The funeral was a small affair. Only family and close friends were invited.

Sherlock could hardly stand it.

None of them understood the depths of his anguish. They had lost a good friend, but he… he had lost his soul mate. It had taken him years to acknowledge her as a worthy companion; months to accept that she was more than his equal. A few short weeks to let her into the fortified cavern of his heart; and yet within moments, it seemed, she had… gone.

She had loved him.

He'd never gotten the chance to tell her… to tell her that he…

He loved her.

He watched her friends watch him, judgment lacing their eyes, accusation in the set of their lips. Not one of them realising that beneath the icy mask a veritable maelstrom of emotions surged throughout his body. They made him want to scream, shout, sob, curse and howl his pain to the skies.

It had taken him too long to realise her importance. Looking back, there were innumerable moments where she had been beautiful, kind and loving, and he had ignored and belittled her, time and again. Shame coursed through him, adding to the mixture of grief, anger, murderous rage and sorrow.

He loved her.

And like everything else he had allowed himself to love, she had died. She'd been put down, by a murderous psychopath hell bent on revenge for his boyfriend's suicide. Put down like his beloved Redbeard.

Lifting the violin that he held limply by his side, he started softly playing the melody he had composed all those months ago in his flat. The sweet, haunting sound filled the cemetery, perfectly capturing the essence of what Molly had meant to them.

Lost in the music, he didn't register the tears flowing down his face, breaking his carefully constructed defences. Before the entire congregation, Sherlock Holmes wept for the woman he loved, the music becoming more tragically beautiful as he lost control.

Finally, the last note rang out.

He collapsed to his knees, head in his hands.

His cries of despair echoed around the cemetery. Sharp, animalistic sobs ripped from his throat as the coffin containing his angel sank slowly into the ground.

"Ladies and gentlemen, would anyone like to say a few words?" The cleric's voice cut through the intimate show of grief.
Sherlock raised his tear stained face.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry?"

"Yes, I would like to say something about Molly."

The gathered congregation, Molly's extended family, shifted uneasily.

"Are you su-"

"Yes" he hissed menacingly.

"Molly Hooper. S-she is - was - a wonderful woman. It took me ten years to recognise that. The past six months have been somewhat of a learning curve for me, and her. She... She gave me hope, when I was out pretending to be dead. The memory of her, it.. It would come to me when I was close to giving up. Usually in relation to a case I was remembering, it took me a while - too long - to realise that it was not the memory of solving the case, or of John, that had given me hope.

"It was Molly. Right from the beginning, at our first meeting, she saw me as something other than a 'freak', saw through my disguises, to the real me. As a result, she... Mattered." Swallowing thickly, he continued.

"I will admit, that scared me. I pushed her away, for so many years, when all..." He paused, wiping his eyes.

"When all I needed was.. Her." His voice caught, he blinked rapidly. His mind swam with images of her, happy, laughing, carefree. Her ill, vomiting blood as he held back her hair. Their stolen kisses. Their one night of being truly together. They all combined into a colourful collage in his mind.

"Molly was spectacular. Beautiful, inside and out. She saw me, actually saw me, like no other person has ever been able to. She trusted me to keep her safe, and I tried.

"But I failed. We all failed her. Not one of you noticed she was wasting away, right in front of your eyes. You all claim you loved her, yet you were ALL, each and every one of you, too caught up in your pathetically shallow lives to notice that she was fading."

Bitterness crept into his voice.

"I used to say that caring is not an advantage. This just proves it without a shadow of a doubt.

"You stand there, judging me, casting me in your minds as a cold heartless bastard, never showing a hint of emotion or remorse. You don't understand a thing.

"Not showing emotion doesn't mean I don't feel it. I... Cared for Molly. Deeply. I loved her. I love her and she isn't here to hear me say it. She will never know how much I appreciate her guidance and her help, never know that she has melted the icy exterior of my heart. The pain inside me... It's physical. /My heart aches./ I feel as though my insides are being ripped apart slowly, acid being poured on me as I bleed.

"If any of you feel a fraction of what I am feeling, then you'll understand why I maintain that caring is not an advantage. It just hurts too much."

Sherlock met the eyes of Molly's mother, the stark grief in her dark brown eyes so like Molly's matching his own.

"I'm sorry for not saving your daughter. I'm sorry for ever entering her life. Molly, I love you. Rest in peace, my love..."

He lightly threw in a yellow rose, symbolic for everlasting love. She'd always loved yellow.

He turned away, slowly making his was to the gates of the cemetery. A light touch on his arm stopped him in his tracks.

"Thank you. She... She'd have appreciated that. She loved you, mister Holmes. You're welcome to come to ours any time you need, ju-just some support, or something.."

"I miss her. So much. It's been a week and every time I close my eyes she's there, lying dead in my arms.. Or she's smiling, or punching me for being insensitive. It wasn't supposed to end like this. So soon. We were meant to have the rest of our lives to annoy each other. Make memories. Maybe children."

"We'll get through this. We all will." She attempted a watery smile through her tears, turning to return to the congregation. "Are you sure you don't want..."

"I'd like to be alone. Thank you." Watching her retreating back grow smaller, he straightened his spine. Turning his back on the funeral party and the final resting place of his beloved, he hailed a taxi to his brother's.

Shutting his emotions away in a carefully constructed, well fortified and utterly breathtaking room in his mind palace, the old veneer or cold disdain slipped into place, effectively shuttering everything human about himself away.

He had learnt his lesson the hard way.

Sherlock was let into his brother's office, sympathy touching Anthea's face.

"Sherlock... My condolences. She meant something, didn't she."

He nodded curtly.

"Let me at Magnussen, Mycroft." he asked in a icy, low voice he hardly recognised as his own.

"So be it."