Mycroft Holmes is assassinated on a cold, bleak December night. A night he was supposed to be spending with his loving husband Gregory Lestrade.
The funeral is one that was specified by Mycroft's last will and testament to involve no black and be filled with seasonal flowers and pale pastels. He wishes everyone the best with their lives as a footnote of - to many of his acquaintances - uncharacteristic warmth. It is evident in the document that he had planned for his death for years; he obviously knew it was a risk of his job.
Sherlock is on autopilot for the whole thing and has been ever since he accompanied Lestrade to the morgue. Since he saw the single, long distance bullet wound through his brother's forehead. It's almost like he doesn't know what's happening. John is very concerned and has tried to help, but nothing has roused him as yet.
Anthea - or Lea, as everyone now knows is her real name; she thought that someone should know her real name other than the man in the coffin - sits in silence. She doesn't cry, doesn't speak, keeps her head bowed. She knows Mycroft would turn in his grave if he knew she was praying for this to be his 'Lazarus'; that he'd pop out of a cake at the wake and allow Greg to attack him with kisses, her to punch him and Sherlock to beat him with his violin. She knows John brought Sherlock's violin, just in case.
There are many mourners, but only a few friends. Mr and Mrs Holmes pay their respects and cry quietly in the corner. Greg knows Mycroft wouldn't like that; Mycroft didn't want his funeral to be a sad event. He thought he'd go hated; there was even a request for what music could be played for people to dance on the newly filled grave. Greg would tell them not to cry, but he himself is balanced on a knife's edge.
People take their turns to speak; some have anecdotes, Mr Holmes reads Mycroft's favourite childhood story (The Iliad - but Mycroft liked the Ancient Greek original, not the English translation his father reads from, bloody show-off), Mrs Holmes sings his childhood favourite lullaby, some read his favourite poems (Anthea - Lea - learned Latin especially to read the original); Greg Lestrade sings Mycroft's favourite song. Mycroft specified that in his will, he always loved Greg's singing, even if Greg thought his voice was awful and off-key.
They were summoned from the hillside,
They were called in from the glen,
And the country found them ready
At the rallying call for men
Let no tears add to their hardships
As the soldiers pass along,
And although your heart is breaking,
Make it sing this cheery song:
Keep the Home Fires Burning,
While your hearts are yearning.
Though your lads are far away
They dream of home.
There's a silver lining
Through the dark clouds shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out
Till the boys come home.
Overseas there came a pleading,
"Help a nation in distress." And we gave our glorious laddies -
Honour bade us do no less,
For no gallant son of Freedom
To a tyrant's yoke should bend -
Greg's voice breaks and tears fall down his face. He's failed at trying to keep the sorrow away on his late-husband's request. Then suddenly, a deep baritone begins.
And a noble heart must answer
To the sacred call of "Friend."
Greg blinks and looks up. Sherlock is standing in the aisle, offering a frail, wobbling smile.
Greg manages to find his voice, and they sing together - the little brother, and the widower.
Keep the Home Fires Burning,
While your hearts are yearning.
Though your lads are far away
They dream of home.
There's a silver lining
Through the dark clouds shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out
Sherlock stops to allow Greg to finish on his own.
'Til the boys come home
"Thank you, Sherlock…" Greg whispers, and before he knows it, he's gathered into a hug. A hug given by a lanky, tall, raven-haired man.
"I just can't believe this isn't a Lazarus…" The broken baritone whispers in his ear, making Greg grip tighter, "But, if there is an afterlife; I'm sure he's smiling."
My dear Gregory, I wish you a lifetime of happiness. I love you with all my heart and hope against hope we shall meet again, even if it takes a thousand years - your husband, Mycroft Holmes…