Author's Note: This is my first story in quite some time, as I've been suffering from an unhappy case of writer's block. Hopefully this will have helped to get the juices going again.

This is a companion piece to Kaelir of Lorien's "One Last Ceremony". Please do go read it - it lends John's perspective to the circumstances, and the juxtaposition of the two stories is quite interesting.

Time To Say Goodbye

"Aren't you going?"

The question falls from his lips, unexpected and harsh. Sherlock watches her turn, watches the look of surprise, then hurt, that wafts over Molly's features as she tries to sort one tone from another with only those three words to go on. He can't really blame her. It's the only thing he's said all day, and he knows even better than she the unexpected layers in that seemingly innocuous question. As soon as he speaks, he wishes he hadn't.

With immense effort, he holds her gaze, waiting.

"No," says Molly, with that quick shake of her head that he would recognise anywhere.

Sherlock stares at her, his eyes hooded, almost challenging. He wishes he could look away.

He throws out another question, just as flatly. "Won't they be expecting you?"

Molly lifts her chin slightly. In defiance? In defense? For once, he can't tell. She answers him after a moment: "I've told them I can't bear it."

He blinks, lingeringly, waiting for the inevitable flush to colour her cheeks. But it doesn't come. Her eyes are still on him, earnest, sympathetic. Why hasn't she looked away yet? His own eyes fall to the floor as he nods stiffly. He remains sitting, hunched over, fingers twined uncomfortably on his knees like choking tangled vines. So defensive, yet worn thin, so thin that Molly doesn't even need to push to get through.

He can't hide from her now. So much has changed.

Sherlock feels a touch on his shoulder before he realises that she's right there – awkward, perhaps, but there. No. She isn't awkward. He is.

"I know how strange this must be for you," she tells him. "For you to be here, knowing that everyone is – is at your funeral."

The rest of the conversation plays through his mind at double speed. Everyone? You're not there. I don't count. You do count. Or else you'd be there with them.

He doesn't reply. After a minute, he stands, nudging her hand from his shoulder.

"I need to go out," he says.

She looks up at him, following him with her terribly knowing gaze as he pulls on his coat and moves to the door.

"Don't worry," he mutters, just loud enough for her to hear. "I'm not going to crash my own funeral."

He can't meet her eyes as he leaves.

The tension in the room is a sort that Sherlock hasn't experienced before, and he takes no particular pleasure in it now. But Mycroft, at least, is someone whom he can look at, face to face, without feeling the uncomfortable need to apologise for acting the way he is.

They are both standing, in silent acknowledgement that to sit at this moment is to admit to weakness and inability to follow through with what has already been set in motion. Sherlock's hands are in his pockets; Mycroft's are clasped behind his back. Both assume a stance of comfort to maintain the façade that such exists.

Sherlock is the first to cut through the heavy atmosphere. "How was it?" he asks, no louder than is necessary, and very nearly monotone.

Mycroft gives him a look intended to convey his knowledge that Sherlock isn't actually interested, but Sherlock cuts him off with an even more pointed look of his own. He watches Mycroft swallow back a sardonic retort. "Quiet," is the restrained reply. "These things usually are."

Sherlock makes no reaction, as both he and probably his brother expected. His eyes rove about the room, taking in the wood and books and other bits of décor which he long ago lost the need to actually see. He sees them now. He doesn't need to wonder why.

Mycroft watches him for a long time before speaking again. "I've made the arrangements you requested." He says it softly, as though trying to make Sherlock show some sign of being touched by what is happening.

The younger man looks over swiftly, searchingly, but his brother's face is, for the most part, inscrutable. And the very fact that Mycroft can hold such poise is enough to make Sherlock's own semblance of calm shiver and threaten to break.

"Thank you." A tiny stammer there, at the start, but from the way Mycroft's brows contract, Sherlock knows it has been noticed. He breathes out, loudly, and with difficulty.

They stare at one another in stifling silence. Sherlock can see that Mycroft is holding back, just as he himself is, though most likely not to the same degree. There is so much that needs to be said, he can feel it; and yet it must remain unvoiced. They balance only on the thinnest of ice – one touch too heavy and this delicate ground will break beneath them.

Sherlock finally looks away. "I'll be out of touch for some time," he says, with the air of one going on a business trip to a place with few technological comforts.

Mycroft nods. "I understand."

They both know that time, in this case, may be a harsher master than they can now envision. Sherlock takes a moment to let that tuck itself away in his mind, than glances up to speak again. But the words will not come. He closes his eyes, willing himself to regain control. And, much to his surprise, Mycroft gives him the silent space to do so.

"Mycroft."

Sherlock's eyes are still closed, but he can feel the way his brother watches him as he speaks. "Promise me that you'll look after him." His eyelids flutter uncertainly. "Promise me that you'll be there for him when – when I can't."

