Everything was grey. Dreary grey sky that melded seamlessly into the dull grey horizon, in front of which indistinct grey shapes skulked; the grey shapes slowly morphed into listless grey buildings as they drew nearer the eye. There was no rain, however the heavy clouds promised that there would be, and soon, although it was sure to be the lethargic mist-like rain that lacked the energy and purpose need to become a decent downpour. Even the wind was apathetic, only occasionally summoning the strength to throw the crumpled leaves that idled on the roads and pavements into a brief flight, before it died down again and the leaves freefell back down to the ground to be trampled by oblivious feet.

Sherlock walked between the crouching, close buildings that threatened to topple inwards on top of him. He was thoroughly miserable; his mourning clothes were uncomfortable, he was cold, the adults were walking too quickly and he was being forced to contemplate the grim realities of death, something the young Holmes had previously been sheltered from.

Sherlock's logical mind struggled to find the sense or purpose in death. Sherlock couldn't understand why one minute someone was there, very real, fixed into their place in the world and the next they were gone. Just gone.

Sherlock had only a vague idea about heaven and hell and life after death. It had never seemed important before - he liked to concentrate on things he knew absolutely were real- the abstract wasn't interesting. He was very unclear about what happened once you died. And what happened to the bodies in the graves if they woke up in heaven or hell? Did they disappear? Sherlock wondered if he could dig up a grave and find out.

A large wrought iron gate informed Sherlock that they were arriving at the cemetery. He shivered as he gazed at the pale gravestones that lurked in the sharp shadows of the poplar trees. Most of the gravestones were leaning, drunk with age and ere crumbling into the soft ground. The carefully chosen epigraphs were no longer legible; eroded by time as it continued in it's relentless, blameless flow until eventually there would be no one left to remember who the broken headstone represented.

The sound of weeping reached Sherlock's keen ears almost as soon as he stepped inside the cemetery. His eyes widen with surprise; he had childishly, naively assumed that it was only his family who had suffered a loss. His eyes were drawn to a young lady dressed in black standing a little way in front of a small clump of mourners. Sherlock stared at her with an intensity that only a child can get away with.

Sherlock watched her with innocent interest, not taking his eyes off of her as he allowed himself to be guided through the cemetery.

"She's lost-" Sherlock said to Mycroft excitedly, seeking confirmation that his theories were correct. And then he remembered that Mycroft wasn't there. It's your fault. He compulsively clutched his mothers hand tighter, drawing closer to her as the memories began to cloud his mind. Your fault. His mother squeezed his hand in response but continued staring straight ahead, her face completely devoid of emotion. It was all your fault! Sherlock tried to push the thought away but couldn't quite manage it. It was there, persistent, tormenting him. You should have listened to Mycroft, it whispered. If you'd just listened to Mycroft then Mycroft wouldn't be-

The sound of a twig snapping jolted Sherlock from his torturous thoughts. He jumped guiltily - for a second that twig snapping sounded so like the breaking of a branch - and he tripped. He would have fallen had his mother not pulled forcefully on his arm allowing him to regain his footing. Sherlock looked around at his black clad relatives expecting a sharp reprimand or perhaps a look of disapproval or even a look of sympathy. But their faces remained stony, impassive, emotionless.

He examined his family more closely; a solid mass of black clad half-strangers surrounding him. It should have been reassuring having them shielding him. It wasn't.

The Holmes' were uncommonly talented at staying detached and not allowing their emotions to show, no matter what the situation. This was, as Sherlock was beginning to understand, because they didn't have or, at the very least, weren't at all interested in emotions. To the casual passer-by the Holmes' carefully crafted expressions and movements suggested that they were suppressing deep emotion however it was all an act. Sherlock knew that very few of them, maybe as little as one or two of them, actually cared who had died. Not one of the Holmes' were under any illusions of family ties or loyalty. There were here because society and decorum expected it, that was all.

Analysing his relatives faces critically as they came to a stop by a waiting grave, Sherlock realised that over half of the people clustered around him he had never seen before and probably wouldn't see again until the next Holmes left the world and passed on to whatever lay beyond.

Sherlock sighed miserably as the vicar started to speak. He tried to listen but his mind refused to let him dwell on the vicars soft words preferring instead to replay that horrible moment when he realised that Mycroft was hurt. The horrible, dizzying, petrifying fear the Mycroft was dead. The realisation that it was all his fault.

The wind was staring to pick up with a little more vigour. There was a bitter edge to the wind, reflected in it's howls as it whipped through the air with a slight vindictiveness. Leaves began to blow around Sherlock's feet in a fatal dance. Sherlock shifted his weight to his other foot as the vicar droned on. The first few rain drops stared to gently fall and still the vicar was talking. Mycroft was so lucky that a bad concussion was a good enough excuse to miss this. Sherlock thought darkly. I didn't even know great aunt Minerva.

Ugh it's finished.

I'm not at all happy with it but I realised it had been far too long since I last updated (blame my internet which has been having a strop for the last few days) and that I better put something, anything, on.

Expect some very heavy editing of this chapter.

Next up is Cemeteries of London Part II -which is an alternative or possibly a sequel to this chapter.

After that will be that wayward fic If We Ever Meet Again.

I'm now going off to work on training my muse…

Thanks for reading and as usual thanks to everyone who has reviewed, reviews really do make my day (as cheesy as it sounds) so thanks a million.