Sherlock took a deep breath and turned his head up towards the funeral home. The entire place gave him a dark feeling, as if something bad was going to happen. Mycroft would've called it premonition, but Sherlock wasn't sure exactly how to name it. It couldn't be described in words, and that bothered him.

Swallowing hard, he pushed the door of the black car open and he stepped out into the broad daylight, Molly and Mrs. Hudson following him. John and Mary had elected to take their own car, as Rosie's car seat couldn't fit in their own vehicle, and his parents were coming straight from the train station using a cab.

"'Caring is not an advantage,'" Sherlock murmured to himself, as if the phrase could take away his grief. It did not. The doors were open, and his eyes fell on the coffin directly at the end of the room. A nauseating feeling rose up in him, and he quickly looked away. Mycroft was in there. Sherlock hadn't been this close in proximity to him since he had died, and the realization brought no consolation.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" Molly came up behind him and put her hand on his arm.

He nodded. "Yeah, I'm just a bit..." not sure what to say, he cleared his throat and shrugged.

"I understand," Molly replied, "when my dad died, I couldn't look at it either. On the day of the service, I actually ran away."

"You ran away?" Sherlock repeated, a mixture of shock and admiration in his voice.

"Yeah," she smiled softly as she recalled the events of that day, "I was standing right outside here with my mom, like you and I are now, and suddenly I decided I didn't want to be anywhere near his body, so I broke free and started running. My eight-year-old brain still hadn't figured out what I would do, so I just kept going until I ended up in some abandoned barn somewhere. They had to delay the service until they found me."

Sherlock considered this thoughtfully, "You were a pretty bold eight-year-old."

Molly chuckled, "Boldness is by far the kindest word for stupidity."

He faced her, shaking his head, "No, Molly, it wasn't stupid. Being in the same position you are now, I find it totally understandable."

"Thanks," she wiped her eyes, "are you ready to go in now?"

Sherlock looked once at the funeral home, and then back at Molly. "I guess I don't really have a choice." With that, he took her hand in his and they walked in together.

ooOoo

"Friends and family, we thank you for being with us and supporting us on this somber occasion," the clergy started. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His parents were seated to his right and John and Mary on his left, a squirming Rosie in her lap. On the other side were Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Anthea, and Lady Smallwood along with some of Mycroft's other colleagues occupied the row behind Sherlock. There were some other people too, Lestrade and Anderson had come, but Sherlock didn't recognize anyone else.

"Mycroft Holmes, born January 17, 1970, passed away May 7, two Wednesdays ago, from gun-related injuries."

"Gun-related injuries"...you mean getting shot to save his arrogant brother's foolish arse...

"He was born in Sussex, to parents Violet and Timothy Holmes, and grew up with his younger brother, Sherlock."

He felt the gaze of the people shift to him, and tilted his head down a little. The clergy continued on.

"Holmes attended Harrow boarding school in London, and went on to study at Oxford University. After graduation, he took a job in the British government, where he worked closely with the Prime Minister himself, and helped with the operations of MI6. Mycroft was a man dedicated to his family, and his country, and he will be missed by all."

There was a heavy silence, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance. His brother's funeral, and the clergy, a man who didn't even know Mycroft, was delivering his eulogy?

"Sir?" Sherlock spoke up, everyone's eyes shifting towards him, "I was just wondering, if that's all, would you mind if I said a few words?"

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," the clergy took his papers and stepped off the podium, "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Yeah, me too," Sherlock muttered quietly, so only John could hear. He gave him a pointed look.

"Er, I mean, thank you," he said a little louder as he rose up from his chair. Sherlock walked over to the microphone, careful not to look at the coffin behind him.

"Mycroft Holmes," he started. The words fell with a sense of tight formality, which Mycroft would've approved of. It was too impersonal for him, however.

"My brother, Mycroft." There. That's better.

"Mycroft had many admirable traits about him—diligence, responsibility, intellect—but none of those features even came close to his compassion. His compassion, and his ability to love."

"He once told me that caring was not an advantage. But he was wrong. Caring, more specifically, his caring for me, made all the difference in the world and if he had not taken care of me, constantly watched out for me, I don't know what I would've done. He has always had my back, ever since I was young. And although at times we have had a seemingly strained relationship, he's always done everything he could to keep me out of harm's way, whether it be dragging me out of whatever crack den I found myself in, or sending people to look after me on my cases, when he couldn't be there himself. For that, I am incredibly grateful and I know I will never stop owing him."

Sherlock paused. He knew he had to address the circumstances of his death, but it was still all too fresh and he wasn't sure if he could do it. He glanced over, not at John, but at Mary, and she gave him a small nod.

"Vivian Norbury," the name itself evoked a seething, fiery rage in him, a desperate yearning to punish the woman who had done this to all of them. To him. For a moment, the anger was too much and he clenched his fist under the table, but as soon as it had come on it was gone, and Sherlock regained his composure.

"A criminal in one of my cases. I cornered her in the London Aquarium, and I had asked Mycroft to come with a warrant of arrest. However, what I failed to foresee was that she was armed with a gun. Upon discovering this, I should've been cautious, but instead I recklessly taunted her, my own arrogance getting the best of me. When I realized I had pushed her too far, it was too late. My mind still processing what I'd done, I froze, prepared for death."

"But it didn't come. Instead, my brother did..."

...and I kneeled down and looked into his dying eyes, pressing my scarf against a wound that I knew would never heal, holding the hand of a man I knew would never see the light of day again...his blood is still plastered on that scarf, stained all over my hands...

Sherlock swallowed hard, fighting to keep his voice steady. "He saved my life, and in doing so, he conferred a value onto my life, one that I do not deserve. It is a currency I do not know how to spend, but I promise to do my very best to honor his memory and make my big brother proud. Mycroft Holmes was a great man, but he was also better than that. He was a good one."

There were still so many things he wanted to say, but somehow the speech had exhausted him. One sweeping survey of the room showed that he had done a good job, and it relieved him to know that he had done something right rather than messing it up, for once. With a sigh, he stepped off the podium and sat back down, as a staff member stood up to discuss the post-service arrangements.

"Oh, Sheryl honey, that was beautiful." Violet sniffled, putting an arm around her son. Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would've chided her for using his ridiculous childhood nickname, but nothing was normal anymore.

"Thanks, mum," he mumbled quietly, reaching over to take her hand. His father turned towards him, and Sherlock noticed that his eyes were wet too.

"It wasn't your fault, Sherlock," he insisted, "and we love you all the same." Sherlock nodded as the small crowd began moving towards the door. He stood up and his shoulder brushed against a bouquet of sea lavender mounted on the wall.

"He always loved these, we had a small patch at Musgrave," Sherlock remarked, plucking a small flower off and turning it over in his hand. The petals were so tiny, so insignificant, yet it comforted him somewhat to be able to hold onto a small piece of Mycroft. "They were his favorite flower."

Author Note:

I'm really sorry about the long wait! Things got a bit busy, but I'm glad I was able to find the time to write this up. Several of you commented that you loved the story, and I thank everyone who gave me feedback.

Personally, I think this chapter was really interesting to write, especially because of Sherlock's impromptu eulogy. I made up the birth and death dates, and I used Timothy Carlton's (the actor who played Sherlock's father) name for Mr. Holmes. The sea lavender flowers also symbolize remembrance, sympathy and success, and I thought that fitted with Mycroft's personality perfectly. Let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!

-Irene xx