Warning: attempted suicide.

Mycroft Holmes lowered his head and squeezed his mothers hand. Seconds later she returned the pressure and sniffed. She stood between her husband and older son attending one event she never wanted to witness.

Her younger son's funeral.

Last time she wasn't present. Last time she was among the few who knew the truth, who knew Sherlock was still alive and didn't die in the fall. But today she wasn't so fortunate. Her son was dead.

Six months ago it happened. Christmas. She was so happy to have both of her boys home again for the holidays, even happier that at least one of her sons had friends joining them since it never happened before.

She remembered feeling dizzy and sitting down before everything went dark. Today she wished she never woke up.

Her son was dead.

John Watson stood next to his wife, with bowed head, his hand gripping hers tightly. Their little daughter was home with a neighbor who agreed to keep an eye on her for few hours.

John couldn't believe this was happening again. He was burying his friend once more. And this time there was no secret plan he didn't know about, no inflatable landing pad to cushion Sherlock's fall. There was no hope.

A sob came from the older lady that was like a mother to them for several years while they lived in Baker Street together.

Martha Hudson was holding a handkerchief in front of her mouth to muffle the sounds of grief but in vain. He was gone.

The boy she loved like a son was gone, died in a foreign land, and wasn't coming back ever again. She would willingly be startled every single evening like she was that night months ago when he appeared at 221B and made her scream. She would put up with him shooting more holes in her walls and playing the violin at oddest times. She would ignore the body parts in the fridge and would gladly bring him tea and biscuits when he shouted.

But the flat on the floor will be empty once more. And once more she will leave it exactly as it is for she couldn't stand the idea of someone else inhabiting his space.

Detective inspector on her side offered his hand to support her and she gratefully accepted.

Greg Lestrade stood in attention in front of the dark brown casket with a large bouquet of white carnations and red roses on the lid. It wasn't a first time he attended a funeral of a friend, he lost several friends he knew since their academy days, but it was difficult every single time.

He met with loss every single day and witnessed the pain those who are left behind to mourn feel. With time it stopped affecting him too much. But it's always different when it's someone you knew.

When it's someone you call a friend.

Anderson stood silently behind him. He didn't attend Sherlock's funeral four years ago. He still abhorred the consulting detective back then. It's strange how guild changes people.

Unknown individuals stood all around them, familiar perhaps only to John who followed Sherlock during his cases and met the strangest people. Henry Knight was among them, as were the graffiti artist Raz, Bill Wiggins and the guardsman Stephen Bainbridge whose life John and Sherlock saved.

But one person was suspiciously absent.

It was Mycroft who noticed that someone who obviously cared for his brother wasn't present. And he wasn't sure how to feel about that. On one hand he didn't have the reason to question the reasons behind the absence and on the other he was aware she was the reason he brother managed to trick Moriarty and survive.

He didn't like admitting it but he felt certain obligation towards Molly Hooper.

That was why he, after making sure his parents are safely in the car that would drive them to his residence where they would stay for few days, he took a cab and told the driver the address that would take him to doctor Hooper's flat.

He knocked on the door but received no response. The sound of footsteps coming from the other side was an indicator that Barts most competent pathologist was in fact home and not on her workplace in the morgue.

Ignoring all good manners he possessed Mycroft checked if the door was unlocked. If necessary he was willing and capable to pick the lock, but it was unnecessary this time since the door opened with ease.

He entered the flat and looked closely around the sitting room. It were the little details that caught his attention and told him the most about the woman who lived there. The books he expected to see but not a small white statue of a Greek goddess that kept them company on the bookshelf. Or a reproduction of van Gogh's 'Starry Night over St. Remy' that hung over the mantle.

Or several boxes that were lined left of the front doors.

"Miss Hooper?" he focused on a woman standing in front of the window and looking outside.

She was dressed in a modest black skirt and black blouse, a purse that went with the ensemble was dangling in her right hand.

"I couldn't go." She finally spoke, "I got ready and everything and couldn't get myself to leave the flat. I just… I couldn't… It was better for everyone that I wasn't present."

Mycroft frowned. He believed her absence was because of grief but he suspected something else was going on here. So he took a seat on a colorful and rather comfortable couch. He didn't say a word as Molly threw her black purse on the armchair next to her and started to pace the room.

"He would have liked if you attended." Mycroft tested the waters.

A snort coming from the visibly agitated pathologist served as a sign she disagreed.

