THE CHAPTERS WILL GET LONGER- I PROMISE!

YAY! Next chapter! This might be a bit boring but hopefully it's alright. I needed to make sure everyone knew how Sherlock had survived and I had to put this scene in to explain some events that would take place later...

PLEASE R&R!

He'd made it.

He'd once again made it.

Like a man with a thousand lives who'd planned to leave the earth, yet something drew him toward life every time. He didn't count. Not anymore. He refused to acknowledge just how many times he had successfully escaped death without have any intention to do so. His latest close brush-in with death was in fact a very fortunate and overly lucky one, as was his choice to 'borrow' his brother's air supplying device. He thought to himself about the amount of times when he should've died, the amount of times which he should have lay lifeless and bleeding somewhere in the middle of nowhere. He knew know was definitely not the time to run over how blessed and propitious his chances were becoming, for he silently feared if he dwelled at them too much they might just disappear or run out.

He sighed and focused again, straightening his back slightly yet keeping his eyes completely hidden under the old top hat he snagged along with the grey suit and pants he'd come across on the way. He let out an exhale of breath; the time to wander how he'd survived the entire ordeal was not one he cared to think about anytime soon.

It was strange, even to him at this moment. Things just... didn't feel right.

Well of course they don't feel right; I'm attending my own funeral...

He shook his head. Yes, it was true. At this moment he sat close to the back, in a jammed row. That perplexed him. The fact that there were so many people here today certainly surprised him to the most... he glanced around and knew for sure that some of them were obviously genuinely upset, but what he done to deserve this? Why were people... caring so much? Even from his packed and slightly uncomfortable seat he could see people shedding tears. Tears for him. Yes, he had expected people to show, but he had most undoubtedly not expected this many people to show. It definitely and unquestionably intrigued him at how other's minds worked.

Why should, why WOULD, they be this sad? It's unexplainable. I don't believe I have left too much of a positive effect on people yet here they are... crying. Why would they be crying? This is most certainly unexpected.

He looked around again only to be greeted by some more familiar faces. A child, whom he'd remembered was walking up to the stage. The child's family was poor. They were robbed of everything they had and were forced out onto the street. The child's name, if he remembered correctly- and he was one hundred and fifty percent sure he did, was named Arthur. He had a sister named Geneen and mother by the name of Martha. He recalled getting a letter from Arthur himself asking him for assistance. It had indubitably taken no time at all to prove the boy's father guilty. He had been running a scam to do with the downtown bar- and once Martha had come across it, he kicked them out but not before almost killing her. After he had solved the mystery they would keep thanking him, for as they said it was 'because of him that we have our living residence back and it was because of him that that monster is behind bars in jail'.

He only watched at the child stood up on the podium and microphone- which was clearly too tall for him- and began to speak. He spoke of how much help Sherlock was, and Holmes was once again truly and utterly surprised by the sadness and cheerlessness in his tone. It was as if he was honestly upset about the detective's passing.

Sherlock blocked out the world once more and left himself with his thoughts only.

I wander what they will have to say when I make my reappearance... the press will have surely already written about my 'death', and will keep to the story for awhile I'm sure. I suppose I should let them know I'm alive rather soon... not just yet though. For now I will allow them to dawdle on the details whilst I do the same...

The final of the child's words caught Holmes ears immediately as they were spoken,

"Mr. Holmes is, was and always will be the greatest and most kindest detective England has ever known..."

His eyes were wide now and his mouth slightly ajar. Greatest? Kindest? Holmes would know a million words to describe himself but 'great' and 'kind' weren't really some of them. He let his ideas and thoughts flash briefly before him for a moment and wandered what kind of affect had he really left on people. It was so clear to him that in this room oh so many people would miss him, truly miss him. He'd always figured people would miss other people like Watson, or Mrs Hudson, but not him. All he did was solves cases and get to the middle of crimes. He was no hero, no saviour. Unlike Watson who was a doctor or Mrs Hudson who was lovingly hearted and thoughtful. This was a truly and completely rare moment when he, Sherlock Holmes, had absolutely nothing to say.

