Sherlock Holmes tried to pick a suit. He had several black suits for some reason, and he had to pick one. He gave up and put on his coat and blue scarf. In his life, Mycroft made fun of people dressing up nice for funerals, so it felt pointless to do the same thing for his. His flat mate and his landlady waited for him in the living room, dressed in black. Both of them thought he should have worn a suit, but neither said a word. Four more people waited for them in the graveyard, next to Mycroft's tombstone – Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper and Sherlock's parents. Most of the people there didn't come for Mycroft – they didn't really know him. They came for Sherlock. Sherlock's mother hugged him as they came, and cried on his shoulder, saying she was sorry and that they'll all miss him. He didn't say anything back. Molly half smiled to him comfortingly. Lestrade mumbled an apology filled with shame and guilt. He knew that he had a part in his death. They all stood in front of the tombstone. John cleared his throat. "Does anyone want to say anything?" Sherlock's father talked about what a wonderful man Mycroft was, about his wisdom, and said they would miss him deeply. Molly and Mrs. Hudson started crying. "I…" Sherlock started, but his voice trailed off. What could he say? But then, it occurred to him. He knew exactly what he should say. "If Mycroft could see us now, he would have laughed at us. 'What are you crying about?', he'd say. 'People die. You should care about it'. He told me once caring is not an advantage. Today, I know why. "Mycroft and I were never close, you may say. We teased each other, we annoyed each other and we kept secrets from each other. He didn't like me very much, but you can't blame him – I've been a terrible little brother. I'll never get a chance to fix it. But I don't regret it. Mycroft hated sentiment. Our relationship was the closest thing to friendship he ever had. So if he really was here with us, I'd tell him to shut up and stop making fun of us, because that's what our relationship was like. And I'll never have that with anyone else." The women were all sobbing now, and even John shed a tear. Not that he'll ever admit it. Sherlock looked at John, expecting him to say something as well. "Well, I never really knew Mycroft. We never exchanged more than six sentences in a row. You didn't need to talk to him in order to see what kind of a man he was – organized, immune, always in control. Until one day he wasn't, and that's when his real identity was revealed to me. He was a good brother, no matter what horror storied Sherlock had told you before." his voice broke, so he decided it's time to stop talking before he breaks down. "I can't say I'll miss him, but I'll miss the way he affected Sherlock. He made him who he is today. And I'll forever thank him for that."