Suddenly she stopped and turned to face the older Holmes brother. He was taken aback by the sight of the grief in her eyes mixed with anger he didn't understand.

"Liked? Sherlock wouldn't care! He never cared!" she snapped, "It's been six years now since we first met, almost seven. In all those years only time he was kind to me was the night before the fall, the night he told me he needed my help. He told me I counted and that he trusts me."

"That is a lot coming from Sherlock." Mycroft told her. It was the truth; his brother rarely admitted to people they were important to him.

"You are missing the point!" Molly shouted.

"Then explain it to me." her visitor requested calmly.

As she attempted to find the right words Molly started to sob slightly and had to sit down in the armchair. She threw the bag on the floor and pulled her feet up, wrapping her arms around her knees.

"It's not a secret I love him. I would say 'loved' but that wouldn't be correct because I still feel the same. I probably always will." Molly's voice wavered a bit and Mycroft leaned forward to hear her better, "I can't even begin to describe how I felt after he returned. When he told me it was all possible because Moriarty made a mistake. Because he believed I didn't matter to Sherlock when in fact I mattered the most. It was in that moment that I knew I was only fooling myself when I thought I moved on from him. I never have. I never will."

"So you decided to stay home today because-"

"Because if I went to the funeral I would have made a scene." Molly said honestly before shrugging, "The casket is empty anyway."

Mycroft wasn't sure what to think about the first statement that came out of the mouth of the normally calm and collected pathologist so he confirmed her statement about Sherlock body not being laid down to rest, "His death was confirmed through official channels. But we still haven't managed to recover his body. So yes, the casket was empty once more."

"I saw them have dinner with some friends few days before we got the news Sherlock was killed." Molly said bitterly, "John and Mary. They were in a restaurant near Barts, laughing and generally having a great time. They knew the six months were almost up, they knew Sherlock could be killed in the next several days and yet-"

"Did you expect them to stay at home and grieve in advance, to lock themselves from everyone? What Sherlock did… he did it so they could continue to live normally."

Molly jumped to her feet, "But why?! Why?"

Mycroft watched as she started to cry silently.

He stood up, took a box of paper tissue from the side table and approached the grieving woman. She took a single napkin and wiped her eyes before focusing on him.

"I understand what you are trying to say." He said calmly, "But at the same time I don't."

Molly choked another sob before she sat back down in the armchair and leaned forward, looking down on her feet in shame, "I'm jealous. That's what it comes down to. I'm jealous that Sherlock was willing to die for John Watson, and to kill for him and Mary… I know it was Mary who did it. I'm not an idiot…"

"No one is saying that you are, doctor Hooper." Mycroft said taking a seat back on the couch opposite of the distressed woman.

She laughed weakly, "I have a hard time finding the right words."

"Take your time."

Molly nodded and took a deep breath, "If I was at the funeral today I would have probably snapped at John. I know it's irrational and stupid and petty of me but he was there… he knew by then Sherlock was willing to do drastic things to protect him and yet he didn't prevent him from killing Magnussen. And if he did then this wouldn't have happened. Sherlock wouldn't be dead. But he is. And now John can happily continue with his life like nothing happened and raise his daughter with Mary and all because he had Sherlock to fix things for him. To sacrifice himself once more."

"Do you truly believe John Watson will continue living like nothing happened?"

Molly shook her head, "No. But that doesn't make me any less angry because he will eventually move on… and I never will."

Before he left her flat that evening Mycroft left Molly his cell phone number with clear instructions to contact him when ever she feels the need to, day or night. It doesn't matter what time it is, if she needs someone to talk to he will be willing to listen.

First time Molly texted Mycroft he was in his office, listening to Anthea informing him about the upcoming meeting he needs to attend. His phone chipped and his assistant instantly stopped talking.

After checking his message Mycroft instructed her to continue, but not giving her any information as to why he smiled slightly after reading the text. He didn't spoke with anyone about the conversation he had with Molly Hooper after Sherlock's funeral, so no one would understand anyway why he was pleased that she informed him she started to see a psychologist in hope he'll help her deal with depression.

Second time she contacts him it's early in the morning and he's on his was to the Diogenes Club.

He is pleased, of course, that she contacted him and they talk for few minutes. Molly seemed really cheerful over the phone as she spoke about her article getting published.

Few days later they bumped into each other on a crime scene, of all places. Molly was there on Lestrade's request, he wanted her to make sure they collected all body parts of a man that had the misfortune of being killed and dismembered. Mycroft was there because the victim was an agent of some sort of. The older Holmes brother was very vague on the details.

