NOTE: Much angst to be found in this chapter, including the death of a character. Avoid if such things may be a trigger for you. This is a bit of a character study of Mycroft, if you will, as he assumes leadership of the Holmes family.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep

The monitor signaled loudly that vitals had been lost; the sound of it one that was exquisitely painful. It was a heartbreaking sound in fact and Mycroft rarely admitted he had a heart to break. He closed his eyes, as if doing so could make the sound stop. Really, he was merely closing them out of reverence, absolutely not because there were tears stinging his eyes. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, someone quietly entered the room and turned off the machine. It was over.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept, or the last time he'd heard from his PA Gaines. He couldn't remember the last time he saw Rose, or the last time he'd heard his mother's voice. The last cup of he'd tea had, his last meal, the last time he heard anything but the gentle humming of medical equipment. For the past thirty-two hours almost without stopping, Mycroft had sat in this chair and held his mother's hand; a hand that didn't squeeze back and lied limply within his own. A hand that would soon be cold.

Mycroft wasn't entirely certain how long he sat there with his eyes closed in the quiet of the room, waiting for the stinging in his eyes to pass. He would have sat there even longer had the sounds of quiet sobbing not forced him to look about the room. Sherlock's chair, where he had sat vigil with his brother at their mother's side, was empty. Its occupant was now kneeling on the floor, one hand still holding Mother's, the other scrunching up the hospital blanket as he sobbed into it. Sherlock never cried and the enormity of it closed in on the eldest Holmes, making it hard to breathe for a moment.

Well, sometimes Sherlock cried, but it had generally been caused by a very serious spanking or caning. Not even as a toddler with a propensity to run into walls and other large objects, as if trying to conduct some sort of odd experiment before his brain could even understand that concept, Sherlock hadn't cried. He was far more likely to scowl, shout at the offending object and kick it soundly than cry. And no spanking had ever made him cry like this. It was hollow, desolate, the very sound of pain itself.

Pushing aside his own pain and stinging eyes, Mycroft slowly let go of his mother's hand and went around the bed to where Sherlock was kneeling. Without a word, he reached for Sherlock's hands, placing his own on top of them, and squeezed hard. A moment passed, perhaps even three, before he felt reasonably confident in his ability to speak.

"Let go," Mycroft said softly. "Let go of the blanket and hold on to me. I'm here, brother." When Sherlock didn't respond nor show any sign of letting go on his own, Mycroft gently tugged on his hands until finally Sherlock complied. Without waiting for an invitation, or allowing Sherlock to decide to take the initiative, Mycroft hugged him tightly. Part of him expected Sherlock to balk at the unsolicited physical contact and when he didn't Mycroft wasn't certain whether he should be relieved or worried. He held the younger Holmes tightly, allowing Sherlock to wrap his arms around him, and carded his fingers through his brother's wild curls.

It had been quite some time since he had held Sherlock this way and Mycroft's mind willingly wandered back through the memories to find those. He'd held Sherlock the day he came home battered and bloodied, having been caught by some bullies after school; after he'd given his brother a particularly severe caning for setting the house on fire; and after Father died. Sherlock had been so brave then, when Father passed, refusing to cry on Mother's shoulder and add to her burden and grief. Instead, he'd turned to Mycroft late that night, coming to stand in the doorway of Mycroft's room and cry, until he had pulled Sherlock inside and hugged him tightly, promising that everything would be ok. They had Mother, it would be alright, and they would take good care of Rose in Father's stead.

This time he couldn't promise that everything would be alright. Mother was gone and nothing was ever likely to be precisely alright from that point forward. Oh, Mycroft knew they would go on and continue to live their lives and adjust as necessary for Rose's sake, be strong and brave for her, but it would never be the same version of 'alright;' it would be a new 'alright'… eventually.

He had no idea how long he knelt by the bed and held his baby brother as he cried, but Mycroft's knees throbbed in protest by the time Sherlock got himself under control and the two finally stood.

"I'm going for a walk," Sherlock said, avoiding his brother's gaze.

"A walk?"

Sherlock nodded curtly, his curls shifting slightly with the abrupt movement.

For Sherlock a walk in London could mean anything from an hour to an entire day and Mycroft wrestled with the idea of letting him walk out the door alone, particularly since it was past midnight. He had recently come to suspect that there was a problem, something Sherlock was trying to hide from him, but had been unable to investigate those suspicions thoroughly.

