon as her shift was over. Her footsteps were quick and light on the stairs after letting herself in. Her eyes landed on Sherlock first. She took a few steps into the room to peek at John in the kitchen, then settled on the coffee table beside the couch. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

Sherlock blinked once, slowly, turning his face towards her. The morphine they'd given him at the A&E still coursed through his system. And the Vicodin prescription on the table promised the same for later. He didn't speak, and a barely noticeable nod and a twitch of his clasped hands were his only response.

John came over a moment later with two cups of tea, holding one out for her. "He hasn't said anything yet, not since..." He set the other cup on the table for Sherlock. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course." Molly took the cup with a quiet 'thank you' and cradled it in her hands. "You know I'm here for whatever he needs. What about his injuries?"

"Not as bad as they could have been, considering. Broken leg, cuts and scrapes, knocked his head but it's not a concussion. Considering they pulled him out of a completely crumpled car..." John didn't mention that he thought it might have been Mycroft, trying to keep Sherlock safe one last time. That would have been dismissed by both Holmes brothers, so he didn't say it out loud. "He's still in shock though, I don't know what to do."

Molly set her cup of tea aside and scooted forward on the table, gently brushing Sherlock's curls away from his forehead. "I think all we can do right now is be there for him. I took a few days off from work to help, just in case."

"His parents are staying home, I told them we'd watch over him. I also spoke to Mycroft's PA. She'll make sure everything's taken care of... so Sherlock doesn't have to." John said, putting fidgety hands in his pockets.

"It was my fault." Sherlock's voice came out soft, his eyes still unfocused on the wall.

"What?" Molly turned her attention back to Sherlock and reached for his hand. "Sherlock, it wasn't your fault. Of course it wasn't your fault."

"It was an accident, Sherlock." John said, his brow pinched in concern. "Just an accident, there's nothing you could have done."

"Pointless, illogical death. If I had been a minute later getting to the car...or not told him the light was green...he'd...well he wouldn't be dead. He wouldn't have left me." Sherlock said. His voice and expression were blank. "He wasn't supposed to die."

"No, he wasn't," Molly agreed softly. "But that's not your fault, love. John's right, it was an accident." She squeezed his hand and moved over to sit on the edge of the couch. "You can't do this to yourself."

"An accident." Sherlock repeated quietly, almost thoughtfully as he wavered on the edge of his Mind Palace escape. His hand flexed around Molly's just briefly and then he closed his eyes.

"Sherlock?" John tried, moving in to run a hesitant hand through his best friend's messy hair. "She's right, you know."

"What am I supposed to do?" Sherlock breathed out.

Molly took his hand in both of hers. "Right now you're not supposed to do anything," she said gently. "I know it's not very helpful, but it's going to hurt for a long while and there's nothing you can do about that. Eventually, though... you'll learn to live with it." She placed one of her hands on his chest. "We'll be with you all the way through."

Sherlock's chest quivered under her hand and he sniffed. There was no verbal response, as he wasn't sure he could find anything to say.

John picked up the cup of tea and offered it to him. "Drink this. Then we'll get you cleaned up and headed to bed. Sound good?"

Sherlock's free hand clasped around the cup and he nodded once.

Molly ran her hand soothingly over his chest while keeping the other firmly clasped in hers. Her heart hurt seeing him so sad and vulnerable and she would've gladly shouldered that pain if she could. "Should I go get everything ready while you drink your tea?"

Sherlock nodded once again as John stepped away. "I'm staying the night. Mary's got the baby covered." John said. "I don't think he should be alone."

"Okay. I'll stay until he's tucked into bed and come back in the morning," Molly promised, letting Sherlock go so she could remove her jacket and run the shower.

"Thanks, Molly." John said and gave her a small smile as he stepped away.

The process of helping Sherlock clean up was tedious, as he wasn't able to stand on his own at the moment. Nor stick his booted foot in the water. But soon, John and Molly tucked Sherlock into bed in clean clothes and a warm blanket. He didn't say much else after that initial confession. John had passed him over his prescription pills and Sherlock took them without complaint. Hopefully it'd help him sleep. Give him peace.

Molly came back to Baker Street early the next day to make breakfast and switch with John, so he could check in on Mary. She donned her ruffled yellow apron for the task and got busy in the kitchen, making buttermilk pancakes and cutting up an assortment of fruit. Mrs. Hudson came up with the tea shortly before Molly was meant to help Sherlock out of bed, and together they tidied up a bit and set the table.

Several minutes later, Molly checked her watch and slipped out of her apron. She walked quietly over to Sherlock's bedroom door and knocked. "Sherlock? It's me."