The next to come up was Lestrade.

To boast about the final game coming to the end because my methods were insecure and not too thoughtful perhaps?

Clarky was up there with Lestrade. Holmes had often taken a liking to Clarky for some strange reason that he did not understand. They both looked distress like they had lost something important. It was until Lestrade began to thank Holmes for everything he'd done when he figured he'd gone mad.

Lestrade... is thanking me?

A smirk crept to his lips but he- thankfully - managed to keep it hidden in the shadows.

Blimey, I must be going insane. Hallucinations perhaps?

He chuckled a little to himself before forcing himself to concentrate. He realised in a split second how dark and wounded the atmosphere was. He knew he wasn't imagining things, but he still ceased to believe it. He knew it would be rather odd, weird, just purely strange to attend one's own funeral, but the things that shocked him most were not the things he saw, but rather the things he heard. His eyes watched and followed Mrs Hudson as she stepped up onto the stage and placed her shaking hands on either side of the podium. She took a deep wobbling breath then finally spoke,

"Sherlock Holmes, though it's strange to admit it myself was always sort of like a... son to me"

That was all it took.

It was all it took for Holme's mind to go blank.

So very absolutely and utterly blank.

Mrs. Hudson, the kind warm and welcoming landlady had thought of Sherlock Holmes, the incompetent, rude and loud detective as a son? He had never had a particularly close relationship with his own mother, but never really wanted one in the first place. She had always been rather uncaring, snobby and standoffish, very much unlike Mrs. Hudson. Holmes was honestly thankfully that no one could see his expression- or his eyes. There were undeniable tears shining. Why, Sherlock did not know. Nor did he understand. Why would anyone think of him as family? Other than Watson of course. It was too strange to be true, yet inside, it left a little warm feeling in his heart- though he would never openly admit it.

Mrs. Hudson continued to praise him before turning to the empty pure white silken cover coffin and thanking him as if he were truly there. The next guest speaker who stood made Holme's eyes feel like discs. Mary Watson. He wandered what she had to say...

"Sherlock Holmes was a brave man. He fought with honour, dignity, and hope"

I suppose I just never saw it that way...

"It's a tragic loss to this world that he has gone. He is someone I never truly understood and will become someone I'll never truly understand... but I know one thing, and that's he deserves so much more than he gets."

I do? Why, thank you Mrs. Watson.

It was the first time he'd accurately addressed Mary in that term. It felt alright. It didn't feel like he was losing his best friend and practically brother to the unknown evil and dangers of marriage, but rather having him move further and deeper into the bright light of care and enjoy being with the woman he justly loved.

Thank you Mary.

"Thank you Sherlock"

It was now quite surprising, even though he knew he should have been expecting it, to see Stanley stand up and give his speech. He'd never really rightly been too close to the servant, but to hear him say such kind words meant quite a lot to Sherlock.

He began talking about how Sherlock was a great man whom gave his life to save them all, then continued on to how much he will be missed. Holmes sighed and cleared his throat very lightly as to clear his mind also, whilst not disturbing anyone else. He mentioned that Holmes will live in everyone's hearts too. That part- even though it shouldn't have- knocked Holmes off-guard.

A place in their hearts? A forever vacant hole? I honestly don't believe what I am hearing even though it is completely... rational. Again I have been so close and absent minded... it still surprised me at just how much emotion every person is willing to show. It truly gets me to think- to wander. I did not realise just how much I had affected everyone. I suppose I should've though.

