The room was too bright and smelt overwhemlingly of dust. Sherlock sat with his hands in his lap, feet directly under his knees and his back straight.

His eyes were two small, ever-observing slits in his skull, and an unforgivable headache was pounding in between them.

There was a man in a white wig talking to a tall woman in a green pantsuit about him. He was busy dating the minute crack running up the podium. They weren't going to talk to him, anyways. Not today.

He was just supposed to look interested in his own hearing.

Let's start at the beginning, they'd decided. Boring.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes is convicted of possesion of an illegal handgun, bugalary, forgery, resisting arrest, trespassing, pickpocketing, the abduction of two minors, coersion of Richard Brook, Theft of the Riechenbach paintings, fabrication of false evidence for at least… Fifty criminal cases…"

His laywer sat silent next to Sherlock, patient enough only to pull the cell phone out of the Holmes' hand when he'd caught him using it about half an hour ago. His last nerve had been dangerously close to breaking by the time his client started tapping out Tchaikovsky on the table.

At the Podium, a woman who had solicited Sherlock's help sat fiddling with her nails. She had called him looking for the father of her children- upon a few misleading details, Sherlock took the case only to find that he had simply retired to his other family in Spain. Dull.

"There was no way he could have… caused the whole thing, but… it did seem rather… Peculiar, how he knew everything."

"How likely would you say it was that Mr. Holmes faked his… Guesses?"

"Oh, they weren't guesses, he was rather adamant about that-"

"Very likely? Somewhat Likely?"

"Well-"

"It's okay, Mrs. Charles, he can't do anything to you if you tell the truth."

Sherlock rolled his eyes- an exercise he'd been participating in almost religiously since these trials had commenced- taking a quick look behind him. Just for a change of scenery. Just to assess the data he was missing by sitting in the front of the room.

From the balcony, he accidentally met eyes with a familiar silver-haired man.

Dressed in Black.

Detective Lestrade had looked slightly bored before their eyes met- his face immediately fell, however, when they did. Now he was checking his phone- he most likely has to leave soon, since it's a bit of a drive to the cemetary from here and it's nearing the end of the work day, traffic is going to be terrible if he waits any longer. He's sitting with a few other people, and through they're all strangers to Sherlock even from the quick glance he took he knows that they are all members of the force- and ones that he'd worked with, too.

He must have- they were all wearing funeral black. Probably dragged here after they agreed to carpool with Lestrade.

Why would they bother going to John's-

What business did they have going to the funeral?

I'd worked with them for longer than he has. He didn't even really work with them, not really. They worked with me. They have no reason to mourn him.

Would they?

He pressed the thoughts from his mind easily- unnecessary- and continued to feign attention to the trial.

Now they were presenting more evidence against him- a woman he didn't know was standing on the podium, saying that she'd been there for the drugs bust, after Sherlock had stolen evidence.

"It seems a little… coincidential, to me, that he just knew that there'd be a pink case. And how to find it. It was just too much."

Pink case.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

He held them closed, and for four point nine seconds he was back on the rooftop.

Four point nine… one six, if he was correct.

Of course he was correct.

He was closing his eyes and he was unwilling to open them again because John was on the other side of them, somewhere on the pavement, broken-

Dead.

Dr. John Watson was dead.

His funeral was going to be held today.

Sherlock would be held in court.

He pressed his eyes closed ever more tightly, wishing the headache would disappear from the centre of his brain.

One…

It's only a funeral.

Two…

They're stupid, anyways. Funerals.

Three…

I mean, why would you bother? They're already dead.

Four…

You didn't see him fall, there is no reason to believe that he is actually-

"The Court calls Mr. Sains to the podium."

Mr. Sains is a man who apparently knew Sherlock very well for the course of a few minutes at a Tesco. He protects Sherlock's name, but with the sort of vehemency that brings to mind the practice of staring into windows with a set of binoculars and Sherlock is left to wonder how he'd even found his way into the courtroom in the first place.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Somewhere in the crowd was James Moriarty- Richard Brook- who was most likely dressed in an unassuming manner, a white button up, dress pants and a cheap tie tied by a woman to make it looks as if he was loved, would be missed. James Moriarty had been on trial once, and he had done well to make it very obvious to the casual viewer that Richard Brook would have to be an astounding actor to cover the leaps and bounds between the two characters.

A cameraman pointed his lens at Sherlock. He could only imagine what tale the news crew would tell over his face on the six o'clock news this afternoon-

"Sherlock Holmes, convicted of at least thirty separate crimes including the kidnapping of the US Ambassador's children earlier this month, appeared in his first hearing this morning in the Central Criminal Court. Today is also the funeral of Dr. John Watson, Military hero and Mr. Holmes' infamous sidekick and chronologist, who commited suicide last Friday at St. Bart's Hospital. No word yet as to how that will affect the trials of Mr. Holmes-"

No, best not imagine it.

No, it was just useless to imagine it. It didn't even quell his boredom.

