There were many times when Mycroft considered telling John that it was all a lie.

The first was at the memorial service. He thought it exceptionally crass to be holding a service for a man that was not dead, but Mummy had insisted. Besides, the ruse would not have been convincing without it, and it was of the utmost importance that everyone believed Sherlock dead. At least, this was what Sherlock had impressed upon Mycroft. He had yet to fully comprehend the many underlying reasons behind Sherlock's actions, but he suspected that the most pressing excuse stood to the side of Sherlock's empty casket, quietly staring at the wood as if he were a magician about to draw his lovely assistant from within the box. John's eyes were blank, just blue empty voids which fell flatly on the world around him. So unlike the man Mycroft had abducted. John had been cold and distant then, too, but this was different. Now, the will and want to fight had been drained out of him. Now, he was simply living because it was the most convenient option available.

Mycroft thought that the most crippling of blows was that Mummy had insisted John be the one to deliver the eulogy. He had stood in front of the small gathering, his army posture rigidly in place, while he spoke of Sherlock's short life and many accomplishments. Mycroft ached to make him stop, to pull him aside and tell him all just to make that hollow, deadened look leave John's face, but he had refrained. Sherlock had, after all, left John's protection in his hands. If he told John, the man would have surely run after what little trail Sherlock had left behind, and invariably thrown himself into every dangerous situation imaginable. No, Mycroft agreed that it was for the best that John didn't follow after his brother. So he had watched quietly as John's words fell over the gathering, drawing tears from most and a stiffening of the upper lip from Lestrade and others. John, meanwhile, maintained the same blank mask he had held all evening.

Finally, the service was over and an even smaller group arrived at Mummy's estate for a memorial dinner. The affair was far too extravagant to have been wholly tactful, but Mycroft supposed that he couldn't deny Mummy a chance to flaunt the family's wealth. She so rarely had these occasions; that one should be in the memory of her beloved (estranged, wayward, capricious) son seemed only fitting. Detective Inspector Lestrade and John were among those invited, and together they stood off to the side. Neither of them fully fit in with the rest of the crowd, and so they hovered on the edges, Lestrade making conversation with those that attempted speaking to the duo while John maintained the shell-shocked quiet he had since the service.

Watching John from across the room, Mycroft was once again tempted to pull him into a quiet corner and reveal all to him. He thought that, if he thoroughly explained Sherlock's reasoning, John would certainly see the logic of it and remain as quiet and unobtrusive as possible. Then again, Mycroft still didn't fully comprehend Sherlock's reasoning, and he had been pondering over it for a couple of weeks now. This time, the only thing that prevented him from following through with his urges was the sound of the dinner bell calling them into the dining hall. They were all herded around the table by Mummy and the staff until they had taken their appropriate seats. Mummy was seated at the head of the table with Mycroft at her right, of course, but many guests were surprised to see the two slightly shabbily dressed men sitting directly next to Mycroft. At least, they were shabbily dressed in comparison to the rest of the guests in Armani and Burberry.

Quiet chatter fell over the table as the staff delivered the hors d'oeuvres. There were a variety of the appetizers, all as pompous and irritatingly grand as the last. Lestrade seemed somewhat befuddled as to how to properly eat the items placed in front of himself and therefore watched Mycroft's actions before mimicking them. John, meanwhile, stared down at his plate as if it had somehow insulted him before stabbing his fork at a crab cake until it was a crumbled mess. Mycroft wasn't sure if he had taken a bite at all when the staff whisked their plates away. They brought the entrees out then, and the noise around the table increased as the guests began picking up their silverware and plunging knives into the salmon. Mycroft was painfully aware of John sitting stiffly by his side, making no motion to begin eating. On the contrary, his shoulders were lightly shaking and his hands were balled into fists atop his thighs.

"John..."

In retrospect, Mycroft probably should have known better than to prod at John, no matter how gently. He supposed that his lapse in judgment could be forgiven due to the extenuating circumstances surrounding the matter, but still, he felt slightly guilty for being conduit through which John threw his emotions.

"Sherlock hated fish." John stated coldly, his gaze now locked on the offending chunk of food on his plate. "Why would you serve fish at the memorial service for a man that hated fish?"

"John, plenty of people like fish. I'm sure Sherlock would-"

"It doesn't matter what Sherlock would or would not do because Sherlock isn't bloody well here, now is he? And I don't care how you rationalize it, Mycroft; it's wrong to serve fish for a man that hated fish!" With that, John roughly shoved his chair away from the table and walked out of the dining room. Mycroft noted that his gait had a slight sway to it, as if his limp had partially returned.

Lestrade looked from the doorway to Mycroft, concern causing his brow to furrow. "Should I go after him?"

"No, of course not. Enjoy your dinner, Inspector. I'll go see to Doctor Watson." Mycroft rose too, then, and walked in the direction he predicted John had gone. As expected, he found John standing on the porch, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket while he stared up at the night sky.

"John."

John's eyes remained resolutely trained upwards, his shoulder stiffly turned so that his back was all that Mycroft could see of him. "If you would like to talk, I would gladly listen."

Mycroft sighed as John ignored him. He knew that John could be just as stubborn as Sherlock, if not more so. He had, after all, somehow managed to live with his brother for several months with very few incidents. "If this is about the fish, I can assure you that Mummy meant no disrespect. She was merely trying to please our bereft guests. And after all, there aren't many foods of which Sherlock would approve."

"Only because you didn't look for them," John bit out.

