Edit: I'm so sorry, I posted my last story instead of the new one by mistake.

Author's note: The next prompt of the Winter Challenge on tumblr. This one is "Meeting the family".

I don't own anything, please review.

You didn't plan on going to his funeral. Sherlock Holmes and you had been at uni together, but only for two semesters, until he left or was made to quit, and you never were friends. He seemed to tolerate you more than the others, but then you had the room next to his and didn't complain about his violin playing (mostly because you weren't in your room at night that often, there were many girls who required your attention), so that didn't mean anything.

It didn't mean anything either that you were the first to ask him about his trick and how he knew that two (married) professors were sleeping together. You were simply bored and unable to sleep because you were lying in your own bed for once and he kept making these awful screeching noises and you figured you might as well ask him how he had figured out the affair. And perhaps why he had deemed it a good idea to announce it loudly at breakfast. Right in front of the professors.

It didn't matter that Sherlock had stared at you like the concept of a conversation was new to him, and to this day you suspect it was. It didn't matter that he spent hours explaining and you realized that he put more passion into his – thing (he insisted on calling it "the Science of Deduction") than you had ever felt in your life.

It didn't matter that, from this night on, he never made the horrible screeching noises again, and sometimes, you had the feeling that he was trying to be quiet. Failing, but trying. Or that, afterwards, you never joined the others when they talked about the freak.

It didn't matter that, on the day he left, you found an envelope under your door telling you which questions Professor Penbrook was going to put into the very important exam you had in two days time, that could decide your whole future because you wanted a good job and you needed good marks.

It didn't matter.

He had saved your job, more or less, when he had found – deduced who had broken into the old office and why. But you had paid for it. You owed him nothing.

You still don't.

Which is why it is a surprise to you to find yourself in front of the cemetery. You remember standing up, leaving the office and telling your secretary you wouldn't be back until tomorrow, but you don't know why.

It's only a strange man you knew from uni.

Was a strange man.

Somehow, the thought that he's gone is...

Now that you're thinking about it, it seems so unbelievable that he's gone for good. You didn't know before just how – how much you took his existence for granted, in some part of your mind, a part that found this strange man fascinating with his refusal to obey social conventions and his thing and his experiments.

You weren't friends, you never could have been, because he was so different and you were so normal, he was drifting through life and you were steadily working towards your goal, he was unpredictable and you were safe –

And yet here you are.

Anyway, who cares. You are just being polite.

There are hundreds of people here, but certainly only because they read about his suicide and are curious. And at least you knew him.

You don't think he had a family. He always seemed to exist entirely on his own. True, there was this doctor (who had corrected him when he introduced him as his "friend", but on the other hand, he ran after Sherlock as if he was the only person that mattered, and the consulting detective had looked genuinely hurt - not that you should have noticed that, because the guy had always been an expert at hiding his emotions, and why did you notice? And what was up with these two anyway?)...

So Sherlock might have one person who's there for him. Two, now.

At least you're doing something good. Let it be known that not all bankers are heartless bastards.

Maybe you should find this John Watson fellow. Give him your condolences. It must be difficult enough for him, with the press and everyone saying Sherlock was a fake –

Not that you believe them. You could have bet that it would all clear up, eventually, because one only has to think about it for a second to realize that Sherlock couldn't have invented all the crimes.

It might be a little more plausible that he hired an actor as an archenemy because he was bored – you don't want to know what he got up to in his room when you heard small explosions and the cling of beakers through the wall – but you can't believe it, not of the young man who helped you with your exam.

You are overthinking this, you decide. Why are you even here? It just makes you something about something that's not your job, which means not important.

But you're here and it would be impolite not to talk to John Watson, or at least try to find him, so you walk slowly through the masses of spectators – vultures, really, the guy killed himself, why are they here to stare at his casket? – and you notice something... strange.

There's a group of people who have somehow managed to stand apart from everyone else, even though they're right in the middle, and it takes you a moment to realize why.

They are obviously homeless. Some are old, some are young, but all act oblivious to the contemptuous glances that are thrown their way, and all look sad. Truly sad.

They must be part of Sherlock's homeless network, which you only know about because you happened to click on John Watson's blog by accident. A few times.

There's a young woman with reddish hair who's looking at you, and you don't know what to do because normally, people like these get ignored.

But you can't because this is Sherlock's funeral and there's someone else, outside of John Watson, who's grieving.

So you nod.

After a moment, she nods back.