"It's open." His voice called out, just loud enough for her to hear.

Molly opened the door and peeked in through the opening before she slipped inside. Sherlock's eyes were open, and he was curled up on himself under the duvet facing the door. She sat down beside him on the bed and ran a hand through his curls. "How are you feeling? I made breakfast."

"I'm not hungry." Sherlock said, unmoving from his position.

"Okay, but you should eat at least a little bit," she said. "How about tea? I'll save the pancakes for later."

He was quiet a moment longer, but then nodded his head on the pillow. "Tea is fine."

"Okay, I'll be right back." Molly disappeared and returned briefly with the tray. She settled back on the bed with it on her lap. "How are you feeling, then?"

Sherlock shifted to sort of prop himself up to grab at the Vicodin that had been left on the nightstand. "I broke my leg yesterday, I'm sure you can deduce how I'm feeling."

"I didn't mean physically," Molly replied but didn't push further, readying his tea the way he liked it instead. "John will be back later. He went to check in on Mary."

Sherlock glanced at her and popped the pain pill without the tea. "I knew he would." He shifted slightly to sit up, carefully moving his broken leg as he did. "I'm fine."

"I find that hard to believe." Molly scooted forward to set the small tray down on the beside table and turned on the bed to look at him. "You're not fine, love. And it's okay not to be fine."

Sherlock blinked at her, his entire demeanor shifting. He spoke with a tone that was dead and impassive. "I watched my brother die in my hands yesterday, asking how I'm feeling is a stupid question."

"Right, sorry." Molly bit her lip and gave him his tea. "Do you need anything else?"

He bowed his head to stare down at the cup of tea in his hands and drew in a deep breath. It took a moment for him to reply. "No. Just you."

Molly was caught off guard even though she shouldn't have been. She recovered quickly. "You've got me," she promised quietly and reached for one for his hands. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Okay." Sherlock answered, glancing up at her. His clear-blue eyes were big and vulnerable, and his mind was off, wondering if another freak accident was going to take another of the few people he cared about away. He squeezed her hand, holding on like a lifeline. "And John. I've got John too."

"Yes you do," she said confidently, meeting his eyes. "You've got all of us and we're not going anywhere. We all care about you very much," she added the last with a squeeze of her hand, reaching over to brush his curls away from his forehead. "You're going to be okay."

Sherlock leaned a bit into her touch, unconsciously letting her comfort him. It wasn't something he was used to at least. Mycroft had, when they'd been very young. Sherlock remembered. And he always would. Some things would never be deleted. "Thank you." He said quietly a moment later.

"You're very welcome." Molly ran her fingers through his curls one more time and let her hand drift down to his cheek. "Now drink your tea if you're not going to eat anything."

"If you insist." He replied quietly.

"I do insist." Molly pulled her hand back but stayed put. "And afterwards we can watch something until John comes over. How does that sound?"

"That's fine." Sherlock said in the same quiet tone as he brought the warm cup of tea to his lips to take a sip. "I want to watch Star Wars."

Molly couldn't hold back a smile. "Star Wars, really? I didn't know you liked that sort of thing."

"Haven't seen it since it came out." Sherlock admitted vaguely. "The last one. But I want to watch it."

Six year old Sherlock and thirteen year old Mycroft had been dragged by their parents to go see the last installment of the Star Wars trilogy. Sherlock had enjoyed the first two back then, but the third one had scared him in the dark of the theatre, and he'd ended up crawling into Mycroft's lap. Sherlock didn't tell Molly this.

"Okay, then we'll do that. Come on, I'll help you out of bed." She scooted back a bit.

Sherlock managed with her help to get to the single crutch he'd be using. She stayed most of the day until John came back, but they didn't speak much. Which was fine, he preferred that anyways. He spent most of the rest of the day just sitting in silence.

The funeral of Mycroft Timothy Holmes was small, attended by very few. And most were there to support either his brother or his parents. Mycroft had been a man of very few, if any, personal attachments.

In contrast, the donated flower arrangements were many, given by members of Parliament, the Prime Minister, people Mycroft had worked with for years as nothing more than an omniscient shadow. It was something at least.

The graveside service was short, considering the cold weather. Their parents' priest gave a very short message on the beauty and balance of a life well lived, and the heartbreaking tragedy that was a life stolen before it's time. Then they lowered the black casket into the cold ground.

Sherlock stood in stoic silence through the whole thing, dressed in all black, right down to the boot that supported his healing leg. He hadn't said anything to anyone. Not to his sobbing mother, nor his sorrowed father. Not to John and Mary, who kept stealing glances at him. And not to Molly or Mrs Hudson, who both looked like they wanted to just wrap him up and hold him. Sherlock wasn't paying attention to that.

