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MAIN GUEST CAST

John Hector McFarlane: Nicholas Rowe


I remember when the answers seemed so clear

We had never lived with doubt or tasted fear

It was easy then to tell truth from lies

Selling out from compromise

Who to love and who to hate

The foolish from the wise

But today there is no day or night

Today there is no dark or light

Today there is no black or white

Only shades of gray


Later that August 2012

Chancery Lane

Around 10:30 am

In one of the more expensive looking buildings dwells the office of John Hector McFarlane, a solicitor to a few but very important families in Great Britain.

And in this office, there is a special waiting room for clients.

The room was designed to be pleasing to the eye. Large space so no one can feel crowded, white wallpaper, pale mint green carpet, comfortable chairs and couches, the stereotypical coffee table with a pile of relatively recent newspapers and magazines, TV, minibar/fridge, and a charging station for electrical devices.

Dr. John Watson doesn't care about any of that.

In fact, he would rather be anywhere else in the world than here. Maybe even back in Afghanistan than here.

Because being here means he has to acknowledge something that has been slowly killing him inside.

It's been a couple of months, but the pain, the open wound, has been growing worse.

Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, is…is

He takes a soft, shaking breath.

Sitting on one of the couches and dressed in black mourning, Mrs. Hudson looks at him in concern.

He doesn't look back.

He just wants to be left alone. Away from the concerned, pitying looks, the reminders, the…

Somewhere so far away so he doesn't have to hear Sherlock's last words and testament.

~~This phone call, it's… it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.

Leave a note when?

Goodbye, John.

No. Don't— ~~

John gets up from his chair and limps toward the window, his knuckles turning white from gripping his cane.

Why won't his mind stop?! It won't let him sleep more than a few hours before the nightmares start. It won't let him eat anything of substance, no matter how much Mrs. Hudson tries to persuade him to. It won't let him read or watch anything without something making him remember Sher…some little thing that happened during those eighteen months they lived together. Good and bad things. Lately it's been nothing but the bad stuff.

It just won't. Stop.

Not much traffic, but he's not really watching.

If he was, he would have noticed once Detective Inspector Lestrade across the street, trying to get the nerve to come in.

He also doesn't hear the door open to admit two more people.

Drs. Molly Hooper in a simple grey dress and Mike Stamford wearing one of his nicer suits with a black armband.

Molly immediately goes to hug Mrs. Hudson. "I'm so sorry I haven't seen you and John since the funeral. I…I had to take leave and then there was so much work, Oh, I'm sorry! I, I shouldn't mention that."

Mrs. Hudson gently hushes her as she returns the hug. "It's quite alright, dear. We understand that life goes on whether we want it to or not. You have nothing to apologize for."

"Should… Do you think John will be mad if I talk to him?" Molly asks.

"He needs a few more minutes, but I'm sure he appreciates you being here."

Molly weakly smiles before she moves to sit on one of the chairs. Her thoughts banging about like several pinballs in a very large machine.

Work hasn't really been that heavy, all things considered. But during those first three months after the fall, she used all of her spare time and most of her vacation and sick leave to look after Sherlock who was hiding in her flat.

She tried to make him feel at home, but the fact that he couldn't do any of his usual pastimes, couldn't even play his violin because it was at Baker St. and the walls of her place were too thin, made a bad situation just plain excruciating.

More than once he bit his lip or tongue so as not to take his anger out on her. More than once she cleaned his bleeding mouth without complaint.

Even if he did yell at her, she wouldn't have taken it personally. She almost would have preferred he did, because it would be less poison for him to bottle up inside.

He lost everything that mattered to him. His work, the people he cares for, his experiments, everything. She couldn't even begin to imagine the pain he was going thru. The pain he's probably feeling right now somewhere on the continent.

That last day, she spent nearly all of it in parts of London she never went to before shopping for him with a credit card Mycroft supplied. Large durable duffel bag, thrift store clothes, certain books, high-level first aid kit, and a pair of expensive, top line boots for long distance walking and running.

