The funeral was … vast. Overwhelming. Elaborate. Crowded. Hot. An extravaganza.

Going by the news reports, John wasn't surprised at the media circus. He could even understand why this was newsworthy, he supposed. In the lack of real news during a slow week, the sudden tragic death of an earl and his son was something to fill airtime and empty newspaper columns. Objectively, he could understand that.

Personally, though, he'd just as soon banish all of them, and briefly considered how nice it must have been back when earldoms really meant something. He spared a longing thought for whichever great-great-whatever grandfather who could have people horsewhipped for stirring up trouble and gossiping about his family.

The first day hadn't been that bad, as the press corps had wondered about who the title would pass to next. (Apparently the Watson/Brandon thing threw them off.) Between the time spent with Mr Barrington and Harry, he hadn't had time to notice the frenzy the reporters were working themselves into.

The second day, though … well, as expected, the press had had a field day with the news that the new Earl of Undershaw was working as an unpaid assistant to the world's only Consulting Detective—when not working part-time at a local surgery to make ends meet. The news of his service in Afghanistan, saving lives before being invalided home for a gunshot wound, had been completely overshadowed by Sherlock's reputation as rumours of their involvement in Moriarty's string of bombings exploded across the front pages. (John could only imagine how Jim Moriarty was reacting to the news of John's inheritance. In fact, he received a black-edged sympathy card the day after the news broke, saying he wished he'd known—he would have dressed the bomb in Westwood as befitted his rank.)

From a public relations standpoint, it was a nightmare. Harry's trouble with alcoholism (which broke on the third day) was barely a blip on the radar. John found himself longing for a new serial killer, a terrorist attack—anything to distract the media from him and his family. It's not like earls were that important in 2011. Surely there was something else to write about?

John had to admit that Mycroft had been more than helpful with this. His people had not only provided security, but he had somehow stopped the worst excesses of the press, so that by the fourth day, the tone of the articles was much more subdued.

The damage had been done, though. All the attention made the joint funeral for his father and grandfather a media-inspired travesty, so far as John was concerned. Far from being the dignified celebration of two good, decent, honourable lives, it was a nightmare of flashbulbs and long-distance telephoto lenses as reporters tried to get pictures of John and Sherlock.

The service was over now, though, and they were back at his grandfather's … or, well, his, now … country house. At least here, the only nosy, prying eyes were the ones who had been invited—or, at least, could get past Mycroft's security. John wondered how many favours he was going to owe the man for this, and kept waffling back and forth between feeling badly about being so cynical and thinking that this was a Holmes, of course he was going to owe!

Sherlock had been extraordinarily helpful, and without any apparent ulterior motive. It made John feel really quite flattered. He had seen Mycroft's face when he watched Sherlock being thoughtful and solicitous and gathered that this was a once-in-an-eon kind of reaction. He could only be grateful it was being expended on his behalf.

"How are you doing?" a familiar baritone asked.

John turned with a smile. "Now that we've gotten some breathing space from the press? Much better. I really need to thank your brother for his help."

"Oh please," Sherlock said, dismissing the very possibility with a sniff. "He hates being thanked. He just collects favours owed. In this case, though, I believe he's paying you for saving my life."

John gave a nod. "I figured, but it's still polite to say thank you, and his people were helpful."

"I suppose," Sherlock said with a shrug as he wandered over to the window. "Why don't you show me around?"

"But, Sherlock, I can't… There are guests."

"Of course you can. You're the earl and you're in mourning. They'll understand if you need some time to yourself. Besides, this is all insufferably tedious. I might be forced to start building a lab in your kitchen soon."

"God help you if you do," John said with a laugh. "You're taking your life in your hands if you mess with Mrs Patrick's kitchen. Jim Moriarty was a pussycat in comparison to her protecting her territory."

"So, save me. Come for a walk. I'm getting bored, John, you don't want that happen, do you?"

John pretended to think, glancing back at the mourners in the parlour. "Well, I am responsible for the lives and property here … it does seem risky, letting Sherlock Holmes get bored."

"Exactly," and this time he allowed Sherlock to lead him to the nearest door. "It's your duty to entertain me. I am a guest, after all."

