Wind whipped my blond hair around my face and rain pelted down like bullets, leaving my cheeks red and wet. Everyone was staring and it made me nervous. I hadn't exactly thought of a speech. Funerals were not my forte. I sit there like a block and become a shoulder to cry on. Speaking at one was not exactly on my bucket list.
"My brother was a great man. A good man. He was…" I paused in the middle of my sentence and looked down at my cold, pale hands. Not because I was emotional – though it may be perceived as so – but because I had nothing else to say.
I knew nothing of my brothers. I left my twin and our younger sibling as soon as I was able and made a life for myself in America. I worked hard to remain quiet and under the radar for a long while until I decided that I could use my exquisite observation skills for good. I became a detective, naturally. Once I joined homicide it wasn't long before my twin brother found me. He did work for the British government and he had unlimited resources. My other brother, though, made no attempt to contact me. I read in many papers and emails from my twin that he was doing well, working like I did and actually had a friend.
After that I heard little to nothing, then one day I actually received a call from a blocked number saying that my younger sibling was dead; he had killed himself. At first, I knew it couldn't be true. Sherlock was just too proud. Then I remembered the clippings I'd read. Eventually the press would turn and they did. Anyone can be driven into madness and he was fragile.
Sherlock was fragile. Despite his portrayal of strength and confidence, my brother's weakness was that he was weak. His problem was that he relied entirely on his mind.
"A brilliant man and he helped so many people. He will be so missed," I ended swiftly, giving one last look before I turned away and stepped down the few stairs away from the rose-decorated podium. That I knew. There was no one here who doubted Sherlock, I knew. I would have seen the scowls; the faces that crinkled in disbelief and even occasionally anger. There were many people, I'd heard, that showed to Mrs. Hudson's apartment at 221A demanding money back from Sherlock's consultations. This usually ended in screaming and then crying.
As I moved to leave the room, everyone was moving about then. The service had ended on my terrible and meaningless note. I was so wrapped up in how disgusted I was in myself that I barely noticed the male I ran into. I didn't bother to say anything as I moved on. He called my name and I twisted, looking directly into the eyes of none other than John Watson.