That night, while he packed, they talked. And a small, selfish part of her will always treasure those few hours. It was painful for both of them, but cleansing in many ways, they said many things that neither wanted said but had to, and she felt it strengthened their friendship to a better level than before. Not romantically, she accepts that it will never be like that but it doesn't bother her anymore.

What matters is that they better understand each other as very good friends do.

Just before he left, she promised him that she will look after the others as best she could. Especially John.

She hopes Sherlock will forgive her for taking too long with following thru on that promise.

Because it's taken this long just for her to work up the nerve to face them. To accept that she will have to lie thru her teeth every. Single. Time she meets up with John, Greg, or Mrs. Hudson. And she's always hated lying.

She prays over and over that she will have the strength to go thru with it. To get better at it. And then she prays forgiveness to God for asking to get better at breaking the 9th Commandment.

While all of those heavy thoughts ricochet in Molly's head, Mrs. Hudson holds her hand out to Mike. "Thank you for coming, I'm Martha Hudson, Sherlock's landlady."

Mike carefully shakes her hand and gives a kind smile. "Mike Stamford. I…" He clears his throat and looks at John's tense back. "Well, I introduced them."

Mrs. Hudson smiles. "Then I'm grateful to you, Mr. Stamford."

"Mike, please."

"I've never seen Sherlock as happy as he was during those eighteen months when John moved in. John was very happy as well. It was a good thing you did, Mike, and don't let anyone tell you different."

Mike sniffs a bit as he nods to the kind woman. He also looks at his old schoolmate for a moment but wisely decides to wait. Then he moves to one of the couches and tries to figure out what's the least socially awkward thing he can do to pass the time.

Five minutes pass before the door opens again to admit another familiar face.

Dressed in a black shirt, pants, tie, socks and shoes, and also with a black armband, Angelo approaches Mrs. Hudson. He takes her small hand in both of his and gently squeezes. "Mrs. Hudson. You let me know if you need anything. Help with groceries, repairs about the building, anything."

"That's kind of you, Angelo, but I'm managing well."

"Just the same, I'm only a short walk away."

She nods her gratitude.

Angelo can tell John's not in a sociable mood, really a person would have to be a weird sort to feel amiable under these circumstances, but he has to say what he was unable to at the funeral so he goes to the doctor. "John."

"Angelo." John doesn't look at him, but Angelo understands.

"I want to tell you, that I don't believe one word of those lies about Sherlock! Him being a fraud?! It's utter bol-" He clears his throat as he glances in the direction of the ladies softly talking to each other. "Well, it is. I'd sooner believe Sting and Sir Sean Connery having an affair with alien Elvis than Sherlock Holmes committing fraud and suicide!"

That gets a huff of laughter from John. "Thanks, Angelo." And to his surprise, it doesn't hurt to smile. Even one as small and as brief as this one.

"Just so you know, his table is yours now. Meals on the house. And if you need a drink or a shoulder to cry on." He places a hand on John's shoulder. "I'm here for ya, mate."

John just nods even though he has no intention of taking up the man's offers.

"Hey, isn't that that cop friend of Sherlock's?" Angelo looks out the window.

John looks and finally observes Lestrade on the other side of the street. Angelo's muttering something about seeing him with Sherlock once or twice at the restaurant, but John isn't listening. All he can think of is the last time he saw the man.

The funeral.

He punched Lestrade. Hard. Yelled at him. Called him a leech and a traitor, said that Sh, Sherlock was right not to bother learning his name and other horrid things.

Lestrade didn't say a word. He just got up from the floor and left. But not before John saw his eyes.

His red-rimmed, devastated to the point of being completely broken, brown eyes.

John had eyes like that when he left Afghanistan and he can see them in the window's reflection now.

He rests his head against the glass.

"John?"

"I need a moment, Angelo."

Angelo pats his shoulder twice before going to talk to Mrs. Hudson some more.

[][][][][]

Greg Lestrade, who a few months ago was Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police, apprehensively lingers by the curb and stares at the fancy building across the street.

He's still not 100% certain why he came in answer to the official notice. Why would he be in Sherlock's will? He can think of four, maybe five people that are much more likely to receive some sort of legacy than him. And he really doesn't want to see those four, maybe five people.

