Four days had passed. Sherlock had solved two cases in those four days without John's assistance. John had been busy dealing with family and planning a funeral. Sherlock had come home to an empty flat every night and when John did resurface from his father's house he went straight to bed. Sherlock was not one who knew how to cope with death and had to research in the internet on ways to be helpful for when John was around. Although he would never admit it and would deny it if anybody asked him, Sherlock found himself missing the doctor's presence in his life.

The day of the funeral was quiet. Sherlock was trying to finish a book he had started sometime around 2004 but never finished. Seven minutes into reading it, he understood why he had stopped years ago. The book was dreadfully predictable, and Sherlock didn't want to waste his day to a book where he knew that the architect build the buildings around his own mass graves. Dreadfully dull. Sherlock sighed, and tossed the book onto the floor. These were the days where starting smoking again seemed appealing. Glancing at the clock, Sherlock squinted. It was nearly four o'clock. The funeral started at four o'clock. John was still upstairs pacing.

Sherlock walked upstairs to John's room. He could hear the creak of John's mattress springs. "John?" He knocked on the door. There was no answer. Sherlock sighed, and opened the door. He hated when people didn't answer him.

John was sitting on the edge of his bed. He was fiddling with cufflinks, but other than that he was fully dressed for a funeral. Sherlock observed John's face. Tired, a bit pale, and his eyes were wet. "It's nearly four," Sherlock said.

"I know, I know," John groaned. "These stupid things..." He trailed off, unsuccessfully trying at his right cuff. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. He walked over to the bed and sat down beside John. Without asking, Sherlock took hold of John's wrist and pushed John's hands aside. He began to fasten the cufflinks for his friends. "Thank you."

"I would have assumed that a man in his late thirties would know how to fasten his own cufflink," Sherlock smirked again.

John softly chuckled. "I'm sorry to disappoint."

"You rarely do," Sherlock smoothed the wrinkle in John's shirt. "Today is an exception, circumstances concerning."

John furrowed his brow. "Was that a compliment or an insult?"

"Whichever you like more," Sherlock shrugged. John chuckled again, and the men sat in a silence. "You're going to be late."

John nodded slowly. "Can I ask a favour of you?"

"Depends," Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

John turned to face the detective. Sherlock could tell the man hadn't slept more than four hours in the past twenty-four hours. By the subtle scratch mark by his temple, Sherlock could see that John was beginning to grow annoyed with his current hair length. He craved his military cut. "Can you come with me today?"

Sherlock blinked. "Pardon?"

"I don't know if I can go by myself," John admitted.

"Your family-"

"Will be there, yes, but they have all been depending on me to be the man with the answers for how to deal with what has happened. I don't know how to cope. I don't know if I can do it by myself," John said rapidly.

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. "I... your family doesn't know me."

"I know you," John was nearly begging. "Please, Sherlock."

Sherlock let out a tense breath. "I'm not good around people mourning death, John. It's far too emotional and people crave a lot of physical contact. I don't know if I'm-"

"I need you there," John let out an exasperated sigh, cutting Sherlock off for a second time. "And I'm already late, and you're already in all black," John pointed out Sherlock's attire. "Please, Sherlock," John said quietly. "Please."

Sherlock felt uncomfortable. He hadn't been to a funeral since his late Aunt Marguerite when he was seven, and even then he hated funerals. People were crying and there was a lot of hugging. People remembered only the good, and not the bad. He looked once more at John. The man looked truly upset. "I'm not giving people I don't know hugs."

John smiled. "I don't expect you to."

Apparently funerals started twenty minutes late. When Sherlock and John had finally arrived, it was quarter after and the funeral was nowhere near ready. Sherlock remained close to John as they made their way into the church, and as they joined the rest of the attendees. Sherlock kept near John as family members hugged him, shook his hand, offered their condolences, asked about the war, and cried into his suit jacket. Every now and again John would look back to make sure that Sherlock was still close by.

Sherlock watched John's family. The men were all relatively short, none passing more than six foot. They all had a stocky build, and Sherlock detected that a few were army doctors like John. They would give him reassuring pats and mention things Sherlock didn't understand about war that they either both laughed at or grimaced. The women were lithesome little things that were all exceptionally emotional.

As the funeral was about to get underway, John turned to Sherlock. "See? You haven't needed to hug anybody yet."

"Yes, and I appreciate you respecting the terms of our agreement," Sherlock nodded. John smiled, and Sherlock wasn't sure why. He hadn't made a joke, and the occasion wasn't one of particular humour.

"Come on. You're sitting with me at the front," John motioned at the front pew.

"Isn't that for family?" Sherlock asked. "I'm not family."

"I don't care," John shrugged. Sherlock followed John to the front of the church, and Sherlock noticed that various family members were giving him strange looks. They probably didn't know who he was or why he was there, and especially why he was sitting with John at the front. Sherlock wasn't sure why either.

"Dad, Harry," John nodded at the two people sitting in the right pew. A man incredibly similar looking to John with an added twenty four years and fifteen pounds was sitting next to a pretty woman in her early thirties with similar eyes and hair colour to John, but with a slightly puffy complexion. "This is Sherlock."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Sherlock said sincerely.