In his hands was an umbrella. And he held it tightly.

The service concluded and people began to walk away. One by one. His mother squeezed his arm, making him promise to come by and visit. Mrs Hudson did the same, her words involved something about tea, but he tuned her out.

John approached him next, lowering his voice to speak, and he told Sherlock they'd be waiting in the car for him. That he should just take his time if he needed it.

Eventually everyone was gone. And Sherlock was left standing in front of a familiar looking sleek black headstone. The name was different, as well as the dates marking a period of time. And there was actually a body by this one. He stared at it a good long while and then closed his eyes.

He didn't go in his Mind Palace per-say, but instead on a grassy knoll his mind created. One he and his brother had fallen down thirty years previous. The blue skies and green grass of that summer quite the opposite of the dead and wintery December he was actually standing in. His gloved hand tightened around the umbrella he held like a lifeline.

"I shouldn't have let you run ahead." Mycroft stood beside him with his hands in his trouser pockets, wearing a dark three piece suit. He stared down into the ravine. "Never was very good at keeping you from trouble, was I?"

"It was the only advantage I had over you. You couldn't always keep up to keep me out of trouble." Sherlock said impassively, his eyes straying over the view rather than the figment of his imagination next to him. "Guess that doesn't matter any more."

"No, not anymore," he agreed quietly. "So why have you brought us here, Sherly? I can only think of one reason and I am you." Pause. "Sentiment."

"You're right, as you usually are." Sherlock bowed his head, letting his fingers flex over the umbrella. "It hurts."

"I know. It's the heartbreak of loss." Mycroft lifted his eyes towards him. "I would've kept that pain from you if I could, you know."

"You didn't though. I lost you." Sherlock said, glancing over at the version of his brother his mind had created.

"It wasn't my intention to leave you," he answered quietly. "I told you I love you. Remember?"

Sherlock looked away again, unable to hold the blue eyed gaze. "I remember." He whispered. Not like he had to hear himself anyways. "I just don't know what to do."

"You'll move on eventually. You'll move on because you won't have any other choice."

He didn't speak, letting the silence focus his mind. And then he turned back to Mycroft, meeting familiar blue eyes and standing up straight. "You're right. You always are. I'll move on, life does. Always." He paused, his expression soft and vulnerable as it rarely was. "But I'm never going to forget."

"No, of course not." Mycroft turned to face him, sporting a softer expression Sherlock must've recalled and failed to delete. "We must never forget what's important. It's not who we are."

"No. It's not." Sherlock agreed thoughtfully. "We're the Holmes brothers."

"Exactly." Mycroft cast his eyes over the scene again and his lips twitched into a faint smile. "Until the very end, brother dear. Until the very end." He repeated the last as his form vanished into thin air.

The grassy knoll of days long passed faded, and Sherlock was back to standing alone in the graveyard. He stared at the umbrella. Mycroft's umbrella. Snow had started to fall again, the little white flakes lazily floating around in the chilled air.

There might have been just the hint of a smirk on his face when Sherlock loosed the black brolly, opening it up to block the falling snow. It draped him in a shadow as he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket.

He lit one and took a deep breath, blowing out a billow of smoke. The Christmas cigarette they didn't get to have.

Sherlock's eyes strayed over the name carved in stone one more time. And his voice was steady as he spoke to it, even as his chest tightened with the sentiment. "Good night, My."

He turned without further ceremony and began the slow limp to where John and Mary waited in the car. He finished the cigarette, and he didn't let go of the umbrella.

Decades passed, and Sherlock Holmes kept that umbrella. It floated around his flat. Moving from corner, to bookshelf, to hooked on the chair, to wardrobe, to under the bed. Sometimes Sherlock would take it with him on a case. Even saved his life once too.

Mycroft's umbrella. Always present, always waiting. As if Mycroft himself would walk through the door any day and steal his brolly away from the dump his brother lived in. Mycroft also made appearances in his Mind Palace. Always there to help, snap Sherlock back to reality, keep him moving forward. Keep him alive.

Even in death, Mycroft protected his brother.

The umbrella made the move to the cottage in Sussex Downs that Sherlock and John eventually retired to. There too, it sat primly in a corner, always free of dust, or sun damage, even if it showed it's age. The years passed and Sherlock never forgot.

His brother had been dead for fifty-four years when William Sherlock Scott Holmes finally joined him, welcoming Death like an old friend.

"End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it…white shores..." - J.R.R.T.