But he came anyway.

He tried to clean himself up as best he could, but he still feels like alcohol-infused filth in a cheap suit. And he probably looks worse. People will assume he couldn't be bothered to dress nice when it's in fact the complete opposite.

He sighs.

It took him a while to get here. Thanks to his ex-wife and her solicitor taking advantage of the fact that he was fired for being a "dirty cop", they had his bank freeze most of his savings, including the royalties from his father's books, in an effort to claim most of it for alimony. Needless to say, his budget grew very tight. And since he had to sell his car, he walked most of the way and used the bus for the rest.

When he saw John and Mrs. Hudson get out of their taxi a while ago…

He can't face them.

The last time he saw either of them, John punched him. It was warranted.

And it's why he's reluctant to face them again. Not because he's afraid John will punch him again or call him a traitor once more, but because he knows he deserves it.

The last time he saw Sherlock Holmes alive…he tried to arrest him.

And for a brief moment during that whole Richard Brooks' debacle, he had a seed of doubt.

Not of Sherlock being a phony, he knew the man for seven years and no one could fake being so-incredibly-brilliant-that-it's-practically-dazzling for so long a time without making some kind of slip-up.

But he doubted Sherlock's honesty.

That maybe he did set up an elaborate series of crimes to show off his cleverness as well as a new way to fight off the boredom.

So while Lestrade may not have pushed Sherlock of the roof, he will never forgive himself.

That seed of doubt became the metaphorical albatross around his neck ever since.

And one of his other greatest regrets, he's starting to lose count, is that in the few weeks he had left at NSY, he wasn't allowed to investigate Sherlock's murder.

Because damn it, it was murder! Despite how few of the facts fit, it's the only explanation that isn't impossible.

Sherlock Holmes' ego was larger than Jupiter. As bad as the situation was, for Sherlock to commit suicide would be like admitting he's wrong or weak. That does not make any degree remotely akin to sense.

And no matter what, if there's one thing Lestrade knows as solid fact, it's that Sherlock would never, never hurt John the way he did without a damn good reason!

So somehow, Moriarty got Sherlock to jump. Something happened at St Barts that got two brilliant, dangerous men killed.

And Lestrade will never know why.

Instead, he'll just have to live the rest of his life with the fact that he played a part in Moriarty's Machiavellian plot which resulted in the death of one friend and the emotional destruction of another.

And the end of his career, the last thing that gave his life meaning.

He sighs again.

No wonder Sherlock never bothered to learn his first name.

He runs a hand thru his hair and tries to fight back those really dark thoughts that began a month ago and still recur now and then.

Looking up, he sees a black jaguar drives up to the law building and a tall, light brown haired man in an immaculate, black suit steps out of it.

Lestrade hadn't seen or heard from Mycroft since the Baskerville case.

Did he go to his brother's funeral? Lestrade wasn't able to stay long enough to notice.

Even though he has no idea what Mycroft thinks of him, ally, fellow Sherlock minder, worker ant, the list goes on, seeing someone familiar and who might not hate him gives Lestrade the courage to finally cross the street and enter the building.

[][][][][]

Mycroft had spotted Lestrade and deliberately took his time lingering in the building's general lobby by checking his messages.

If he was prone to sentiment the way his younger brother is, oh Sherlock can deny it all he wants, but the evidence is blatantly there to anyone with eyes, Mycroft would admit to being slightly concerned about the last couple of reports he received about Lestrade.

Granted, John is in a similarly emotional tumult, but he had Mrs. Hudson and Dr. Hooper looking after him so Mycroft wasn't as…worried. If he were to admit he does worry.

The wide double doors open to admit one of the few people Mycroft can openly admit he respects.

Though right now at face value, no one would believe it.

"Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft nods. "Detective Inspect-"

"It's just Lestrade now. I'm…it's Lestrade." Even if the circumstances were like the status quo they were less than a year ago, there's no way Lestrade would be comfortable enough to have Mycroft call him by his first name. Much, much too weird. "For what little it's worth, I am sorry for your loss. If there's a way I can help…I dunno how, but I'm offering."