"Excuse me?"

"The only reason you don't know Sherlock's favorite foods is because you never cared enough to find out what he did and did not like. You and Mummy," he practically spat out the last word as if it were toxic, "never saw beyond your china tea cups and silver spoons long enough to notice what he liked."

"I can assure you, John, that wasn't the case. As much as Sherlock liked to play the alienated, cast-aside son, we welcomed his eccentricities and encouraged him to follow whatever path he chose."

"Right." John scoffed and eased himself down onto the step, massaging his leg as he stretched it out. Mycroft approached slowly, giving John ample opportunity to object before settling himself down next to the man. The two sat together, John's eyes once again locked onto the night sky while Mycroft stared pointedly down at his shoes. He could see the tears John was fighting to hold back in the corners of his eyes, and so chose to act as if they weren't there and turned his attention elsewhere.

"Everyone in there, everyone except you and Lestrade, they don't belong here."

"It's my mother's home. She can invite whomever she wishes."

"That's not what I meant." John lapsed into silence again, and Mycroft feared that he had lost the chance to talk to him. Soon, however, John began speaking once again. "They keep talking about Sherlock. About how it's such a pity that he died the way he did, how it's such a pity that he didn't choose a calm, normal career. About what a shame it is that he didn't become a lawyer or a stock broker or some other nonsense. They don't understand...He was better than all of that. He was..."

"Unique," Mycroft filled in for him. For that's truly what Sherlock was. He was probably one of the few actual unique people in the world, as far as Mycroft could tell. Oh yes, there was all this blather about everyone's genes making them unique, but Sherlock was more than that. From the coding of his DNA to the living he carved out for himself in this mass-production world, he was special. Few could claim so much.

"Yes. Unique."

They fell into silence all over again, except now the tension had bled away, leaving only an exhausted shell in its wake. It certainly wasn't a comfortable sort of quiet, merely a resigned one.

"Would you like to return to dinner? They'll be serving dessert soon. Mummy has arranged for plum pudding, one of Sherlock's favorites."

John turned a disbelieving eye on Mycroft. "You actually think that Sherlock liked plum pudding?"

"He didn't?" Mycroft blinked in surprise. Since Sherlock was a child, he had always pleaded for plum pudding for every dessert at family gatherings. It was just another oddity that their mother had indulged as often as she could.

"No, of course not. He just pretended to like it so you all would be forced to eat it at the family gatherings that you made him attend, and would therefore be at least partially as miserable as he was. I always figured that you knew..." Mycroft shook his head slowly, silently cursing Sherlock and vowing to find a way to pay him back for this if he ever saw the man again. John gave a hollow, bitter laugh. "Even after death, he's still more clever than us all," he choked out, the tears finally spilling over his cheeks.

"Perhaps you would be more comfortable if we went back inside?" Mycroft wasn't sure what he was expected to do to comfort John. In retrospect, he probably should have sent Lestrade out. Lestrade at least had experience in helping victims of crimes and their families cope with grief. Mycroft rarely encounter people in such vulnerable states in his line of work.

"No, I don't want to go back in there. It's fine out here. It's a nice night."

"Yes, of course."

"I'm sorry for accusing you of not paying attention to Sherlock. I'm sure you cared plenty, even if it was through the lens of a security camera." He cast a sardonic smile in Mycroft's direction before rising with a light groan.

"Yes," Mycroft did likewise, carefully brushing his suit down to remove any dirt from the expensive fabric. "Our relationship has been strained for years. I never stopped loving him, however."

And that love was all that kept Mycroft from telling John everything, then and there. Anything less wouldn't have prevented him from finding a way to erase the way John was staring despondently into the clouds while tears dried on his cheeks. He was no longer crying, but Mycroft suspected that it was due to his pride and not an actual loss of emotion.

"I should go. Being here is pointless. It's not helping anyone."

"Mummy will be most displeased."

"Mummy," John stated coolly, "can take her pate de foie gras and bugger off."

Mycroft gave a low chuckle. Few actually liked his mother, but most were too intimidated by her penetrating stare and calculating mannerisms to speak so boldly of it. That John was willing to do so either meant that he was a stronger man than most, or he had spent too much time around Sherlock. Mycroft suspected that it was a mixture of the two.

"In that case, I believe I will return to dinner to enjoy my plum pudding. I had best check on DI Lestrade, also. I'm not sure how he has fared against our guests."

"Better than most, I would assume. Lestrade's pretty adaptable, would have to be, to have put up with Sherlock for so long."

"Of course." Mycroft looked John over carefully, judging whether or not he would be fit for travel on his own. He looked perfectly capable of finding his own way home safely, so Mycroft decided to leave him to his own devices. With a security detail on the watch, of course. "I hope you have a better night, John. Perhaps have a bit of whatever dessert really was our dear Sherlock's favorite."

"Banana cream pie," John stated simply before turning to walk towards the main road. Mycroft considered following him, or even calling for Anthea to come for him, but he thought that John likely wanted some time to himself. He obviously wasn't used to being in such a vulnerable state, and wanted some peace to sort his feelings out.

Not for the first time, Mycroft wondered if what Sherlock was doing was truly what was best. He suspected that, if Sherlock ever found his way home, he would find that he had created more problems than he had solved. John, for one, was not going to simply forgive Sherlock for his actions. In fact, if he ever trusted Sherlock again, Mycroft would be truly surprised. And that, if anything, would be the greatest wound of all to Sherlock.