Not Her.
The incessant voices would not stop; they ran and ran around his head until he could do nothing to block them out. He wished they would shut up, the incessant flow of people in and out of the house, looking at him with sadness and pity. He could not stand pity, after everything he had been through; pity was the one thing he did not need. He saw Mycroft Holmes out of the corner of his eye, standing awkwardly in his doorway. He ignored him, he was not in the mood for superiority, and he was not in the mood for anything relating to Holmes. He knew it was not his fault but Mary was dead and his pain forbid him from feeling anything for anyone but Mary, he could not think about Holmes. Not now. He was angry at him for leaving him to grieve alone, he was angry at everyone for all he had lost; and what grieved him more was that at his own wife's funeral, he was wishing for Holmes and not her….