Mycroft's usual mask of imperially ice softens for a moment. Nobody at his various offices or the Diogenes offered their sympathies. Granted the only ones who would are the few who know the truth, but still… "Thank you."

"And I am sorry it's taken this long for me to say so."

"That is not your fault." Mycroft sighs. "It seems this whole mess with Moriarty and Sherlock's sui-"

"It wasn't a suicide." For a moment, Lestrade's eyes have that steel that served him well in the Met.

And despite the depressing conversation, Mycroft almost smiles. "No. It wasn't. However, this whole affair has turned into a tangle to rival the Gordian Knot complete with the Sword of Damocles hanging over many of us whilst between Scylla and Charybdis if you'll forgive my convoluted metaphors. I have been trying to repair the damage here and there, but I can only use so much of my influence."

And that will probably be as close to an apology that Lestrade will get over his being fired. But he heard the sincerity behind it and accepts. "You showing off your knowledge of Greek classics aside, all I really care about is making sure the killers Sherlock put away stay in jail, and making sure John doesn't…fade away too much, if that makes sense."

"Perfectly. Despite all the shouting your asinine Chief Superintendent and your rather doltish associates have made in the past, you may be rest assured that all the cases you worked on will not be reinvestigated. For the simple facts that the evidence was ironclad and that you are a rather competent officer of the law."

"Was." And that doesn't sting as much as it used to.

Better to be fired than to comprise his integrity and continue working with any of those #%&$ anymore. He may be near rock-bottom with the divorce proceedings, being deprived of the job he loved, and losing someone that was a friend as well as a great man, but now he doesn't have to deal with those smug bastards and bitches who all but sang "I told you he was a freak" every day during the last days of his job. Or with the Chief Superintendent who "compassionately" offered him a reduced rank and pay cut if he would denounce the fraud, get back in line, and help reduce the PR damage.

No matter how dark his life got in these past few months, nothing was worth going back to them.

Mycroft doesn't act like he heard. "And as for John… You are bound to have more success in that area than I would. I am rather inefficient at," He cringes. "comforting and things of that ilk. And it will most likely be at least another year before he will be able to talk to me and resist his violent impulses."

Lestrade shakes his head and answers without looking, "John won't talk to me. And I can't blame him."

"I doubt that. But we will see for ourselves in a minute. McFarlane's office is on the second floor."

"Yeah…" Lestrade mentally takes a deep breath to steel himself. The sooner he can get this over with, the less painful it will be. He hopes.

As he moves on ahead to the elevators…

"Gregory."

Surprised, Lestrade turns around.

Mycroft looks right at his eyes in complete seriousness and maybe with something like concern. "I think, in this one instance, I can safely speak for John, and the rest of your friends when I say, please don't ever consider suicide again."

[][][][][]

For the past five minutes, Molly has been working up the nerve to talk to John.

Angelo was softly talking to Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stamford was looking at the various periodicals, and John just stayed by the window.

But just as she got up to her feet and made a few steps towards him, the door opened.

The minute Mycroft Holmes clears the doorway, John looks over his shoulder.

And barely manages to resist using his cane on the man.

An almost white haze forms around the edges of his sight that threatens to slowly move inwards and make him blind with rage.

He takes a few steps forward before Mrs. Hudson gently grips his arm.

"John. If Sherlock wanted his brother here, it must have been for a good reason and we need to respect that."

"His brother got him killed." John says in quiet anger.

That causes Molly to sharply look at Mycroft in confusion.

Mycroft simply waits. If John wants him to leave, he will. He already has a good idea what's in the will anyway. He's only here to keep up appearances.

"John, please."

John glances at Mrs. Hudson and then takes a deep breath.

Which doesn't help. There's too many people in the room and one of them is Sherlock's arch-enemy.

Desperate for air, John silently leaves the room as fast as his leg will let him.

Ignoring the venom in Mrs. Hudson's eyes and the puzzled suspicion in the others, Mycroft calmly settles in the chair closest to him and farthest from everyone else.

