Sherlock Holmes watched his own funeral from a distance. Mycroft had helped, made arrangements as needed. He'd been in on the plan to a point. There was no love lost between the brothers, but neither wanted the other maimed or dead.
Mycroft had never seen his brother suffer so much, even though he'd escaped the fall more-or-less uninjured. Sherlock had had a hard childhood, family money not-withstanding. He had always been brilliant, but difficult. Petulant.
Their family was a cold one. Little affection expressed, emotional responses discouraged. Sherlock had never had a friend in his life until chance had put him in contact with a former army doctor. He'd gone through life alone, ostracized, feared, and sometimes even bitterly hated until that day.
Still, the pain on his brother's face now… watching the only people he loved hurt, and not being able to comfort them… or himself through them… That was something new altogether.
He began to regret not finding a way to intervene sooner. More directly.
Mycroft stood behind his brother now, underneath a distant tree, watching visitors as they approached the shiny black headstone that had been installed a few weeks earlier. He almost set a hand on Sherlock but thought better of it.
"I'll be waiting in the car, whenever you're ready…"
Sherlock didn't answer, but they both knew he'd heard. Mycroft let him be and left him alone.
Sherlock could hear everything the two of them said, even from a distance. Mrs. Hudson, arm in arm with John. She tried to cheer him up as best she could, listing all the annoying things Sherlock had done, all the frustrations he'd caused. It didn't work, but Sherlock could've kissed her for making the effort. He forced himself not to feel it when she too broke down and left the grave with tears in her eyes. And then there was only John.