The media had grossly underestimated the popularity of Sherlock Holmes.

By the time I arrived at St. Matthew's Church the next morning, the sanctuary was overflowing with mourners. Police were posted on the church's stairs, keeping the press and the crowds at bay.

On the lawn outside the church, Sherlock's fans had gathered; some were still wearing their silly hats and holding large signs that read, "We believe in you!" and "Sherlock lives!" I smiled at them as I hurried past, wondering if they somehow knew the truth. Of course they didn't. It was all wishful thinking as far as they were concerned.

Only a few of us knew the truth.

As I walked by, a little girl caught my attention. She was about six years old and holding the largest bouquet of flowers I'd ever seen. She offered me a shy smile, and I returned it. "That's a lovely bouquet," I said.

"Julie picked all the flowers in our garden," her mother said affectionately. "She thought Mr. Holmes deserved every single bloom, didn't you, sweetheart?" She patted her daughter's head and turned to me. "Did you know Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, banishing my nagging worry about the man I'd left alone. "He was a very good man."

"He was much more than that," the woman said. "Sherlock Holmes helped find my daughter after she was kidnapped." Her voice failed her for a moment, but she gathered her emotions, tucking them inside so she could speak again.

"Julie had vanished without a trace, and the police couldn't find a lead," she said. "But Mr. Holmes found her in just a few hours' time. Brought her back to us safe and sound."

The woman's lower lip trembled, but she caught it with her teeth. She didn't want to cry in front of her daughter.

"We will be forever indebted to him," she whispered. "And we won't believe the bad things people are saying about him."

The girl tugged on her mother's sleeve, and her mother smiled. "No, darling, I'm sorry. They aren't letting any more people into the church." To me, she explained, "She'd wanted to bring the flowers to Mr. Holmes' coffin. She even drew a picture for him." She reached into her pocket and unfolded a piece of paper, depicting a picture of little Julie, holding Sherlock's hand. Both of them were smiling. In unsteady print, the girl had written, "Thank you."

I had to clear the emotion from my throat before I could kneel in front of the little girl and speak. "I know Mr. Holmes' friends," I told her. "Their names are Mr. Watson and Mrs. Hudson. I'll bet they would appreciate your flowers very much. And your picture, too. Would you like to go into the church with me for a moment?

"If it's all right with you," I added, lifting my eyes to her mother.

This time, the woman's tears did spill down her cheeks. "Oh, yes, thank you."

"I'll bring her back in just a few moments, then." I tucked the picture into my pocket and held out my hand, smiling as the little girl slipped her hand in mine. Together, we climbed the stairs to the church. Mycroft Holmes was standing at the top of the staircase, and he frowned when he saw me. I lifted my eyebrows, daring him to say something, and he wisely closed his mouth and opened the door.

It was easy to find John; he was standing vigil beside Sherlock's closed coffin, his tremoring hand resting against the mahogany wood. Mrs. Hudson and a white-haired couple, whom I assumed were Sherlock's parents, stood nearby; however, unlike John they were able to greet mourners as they approached with words of apology and comfort.

John kept his eyes down, his face blank and pale.

The child beside me pointed to John. "That man looks sad," she said.

"That's Dr. Watson," I explained. "Yes, he is sad. Mr. Holmes was his very best friend."

"Susie Carmichael is my very best friend," Julie told me. Her face grew sad; I wondered if she was envisioning life without Susie.

She squeezed my hand. "Could I give that man my flowers?" she asked.

"Yes, I think your flowers would make him feel a bit better," I said. "Come with me."

Suddenly shy, she hid behind me as I approached John. He didn't realize I was beside him until I touched his arm. Then he smiled blearily. "Dr. Middleton," he said. "Don't you have patients today?"

"Only one," I said vaguely. "I've brought you a little friend to meet." Coercing the child from her hiding spot behind me, I said, "This is Julie. She wanted to meet you."

John knelt down in front of her, as if she was a young patient. "Hi, Julie," he said.

"Hello," she mumbled, her cheeks growing pink with embarrassment.

His face grew puzzled. "You look familiar, Julie," he said. "Have we met before?"

"Yes," she nodded. "I was 'napped from the park. Mr. Holmes found me and saved me. You were with him when he did. You helped me, too. You checked to make sure my heart was beating and that I didn't hit my head. You told me I was going to be okay."

John raised his eyes to me and I nodded slightly.

John had no words, but that was all right. Before he could speak, Julie held out her bouquet. "I picked these. Do you want them?"

John's emotions were overflowing now, but he smiled tenderly. "Why, yes, I would love to have them. Thank you."

He took the flowers and was about to thank her again, but the child cut off his words, throwing herself into his arms. She clung to him and after the surprise wore off, John allowed himself a moment to squeeze her close, resting his cheek against her soft hair.

"I am sorry you lost your very best friend," the girl said.

John squeezed his eyes closed, and his shoulders shook. "Thank you," he whispered.

I was almost grateful when the moment was interrupted by the arrival of the priest, who patted John's shoulder and said, "We'll be starting in just a few moments."

"Yes, okay." John pulled away from the child and held the flowers near his heart. "I will cherish these, Julie. Thank you again."

"Come, Julie," I said gently. "Let's go back to your Mum."

Julie smiled and waved to John as I led her back through the crowds, back down the stairs outside. As we approached her mother, the girl suddenly cried out.

"I forgot to give Dr. Watson my picture!" she wailed. "I was going to give it to him since I can't give it to Mr. Holmes."

I patted my pocket, where the picture was safely folded. "I promise to give it to the right person, all right?"

Relieved, she nodded. "I wish I could give Mr. Holmes my letter," she said.

"So do I, my darling," I mumbled. "So do I."

::: author's note: I know Sherlock's parents were not at the funeral according to canon, but in my head they would absolutely go to the funeral to avoid raising suspicion.

Also, I apologize for not getting through the whole funeral in this chapter. I had intended to do so, but then this little girl named Julie came along and broke my heart.

Thanks for reading! :::