"I'm sorry, Mummy, Daddy."

The words fell hollowly from his lips.

I'm sorry we argued.

I'm sorry I did this.

I'm sorry for this, for that.

I'm sorry. What did those words mean, really? It was an expression of regret, pain, shame and sadness. But no words could truly express how Sherlock felt about his brother's death. In fact, which words could?

John, Mary and Mrs. Hudson stood by the door, a look of grief etched across their faces. Sherlock had asked them to come, because they were good with words. They could understand and convey how Sherlock felt. Why couldn't Sherlock do the same for himself?

"It wasn't your fault." Mrs. Holmes replied softly. Mr. Holmes looked like he was going to say something, but a choked sob rose in his throat and he closed his mouth.

It was my fault. Sherlock thought. Mycroft chose to save me and now he is dead because of it. How is it not my fault?

Sherlock felt a peculiar sensation on his face. A tear, welling up in his iridescent blue eye and running down his sharp cheekbones. It was icy cold at first, then became unbearably hot, like fire.

The last time he had cried was two years ago, saying goodbye to John on the rooftop of Barts. But that was different. It had been for a noble cause, to ensure the safety of his only friends. Now, it was a tear of anger. Anger at the universe for taking his dear brother away from this world. Anger at Vivian Norbury for firing that goddammed bullet, but above all anger and shame at himself. For letting it happen. For being the reason his parents lost a son.

Of all the times to cry, why now? He had spent all of last night wishing for just one sniffle, one sob, one piece of evidence that he was still human. Yet only now, standing in front of his few friends and parents, when he was at his weakest, did the emotions finally begin to show.

Sherlock heard someone coming up to him. He wiped at his eyes furiously, willing them to stop watering but it didn't work. His eyes were blurry, and he couldn't even count the number of floor tiles he was standing on. A hand was placed on his shoulder. He cringed, for physical contact was almost alien to him, but quickly realized that it was Mary.

"Thank you." He whispered, swallowing hard.

Mary didn't say anything, but instead reached over to give him a hug. Then Mrs. Hudson was there, one hand resting on Sherlock's fluffy curls, the other holding his hand. John came over as well, but instead settled for making a cup of tea.

Sherlock let go of Mary and raised the cup, taking a cautious sip from the steaming brown liquid. He suddenly felt very sleepy.

Bless John, Sherlock thought drowsily, as his mother caught him from behind. Did he honestly think I wouldn't notice him slipping some sleeping medicine in my tea? Sherlock felt himself being brought over to the sofa.

"He'll rest for a few hours." Sherlock dimly registered John telling his parents. "I don't know if he got any sleep last night."

"Thank you, dear." Mrs. Holmes replied.

The faces of everyone crowded around him. Everything was getting darker, but he could make out the heads of his parents, Mrs. Hudson, John and Mary.

This is my family, was his final thought before he drifted off to sleep.

Author Note:

I originally wasn't going to add to this story anymore, but after I got several reviews telling me to keep up the good work and continue writing, I decided to extend it by a chapter. Thanks to all those people who enjoy reading my stuff!

-Irene xx