Mycroft sipped the remainder of what he was willing to drink from the tea the Diogenes Club. He set the cup down, gathered his things, and left promptly. Everyone he passed in the halls gave him a very warm smile and a heavy nod as he walked by them; it made Mycroft want to throttle them all. Desperate to get out of there, he picked up his pace and exited the building to find, wonderfully, Anthea, faithful and on time as always, with his car and driver.

"Good afternoon, sir," she said, quirking up one side of her mouth in a rather jaunty smile, which was her attempt to still be normal on this day. "You'll still go?"

"Yes, nothing has changed."

"Excellent, sir."

They slipped into the dark car and it zoomed away. The driver took the shortest way possible because he and Anthea knew that Mycroft just felt obligated to do this; really, he did not have other plans for that day because no one would make plans or meetings or calls with him. Apparently they wanted this to be his day of rest or something unbelievable like that.

The driver stopped outside the cemetery. Mycroft tore his gaze away from the spot on the car floor he had been staring at almost nonstop the whole ride and he mechanically dragged himself from the car. He started the walk to the grave.

He felt as if this whole thing was just a chore for him. The suicide, the cleanup (literally and metaphorically), taking care of the flat, his things, possessions, trying to find case files from the Yard that they needed back because they certainly weren't going to get solved now. It just all made Mycroft want to uncharacteristically groan and beat his head till his brain went numb with pain and sensory overload. He wanted to smoke a whole pack of cigarettes and play loud Beethoven symphonies and eat a chocolate cake, but the problem with that is that everyone else would know he was grieving. Mycroft didn't think he would stop grieving until he himself died and he met up with his younger brother in some deep dark unforgiving pit of Hell. Probably he was there now (well, that is if Mycroft really believed in all that) with Mr. James Moriarty, being insufferable and annoying together.

He had (openly?) grieved that first week or so after the initial shock wore off and everyone was fine with that. Mycroft surely wasn't, though. Really, he hated his brother. He always seemed to get off quite free when they were boys and with his big blue eyes and curly black hair everyone fawned over him and he got the cookies and Mycroft didn't. Mycroft was the responsible child and got a job after going to university and making friends; he was right in the head. His stupid brother went off and passed school with probably some of the high marks in his class and then he wasted his life. Cocaine, cigarettes, alcohol binges! He made up a job because no one else would hire him. Mummy was proud that her son was working with the police force, but Mycroft was disappointed that his brother was high as a kite half those cases.

Mycroft stopped and stared. Well, damn, John was already there. Apparently John had heard him and turned around to glance who was there. His face fell even deeper and he turned back to the grave. Mycroft saw obnoxiously bright sunflowers by the dark headstone.

"Interesting choice of flowers, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, deciding to face it and walk forward to stand next to his brother's only friend.

"All the other ones were rotting," John offered as an explanation quietly. He shifted his feet and squared his jaw.

"How long have you been here, John?"

"An hour, maybe."

"You were always so dedicated and none of us knew why."

"Yeah, I didn't know why, either, I guess."

Mycroft got out a cigarette and offered one to John, who declined, saying he had to get back to work anyway. He turned and almost walked away, but he stopped and said quite briskly, "I blame you for it, still."

"Yes, I know."

"You didn't even apologize. I mean, you asked me to tell him you were sorry, but that doesn't really cut it, you know?"

"Yes, thank you, John."

"It's just, I know you two didn't get along, but I didn't know that it went that deep. He's still family."

"We were never happy with each other, John."

"That doesn't really matter to me, Mycroft," he said as he finally began walking away. Mycroft thought he would keep talking, but he just kept getting farther and farther away.

Mycroft took a puff of the cigarette and inhaled the smell sharply. He opened his mouth to say something to his deceased brother (for God's sake this was ridiculous) but he faltered and realized he didn't have anything to offer. He could say he was sorry, but what was the use? He would not hear him and it would make no difference because he was still dead and it still hurt. It had been a year and it still hurt Mycroft somewhere deep inside.

Mycroft decided the best he could do was toss the rest of the pack of cigarettes by John's flowers and called it a day.


Sorry for taking a while to upload this. I just kept forgetting really XD

Thanks in advance for any reviews and also thanks for reading! Sorry for any mistakes! :D