They stood at the grave, shoulder to shoulder, long after everyone else had left.
It was just a gravestone, nothing more. There was no body to bury, nothing left of her but crates of books and old perfume, the scent still clinging to the clothes shed left hanging in her closet. Sherlock hadn't boxed any of it up, hadn't moved a thing in their shared apartment as if he was simply waiting for her to return.
Mycroft hadn't told him the whole story. He hadn't told anyone the whole story. It weighed on him like lead, pressing him a bit further into the earth with each step. He seemed to have aged overnight.
Sherlock put his hand on Mycroft's shoulder. It was uncharacteristic of him, this sudden act of compassion. It only made him feel worse though. She had asked for his help and he had failed her. Perhaps if she had called Sherlock she would still be here. Sherlock wasn't constrained by rules or doctrine or etiquette. He wouldn't have let her down.
"I don't understand why she went there in the first place," Sherlock said quietly. "Of all places, why Yemen?"
Mycroft didn't answer. Sherlock didn't expect him to. He turned, instead back towards were his car was parked and began walking, Sherlock falling into step behind him. They rode in silence to a small restaurant, one he knew she had liked, where the rest of the people sat, talking in hushed voices.
The church had been full, and now, so was the dining room. Isla had had many friends, more than they'd known about: teachers, classmates, people she had worked with. She wasn't like Mycroft and Sherlock in that way. She didn't think the same way. Instead of cool logic and deductions she could read your life's story on the planes of your face, tell if anyone was lying, change any situation to suit her fancy. And yet she did this in a way that achieved a subtlety neither him nor Sherlock could ever muster, did it all without looking down on others for being stupid or slow. He had always looked at it as a defect, that she was leaving herself wide open for heartbreak and trauma, but what had closing himself off done? Now he suffered alone, but for the remainder of his family.
He heard this over and over in the hushed conversations of those around him, in the stories they told to the family as they sat off on their own. They helped, he thought, at least for his parents. These stories of the young woman they had raised, kind and intelligent.
A young man came to the table last of all, his eyes red from crying. He looked lost, unsure of his surroundings. Mycroft almost sent him away before he said anything. After, he wished he had.
"Mr. and Mrs. Holmes? Mycroft and Sherlock? I'm Alfie- Alfie Winters. Isla and me- well, she never told you about me. She always said it wasn't the right time. But she told me all about you. She loved you all so much. She never stopped talking about you two," he said, turning to Sherlock and Mycroft. "Her two brilliant brothers, always there for her." That hit him like a physical blow. "The Politian and the Detective. I just wanted to say- well, I-" he paused, wiping at his eyes. "I loved Isla. I loved her from the day we met four years ago at uni. And I was going to ask her to marry me."
He dug into his pocket, visibly trying to keep the tears at bay. He pulled out a small ring box and placed it onto the table. "I want you to have this. And I wanted you to know how truly blessed I was to have been lucky enough to love your daughter. I don't know what I'm going to do without her."
His mother and father rose and hugged him like a son.
Mycroft read about him in the papers later. They found him with the gun still in his hand, a photograph in the other.