He and Molly talked briefly before she returned to the task on hand and he stayed for few more minutes, silently observing the changes about the pathologist. Most pronounced change were her clothes. First thing he deduced when he initially met doctor Hooper that Christmas night many years ago was that she preferred lively colors and bold patterns. Both were absent from her current wardrobe. She wore black slacks and an indigo colored jumper underneath a black jacket.

Molly Hooper still grieved, still struggled, and it was obvious to those who bothered to look.

Next time he received a text from her it was in the middle of the night. The message was short.

Thank you for giving me your number. – MH

Mycroft blinked few times before responding with a question.

Why? – M. Holmes

An answer came few minutes later.

Because now I have someone to say goodbye to. –MH

Before he managed to type anything another message arrived. This one containing only one word.

Goodbye – MH

Mycroft jumped out of bed and used speed dial to call Anthea. She lived less then 10 minutes away from Molly Hooper and would be there much sooner then he would. It's been a long time ago since he felt this kind of panic. He couldn't allow that the woman who saved his brother cause harm to herself and he was quite certain that was exactly what she was planning to do.

A car was already waiting in front of his old Victorian house, the driver sent by Anthea no doubt. With the roads mostly deserted at this time of the night it took only half an hour to reach the building where Molly Hooper lived. And when he did he could see an ambulance parked in front of it and a stretcher being wheeled into the street, a prone figure lying on top.

Mycroft exited a car and approached Anthea who was standing aside, watching everything silently.

"Sir." She greeted him when he stopped next to her.

"What happened?"

"Overdose." She answered bluntly, "There was an empty prescription bottle of antidepressants on the bed next to Miss Hooper. She tried to kill herself."

"Tried?" Mycroft saw a small ray of light.

"I got there in time. Miss Hooper is still alive but unconscious. I heard them reviving her on one point before they placed her on the stretcher. It took them few minutes to bring her back."

"Do you know which hospital they are taking her to?"

"Saint Bartholomew."

Four months after that Molly Hooper was transferred into a facility for long-term coma patients.

She didn't have many visitors. The Watsons came once but left really fast after Mary started to cry. Greg Lestrade visited with Mrs. Hudson but neither of them came often, the sight of once cheerful woman now so unresponsive saddened them and made them both regret for not contacting her more often after Sherlock's death.

Mycroft came often, one time in the company of his parents. His mother wanted to thank the woman who years ago saved her younger son's life but never did. And now it seemed too late.

It was during one of those visits from the older Holmes brother, who mostly spent visiting hours reading his reports to Molly, that the sound of commotion outside made him snap the file shut and stand up. The facility had basic security and they were good at their jobs but who ever was shouting outside was making it rather difficult for them.

He was about to move and walk out in the hallway to see what was going on when the room doors opened and a stranger walked in.

Only the man wasn't a stranger.

It was the eyes he recognized. His brother's eyes. Everything else looked wrong.

The fact Sherlock was standing in front of him was wrong. It was confirmed Sherlock died. But still he was right there, in Molly Hooper's room, watching the small woman on the bed with so much sorrow in his eyes face Mycroft instantly remembered the little boy who was informed his loyal friend and companion in countless adventures was sick and had to be put down so he wouldn't suffer too much.

He lost a treasured friend that day.

And he knew he was close to losing another one.

Mycroft watched this stranger that was his brother, noticed the signs Sherlock fought against the six months prediction. He had a scar on his yaw, right below his left ear. Bandage was visible under the sleeve on his right hand. There was a slight limp in his gait as he approached the bed.

The doors opened and an orderly stepped inside.

"It's alright." Mycroft calmed him before he hauled Sherlock outside, "He's her friend."

At those words Sherlock looked directly at his brother like he was seeing him for the first time. Moments later he closed his eyes and bowed his head. That word hurt him. Friend. He was no friend.

But still he approached closer till he was standing opposite of Mycroft with the bed between them. He knew he had a lot to explain, starting with how he survived, where he was for the past couple of months and how he managed to get back to England when he was exiled. But all that had to wait.

Right now he needed to do something else.

He wiped his dirty hand to equally dirty jeans before reaching for Molly's small hand. It was icy cold and Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself down.

In the past years he killed and died for John Watson.

Now he hoped he will get a chance to tell Molly that from this day forward he would live… for her.