#

John had insisted on stopping to leave word that he was going for a walk, but it was only five minutes later that the two of them were walking across the green lawn toward the stable.

Sherlock eyed his friend. In the last week, John had lost five pounds and was paler than his norm—though he had spent most of that time stuck inside with impossibly boring meetings followed by hours of paperwork. His dedication hadn't left much for Sherlock to actually do for him. He certainly couldn't help with the administration of John's title (or whatever one did with an earldom in the 21st century). Sherlock was self-aware enough to know that soothing, comforting small talk was not exactly his strong point—not that John would have accepted soothing.

Still, Sherlock was quickly beginning to feel useless. Useless and bored.

That combination never ended well. He either needed to find something to do or head back to London … with or without John.

In the meantime, he was being a Good Friend and trying to look after John—something he was singularly unqualified to do, really, but he was trying. And when he'd been under strain himself, he'd had people insist that fresh air was a good thing, so here they were.

"So, a stable? With horses?" Sherlock asked.

"Wouldn't be much of a stable without them," John said. "My grandfather loved his horses, so he always had some—even after he got too old to ride."

"Do you?"

"Ride? I used to." John pushed open the door to the sound of whinnies and the smell of fresh hay. "I haven't even been to the house in about five years. I was always deployed during the big, summer parties, and off-season, it was just too much work. I stuck to London."

Sherlock walked over and let a lovely bay filly sniff his palm before reaching up to scratch under her halter. "That's a pity, John. Horseback riding would have been excellent therapy for your psychosomatic leg injury."

John winced. "The injury wasn't psychosomatic, Sherlock—the limp afterward was. Believe me, riding a horse would not have been a good idea at first." He reached into a nearby bin and pulled out a handful of oats, sharing some with Sherlock before turning to the horse in the next stall. "Hello, Masters. How's the head of the stable doing? You keeping an eye on things? The mare's name is Dapple, by the way … don't ask."

Sherlock let the horse lip the grains from his hand and then petted the nose, letting her scent him. It had been years since he'd been this close to a horse, too.

"I somehow didn't think you'd get on with horses."

"Better than most people," Sherlock said. "They're not judgemental or ignorant. Their issues are much more … elemental."

"All nerves and heart, is what my grandfather always said."

Hearing the falling tone in John's voice, Sherlock turned to see him absently petting the horse's forelock. "You're reminded of him here. We should go."

John shook his head. "Honestly, I'm reminded of him everywhere these days. This was his house. I've almost never been here without him, even as a kid. We'd come for long visits every summer, and while he'd be back and forth on business or whatever, he was still mostly here. I just …"

"You miss him."

"He was almost 90. It's not like I didn't know it was coming … but I never expected to lose my father at the same time. And, then the … well, it's just … a lot."

"The title, you mean."

"God, yes," John said. "I mean, really, can you see me doing this? A month ago, I needed to borrow money from you to cover the rent, and now I've got my grandfather's title, four houses and horses."

"You're feeling overwhelmed," Sherlock said quietly.

"You could say that. I don't know which is worse—missing them, or being so swamped with paperwork and decisions that I don't have time to. I keep telling myself things will get better. The grief will get better, because it does and I know that it does. The day-to-day running of the estate is something other people will take care of, for the most part, eventually. It's just that there's so much that needs to be done now. I can't decide if it it's good or bad, having all this dropped on me at the same time as losing them—it all makes an excellent distraction, but, I'm just … so tired."

Sherlock watched as John's shoulders sagged. This was a new side to John. He'd seen him lose his temper, seen him weak with relief at the Pool, but this man, in his perfectly tailored black suit might almost be a stranger. Sherlock had never seen John actually struggle to cope, and found he was at a loss.

"You … You should talk to Mycroft."

John spun around from the horse. "What?"

"I'll deny ever suggesting this to you, and you can never tell him," Sherlock told him seriously. "But he went through something similar when our father died. No title, mind you, but he inherited the estate and all the burdens that went with it and then had to cope all on his own—the grief and the sudden responsibility at twenty-seven. He managed, because he's Mycroft, but even he found it difficult. Maybe it would … help? … to talk to him?"