[][][][][]

John barely took two steps before nearly colliding with Lestrade who finally steeled himself into facing the others.

"Greg." John says without thinking. As if nothing's drastically changed this year.

Lestrade just nods without making eye contact. "Dr. Watson."

"I could…" Lestrade tries to say. "I'll leave. Sorry."

John internally sighs.

This isn't right. Sherlock may have been John's best friend, but Greg was his best mate.

The, go to a pub and watch the game while making dumb jokes, having a couple of ales, then make even dumber jokes at the quiz machine, kind of best mate.

When Greg's wife left him, idiot John thought, John spent a whole weekend at Greg's place in Saltram Crescent. The two of them doing nothing but watch all the James Bond films in order while having Mongolian takeout and Guinness Draught.

They spent more time "riffing" the movies than actually watching them and got into a drunken argument at one point because Greg teased that John fancied Sean Connery and John retorted that Greg had a crush on Pierce Brosnan or Roger Moore. He lost track of the conversation by then due to the amount of beer in his system.

They settled their "argument" by agreeing that Carole Bouquet was the most gorgeous of the Bond Girls, though Claudine Auger was a close second.

Then they decided to watch all the films over again, because why not.

Sherlock came over to demand that Lestrade give him a cold case to work on and he got sucked into watching right around when "From Russia With Love" started.

Though Sherlock tried not to be too sarcastic when it came to all the plot and special effect flaws he spotted, of which there was an abundance as Sherlock had a hard time understanding the Bond film formula, he could not stay still when "Man with the Golden Gun" was playing.

Greg and John agreed that one was pure garbage and all three vowed never to watch it again.

John's lost one friend. He doesn't want to lose any more. "Greg."

Lestrade looks up.

"I'm sorry." He doesn't like the look of surprise in Lestrade's eyes. It implies he doesn't have anything to apologize for. And he does. He has a long list. "What I said at the funeral… Not really proud of myself. It was wrong on so many levels and I'm so sorr-"

Lestrade interrupts. "It's okay, John. I deserved it."

"No, you didn't!" John insists in that quiet, strong way of his. "I wanted to lash out and I picked you because I hated Moriarty, Mycroft, and the police for what happened and you were the only one there."

"It's okay, John." Lestrade touches John's shoulder. "I should never have let things end up the way they did at your flat. I should have resigned first, punched the Super, and then warned Sherlock. And I…" He can't tell John the full truth. It's too soon and still too raw.

John tries to speak up. "I still should've-"

"We both have too many 'should haves'."

"…yeah." John says in a hoarse voice from trying to keep his emotions tightly locked down.

Lestrade finally looks John in the eyes. "It wasn't a suicide."

"No, it wasn't."

And with those two sentences, despite the demons both are carrying in their hearts, a much needed peace is restored between them.

[][][][][]

As Mycroft goes over his phone messages, the rest of the group try to respectably pass the time while not worrying themselves sick over John.

The door opens to admit the doctor is question who just glares at Mycroft one more time before moving back to the window, his body language making it clear that this is as civil as he'll get unless pushed some more.

Lestrade enters the room close behind John. Though he has difficulty meeting everyone's eyes. Do they know? Do any of them suspect?

Though John does feel a little better since resolving things with Lestrade, he finds time is going back to its sluggish, painful pace.

He hears Molly softly talking to Lestrade while Mrs. Hudson talks to Mike.

Just when John was thinking 'Hell with all of this' and was about to start toward the exit, the door opens.

A dark haired man in a business suit that says "What else could I be but a solicitor?", and carrying a thick folder enters the room.

John, Lestrade, and Molly can't help noticing many details about him.

Asthmatic, going by his breathing. Wears glasses to read or is too vain to keep regular glasses on all the time, indent around the bridge of the nose. Bachelor, his suit is expensive but the shirt is slightly wrinkled and the vest has one button near the bottom out of alignment. Freemason, his watch chain has a little charm of the Masonic Square and Compasses. One or two dogs, black and white hairs on the left pant cuff and sock.

Having rose from his chair, Mycroft no doubt spotted countless more things about the family solicitor or more likely, already knew everything there is to know about the man when he first became the family solicitor.

