John hadn't seen anyone since leaving 221B. It had been eerie sitting alone in his tiny room. He had read every single news story he could find on Sherlock, and it was certainly not helping his grieving process. He was mostly trying to makes sense of Sherlock's 'note'. It wasn't adding up. None of it was. He could hear Sherlock's voice in his ear, clear as day. "It's all true…I invented Moriarty…I researched you…" If he had researched John, how could he miss the part about his sister? No one could be that clever. He refused to accept it. It wasn't possible. In a fit of rage, he posted on his blog to that effect. Oh hell. The blog. Ella. He had never rescheduled. Well. It could wait a while. Maybe.

Even though he hadn't seen Mycroft, at 10 am on Thursday morning, a black car rolled up outside his place. A sharp dressed man hopped out and opened the door for John, with the unspoken connotation that he must get in. The back of the car was empty at least. He didn't think he could handle Anthea's soulless tapping at the Blackberry today. He hadn't slept last night, but spent a fair bit of time trying to make it seem less obvious. He still knew he wouldn't be able to fool Sherlock or even Mycroft as it were.

The drive took nearly two hours, taking them far into the south. Sherlock had mentioned, months ago now, that his family home was in Sussex. John had never been to a funeral that hadn't been in a church. It struck him now, however, that the Holmes family was probably not a group of churchgoers. It was precisely what John had expected. Perfectly manicured grounds stretching for acres complete with a picture perfect mansion. It was more the place you'd expect the Queen to live, instead of an amateur detective. Mycroft met him at the door.

"Doctor Watson. Do come in."

Mycroft led him into what was probably their parlour, but still larger than the entire flat at Baker Street. For a man who reportedly only had a single friend, the house was remarkably full. Most of the people must be family, judging by the general stoic air and posh pallor that surrounded them. They clumped together in the corners of the room, dabbing at non-existent tears with embroidered handkerchiefs. Despite this, John recognized a few faces: government officials that they had taken on as clients; Sebastian Wilkes chatting with a few blokes in their early thirties who must have been uni lads; Lestrade, with Sally, but not Anderson.

The person who was notably missing was Sherlock.

"He's already been buried, John. We had a private service yesterday." Mycroft said, in the same voice that made John think that he was omniscient.

"We?"

"Me, Mummy, and the people who arranged the burial."

"Oh." John felt a pang of sadness that he had been left out.

"I apologise that I didn't call. Mummy is quite frail, and I didn't want to upset her."

"Oh." Were they expecting him to make a scene? He wasn't crazy. He could handle a funeral, even if it was his best friend.

"Please, excuse me."

John ventured farther into the room. Staff in white coats were making the rounds with hors d'oeuvres and drinks, like a cocktail party. Large windows covered one wall completely, and the light shone through them in a nearly heavenly fashion, illuminating a large photo of Sherlock set in a wreath of flowers. The photo had been taken in his pre-John days. Maybe even ten years ago, back in his early twenties. His cheeks were much hollower than John had ever seen them, showing the signs of rapid weight loss. Even in the photo, it was easy to see that this was taken during his days as an addict. They had never discussed those times. Still, he could see why they chose this picture. He still had the wide-eyed innocence of a young man. His face aglow with fiery determination, split into a wide grin. It was perfect. It was precisely how John would want him to be remembered.

Mycroft had sidled up next to the picture, grasping the arm of a tired and ill looking woman, although she couldn't be older than 65. Was it from illness, or just grief? He helped her into a chair.

"Thank you all for coming. It is here today that we remember the life of Sherlock Holmes, my younger brother." No emotion littered his face. "Sherlock wasn't a perfect man, or a perfect brother, but he was still loved. Those of us who knew him well are sure to recall this." John didn't think Mycroft did know his brother well. "Losing such a bright spirit at a young age is all that more difficult, but it is my firm belief that he made such an impact that he will never be forgotten by those of us in this room. Sherlock and I grew apart as we got older, but that doesn't mean that we were not close. I will hold him in my heart, every day."

Mycroft paused. His hand trembled a little.

"One of Sherlock's oldest friends, Detective Inspector Lestrade wished to say a few words."

