Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Doctor Who, sadly. However, Hamish is owned by the fans and I made up Diana. Enjoy!

It had been five days. Five days since everything fell apart. There was smashed glass on the floor that no one had bothered to clean up. Food was left untouched. It had been five days since John Watson died.

The phone call had come early in the morning, a man saying that Doctor John Watson had been killed in action in Afghanistan, and Sherlock had yelled and sobbed and Hamish and Diana, now seventeen, had fallen to their knees when they realised what had happened to their father, and they cried. Sherlock had smashed glasses and thrown clocks to the ground in a rage against reality, his children mourning with him; Diana curled up in her father's chair that he would never sit in again and cried into the back, imagining that it was her father's shoulder instead, that he was comforting her and telling her it would be alright; Hamish lay on the floor, not moving, gasps and cries of pain being the only sign of life.

But now it was quiet, so quiet, too quiet. The sort of silence that digs into one's mind, a heavy silence, laden with grief and hopelessness. Nothing stirred. It seemed as though 221B Baker Street had frozen, time refusing to move until John Watson returned home. But time ticked on, and today was the funeral.

"Tick, tock, goes the clock, and all the years they fly

Tick, tock, and all too soon, you and I must die."

Sherlock sat in the room that he had once shared with John, praying. He didn't pray to God.

He prayed to the Blogger, the Doctor, the Husband, the Father, the Hero. He prayed to John Watson.

"John," he said in his mind. "I can't do this. I need you. Now I understand how you felt after I jumped. But it's real this time. You got blown up. I saw your body. Well, what was left of it.

"They need you too, John. Hamish and Diana. They're so... lost without you. Hamish... he's fallen apart. He barely eats. He just sits there. I think he's alternating between imagining that you're there and trying not to think about you. Diana's grown a shell. I don't know what she's thinking anymore. It seems as though she's thrown the funny, sweet, happy parts of Diana into a box and locked it away. And now she's... cold and calculating and unpredictable. Mycroft and I are simply antisocial compared to her. She's locked away the parts of her that feel, John, and she thinks she's made herself bulletproof.

"And I don't even know what I've become, John. I just try not to think at all; it hurts too much."

The three of them arrived at the funeral dressed up, with their pain shoved deep down for now. Sherlock's eyes were red, and he was wearing his trench coat and blue scarf, with the collar up the way John had liked. Hamish was wearing a suit, and his normally bright blue eyes looked faded, as though the shutters had closed on the windows of the soul, or maybe as though there was no one home. Diana's back was straight and she was holding her head like some sort of princess (probably remembering the last words her father had said to her: "Chin up, little warrior.") her purple eyes cold.

The funeral-goers sat down, the Holmes family in the front row. It was a closed-casket ceremony. The minister spoke and then a few of John's friends, then finally it was time for Sherlock to eulogize.

"John Watson," he began, trying not to cry, "was one of the best people I've ever known. He has saved so many lives, and beyond that, he was innately kind and brave. And John, if you can hear me, I just want to say that I love you. And I am grateful for that. You taught me how to love, and I am so, so thankful." Hamish's face was in his hands, and Diana, with all the sympathy she had left saved for her twin, had an arm around him. Lestrade, Donovan, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly were nearly hysterical. Even Mycroft was crying.

But beyond that, Sherlock saw people, a sea of colour. He squinted at the signs they held.

"All right, people, let's go!" said a man who seemed to be their leader.

"GOD HATES FAGS. GOD HATES FAGS. GOD HATES FAGS," the crowd of protestors chanted, their American accents clear.

Sherlock stepped off the podium, an expression of wrath on his face. "I'm going to call the police," he said coolly. "And you are going to SHUT UP so I may finish my eulogy." But the protestors paid him no mind.

That was when Diana, sociopathic Diana, stood up and took the microphone from her father.

"Right, you lot," she said clearly, with rage in her voice, "you're all yelling and moving about, it's really very distracting. Could you all just stay still a minute, because I. AM. TALKING!" They all paused. "Well then," she continued, "the question for the hour is: Who's got a gun? Answer: I do."

"Are you threatening us?" the leader yelled.

"You tell me," she said calmly, pulling a gun and firing it twice in the air before lowering it at the protestors. Her purple eyes seemed black with hatred. "Next question: Who's coming to take it from me? And I think I know the answer. I think the man who put you all up to this, who told you to ruin my father's FUNERAL, might just be named Moriarty.

"So, Moriarty! I know you're listening! Come on, look at us! No plan, no backup, only one weapon worth a damn," Hamish stood up and joined Diana as she continued, "and you know what else we haven't got anymore? Anything. To. Lose. So if you've got people sitting up there on those silly little rooftops with their silly little guns, and you've got any plans on breaking Sherlock Holmes tonight, just tell them to remember who's in their way. Think about every black day our fathers ever stopped you, and then, and then, do the smart thing. Let someone else try first."

The crowd of protestors parted to reveal Moriarty in the center. He waved his hand and the protestors left. "Oh, dear," he said. "I've been found." He turned and walked away, but not before saying, "I'll be seeing you again soon, Sherlock Holmes."

"You gave me hope and took it away. That's enough to make anyone dangerous, so God knows what it will do to me."

The funeral was over. The three of them- three seemed such a small and lost number- were in the sitting room, when finally Sherlock spoke. "You two were amazing."

"I figured that was what Dad would have done," Diana said.

"You were right. And Hamish, you were very brave, too."

Hamish was hugging his knees. "I... I just want him back." He started crying.

Diana breathed out heavily. "If Moriarty had anything to do with it, I swear to God I will find him and rip his heart out."

"I doubt that Jim Moriarty had anything to do with the bombs," Sherlock said with the last bit of calm he had left. As tears started to roll down his cheeks, he looked at Diana, who not long ago had been an innocent child, happy and carefree, but now threatened to kill people with absolute seriousness. She had changed so much- they all had- but his grief became stronger as he thought about the child who had grown up in Baker Street, now lost forever. And even their victory against Moriarty, even watching him practically run away, was never worth it, not worth John or that child, and Sherlock would have given up victory to get them back without hesitation.

"Demons run when a good man goes to war.

Night will fall and drown the sun,

when a good man goes to war.

Friendship dies and true love lies,

night will fall and the dark will rise,

when a good man goes to war.

Demons run but count the cost,

the battle is won but the child is lost."

A/N: So that wasn't as sad as it could have been, I mainly wanted to show some parallels between Sherlock and Doctor Who. The first part was pretty sad though.

Please review and tell me what you think!