"My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?"
"Sherlock liked to fix things. Even as a small boy, he fiddled around with broken toys, and later electronics, repairing them and improving upon them. That was the interesting thing about my little brother – he would never stop working with something until he had made it somehow better than it had been before. And as he grew, he transitioned from fixing objects to fixing people.
"Of course, this did not make him an inherently good person. Sherlock had his faults, like any other human being. He was unsociable – as many of you are quite aware. He was proud.
"However, the reason we are all here today is to celebrate a man who was kind. A man who was caring. A man who gave unconditionally, without ever once pausing to ask for thanks." Here Mycroft paused, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at the corners of his eyes, playing his part remarkably well.
Sherlock smirked at the feigned tears, rolling his eyes, though in truth part of him was rattled. What would Mycroft have done, had this truly been his funeral? Would he still have cried? Would he have been quite so eloquent?
What would Sherlock himself have done, had the roles been reversed?
He frowned and crossed his arms, leaning further back against the trunk of the tree to listen to the rest of the eulogy.
Mycroft fluttered an apology for his faked tears, his voice cracking ever so slightly. Sherlock approved. It was a nice touch.
"My little brother-" he said, then cleared his throat. "My little brother was often criticized for being a machine." A few scattered, broken laughs floated to where Sherlock stood. "In retrospect, Sherlock was anything but. He had a remarkable gift – Sherlock possessed the power to put aside his own pain and opinions so that he could help others more fully. Some saw this as inhuman. I prefer to think of it as more than human. I do believe that Sherlock understood the human condition in a fuller way than you or I could ever hope to achieve."
The human condition. Pah. Sherlock stood in the shade of his tree, watching the tiny gathering proceed. It was a small service – Mrs. Hudson had come, as well as Molly. Surprisingly enough, Anderson had showed up. Conspicuously absent was Greg Lestrade. But John… of course faithful John was there, right beside his grave.
It was clever, Sherlock reflected, that Mycroft had not brought up his skill at the art of deduction. Even now, his older brother was trying to rebuild public faith in him. Even now, when all the newspapers called him a fraud. It was a subtle thing, and skillfully done. Sherlock nodded his approval.
"That being said, I fear this understanding of humanity came as a curse rather than a blessing. Sherlock was forced by the nature of his chosen career path to use this gift dispassionately, without regard for his own feelings. This ostracized him from the general population, even from the police force, who saw him not as a man, but rather as a bloodhound, able to sniff out answers for them before returning obediently to his cage.
"I'm sorry to say that much of this self-imposed alienation was partially my fault. I always taught Sherlock as a child that sentiment was something to be looked down upon. I see now that I may have been mistaken."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Mycroft had waged his war on sentiment for as long as he could remember – thirty years at least. Why should he turn his back on it now? The detective leaned slightly, eager to hear what his brother had to say in the way of explanation.
"As you may recall, Sherlock found reprieve just a few short years ago, when he met Doctor John Watson, veteran of the twenty-third Northumberland Fusiliers."
Sherlock watched as Mrs. Hudson squeezed John's shoulder. John was quite obviously upset, but putting on a brave show for the sake of the people around him. Pity coiled around Sherlock's heart like ink in a jar of water. Oh, John…
"Doctor Watson," Mycroft continued, "quickly became a source of solace and comfort for the wearied detective. He instilled in him a sense of life and vigor that I had not seen in years. In his much-beloved blog, Doctor Watson regales us with the tale of that mysterious figure Sherlock dubbed 'The Woman.' You may have read that at the start of the case, I summoned Sherlock and John to Buckingham Palace to debrief them, at which point they made a certain joke about the Queen." A few knowing chuckles rose from the crowd. "Regardless of the fact that the joke was made at my expense… it was the first time I had seen my brother laugh freely in many years, and for that, Doctor Watson, I am truly grateful."
The elder Holmes paused a moment, dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief once more. Sherlock was beginning to feel astutely uncomfortable. Mycroft didn't seem to be acting any longer, and them implications of that worried him greatly.
"Sherlock was able to help so many people over the course of his lifetime," his older brother continued, fighting off more tears. "He helped me, and if you're here today, he helped you as well – regardless of whether you believe in him or not."
Mycroft dug the point of his umbrella further into the ground, leaning on it slightly, as if to impart the weight of his grief onto the earth.
"This is how I wish you all to remember Sherlock – as a helper, as a doer, and as a man who cared. And, before I leave here today, there is something I need to say – something that has gone unsaid for far too many years." Mycroft turned to face the sleek black headstone.
"Baby brother… I am proud of you."
