"Anthea." Sherlock greeted with a solemn nod.

"Sherlock." Anthea replied, her voice a little strained and her eyes still red from her tears.

"It's definitely him?" Sherlock asked as they walked together through the quiet corridors of the morgue.

"It is." Anthea confirmed gently, "I was there and it was definitely him."

Sherlock nodded again and said nothing further, leading the way into the viewing area of morgue. He didn't know how to feel as he looked down at his brother's cold and lifeless body. He had always known that his brother would die first, but he hadn't expected it to happen so soon. Mycroft hadn't even made it to 50.

It was a strange thing to suddenly be confronted with the man that he knew so well yet knew so little about. With a single look, he could tell when Mycroft had last shaved, where he'd been and who he'd spoken with, but his brother's inner most thoughts had always been a mystery to him. In their youth, they had been inseparable, but in recent years they had barely known each other at all.

With a surprisingly steady hand, Sherlock reached out and pushed the crisp white sheet further down the corpse's chest, examining the mess of bullet holes that had ripped the British Government from life into death. It had been sudden, Anthea had explained the ambush and how she had worked to keep the Ice Man alive. She hadn't mentioned that Mycroft had taken the bullets to protect her, she hadn't needed to, Sherlock knew instantly. His brother was nothing if not a martyr.

Sherlock rested the palm of his hand over where Mycroft's heart was - now silent and still. Mycroft had always abhorred touch but Sherlock thought that his brother wouldn't mind too much in this particular set of circumstances, what with him being dead. When they'd been boys, playing together during long summers in the Sussex countryside, he'd once known his brother's body as well as he did his own, but now this man was a stranger. There was no denying that this was his brother though, there were no parlour tricks in play this time.

Mycroft was dead and Sherlock was alone.

"The Diogenes called. They want you to go through Mycroft's possessions." John said softly, looking over at his flatmate with worried eyes. He'd been walking on eggshells around Sherlock for days, unsure whether or not to speak about Mycroft's sudden death.

"He left everything to me, I suppose?" Sherlock murmured, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as he lay still on the couch.

"Yes, I believe so. Except a few items that he left to Anthea." John replied with a nod.

"Sentiment is our downfall in the end, John." Sherlock sighed.

"Or our swansong." John replied gently, "Mycroft risked his life for someone else, knowing that he would most probably die. That is hardly a downfall."

"He was slim, John. His body was slim and toned, completely unlike the Mycroft that I remember from my past. How did I miss him becoming slim? It was like looking at a stranger." Sherlock said, "Yet it was undoubtedly my brother. I have spent my whole life with Mycroft and yet now I realize that I never really knew him at all. I saw what he wanted me to see and nothing more."

"You should go through his possessions, they might tell you more about him." John suggested gently.

"Perhaps, or maybe they are but a smokescreen too?" Sherlock replied quietly, closing his eyes, "Mycroft always was the clever one."

Mycroft's possessions in the Diogenes were few and far between. There was stationary and desk ornaments but nothing important or personal, so Sherlock left them in a box for Anthea to collect. He knew that she would want to be the one to box up Mycroft's multiple offices, to ensure that nothing got missed or broken.

Sherlock and John made their way to Mycroft's home, an elegant white townhouse in a gated part of Mayfair. John had never been inside the house before, but Sherlock was familiar with it from his days of rehab. He'd spent many days and nights battling withdrawals in his brother's home, back when he'd struggled to get clean. Mycroft had always been more than willing for Sherlock to stay with him, even though the brothers mostly kept to separate parts of the house.

The house was full of shop bought, impersonal possessions. They were vases, pieces of art and rugs, all bought to make the house look a certain way, and none of it reminded Sherlock of Mycroft. The government official had barely spent any time at his own residence and that was obvious by the lack of wear on anything. The living room was pristine and the kitchen looked almost unused. The whole house was just as cold and mysterious as the man himself had been.

"Where has he hidden it all?" Sherlock sighed in frustration as they entered yet another soulless room.

"Hidden what?" John asked curiously.

"His life. There should be books and sentimental items, but there is nothing. Did he really live with nothing?" Sherlock replied, "Mycroft in his youth was something of a hoarder."

"Erm... Sherlock?" John called, standing a few feet away, "I think I've found a vault or a panic room."

Sherlock spun around and strode over to John, looking at the keypad on the metal door that had been hidden behind an almost empty bookshelf. He examined the keypad and entered the most likely number sequence, smiling a little in satisfaction as the door swung open. The lights flickered on and inside the sealed vault room were shelves and shelves of books, papers and objects from around the world.

"Wow." John murmured, peering in at the lifetime of objects.

Sherlock stepped inside cautiously and inhaled, his brother's aftershave still clinging to the air after. He walked to the shelves and picked out a book at random. It was one of Mycroft's many journals. He'd been a prolific journal writer in his teenage years and Sherlock was surprised that his brother had continued to keep a journal up until his sudden death. He flicked through a few pages, pausing every now and then when he saw his own name written in Mycroft's elegant writing. It felt almost rude to delve into these personal, private papers but he suddenly found himself desperate to know all of his brother's secrets. There were whole years of Mycroft's life that he knew nothing about and he was keen to rectify that.