Several long minutes drag by- twelve- in which the lawyer gets through an interrogation and a half. There is an old woman who'd contacted Sherlock seeking help and was indeed helped, and a school teacher who'd contacted Sherlock seeking help and was indeed not helped before a slam of a door in the back attracted the attention of the room.

Sherlock's eyes shot directly to Moriarty- he didn't trust him, not even with a slamming door. It seemed that Jim was in accord, as his eyes had been trained on Sherlock even before he had reciprocated- Moriarty gave him a quick smile, eyebrows shooting up and into his hair.

Sherlock cast a quick glance at the offending door, which was now shut and silent. After the very short pause, the court recommenced- a glance further behind him revealed that the group in black had disappeared.

The funeral had started without him.

Harry Watson had always imagined her brother's funeral swaddled in the red white and blues of Queen and Country. She'd always imagined herself drunk on Clara's arm, expertly dabbing black tears out of her mascara so it would never run. She wouldn't have to speak because she was Captain John Watson's drunk older sister, there were people much more important than her to say words much more meaningful about John. Sometimes, there was even a Mrs. Watson with a dainty veil pressed over the top half of her face, chest heaving and (if she was feeling really creative) stomach swollen with the promise of a family. Sometimes Clara wasn't there, and Mrs. Watson and Harry would marry four years later so the woman could take care of her deceased husband's son and sister.

The reality was a little more bleak- no uniform, no crying wife, but scores of mourners and a closed black coffin. Much too nice for John to have bought- the entire funeral was too nice for John's paycheck or pension to cover. The priest gave a few words about the hardships of war and the virtues of bravery- no one offered to speak.

It seemed everyone felt the one with the right was currently on trial.

There were a staggering amount of people that flitted in and out during the wake- school friends that she recognized well, rugby friends she could hold a conversation with, soldiers that she could only guess the name of, and many more that she had no idea about. Some felt the need to come up to her and introduce themselves, offer condolences. A silver man with kind brown eyes and the curly-haired Sergeant who looked uncomfortable being here. A red-haired Tory with an umbrella and his attractive- wow, very attractive- assistant. Neither of them seemed to be particularily upset, but the man seemed sympathetic to her, even if he refused to shake her hand.

She'd been sober three weeks when she'd gotten the call on Monday morning.

She'd taken the train down to London for the Funeral- why her brother loved living in this damn city, she'd never know. She slept most of the way there with the help of the scotch in her aluminium water bottle, and by the time she'd checked into her hotel she'd allowed herself to pass out on the bed, spilling precious last drops down the front of her blouse;

She'd went out later that night with a bit of a bedhead but a swing in her hips, hit all of the bars that she'd thought that John would have liked and avoided the one that they'd met at the last time she visited him when he was still in medical school, when she made fun of him and he flirted blatantly with her girlfriend;

She'd walked around the city's better-lit areas, jamming her hands in her pockets and cursing her brother for, if he had to move somewhere out of their native town, not choosing somewhere tropical, vacation-like; a funeral in the south of France couldn't possibly be too bad, even if it was your baby brother you were burying;

She'd found herself in front of a black door telling her 221B, a peculiar address that John had given her sixteen months ago skeptically over an email- I know you're not going to visit, but just in case, and staring in wonder as she imagined her brother fuddling with the keys under this very light, or triping on the crack she was standing over, arms full of groceries, or storming out with his flatmate at odd hours in the day doing- whatever it was they did. Harry never really did ask.

She'd never seen the flat that John had come to call home. She'd never seen the inside, not even in pictures- the lights were off, the drapes were pulled, she couldn't see in now, either. Had he stayed in the first or second floor? Where was the kitchen? Did he prefer to sit on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, or were there sets of chairs around a fireplace, one per each?

She'd never even met his flatmate, the illustrious and infuriating Sherlock Holmes. She'd never seen him in person, but it'd be quite impossible not to have seen the papers- even before this fraud business, they'd pop up in the papers, Hatman and Robin, after a particularily high-profile case. He was a head full of curls and designer suits; exactly the type of person that John usually avoided, even took to bullying when they were kids.

She'd teased John when she'd read how he spoke about Sherlock in his blogs- he did, he sounded positively smitten with him. She was mostly just poking fun in a way that an older sibling was obligated to, point out and embarrass the younger even when he's just back from almost half a life of military training, but in the little comment-banters they'd have sometimes on John's website (or Sherlock's- Harry had spent a nosy afternoon browsing disinterestedly through it) there was an obvious- An attraction. There was no other way to say it.

John had never really lived with anyone for that long before. Usually it was her place for a few months and then back to the war.

Well, judging by the entries on the blog Harry had bookmarked, he'd found a new way to get his kicks. Their family had never been completely sane, anyways. There was always something with a Watson- Her drinking, John's addiction to violence. Their mother and father had their own things, as did their aunts and uncles and grandparents. It was a peculiar funeral indeed if it was a natural death. Boring. What would there have been to talk about?

Harry had always imagined burying her brother young; it wasn't a surprise, there were no tears.

She dug her hands deeper into her pockets and walked back to her hotel.