Title: The Funeral

Summary: A confrontation between Watson and Mycroft at the funeral of Sherlock Holmes

Note: Contains spoilers for both films.

"Your eulogy was very... it was...very factual," Watson said, trying to maintain polite dignity. His mind was a dark room at this moment, and he looked forward to the bottle of whisky he had back at the house. But he knew that once he was alone, his public facade of stoicism would inevitably crumble, and he wanted to put that off just a little bit longer.

He tried to keep any trace of bitterness out of his voice. Everybody here had come to pay their respects to his closest friend. None of them had known Sherlock Holmes like Watson had. He was sure of that. If Mycroft knew what kind of man he'd had as a brother, the irreplaceable, unique friend he'd lost... then there was no way he could treat this funeral like a dinner party. His fist clenched at the thought.

Mycroft nodded. "I do hope you are keeping well, doctor. I'm aware of how close you and Sherlock were."

"I'm tolerably well, thank you. You yourself seem to be quite as well as ever.", Watson said drily.

Mycroft seemed vaguely perturbed.

"I prefer to grieve in private, doctor."

"Do you?"

And Mycroft understood the question as it was intended. Do you grieve? Do you care at all?

"I believe Sherlock would not have wished for us to -"

"You're his brother goddamnit!" Watson interrupted. "Were...you were his brother." Watson's jaw clenched shut and he looked away.

Mycroft sighed, gazing at him impenetrably for a moment. Finally he spoke.

"Yes, his elder brother. His lifelong friend and supporter. His legal guardian since the age of 11. I have endeavoured in my own, quiet way to always keep a watchful eye on Sherly. I even engineered the meeting of a trustworthy doctor and soldier to be his housemate."

Watson started in shock.

"You..."

"He was my only family, and now he is gone. Doctor, I will forgive you for your mistaken assumptions on the grounds that you are grief-stricken and quite possibly not yourself. But I implore you to refrain from questioning the depth of my feelings for my brother. I failed to protect him. I did not fail to love him."

The calm tone did not falter, and nor did the self-assured steps as Mycroft walked away from the doctor, leaving him utterly numb from astonishment.

As he stepped into the darkened room gently, the two members of his staff he had entrusted the care of his brother to did not look up.

"How is he?" he asked quietly.

"The same. He woke earlier for a short time, but he is still mostly healing. "

"Rest is the best medicine for the moment. At least the fever has gone." the other volunteered, as she continued knitting in the half-light. She had been with the family for as long as Mycroft could recall, and the other woman was her daughter. In the absence of Watson, these two people were the ones he trusted most to care for Sherlock Holmes as he recovered from the multiple fractured bones, lacerations, and pneumonia that come from throwing yourself into a waterfall.

"Take 2 hours break for dinner, I will watch him." the ladies looked up at the comment. This was the first time he'd made such a suggestion, he was aware. But Watson's words had stung him more than he wished to admit and he wanted some time to reflect. They nodded and left quietly. The room smelled like a hospital, and had the vague humidity of people hovering in a confined space. He knew his brother would despise the sick room atmosphere when he awoke, but Mycroft wasn't taking any chances after coming so close to losing his younger brother. Though he'd taken a liberty with the tense he'd used, everything he'd said at the funeral had been true.

"We are going to have to hope, dear brother, that the good doctor will find his way to forgiving us for this deception." he said quietly.

"Dr. Watson, sir." the butler introduced the guest, then shimmied out as gracefully as he'd come.

Mycroft stood and gestured him into the living room.

"Doctor." he said in greeting. He didn't show the concern he felt at Watson's appearance. He had been drinking, though was not drunk. As a result there was an openness in his face which betrayed the utter devastation he felt. There was also guilt, and shame.

"I've come to apologise."

"As I said before, there is really no need to apologise"

"The comments I made were absolutely despicable. To accuse a man at the funeral of his own brother-"

"Doctor. I beg of you not to judge yourself too harshly. You too have lost a friend as close as a brother; I am quite able to understand your anger and grief at this moment in time. We need not mention it again."

Watson looked away, taking a seat when Mycroft motioned him to.

"You have such mastery of your emotions while I cannot seem to stop dwelling on it."

Mycroft hesitated. "I suppose it has yet to fully sink in." Mycroft said, internally clamping down on his uncomfortable sense of guilt. He was doing this for his brother's safety, after all. "I did not see it happen as you did."

Watson froze, eyes boring a hole into the carpet. He would never forget the look that passed between them before Holmes threw himself and Moriarty off that ledge. It seemed to him frozen in time. The regret and sincerity and resolve...

"Perhaps it would help you to write it all down, as you have done before." Mycroft said, interrupting his thoughts.

After a while, Watson sighed. "Yes. Perhaps. I think I shall need some time, but people should know what happened. What Holmes did for them."

He left. Mycroft knew for certain that he was doing the right thing. This course of action was the most logical, the most rational. So why did he feel such a tumultuous range of intrusive emotions?

He sat for some time staring at the fire before returning to his place by his brother's bedside.

He had to admit that he had been shaken by events. Going to his brother's funeral, even knowing that his brother was alive, was a curiously morbid thing to do and unexpectedly struck fear into him - that there was the possibility his younger brother could be so careless, so reckless, so selfish as to die before him ... he realised now that it was probable. Without Sherlock, he would be the only member of his family left. He had never considered it before, and now it loomed ominously in his thoughts as he watched every painful breath his brother managed to fight for in his deep sleep. It went against the natural order of things. Why did Sherly always have to be difficult?

And how bothersome all these emotions were. How distracting. He sighed, irately. He was not used to these things. These thoughts kept invading his usually ordered mind as though he had no control over them whatsoever. He stood up to go, but turned at the doorway.

"You will need to wake up soon dear brother...the good doctor is at quite a loss in your absence." and so am I. he added silently.