The solicitor immediately approaches Mycroft. "I deeply apologize if I took too long. The conference room is available, Mr. Holmes." He holds his arm out to his right to indicate that Mycroft should go first.

After coldly glaring at the man's vest, Mycroft curtly nods and makes his way to the fifth door on the right.

Everyone else follows, John determined to keep up and everyone tactfully not acknowledging.

The conference room is in dark shades of wood that could almost be stylish if some extra color was put in as a balancing contrast.

Red curtains for the windows instead of wooden blinds, forest green upholstery for the chairs, the ceiling lights having an Art Deco, pseudo-Tiffany cover, a generic pastel print on the wall that could've been a lake with two puny boats, something.

But apparently, the right side of solicitor's brains are so extremely deficient that they can't discern things like tasteful color schemes.

The dark cherry table takes up most of the space. Long enough to seat ten, including the chairs at the ends, and narrow enough so people sitting at one side can easily reach over to exchange papers.

"Now, I have instructions as to who sits where." The solicitor says as he checks a small piece of paper from his folder, squinting a bit. "Mr. Holmes sits opposite me at the end.

Mycroft moves next to the chair. He has no intention to sit down until the women do.

A Dr. Watson?" The solicitor looks up in question.

"Me." John softly answers.

"Ah. You are to sit at my left. Then a Mrs. Hudson sits next to you."

Mrs. Hudson moves to her chair, and Mike who was closest pulls it out for her.

"Thank you." She smiles as she sits down.

The solicitor continues. "Then a Mr. Angelo sits next to her. A Detective Inspector Les…trayde?" He squints harder.

"It's Mr. Lestrade."

"Oh, forgive me. I just got reading glasses and always forget to put them on when I should." He gets them out of his inner jacket pocket and dons them. "Now that's better, you are to sit at my right opposite Dr. Watson. Then a Dr. Hooper, then a Dr. Stamford."

Lestrade helps Molly into her seat and everyone settles in.

"Now then," The solicitor opens the folder and starts organizing the papers inside. "Mr. Holmes, can you hear me?"

Mycroft just gives the man a Look. "Yes. Please proceed."

"Right, of course. Now, I am John Hector McFarlane, the Holmes family solicitor. And we are all here to learn the contents of Sherlock Holmes' will and testament." He adjusts his reading glasses. "Mr. Holmes, before I start, I feel I must ask, I do not wish to question Mr. Holmes, that is the younger Mr. Holmes' decisions, but-"

"For now, it will be less confusing if you call him Sherlock. Now, what is it you wish to ask of me?" Mycroft fights back a sigh. He always tries to have as little with McFarlane as possible. The obsequious little…

"Well, Mr. Holmes, are you certain we should do this without Sherlock's and your parents here?"

The others in the room react with varying degrees of surprise.

John grips his cane so tight, his fingers ache. 'Oh, dear God… His parents. I never…he never gave any indication they were still alive! Were they at the funeral? I didn't recognize everybody. I couldn't…couldn't see anything but his headstone. I can't do this.'

"Did you not receive Sherlock's directions to you regarding the reading of his will?" Mycroft asks with a coolness to rival glaciers.

McFarlane picks up a small note amongst the papers. "Yes, sir. But he did not state why your parents should be exempt from this. I am not trying to pry…"

'Yes, you are. You're dying of curiosity to know.' Lestrade mentally scoffs.

"If you must know, Mr. McFarlane, this is Sherlock's way of sparing them from any more pain. Our parents lead a very quiet, private life. They lost their youngest son in a horrific way and I intend to keep them out of the public eye for as long as possible. They do not need to be cruelly hounded by the parasites parked outside the building that laughingly call themselves reporters." One of his more polite nicknames may be "the Iceman" but there is no doubt to everyone present that Mycroft is taking his duty as head of the family with a fervency not to be underestimated. "If Sherlock left anything to them, I'm sure he will let me or Dr. Watson know as to instructions. Now may we proceed?"

'Sparing you parents anymore grief is the least you can do…' John angrily thinks to himself.