He had watched John's eyes widen as he spoke, but was unprepared when John said, "That may be one of the nicest … knowing how much you hate your brother…"

"Well, yes, but I don't hate you, John," Sherlock told him brusquely. "And all I did was recommend a conversation. I didn't save your life, or anything."

"Sanity, life … same difference." John said, a hint of a smile in his voice for the first time all day. "Either way, you're looking out for me. That's something friends do, you know."

"So I've heard," said Sherlock as John gave the horse one final pat and turned to leave the stable. They walked in silence for a moment, then Sherlock said, "Yes."

"I'm sorry?"

"You asked a moment ago if I could see you doing this, being an earl, and the answer is yes. The wardrobe, I confess, will take some getting used to if you're going to make a habit of tailored suits once the funeral is over, but the job itself? Who better than the most capable man I know?"

John had stopped, shoes creaking on the gravel path. "Me?"

"Of course, you. Who else? Admittedly, running a family, well, business such as this is different than invading a country and saving lives, but there's no doubt in my mind. Stubbornness is one of your more annoying qualities, John, but useful—how else would you have managed to live with me the last three months?"

"True," John said, a hint of colour in his face. "I am known for my stubbornness."

"Considering you managed not only to turn your back on this lifestyle, but did it with your family's blessing … without getting yourself disowned or removed from the line of succession? I almost wish I'd known you then—I would have taken notes. Clearly, you can accomplish whatever you need to."

"Except getting you to keep the body parts out of the fridge," John said after a minute.

"Hmm," Sherlock mused for a minute. "Though your plan for renting 221C as a lab has merit."

"At the very least, I won't need to kip on Sara's sofa anymore," John told him. "If I need to get out of the flat, I've got options now."

"From the sound of it, you always have had," Sherlock said. "Your family would obviously have taken you in."

John shrugged. "Yeah, but they would have needed explanations. Grandfather would have asked why I was sharing with a maniac in the first place. Father would have tried to set up a flat for me, and it all would have become complicated very quickly."

He stopped to look back at the house, intimidatingly large in the afternoon sun. "I wanted my own life—something I earned, made happen, all on my own. I always did, but especially after Mum died … I mean, Grandfather was healthy as a horse. Father was, too, and I just looked forward to decades of trying to live one of those idle rich lives. I'd have had a nice little medical practice to fit in between rounds of golf. God, Sherlock, I would have been so bored."

Sherlock just watched and listened as, after a moment, John turned to him. "It's one of the reasons I understand about the cocaine, you know. You came from the same kind of family, so that you didn't need to work or do anything, not really. You could have let the family money put bread on your plate and puttered away in a custom, deluxe chemistry lab your entire life—but it would have driven you mad. It was the same thing for me."

"Except you actually got on with your father and went off to save lives," Sherlock said, tasting the wryness on his tongue.

"Lucky for me," John said with a voice that had dropped half an octave since his last statement.

Sherlock shook his head. "It was. You would have been just as bored as I was. A man doesn't head to war just because he needs something to do, John. You craved the rush, just like you do now when we chase criminals."

"I know," John said, nodding. "The difference is that I always knew this was going to catch up with me someday. I suppose I should just be grateful I had a chance to do those other things first."

"And will continue to," Sherlock said. "I'd be lost without my blogger, you know."

John smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I feel the same way. I just … it's going to be different, isn't it?"

Sherlock stared in the direction of the house too and was all too afraid that what John said was true. This made everything different.

#

John sat by the fire and wished he could indulge in a boneless sprawl. The day had seemed endless. The funeral had been bad enough (and it had been very, very bad), but it had been followed by hours of polite conversation and questions and idle curiosity … he was exhausted.

He'd taken off his jacket as soon as the last guest had left, and it was draped on the chair behind him, with his tie. He longed to pull on his comfortable jumpers and jeans, but didn't quite dare. That kind of attire just felt wrong in this house, on this day. Everything about it was formal and structured and elegant … and everything he had tried to escape from.