You continue making your way through the crowd until you're finally near the casket and see John Watson.

He looks broken, the shadow of the man who stood in your office, and you swallow.

Then you remind yourself that you are an important banker and doing the right things, so you stroll confidently towards him and greet him.

His eyes widen and you somehow feel bad because he didn't think you'd come.

You clear your throat.

"I am sorry. I didn't think – I – "

Normally, you don't stutter. But this isn't normal. You should be in your office. There is no reason for you to be here.

John, however, nods.

His face looks grey, and he has lost weight since you last saw him, and not only that, but so much more, and before you can stop yourself, you say, "I guess Sherlock was right. People are idiots".

It makes him smile, and you find you aren't sorry for letting the words escape you.

Then someone coughs behind you, gently, politely, and you turn around.

There is an elderly lady standing before you, scrutinizing you and John, as if she wants to make sure you aren't making this more difficult for him than it already is, and you remember the blog and realize this must be Sherlock's landlady.

Although – looking at her black dress and the glances she shoots John and how she tries to avoid looking at the casket and the tissue in her balled fist (are you really doing the thing? You should stop) landlady isn't the word that comes to mind.

The word that comes to mind is mother.

"I'm Mrs. Hudson" she introduces herself, and when you answer "Sebastian Wilkes" she recognized your name, probably because she knows the blog by heart, and you feel ashamed for how you treated Sherlock during the case.

She is apparently thankful that you are here, that someone who believes in Sherlock, knows Sherlock wasn't a fake is here, and it makes you even more ashamed, but you don't show it.

She seems to realize, because she pats your arm and promises you tea and biscuits "if you should ever drop by 221B, dear".

You make a mental note to call your mother as soon as you get home.

It doesn't end with Mrs. Hudson.

There's the guy with silver hair who turns out to be the DI Sherlock worked with most of the time who looks guilty and you remember the circumstances of his suicide and try to make him understand, by being polite and telling him anecdotes about your time at university, that you think it wasn't his fault.

He laughs, even if it sounds hollow.

There's this guy Sherlock saved in Dartmoor – Light? Knight, that's it – who comes with his therapist (although they are standing a little bit too close) and keeps talking about the case and the moor and how Sherlock wasn't a fake, and you nod because it is true.

There are others whose cases Sherlock solved, people he helped, and you can't help but think that the World will be a much poorer place now that he's gone.

The grief comes unbidden, like it was waiting all this time in the back of your mind, ready to pounce on you the moment you showed something like a heart underneath the business suit, something like regret that you didn't get to know an extraordinary man while you could, and you bite your lip as you listen to an old man who seemed to come out of nowhere a minute ago (normally you pay more attention to the people around you, but this, this is so strange, and you are so sad and grieving and yet glad that you came) who Sherlock saved when a group of criminals tried to take advantage of his strange name and his habit of staying at home all the time, and Sherlock, Sherlock's funeral is the reason he has left his house for the first time in years, really.

And then Sherlock's brother greets you.

You don't remember Sherlock ever mentioning a brother. Then again, you didn't talk to him much. It just feels like you did, because he couldn't be overlooked at uni, and he somewhat tolerated you. But you didn't talk.

Yet, here is the strange man with the umbrella who knows you went to uni at the same time as his little brother, what you studied and where you work, and who seems taken aback when you give him your condolences and sound genuine, because you are.

You find yourself standing in this group as the casket is lowered into the ground, a group the homeless people have somehow belong to as well, because they are standing right behind you all of a sudden.

You are not a spectator, you are not a curious tourist.

You are a mourner, and it's a strange feeling for someone who has never really mourned for anything in his life.

You look at John Watson, his fists clenched, staring at the casket. You look at Mrs. Hudson, who's dabbing her eyes and decide that you will drop by Baker Street. You look at Sherlock's stoic brother, the red-haired, homeless young woman, at Henry Knight, and all the others.

You are standing next to the DI, Lestrade, and he shoots you a look as if to ask if you are alright and you start to see why Sherlock helped him.

"I – " you start and swallow before continuing.

"I didn't know Sherlock had such a large family".

He looks taken aback at first, but then he smiles.

"Yes, we can be a little overbearing at the beginning, I suppose".

At the beginning.

You know what he means. He's including you now as well, telling you that you belong to this group, to Sherlock's family.

And you don't mind at all.

Author's note: My obsession with minor characters is showing again.

I hope you liked it, please review.