John looked over some of the neatly stacked papers and held up a few childhood drawings, "Were these yours?" he asked curiously.

Sherlock put the journal back onto the shelf and slowly approached John. He took the drawings from the doctor and ran his finger over the depictions. "Yes, they were. Why would he keep them? I didn't give them to him, I thought Mummy had thrown them out." he said.

"Sentiment, I suppose." John suggested with a sad smile, "I wish I'd seen all of this when he was alive, it would have been fascinating to hear the stories behind all the things he'd collected on his travels."

Sherlock nodded, taking a few moments to look over the ornaments from all over the world that sat safely on a shelf. There were hand-made, delicate Russian dolls, Chinese and Japanese pottery and Aboriginal carpentry.

As Sherlock studied the objects, John ran his finger down the spines of some of the books on one of the lower shelves. They were in different languages, from Mandarin and Russian to Portuguese and Latin.

"What exactly did Mycroft do in the government?" John asked.

Sherlock chuckled to himself, "Honestly? I haven't got a clue." he said, "He was powerful and coordinated missions and such, but I'm not sure what his exact role was. He always kept his work hidden from me, even when he first joined the civil service."

John hummed in response, thinking of all the things that he didn't know about Sherlock's brother. They'd met regularly to discuss Sherlock's well-being, but he'd never once considered inquiring about Mycroft.

Sherlock's breath suddenly hitched and John turned to look at him. The Consulting Detective was holding a dust-free fancy dress pirate hat and beneath it sat an envelope addressed to Sherlock, written in Mycroft's handwriting. Sherlock reached out and picked up the envelope, placing the hat down again carefully. It was the hat that he and his brother had played with in their childhood, taking turns pretending to be pirates as they chased each other through the garden.

"It wasn't an ambush. He knew." Sherlock said softly after he'd read the note addressed to him, "He knew there would be an attack on that day and that he would be the target. Yet he still went along to all of his meetings and put himself in the line of fire."

John suddenly seemed to realize the gravity of the situation, that Sherlock's brother hadn't been taken by surprise or accidentally killed, he'd walked right into his own murder. "That shows bravery." he murmured, taking the note from his flatmate and glancing over it.

"Or stupidity." Sherlock replied, running his hand over the purple feather sticking out from the hat.

The funeral was a quiet, serious affair with many people attending to pay their respects. Despite Mycroft's aloof and cold behaviour, his colleagues liked and respected him, recognizing the amount of work that he did. Sherlock and John sat together on the front pew in the cold church, despite Sherlock's insistence that Mycroft would have hated a church service.

Anthea sat beside them and Greg Lestrade sat further along. The Detective Inspector had known Mycroft longer than John had, as the two men had worked together to get Sherlock clean and functioning again.

There were no emotional speeches, sobbing widows or grand declarations of love. A priest stood and gave a brief speech about Mycroft's life and his dedication to his work, before the service came to an end. It seemed abrupt and rushed, but perhaps appropriate, given Mycroft's sudden death.

A sad composition by Bach filled the church as the mourners made their way out to the graveyard, led by Sherlock. John had wondered if Sherlock would play at the end of the funeral, as he'd brought his violin along with him, but it remained locked in the case.

Sherlock had been different in the two weeks since Mycroft's death. His actions had been more chaotic and reckless, as if he'd expected his safety net to be there even though it was now gone. The adjustment period would be long and John knew that they had many hard months ahead, as Sherlock struggled to find his balance in a world without his mental match. Moriarty had been a fun challenge, but Mycroft had been a constant presence at Sherlock's side.

The government official had been Sherlock's greatest enemy and ally and now Sherlock was alone.

It was at the very end of the funeral, once all of the other mourners had gone, that John finally got to see why Sherlock had brought his violin. The detective placed his case down on the grass beside the grave and withdrew his polished violin and delicate bow. He brought the violin up to rest on his shoulder and leaned into the chin-rest, closing his eyes as he began to play.

John had never seen him properly play with Mycroft around before, he'd always played jaunty tunes or made his violin screech until the elder Holmes brother withdrew from 221B. It was an incredibly touching moment, watching Sherlock play a soft and gentle lullaby at his brother's grave. John turned away and made his way back up to the church, leaving Sherlock to grieve and play his violin without an audience.

Sherlock played and played, letting his music show his emotions. He only stopped playing when dusk began to fall on the graveyard. He carefully placed his violin and bow back into the case, his gaze falling on the name tag glued to the velvet lining at the bottom of the case. The violin that was his most prized possession, and had once been his only way to express himself during his teenage years, had belonged to Mycroft. It had been his brother's idea to take up a musical instrument in order to help his thoughts and it had been his brother's violin that he'd used to practice on. Whilst Mycroft had given up the instrument in favour of university and networking, Sherlock had clung to it.

"Sleep well, brother dear." Sherlock murmured, picking up his violin case and nodding once to the polished black headstone before he walked away.