'What reporters?' Molly thinks. She barely saw anyone on the sidewalk when she came in.

Of course she and the others have no way of knowing that Mycroft's people are "persuading" the multitude of reporters to give the building a very width berth.

"Yes. Forgive me." McFarlane clears his throat. He picks up a couple of thick papers.

" 'I, Sherlock Holmes, being of reasonably sound body and, despite jealous rumors and petty insults to the contrary, of sound and extraordinarily brilliant mind, declare this to be my Will and Testament.

" 'Now, I realize that giving all of you money seems crass, none of you being that materially selfish and everything. You would think that being as exceptionally observant as I am, I would be rather good at picking gifts or in this case bequeathments, is that even a word? But no.

" 'Please don't any of you reject my money. I know that it will give many of you opportunities to achieve certain goals you always dreamed of but were always forced to ignore because of lack of funds. This is my way of helping. I want to help. Is this good, John?' "

"Oh, Go-" John chokes back his tears.

Mrs. Hudson hugs him while Lestrade gets up and moves around the table so he can place his hand on John's shoulder.

Clearly uncomfortable, McFarlane looks to Mycroft.

Mycroft just holds a hand up to indicate wait.

Molly reaches across the table to hand Mrs. Hudson a tissue.

Mrs. Hudson takes it to offer to John.

John straightens up in his seat, and shakes his head. "I'm fine! I'm…fine. Just… Please."

"It's okay, John." Lestrade says. "There's no rush."

"I know and I'm fine."

"Okay." Lestrade goes back to his seat.

Once enough seconds have passed to be respectable, McFarlane resumes.

" 'To my brother Mycroft, I appoint him to be my Executor of, once McFarlane gives him the envelope,' " Mr. McFarlane picks up a blue envelope and asks Lestrade to hand it down the table to Mycroft, who takes it without opening it. " 'certain legal papers, important documents, other legal thingys, and my violin. There will be more instructions in that envelope, Big brother mine, so once this is done you can get started on those. How's the diet?' "

McFarlane frets as he stops reading. "Mr. Holmes, I hope you understand I was only quotin-"

"Mr. McFarlane. This is an uncomfortable enough time as it is. Just read it all verbatim and save the apologies for later. We all…knew how Sherlock behaved."

Mrs. Hudson pats John's arm.

"Yes, well." John Hector McFarlane clears his throat again. And raises an eyebrow at the next section.

" 'To Angelo blank name. I'm being discreet since Lestrade will be present and this is just in case there might still be some outstanding warrants out. Statute of limitations probably expired by now, but still safe and sorry. Lestrade, cover your ears and hum.' "

Angelo sniffs. "He was always thoughtful like that."

" 'For those nights I needed a roof over my head and he provided one though the owners might have not liked it, for being the best cook of Italian food there ever will be, and for being nice to me, 300,000 pounds. You needed to expand your restaurant, and I want to increase my investment as your silent partner. No pun intended.' "

Angelo blows his nose into his handkerchief. "I don't care what anyone says, the man's a saint!"

Mrs. Hudson strokes his back to give comfort.

John half hears him as his memories force him back to that first night when they did a stakeout and got to know each other better.

~~What do real people have then, in their... real lives?

Friends...~~

McFarlane takes a sip of water and turns the page. " 'Lestrade, you can stop humming. John, indicate to Lestrade he can uncover his ears and stop hum-' I'm sorry, that was still from the last paragraph."

Molly stifles her giggles. "I'm sorry, that…Oh jeez, I'm so sor-"

John reaches over to touch her hand. "It's fine, Molly. You don't have to apologize."

For some reason, that causes Molly's eyes to water even more as she weakly smiles back.

Mycroft watches her.

"Will I get in trouble for not covering my ears?" Lestrade tries to lighten the mood.

Molly fights back her giggles even harder.

Mike, Angelo, and Mrs. Hudson also smile.

McFarlane just stares dumbly. "I…um…"

"Never mind." Lestrade resists rolling his eyes.