A hint of sympathetic exasperation crosses Mycroft's face as Sherlock looks up. "Sherlock –"

"I'm not asking you to be his friend," says Sherlock forcefully, his voice hollow as he thinks about it. "Just – look after him."

Sentiment?

Sentiment.

Mycroft looks as though he has plenty he would like to say in response to his brother's request, but he only stares for a few seconds longer, then nods, slowly, so that Sherlock will see. "I will try."

The detective inclines his head , straightening in his intention to leave. Mycroft also shifts, and apparently with only an instant's thought, offers his hand.

Sherlock stares at it, hard, almost confused by this gesture which seems so strange to both of them. His eyes flick upward to his brother's face, searching. And there he finds understanding; that although he himself has said nothing of it, Mycroft realises that this is their farewell.

Sherlock takes his brother's hand, his own considerably paler, and his grip is suddenly tight. Mycroft's eyes widen very slightly in surprise, but the younger man only blinks once. With a strange mixture of reluctance and defiance, he twists his hand away again, and steps quickly to the door. A movement from behind, caught in the corner of his eye, makes him pause.

"Goodbye, brother."

Sherlock sends out messages, one here, one there; discreet, and only to those whom he knows can keep their eyes open and lips sealed. It may be an hour or more before he receives any reply. It irks him, physically and mentally, to remain in one place now, and he is sorely tempted to wander where he will. But he fights against the urge, and stays. He is no longer able, even as night falls, to walk openly on London's streets unless he can reach his destination quickly and via shadowed paths.

He waits, trying not to think. Instead, he does something taught to him many months before, something to which he rarely stoops because it feels so ordinary.

He breathes.

Slowly, deeply, focused on how the air fills his lungs and then eases out past his lips. He challenges himself to breathe, but in total silence.

And in silence, minutes pass.

Breathe.

His concentration is broken only when his mobile chirps faintly from his pocket.

Russell Sq Gdns

He raises his head, ponderously, and then pushes himself away from the wall he's been leaning against for who knows how long. A moment of hesitation; then he gathers his coat around him, and begins walking.

His steps are heavy.

The figure that stands by a bench several yards away is far beyond familiar; but at the same time, the distance between them is more than just that space, more than just a few lengths of well-kept grass and still night air. It hardly seems possible that Sherlock hasn't laid eyes on him for many days now. It's with a horrible feeling of wrongness that he is forced to suppress the instinct to stride out into the open; instead, he lurks shrouded in the shadow of a nearby tree, watching.

This was a mistake. He's known it all along, but it's a mistake that he could not avoid making. He hasn't been able to bear the idea of disappearing, perhaps for good, without saying goodbye.

He leans his head back against the rough bark behind him, staring up at black foliage. Breathe. But the strange constriction in his chest isn't allowing him to do so as he should. He tightens his jaw, and glances over to the open space nearby.

John is sitting on the bench now, only his head and shoulders visible in a partial silhouette. As Sherlock looks on, the other man eases his face into his hands. The detective lets out a harsh breath. Hardly aware of his own movement, he straightens and slips out from the cover of the tree. His steps are silent. One, then another, he moves closer, barely breathing now, apprehensive and uncertain and wondering why he dares. Every moment, he thinks he'll be heard, be sensed. All John has to do is turn around.

He freezes , only feet away, as John lifts his head again.

Sherlock's nerve breaks then. He drags an arm across his face as though to keep himself from crying out and backs away, as silently as he approached. When he reaches the tree, he turns, takes a few faltering steps, and then runs.

Goodbye John.

Molly rises from the sofa as soon as he pushes open the door, her features anxious. "You've been ages," she tells him, and he doesn't doubt it, but nor does he care. Without removing his coat, he very nearly stumbles towards her, then eases into the closest chair he can find. He doesn't have the energy to try and hide his current state, and so his emotions are bared on his stricken face as he stares unhappily at the wall.

"Sherlock?" Molly edges over to him, her head tilted in sympathy. Sherlock averts his gaze without pretense and presses his fingers together, tight against his lips. He feels her hand on his shoulder – is she shaking, or is he? – but lets his eyes fall closed. He tries to breathe again, deliberately. It feels as though he's still running. Breathe.

When he finally speaks, it's in a quiet tone, and controlled. "I'm leaving in the morning." There is no more reason to stall now. With the funeral over, John has said his goodbyes, and now it's time for Sherlock to say his.

Molly doesn't argue, for which Sherlock is silently grateful. "Do you want me to see you off, then?" she asks.

His answer comes swift and short. "No." He catches his breath, then repeats again, softer, "No. It's better if – if I go on my own."

She nods, and does not press him further. He gets a bit shakily to his feet again, looking down at her.

"Will you take care of him, for me?" Sherlock pleads quietly.

She looks at him as though he shouldn't even need to ask, and then nods again. "Of course."

Sherlock exhales slowly, then swallows, and without making eye contact, he murmurs, "Thank you, Molly." He turns away, disappearing into the next room.

When Molly peers in the following morning, he is gone.