Yes, so I'm really putting this here for easy access for Emma, but I hope anyone else who reads it enjoys it. In this, Molly is the only one who knows Sherlock is alive. Mycroft will figure it out soon enough, but for now he doesn't.

This was just a scene that was playing around my head when I was planning my "Jack Harkness is Sherlock and Mycroft's father" universe. Which will be turned into a large complicated fanfic which I need to start writing.

I don't own BBC Sherlock or Torchwood.

John felt numb. Distantly he recognized it as a defense mechanism his mind had set up as soon as he failed to find a pulse in his friend's

my best friend's oh god all that blood

wrist. Personally, John was thankful for the lack of emotions. He doubted that he could make it through Sherlock's funeral without it.

It was a very small gathering. He, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft, and Sherlock's mother stood together, huddled in front of Sherlock's grave in various states of shock and grief. Sherlock's mother

Mary her name is Mary not that Sherlock ever told—not that he ever told me anythi—stop. no. stop thinking.

stood with tears streaming silently down her cheeks. Except for her dark eyes, she looked exactly like an older, female Sherlock. Mycroft stood very close beside her, his eyes matching his blank face. They were empty, almost unseeing.

He's in shock, John thought, not quite caring.

He idly knew he should care, but he hadn't forgiven Mycroft for his betrayal.

he should be in shock. he should be in grieving. this is his fault. he deserves worse. he should be the one on the pave- no. stop. mycroft is in grief too. but he betra- STOP

John felt himself shudder, his mind struggling to fall back to the numbness that had covered it before. Looking away from Mycroft helped. He stared unseeingly at Sherlock's grave, feeling his thoughts become sluggish again. The weight of numb grief and guilt descended behind his eyes again, making John want to leave. He just wanted to sleep. Wanted to slip into a dreamless sleep where nothing hurt. Wanted to wake up and find out it was a dream. Sherlock would be half blowing up the kitchen and keeping body parts in the fridge.

But none of that was possible. He could rarely fall asleep now, and when he did, his sleep was plagued by dreams of gunfire and falling. Always with a voice

and god he would never hear that voice again never hear it scornfully saying exactly what he thought never would hear that half laugh behind his words as he got excited by something or succeeded in annoying My- no. stop.

asking him to keep his eyes on him. Telling John good bye.

And he would never wake up to find Sherlock alive and whole again.

The sound of a car door slamming shattered John's thoughts. He turned in time to see a tall man striding quickly eyes determinedly fixed off center, away from Sherlock's grave, towards Mycroft and Mary. John's heart gave a sudden painful lurch as he watched the man's dark coat billow around him. How many times had he watched Sherlock's own coat make the same mov-

no. stop.

Through the murky haze of his mind, John barely noticed any features of the man. He could just see Sherlock's disapproval of his complete lack of observation and could almost hear him compla-

STOP

Numb once again, he watched as the man reached Mycroft. God, was someone really contacting Mycroft about business? Now? What the hell could be mor-

The man grabbed Mycroft by the front of his suit and slammed him against a nearby tree.

John blinked.

Well.

For a moment there was no sound but the harsh breathing of the man. Everyone else seemed frozen in shock. Then the man's fists tightened in Mycroft's formally perfect suit.

"Why the HELL didn't you or Sherlock call me? Why the hell did I find out he was in trouble during the phone call telling me he was DEAD? What the fuck were you two thinking?" He paused, sucking in a harsh breath, his shoulders shaking with emotion. John dimly noticed that the man's very blue eyes were shining with tears.

Then the man seemed to collapse slightly. His shoulders slumped and his hands flattened, resting on Mycroft's now wrinkled suit. "Fuck. Mycroft, you know I could have helped. You knew I would have helped. You know that I would do anything to keep you all safe. You fucking idi-" He broke off as Mary's hand rested lighting on his arm. John suddenly noticed that he himself was shaking. The thought that someone could have helped. If the damn Holmes brothers hadn't been so PROUD—

stop

"Jack," Mary said simply, voice breaking slightly.

He turned. For a moment, they said nothing, only searched each other's faces before the man, Jack, pulled her tightly into her arms. She seemed to let go at that moment, sobbing into the taller man's chest. John watched as the man held her comfortingly, burying his face into her hair. John couldn't make out the words that were being muttered soothingly into that dark curly

familiar no stop

hair.

John turned his attention back to Mycroft.

Mycroft looked shattered. A small spasm of shock invaded the fog that had covered his mind. Mycroft's perfect suit was now rumpled; a tear ran silently down his face. As John watched, one of his hands came up to rub across his face as the other lay helplessly at his side. He eyes were no longer blank but teeming with emotion. Guilt, love, fear, regret, anger, and a deep soul shattering sadness chased each other across his face as he watched the two people in front of him embrace.

"I'm sorry."

His voice cracked. All the masks John had seen placed so carefully on the man's face crumbled.

The man called Jack looked up and seemed to break even more. He gently untangled himself from Mary, cupping her cheek, running his thumb across one of her cheekbones

the same damn mysterious- no. stop.

and just gazing at her for a moment before turning and pulling Mycroft against him. He held the broken man gently.

"I know. I know," he muttered over and over, pressing a quick comforting kiss to his forehead. He acted as if he were comforting a small child.

John suddenly noticed that Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly were gone. Obviously they had realized that this was a scene that was too personal for them to be intruding on. John saw why of course. He knew without a doubt that he would never see Mycroft Holmes this vulnerable again. Not even close.

But he didn't leave. He had every right to be here. Sherlock had been his family. The only one who mattered really. Harry had left him when she refused to stop her drinking habits. His parents were dead. Sherlock was the only one left.

Except he was gone too.

John felt the tears start falling for the first time since Sherlock fell. It was almost a relief. He didn't know who this Jack was, but whoever he was, he was family. Everyone in that small room was family of that mad man, filled with the same sorrow and loss. And as John's eyes met Jack's for the first time, John knew that the man felt the connection too. In this place and time, in front of Sherlock's grave, they would expose the deepest emotions to each other. Here they would be connected. Now they would help each other heal just a little and fill each other's' holes in their hearts with a few grains of comfort. Then they would move on.

And so John cried.