Greg walked over. He was looking older than he had just a week ago. John wasn't sure why he was here. Wasn't he facing an inquiry because of Sherlock? "I knew Sherlock for nearly six years. We didn't meet in the best of circumstances, but that didn't matter. He was infuriating at times. He would come to a crime scene and drive everyone off. But he was brilliant. He was the greatest man that I knew. I don't know why he did so many of the things he did, but he had his reasons, and they all made sense in the end." He cleared his throat a little, emotion starting to crack through. "The last year or so, Sherlock had been on fire, professionally. He was like a different man. I think this was because of his partner, John Watson."

John couldn't help himself. "Oh for God's sake. I'm not gay. He's dead and people still don't fucking believe me." Sherlock's mother looked shocked.

"His professional partner. They worked together." Lestrade was bright red, as was John. People were beginning to titter. John made a hasty exit back towards the entryway. He could hear someone come up behind him. "Mycroft. I do not want to talk. I just need to get home."

"It's not Mycroft." John spun around. One of Sebastian's friends, and probably Sherlock's, he thought, from university. He was tall, thin, and handsome.

"Sorry. I thought you were someone else."

"Oh I know. Mycroft has this way of bringing out the anger in people. I'm Victor Trevor," he said, offering a hand. John didn't take it.

"Er, sorry. Why did you come out after me?"

"I wanted to tell you that I know," he said, with a knowing smile.

"You know what precisely?"

"Sherlock. I know how he could be. He lures you in with his danger and cheekbones and he knows you better than you know yourself. You fall for his charms and you're not even sure how. But do you know what? He was a predator. Sherlock Holmes, master manipulator. He knew exactly what to do to get you on his side and into his bed."

John's fist contacted the side of Victor's face. His hand hurt, but he knew how to throw a punch. The wiry man's face must be aching worse than his fist. He wound back to throw another when he heard a voice, this time definitely Mycroft's.

"Doctor Watson, please refrain from fisticuffs at my brother's memorial service." John dropped his arm. "Excellent. Now, Mr. Trevor, your car is waiting just outside. John, come with me, we have things to discuss." He grabbed John by the shoulder at steered him around a corner and up a flight of stairs.

They walked silently along a series of winding hallways. Jesus, how big is this place, John wondered. Eventually they reached the open door that led to what was certainly Mycroft's office.

"Sit, please." He half pushed John into an uncomfortable wooden chair opposite a severe looking desk.

"I don't want to discuss what just happened, so I'll be on my way, if you don't mind." He went to stand up, but Mycroft's hand on his shoulder held him back.

"I don't either. That was not the first punch you've thrown for my brother, and I would be surprised if it was the last. Someday, we may have a frank chat about Mr. Trevor. Fortunately for him, we have other matters to discuss at the moment."

"I can't imagine what you would have to say to me."

"Ah, still with the anger." Mycroft smirked. "No, Dr. Watson, I actually wanted to speak with you about pressing legal matters. Sherlock has left you everything."

"Everything?"

"You do know how Sherlock detested repetition. A trait we share, I'm afraid." Mycroft answered with an eye-roll. "Every possession that my brother had to give, passed into your possession on his death."

"What exactly is that?"

"The simple things, of course: clothes, books, other personal effects. There are a few larger articles as well, however. The flat at Baker Street has been paid for, in full, until December 31st of next year, so you are entitled to live there now, rent free until that date. Our father also left us each a generous trust fund. Sherlock's access had been limited for obvious reasons, but it's now all yours. As well, you now own half of our country home in Hampshire. His violin is also appraised at nearly a million pounds." John didn't know what to say. In a few moments he had gone from unable to pay the rent next month to a multimillionaire. He had always figured the Holmes family to be wealthy beyond belief. This was evident in Sherlock's flippancy about accepting money for cases, but he had never flaunted his cash. And if he was sitting on this, why did he bother getting a flatmate in the first place?

"Why me?"

"You say so often that you and Sherlock were not together, but you were certainly the closest thing he had. He had no one else to give these things to."

"He could have given them to you."

"I firmly believe that he wanted to see you looked after. He cared about you, John."

John felt overcome with emotion. Sherlock cared enough to make him a wealthy man, but not enough to avoid killing himself in front of him. "I'd like to go home."

"And here is home, John? Will it be back to 221B, or to that horrid little room you've taken?" John didn't even bother asking how he knew about the bedsit.

He took a deep breath. It would be so easy to go back to 221B, and pretend that nothing had changed. He'd walk through the door and everything would be normal. But no…it wouldn't.

"Back to the bedsit, thanks."

"As you wish, John."