Sherlock stood, too stunned to move, as Mycroft moved back into the crowd of mourners like a drop of black oil into a puddle. Molly, Anderson, and Mrs. Hudson each spoke, but they were quick about it, and the service was through shortly enough. A few mumbled words from a priest, and the empty casket was lowered into the earth.
The mourners, excepting John and his brother, left after a time, one by one. Sherlock knew John would remain for some time. His brother stealthily joined him at the top of the small hill.
"I told you not to come," Mycroft said without much conviction.
"…one more miracle…" John's voice floated up to them from the grave.
"How many can claim the honor of attending their own funeral?" Sherlock parried.
"…don't be dead…"
Mycroft sighed. "Is it John you're worried about? He'll be fine, given time. Goldfish have a habit of forgetting."
"John is not a goldfish," Sherlock said, a bit sharply, eyes never leaving the blond man at the bottom of the hill.
Mycroft studied his brother's face. "No, I suppose he isn't."
John turned away, his soldier's mask in place once more. The Holmes brothers watched him go, silent until the man had left the cemetery gates.
"How much of that silly speech did you actually mean?" Sherlock asked after a time, curiosity getting the better of him.
Mycroft brooded. "Brother mine, have you ever known me to say a word I do not mean?"
"When it suits your purposes."
"And what do you believe my purpose here today was?"
Sherlock considered. "To instill a certain faith in my memory. To ease my reinsertion into society, when that time should come to pass."
Mycroft's face remained stoic, but his eyes betrayed a deep sadness. "And when have you known me to have only one purpose to my actions?"
Sherlock frowned. Could it be that Mycroft's words had been genuine? Surely not…
Sherlock studied his brother. His suit was, as always, impeccable and perfectly tailored to his body. His posture betrayed nothing. And yet… he seemed weary, somehow. He persisted in leaning ever so slightly on his brolly, as if that would help to distribute the weight of his thoughts and feelings. And his eyes…
"Surely you don't mean…" Sherlock trailed off.
"We use complete sentences, brother mine. And don't call me 'Shirley,' my dear Sherly." he chided, the smallest of smiles gracing his lips.
Sherlock brushed the joke aside, eyes widening ever so slightly.
"Much as it might surprise you, brother mine, I actually do care about you. And being in front of that grave today… if you hadn't been standing at the top of this hill, I fear I might have fallen prey to my imaginations."
Sherlock was stiff and uncertain.
Mycroft chuckled darkly. "It's my fault you shy away from such sentiments," he said, voice soft as a cloud. "Would that I could have given you an easier childhood. Sherlock…" Mycroft trailed off. He cleared his throat, and looked away.
Sherlock stared for a moment before regaining his wits.
"We use complete sentences, brother mine."
Mycroft chuckled, looking up to meet his brother's gaze once more. He brought a hand up as if to touch the younger man's cheek, but hesitated. "May I?"
Sherlock found himself suddenly unable to speak. He nodded apprehensively.
Mycroft tenderly brushed his fingertips over his little brother's face. Sherlock, without realizing it until after the fact, leaned into the touch, savoring the warmth and unexpected gentleness. Emboldened, Mycroft stood on his toes and leaned forward, pressing his lips to his brother's forehead.
"I mean every word I say, even the lies," he murmured into Sherlock's sable curls.
Sherlock, for his part, was frozen, his brilliant mind seemingly unable to process what was happening. He made a noise, not quite a word, which Mycroft must have mistaken for a sob, because in an instant his brother was holding him, pressing Sherlock's head into his shoulder gently.
Mycroft smelled of sandalwood, a hint of sweat, and, oddly enough, peaches. It was not entirely unpleasant, however, and Sherlock found himself not wanting to leave his brother's embrace.
"People will talk," he said reluctantly, after a long moment.
"We're at a cemetery. Two men hugging is not an uncommon sight," Mycroft bit back. All the same, he took in a breath as if to steady himself, and let Sherlock go. The younger man immediately missed his brother's warmth.
Mycroft blinked, and instantly regained his composure.
Sherlock had always envied that particular talent of his brother's.
"You'll have food and lodging at my estate for one week's time, during which you will study closely the remaining strands of Moriarty's web. After that time, you will be flown to Eastern Europe, where you will eliminate any remaining members of his team. They cannot know that I am assisting you, you understand."
And just like that, the spell was broken. Sherlock nodded brusquely, and adjusted his coat.
And Mycroft was gone, walking briskly down the hill, quick as the east wind.
Sherlock lingered a moment, wrapping his arms about his torso – to ward off the chill, he told himself.
He didn't need Mycroft.
Of course not.