John Hector McFarlane clears his throat and continues. " 'To Mike Stamford, for his exceptional generosity in arranging for me free reign in the morgue and the lab, his good-natured personality, and for introducing me to John Watson, 400,000 pounds.' "

Feeling gobsmacked, Mike leans back in his chair. "Holy…"

" 'I had believed you to be of average intelligence, but you proved me wrong and that doesn't bother me at all. Your perceptiveness in realizing John would be a perfect flatmate, let alone a partner in my work and someone I can get along with is nothing short of astounding! I am not one given to hyperbole, shut up John, Lestrade, and Mycroft, but many, many lives would have been lost if it weren't for what you've done. Like one of those absurd cartoons I was forced to watch during my stay in certain clinics, you dropped a pebble that rolled down a snow-covered mountain and rapidly grew into a monstrous snowball that would have filled the Grand Canyon. But in a good way.' "

Mike is too speechless. He always liked Sherlock, and sometimes he wondered why, but he never though the man cared that much.

" 'Dr. Molly Hooper, for enduring my repeated acts of cruelty, for being the best and most intelligent pathologist, for being the one I could count on when it mattered the most,' "

Gasping back a sob, Molly quickly rises from her chair and leaves the room.

Mike gets up. "It's okay, I'll see to her."

Mr. McFarlane looks to the man at the other end of the table.

"Dr. Watson, do you wish to continue?" Mycroft politely asks John.

"…We should wait. Molly should hear the rest…"

"Then we will wait, Mr. McFarlane."

A few minutes pass.

Mike and a red-rimmed Molly come back in.

After Lestrade helps her back into her seat, McFarlane reads on.

" 'and for always being kind to me when I did nothing to merit such a thing, 500,000 pounds. I do want you to find happiness, Molly Hooper. God knows you deserve it after everything I put you thru. I will always be sorry for what I've done and I deeply treasure our friendship, what little pieces of it remains despite my asshole attempts to ruin it with my selfishness. Thank you.' "

Molly cries even harder into her soggy hankie.

Lestrade gently rubs her back.

McFarlane thoughtlessly continues.

" 'Mrs. Martha Louise Hudson, for being patient with the bullet holes in the walls, the clients coming in at all hours, the body parts in the fridge,'?!" He looks up in shock.

"Keep going." Mrs. Hudson tearfully says.

" 'for helping with the cleaning even though you're not our housekeeper, for being a saint among saints, and for the morning cup of tea, 600,000 pounds.' "

Mrs. Hudson's sobs exceed Molly's.

A minute passes.

" 'To Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Yes, I remember your name.' "

Lestrade doesn't stop the small smile from forming on his lips. Or the few tears threatening to fall from his eyes.

" 'For giving me the idea of becoming a consulting detective, for letting me all but take over your cases, and for being the most patient man in the world during those investigations, 700,000 pounds and the 69 ID cards I pinched from you. If you're expecting me to apologize for all the grief I gave you, don't. You knew when you and I first made the agreement what kind of man you were going to have to deal with.

'All that aside, you are right in that I should have worked with you more and should have stopped taking you for granted. My relationship with my birth father is not strained or anything like that, it's rather boringly normal to everyone's shock I'm sure, but there were dark times, many dark times when I am very glad you were there for me instead. You went beyond our arrangement in looking after me during those times and it helped much more than I let on. You showed me what I was meant to be. Thank you, Greg. Thank you so much.' "

His eyes closed and with his elbow on the table, Lestrade presses his fist to his lips and takes deep breaths thru his nose, fighting to keep control.

Molly squeezes his shoulder.

" 'To Captain John Hamish Watson formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, now Doctor John Hamish Watson, blogger extraordinaire and doctor of amazing skill. I'm not going to waste time. McFarlane, give him the envelope now. John, you can read it whenever you wish to.' "

John Hector McFarlane hands John a pale cream envelope.

John takes it, but doesn't do anything more.

" '800,000 pounds and my half of Baker St. Also all of my possessions in the flat to do as you see fit. Bin them, give them to Mycroft, set fire to them, whatever you want. I do want you to understand something important though, John. You are my first and best friend. Thank you.' "