A.N: *Waves* Thanks ever so much for being patient, lovely readers – new job ate into my time somewhat! But this WILL get finished in the very near future, I assure you. And so, onwards!

WARNING: Off-screen character death. And I got a bit carried away with this one, I fear.

Lily Watson had never liked wearing hats. They didn't suit her, for one thing, and for another she didn't care for the sort of up-market fashion that required the wearing of a hat. If she had had the money, she would have liked to have experimented with them, maybe, spent hours and hours in the shops surrounded by a gaggle of faceless assistants as she tried them all on and twirled about in front of a mirror and didn't even look at the price tag. But it wasn't to be.

She had been expected to wear a hat on this occasion, and luckily she had found one she could tolerate. It was small and plain and black and had a veil. That was the bit she really liked. She had spent most of her life hiding. She wasn't about to stop now that her daughter had finally gone the same way as the man who made her feel she needed to hide in the first place.

John looked so much like Him. She had looked her son in the eye once so far, from across the car park as he got out of a shiny black Mercedes that didn't look as though it belonged to him, and the awful sensation of wanting to run, and hide, and never see that face again was overwhelming. But she let him come to her, and wrap his arms around her, and she held him while he tried not to cry. Because that's what mothers do, no matter what or who your child reminds you of, and at least while she was holding him she didn't have to look into her husband's eyes.

They didn't really talk much. Old habits die hard, and learning to be quiet and do as you're told from a man who would break your nose if you didn't had left its mark on Mrs. Watson and her youngest child. Instead they did as they'd always done – until the suffocation of home life led John away to study medicine in the city – stuck to each other's side and smiled like everything was fine. Mostly. The situation didn't require much smiling, which was a relief in a way, because neither of them really wanted to lie any more.

Lily knew people, friends, who'd lost a child before their time. Some of them were here today – patting her shoulder and making sure she had fresh tissues to hand, finally a way to show her how they were thankful for her cups of tea and open arms and, most importantly, a friendly ear. From those hours spent in their kitchens, Lily had gathered that services of this sort tended to pass by in a blur. This one didn't.

It wasn't that she was acutely aware of what was going on – she didn't really register what Father Robbins was saying, or when she was supposed to stand up and sing. It was her daughter's coffin – sat there in front of her. For hours and hours and hours and days and months and she knew years were going by in what were supposed to be minutes, years and years of agony, staring at a wooden box.

But the years came to an end, as years always do. Her brave little soldier put his arm around her and, although the congregation were singing, she could only hear his voice.

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me

I once was lost, but now I'm found

Was blind but now I see."

She looked him in the eyes again, then. Just for a few moments she watched Hurt and Hope dance together, watched the story of a life re-built, watched a different man, a good man, shine through those eyes, and when she looked back the box had gone.

Afterwards, when the last of the guests had sniffled their condolences and driven away, John led her over to the Mercedes and a tall, sullen-looking man leaning up against it, hunched against the chill November breeze. His sharp, quick eyes flashed over her as they approached, and she involuntarily cringed away. John slipped his hand into hers again, and gave it a gentle squeeze. She knew immediately that this man was no threat.

"Mum, this is my friend and colleague, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, my mother Lily."

The man – Sherlock – smiled. It was a small smile, but he had the sort of face that didn't look as though it smiled all that often, and it warmed Lily to see it. In turn, he held himself with the sort of guarded air of someone who isn't smiled at very often. Lily gave him a smile.

"How do you do, Mrs. Watson?" He proffered a slim, steady hand and as Lily took it, he bowed his head to drop a ghost of a kiss where her wedding ring had once been.

"You must be very proud of John." She considered her son again. He looked so peaceful. Calm, and grounded. All trace of her husband's memory had slid away from his features.

"I am."