The night is quiet, peace having settled across the city, free now from the slayer threat. Occasional cars meander down winding streets, fresh snow sinking slowly - feather light - to the ground, dusting over the half-melted slush. (And half-frozen dried blood with all of the memory that it holds for those left behind.) The view of the city from the hospital rooftop is astounding, but Violet can't bring herself to appreciate it, every thought circling back to some variation of they're gone. There is a hollowness in her chest which will never fill now, aching so much that she can't cry, just numbly stare at this city which her son and his lover have died for.

The pain is etched, too, in Mycroft's face, carved into the lines around his eyes. He doesn't speak, refuses to even move a hand to wipe the tears creeping silently down his face though he is trying to fight them, trying to remain stoic for the sake of his mother, doesn't want to upset her more no matter how futile that may be. (It's the impossibility of his preventing this that hurts the most, the fact that he couldn't save his little brother in spite of the power he wears like a cloak. All he could do was watch him die, watch as the life that he's spent so long protecting slipped away.) In spite of his attempts to distance himself from emotion, and though he knows that caring is not an advantage, he's never been able to stop caring about Sherlock, not even now when Sherlock has been reduced to dust. The world feels empty.

Molly knew, of course, the moment that John was gone. When the confirmation came in the form of a ghost, and was followed by the news of Sherlock's demise, Greg saw the pain that crossed her face and didn't press for details, just caught her as she slipped to the ground, tears shining in her eyes. (Neither can believe, can articulate any words about it, both feeling like automatons. And there on that rooftop, Greg grips Molly's hand tight, wishing he could take away her pain. (Even deeper, wishing that he could bring his two best friends back, knowing that it's futile.) He and Mycroft share a knowing look, each carrying their own burden of illogical guilt.)

There is no magic that can help them now, no magic that can change any of the events of the last twenty-four hours. Martha knows this, feels it instinctively in her bones, yet still finds herself wishing that there was something that she could do. Anything aside from this rooftop funeral.

Sherlock specifically said it, the one contingency plan he had in place - if they didn't make it, throw the ashes off the roof of St Barts, let them permeate the city from here. Mycroft did the honours, yet still nobody can bring themselves to move from this spot, can bring themselves to speak, simply watching as vampire ashes - invisible, now, to the naked eye - drift across London.

The haunting strains of violin music, emanating from some indeterminate point like a dirge, an elegy, finally bring Violet fully to tears.(Only time can work magic now, slowly, healing yet never erasing, leaving the memories with their unique brand of bittersweet pain.)