"Thank you," John's father said. "I've heard a great deal about you and your work?" Sherlock glanced at John. "Not from him. Old cop buddies. They say your a bit crazy," Sherlock saw John smile. "But brilliant."

"Well, thank you," Sherlock said.

"It's nice to finally see you in the flesh," Harry piped up. "I've heard so much about you."

"Same to you," Sherlock nodded at Harry. John sat next to his father, and Sherlock beside him. He watched as John gave his father a hug, and reached to give his sister one as well. Sherlock felt out of place.

The funeral procession was nothing spectacular. The priest said the same words as he had said at hundreds of other funerals. Sherlock could hear sniffling throughout the church. Various family members went to the pew to tell stories about John's mother, Margret. Sherlock even listened to one when John stood up and told one about how supportive his mother was about him joining the army as many Watson men had. Sherlock even felt himself smile as John told the procession about the home movies she would film and sent to Afghanistan and how they would end up embarrassing John to his fellow platoon members. One in particular earned John the nickname of "Snoodle Oodle".

As John sat down, his father gave him a pat on the shoulders. Sherlock could see that he was holding back tears that would inevitably work their way out sooner or later. John settled beside him, shaking slightly. Sherlock could see how tense his hands were. He was trying and failing to keep his composure.

Some odd force lifted Sherlock's hand off his thigh and set it on top of John's shaking hand. Sherlock was looking at it with just as much confusion as John was. He wasn't sure why he had just done that, but it felt like he just should have. Sherlock looked at John, who was looking at Sherlock with a mixture of confusion and profound sadness.

Sherlock leaned closer so his ear was beside John's. "You'll be alright," He whispered. As an added reassurance, Sherlock squeezed John's hand.

John blinked a few times, tears gathering at the edges with each blink. "Thank you," He replied hoarsely. He maneuvered their hands so his fingers were entwined with the detective's. He kept a tight grip on Sherlock's hand for the rest of the funeral, as if scared to let him go.

It was dark when they arrived back home to Baker Street. Sherlock had stayed close to John at the family gathering afterwards, always within arms reach. He had made small talk with various family members who all seemed like nice, decent people. For some reason it made Sherlock glad to know John had a good family. Perhaps it was because his own was such a discombobulated mess.

They walked into the flat in silence. John immediately went to the kitchen to start preparing tea out of habit. Instead of sitting down or pacing, Sherlock followed John to the kitchen. He was putting teabags into two mugs, sniffing occasionally. Throughout the entire day John hadn't cried.

"How are you doing?" Sherlock asked from his spot leaning on the doorframe.

"I've never heard you ask about a person's feelings so much in one day," John almost smiled. "Are you ill?"

"I'm fine. You're avoiding the question," Sherlock kept his eyes on John.

John silently lifted and dropped the teabags a few times from the box. "I don't know how I feel," John admitted. "I'm devastated. I'm mad. I'm heartbroken. I'm stressed. I'm confused."

"All normal when dealing with death," Sherlock said.

John poured the boiling water into the mugs. "Normal, but hard to cope with," He set the kettle and looked at Sherlock before he finished the tea. "I'll manage. It'll take a while, but it will happen."

Sherlock nodded as the satisfactory answer. He watched John finish making the tea, and then walked over to his friend. "As long as you're alright," Sherlock leaned on the counter. "Snoodle Oodle," Sherlock grinned.

John laughed, and hit Sherlock's arm. "Shut your mouth, Holmes. Didn't your mother have any stupid nicknames for you?"

Sherlock blinked. "No, not really."

John handed Sherlock his tea. "Well, at least you don't have everyone at Scotland Yard calling you, I don't know, Twat Waffle or something."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. John quickly joined him. Tea splashed onto Sherlock's shirt, and he yelped at the sensation. He set the tea down on the counter and grabbed a tea towel. "Twat Waffle," Sherlock repeated, pressing the towel to his sleeve. "That is quite something."

John set his own tea down, and dropped an extra teaspoon of sugar into his mixture. Sherlock watched him. He still had tears at the corners of his eyes that he wasn't letting fall. The same sort of force returned to Sherlock, and before he could comprehend what he was doing, he had his arms tightly wrapped around John.

Sherlock opened his mouth in surprise, wondering why he was hugging John. He didn't like holding people. He felt heat rush to his cheeks. John would think he had completely lost it by now...

Until John hugged him back twice as hard. Sherlock nearly gasped for air as the older man held him extremely tightly. He could feel John's surprisingly soft hair prick his neck, and he felt John's body shake under his arms. It wasn't until he felt dampness on his shirt did he realize what John was doing. The man was finally crying.

Sherlock felt uncomfortable again, but didn't pull away from his friend. Instead, he ran his hand soothingly up and down John's back and whispered that he'd be fine into his ear. Even after John had stopped crying, the two men didn't let go of one another.

a.n.

So I lied about updating on Thursday. So sorry about that.
I could pull the "Oh, I have finals this week" excuse but... I just did.
Enjoy!