He saw Mycroft walk up to the platform, his expensive- Sherlock noted- vintage Italian leather shoes clanking as he stepped on to the wood. His dark authentic suit was one Sherlock recognised. It was one he had not worn in years, one that he saved for the rare, both good and bad, moments in life. However that was not what troubled him. That, matched with the rich and expensive shoes could only mean that Mycroft was grieving and sincerely missed his younger brother. His hair was combed to the side and if Sherlock was right, would not be disturbed even if you were to drag the world's largest hair-comb across it. He chuckled lightly to himself until he caught sight of the hallow and clearly sad look laced on his brother's features and melted into his eyes.

He started by saying Sherlock's nickname. One that he had called him by when they were mere children. Holmes smiled and continued to listen. The man had begun talking about how the younger Holmes sibling was strong and never gave up. About how he was honest and kind and about how he never got nearly enough credit for what he did, and when he did, he deserved so much more. He asked for a moment of the crowd to silently remember his brother and the short yet world-changing life he lived. Sherlock paused. He really didn't know what to say about the whole situation. They... they really did care didn't they? He felt crystal clear tears stinging at the corners of his eyes- something so uncharacteristic and strange to him... he'd never felt this way before. He didn't even know what the feeling was. Sadness? Joy? Confusion? Nothing seemed close enough to describe the sensation that made his heart flutter...

It was Watson's turn next. He was the final speak, and Holmes was by far the most eager to see what his best friend had to say. He didn't think Watson would prepare a speech- no. In moments like this he preferred not to read of a paper like so many others, but also- instead of speaking his mind- Holmes knew he would rather speak his heart.

"When I first met Sherlock, I rendered him the strangest being in all eternity. I remember how he fired shots into the wall of our flat merrily because he was bored"

He smiled. The memory was all too clear to Holmes. Watson had often gotten irritated with him in those times...

"And sometimes, he would even wake us up at the dead of the night with his odd violin playing. I had grown frustrated with him time and time again, but all he would say would be either "Watson old boy I only suppose you've grown old" or when confronted about his strange behaviour and why he does it says "I don't choose how I behave, my behaviour chooses how I behave" which usually had me lost."

Holmes couldn't help but chuckle at how Watson attempted to change his voice to suite Sherlock's more. He continued to listen with a smile plastered on.

Watson is going to be rather mad at me after I reveal myself, isn't he? Knowing that I sat through his whole speech...

"But no matter his demeanour or his behaviour, Sherlock Holmes was a man of fairness, righteousness and integrity. I only have one final single thing to say: Sherlock Holmes played the Game for the sake of playing the game.

Sherlock let out a horse laugh. He knew those words portrayed him so well inside, yet he refused to admit it. He smile only faltered when Watson spoke his final words,

"And a few short nights ago, England lost its most brilliant man, the world lost its most intriguing detective, I lost my best friend...

A few short nights ago, we all lost Sherlock Holmes"

His grin was placed back on firmly.

Thank you Watson.

She sat near the front. He large fancy fabric hat hiding her eyes. They were filled with new tears. Tears that had yet to fall. Tears that however threatened to. She looked up to listen to the end of Watson's speech. He had told them they had lost him... he had told them they had lost Sherlock Holmes.

Ironic, isn't it Sherlock?

I'm the one who's supposed to be dead.

Not you... not you.

She couldn't help it any longer. An unwilling tear slid down her cheek and blurred her makeup in its wake. She couldn't take it any longer. She stood just as everyone and hurried toward the door.

He was gone.

Sherlock Holmes was gone.

And there was one thing that she had forced herself to come to terms with, and that was that he wouldn't be coming back.

Standing up, he hurried out as soon as the final applause had taken place. He knew he had caught the Doctor's eye but kept moving forward,

All in good time Watson old boy.

All in good time.

But someone however bumped into him, someone in a rush. Someone who was clearly not watching where they were going... It was young lady, a young lady with a fine taste in over-sized hats and-

Parisian Perfume?

Only one person whom he knew wore that certain scent- and that person was none other than-

Irene Adler.

TA-DA! Evil aren't I?

R&R for me to start the next chapter!