3,554 miles

They let him out for the funeral, or more accurately cremation. For all of his skills of deduction Sherlock hadn't been expecting his passing. It was a terrible shock to the system to learn you could miss something like that, observe and still not see such an obvious clue. A part of him wonders how he had managed to overlook the signs, the failing mental and physical health of his grandfather. The Colonel hadn't been his best lately and if he was honest with himself neither had Sherlock. How could he do that? He wonders as the pain in his chest burns. How could he let himself get into such a state he misses his opportunity to say goodbye. Well no more he thinks deciding then and there never to touch drugs again as long as he lives. They aren't worth it he decides as he takes his seat on the hard pew beside his brother.

Mycroft had known, father too and even mummy. So why had they not said anything about his grandfather's failing health during one of their numerous visits? Surely they realised he would have come immediately if they had told him. Hell if need be he would have broken out of rehab to see him if he had known. It wasn't not like the health facility lacked phones after all.

Had they not wanted his grandfather to see him? Had they been ashamed of him? Of what he had become? Did they want to protect his grandfather from seeing the drug addicted mess he had become?

No surely not, the Colonel wasn't stupid. Out of all of them he had been Sherlock's closest confident, the one he could call regardless of the hour or the situation Sherlock had put himself in. Hazy memories of nights spent either high as a kite or in fevered throes of withdrawal on his grandfather's sofa surface. As much as the Colonel had disapproved of Sherlock's habits and despite all their arguing on the matter, he wasn't the sort to refuse to see his druggie grandson at the end. Hell the man had even funded Sherlock's stays in rehab. What then was the point in letting his grandfather pass away without saying goodbye to his favourite grandson? Surely he died knowing of Sherlock's latest attempt of getting back on the straight and narrow? Or did he die thinking Sherlock was off shooting up in some dirty ally?

His brain whirs, contemplating every possible scenario. Oh. Sherlock's eyes widen in surprise at the sudden epiphany. They had been trying to protect him not his grandfather. In their overly sentimental misguided way they had assumed that his passing would trigger Sherlock into a relapse. Hell it must have been the Colonel's doing, having them pretend he was fine travelling the world on yet another cruise instead of breathing his last in some five star privately run nursing home. Sherlock wasn't sure why but somehow it hurts. The idea of his grandfather spending his last remaining hours worrying about him instead of making the most of the remaining time. He doesn't need protecting, he's not a child nor does he need treating as such.

Mycroft places a hand on his shoulder jostling Sherlock from his thoughts. Sombre music starts and the rest of the room of mourners stand up to sing a hymn. Sherlock stands with them, ignoring the protests of his frail convalescent body, determined to honour his grandfather with the rest of them.

Sherlock's tongue trips up on unfamiliar words as he fights to control the sadness rising up inside of him. He casts a glance towards mummy, and the mere sight of her broken and weeping as his father holds her in his arms causes something to shatter in him too. The mask slips and the feelings he mostly manages to control come bubbling out. His throat starts to close up and his eyes begin to sting as tears leek down his chin. He brings a hand up to wipe away the tears but the effect is negligible. Mycroft offers him a hanky, which he takes begrudgingly. Trust his brother to have preprepared for this possibility. The song ends and an ancient army buddy of the Colonel's begins to give a reading, not that Sherlock takes it in, his eyes concentrating instead on the long elegant coffin laid out in the centre of the room his mind fixed on the man residing in it.

The simple service is over before he realises it, forcing Sherlock to attempt small talk with distant relatives and the elderly dying friends of the Colonel. The catering at the reception is horrible yet heavenly compared to the vile health food that is constantly shoved down him at the clinic so he shoves down handfuls of spring rolls and three of four mini sandwiches thankful that he is to be released soon.

Sherlock is still agonising over his grandfather's death in-between drug cravings when an appeal appears on screen rudely interrupting one of the dreadful gossipy daytime television shows he happens to be fond of. Disinterested Sherlock leans across the sofa stretching his long arms out so as to pick up the remote in order to change channels when something the presenter says catches his attention. Something his clinic therapist said flickers in his brain, something about doing nice things for others and trying to connect with the world instead of destroying himself with the drugs. Ridiculous drivel of course. Never the less for some inexplicable reason, Sherlock finds himself turning up the volume to learn more about the appeal encouraging people to send deserving solders serving abroad Christmas presents.

Sherlock spends a great deal of time picking out the perfect gifts, not because he cares about some lonely soldier fighting in some far off country but because he has nothing better to do what with the recent dry spell of interesting murders. It takes him a week of shopping, of talking to stupid sales people and endless inquiries to the organisers (who incidentally seem to veto all of his best gift ideas) before finally deciding on sending a mix of Harrods toiletries, high factor sunscreen, long lasting biscuits, a smart bound leather journal, and a tin of mints. Against his better judgement Sherlock also writes and signs a Christmas card in order to placate the stern old biddy in charge of the gift collection.

He forgets about the whole affair almost as soon as the task is completed, for he suddenly finds himself investigating the curious double homicide of a magician and his assistant, both of whom have been found asphyxiated with balloon animals tied around their necks.

Hey made a few spelling corrects to this Chapter but nothing major.

while there are ways of sending care packages to solders serving abroad its not really possible to send items to solders (I kinda took a few liberties with the fic) however I do recommend you visit supportoursoldiers dot co dot uk

Also if you like my fics why not visit my tumblr page I'm paperprincearchive