Maybe escape was too strong a word. He hadn't exactly been a rebellious teenager—he'd gotten into trouble from time to time, but had never been a party kid, never gotten into drugs. He'd been too worried about his mother's health for that last year before turning 18, and after … well, he'd been focused on his studies. If he could prevent other families from the same kind of grief …

That had worked for a while. He'd gotten his medical license and mourned for his mother and then met Mary … He tried not to think about her too much, but it seemed appropriate today. She would have been so pleased—she had always been more interested in his future title than he was. His life would have been so different if it hadn't been for that car crash…

He stood and walked over to the bookshelves, carrying his drink. He put it down carefully and then ran his fingers along the bindings … ah. He slid one of the albums off the shelf with a grunt—they were always heavier than he expected—and then laid it on the table. He took a drink from his glass and then opened the cover.

God, he'd forgotten how beautiful Mary had been. Her blonde hair had been almost too perfect, glinting with shades of yellow and gold. He could still remember the way it had reflected the sun when he ran his fingers through it—even if she had always scolded him for mussing it. She had been worried about appearances, his Mary, but never superficial.

He turned the pages, remembering the road trip to Brighton, laughing and nearly breaking their ankles, trying to dance on that pebbled beach. He looked at the pictures of her with her beloved dog (Muffy? Muppy? Some cute and silly little name for a small ball of fluff). Pictures from their engagement party. And the wedding. Had he ever been that young? That happy?

He heard the door open and glanced over, nodding at Sherlock. "Reminiscing?"

"Indulging in sentiment," agreed John. "It seemed like the time." He invited his friend over with a tilt of his head, wondering if this was something Sherlock had deduced about him.

Apparently not, judging by the pause when he saw the photo of John and Mary in a spray of champagne, laughing and alive. "She's lovely," he finally said.

"She was," John said, turning to the next page, shots from their honeymoon in France. "I met her in university. She was the best thing that had happened to me after my mother died—the only thing to drag me away from the library I was trying to read my way through."

"You look happy."

"We were," John said, the lump in his throat was just getting bigger. "Right up until she was killed in a car crash a month before her 25th birthday. I was supposed to drive her to the appointment, but had stupidly broken my leg and couldn't … Anyway, Harry was driving."

He could almost feel Sherlock absorbing that information. "Was she…?"

"Drinking?" John asked, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. "Yes, she was. They really should have been all right, though. Harry wasn't drunk—they tested her at the scene. It had just been a celebratory toast kind of thing. Knowing them, they were giggling and playing the music too loud, not paying enough attention … car crashes are obviously bad luck for my family."

"I'm sorry, John."

He shrugged a bit, acknowledging it. "It was a long time ago. I just … I was thinking about her tonight."

"This was just before you joined the army, then?" Sherlock asked.

"Almost immediately before, yes," John said, still flipping pages. "I sat and felt sorry for myself for about three months and then saw a notice about how the army needed doctors and went and enlisted. My father was horrified, and Harry almost couldn't bear to speak to me—or, well, the other way around, too. I just needed … something different."

"Mm. Did it help?"

"Eventually, I suppose. In some ways it's almost hard to remember back … we'd been happy, Mary and I, but things weren't perfect. We were young and I was so concentrated on medicine… we weren't having trouble, exactly, but … well." John blinked hard as he turned over the last page. "I don't think I've looked at these pictures in fifteen years."

He picked up his glass and drained it before sliding the album back on its shelf. "I wish I could remember if this room was always this depressing."

"I don't think it's the room," Sherlock told him after a quick glance around. "Nobody's supposed to be happy at a funeral."

John's lips quirked upward. "Not necessarily so. Lots of people in my position are thrilled with their predecessors die. Or, well, maybe not lots, but enough."

Sherlock's forehead crinkled as he looked at him. "How much have you had to drink, John?"

"Just the one, Sherlock," he told him. "I'm just really very tired."

"Then you should go to bed. Tomorrow will be another busy day."

John gave a groan. "Don't remind me. You're right, though. I'll see you in the morning."

And with a nod, he made his way up to his too-formal room, trying not to think about how alone he felt.

#