Before the younger Holmes brother could sweep out of the room in his great coat, Mycroft placed a hand in the middle of Sherlock's chest. "Sherlock, look at me," he said quietly. He waited until their eyes locked with one another before saying, "Promise me that you will refrain from doing anything stupid or harmful. Rose needs you…" His voice trailed off for a second, allowing Mycroft to take a deep breath before continuing. "And Ineed you."

Sherlock swallowed audibly before nodding curtly once more.

"Say it Sherlock."

"I promise."

This time it was Mycroft who gave a curt nod, then allowed Sherlock to make his typical dramatic exit from the room.

It was nearly 2:30 in the morning by the time things had been wrapped up at the hospital and Mycroft finally returned home. Unlocking the front door, he stepped inside and closed it quietly behind him. The silence of the house seemed to close in on him, making his chest feel tight and his shoulders heavy as if the weight of the whole world had been placed upon them; in many ways it had been. Mycroft leaned back against the door and took several slow, deep breaths to calm himself.

"Mycroft?"

The eldest Holmes looked up to find Eleanor Gardner, little Louise's mother, descending the stairs. When things had neared the end, Eleanor had kindly volunteered to come and stay at the house for a few days with Rose. "I didn't expect you to be awake," he said quietly. His voice sounded hollow even to his own ears. "You weren't required to keep vigil on this end."

Eleanor smile softly. "I wasn't. Rose has been very restless and anxious. I just finished tucking her in again after some chamomile tea." Before he could respond, she moved closer and reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly within his own. "Is… Did she…"

Mycroft nodded. "A few hours ago. There were things to take care of before I could get away."

"I'm so sorry," Eleanor murmured, squeezing his hand again. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Wandering London, hopefully staying out of trouble while doing so."

The young man sounded so defeated and exhausted; the fact that Mycroft had not removed his hand from hers spoke volumes about his mental state in that moment. "If you need to go looking for him or need to get some sleep, I'll be happy to stay up a while longer and make certain Rose falls asleep again."

"No," Mycroft responded. It was only then he realized the woman was holding his hand and scowled at their clasped hands. He didn't need coddling and slowly removed his hand from Eleanor's.

That scowl was much more like the Mycroft she knew, Eleanor thought to herself, and she took it as a promising sign. She had known him since the very first time he escorted Rose to her dance class in Maud's place. Rose was only a wee thing back then, just three like Louise, and Eleanor remembered thinking that she had never seen a man more out of place than he. Mycroft, dressed in a suit that cost more than the lesson fees of all Rose's fellow students combined, spent the entire time sitting among the parents and glowering silently at everything around him, including all the tiny ballerinas.

"No," he repeated. "If she's still awake I should see her. Please do stay the night in the guest room, however. It wouldn't do to have you out so late at night."

"I will," she agreed. "But if there is anything you need after I leave in the morning, and I mean anything at all, that Andrew and I can do for you or Sherlock or Rose, you must tell us." When Mycroft nodded once more, Eleanor bid him goodnight and retreated back upstairs to the guest room.

Mycroft followed her up the stairs, stopping in front of Rose's bedroom door. Slowly he opened it and, when it appeared she was sleeping, he began to close it until he heard her sleepy voice call for him.

"My? Is that you?"

Forgoing a verbal answer, Mycroft stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. He crossed the room and sat down on Rose's bed and reached for her as his mind grappled with finding the right words to say that Mother was gone.

"My?" Rose's voice cracked. She allowed him to pick her up and immediately cuddled close to him, scrunching his shirt up in her hands as if she needed to hold on to him even more tightly. "Is… is Mummy… Where's Mummy?"

"Do you remember what we talked about when Mother went to hospital this time? That she might not come home again?" Mycroft asked softly. When she nodded, he continued on, saying, "She's not coming home poppet. Mother passed away tonight."

Rose burst into tears, the most heartbreaking tears Mycroft had ever heard and he immediately hugged her even tighter. "I know, poppet, I know," he whispered. "I'm so sorry, poppet. I'd give anything to bring her back to you. But I'm here, poppet; I'm here and you won't ever be alone. I promise you that, I promise."

Getting up from the bed, Mycroft carried her to the rocking chair and sat in it, cuddling her tightly against him, rocking her as he said those words over and over again. He had no idea how many times he repeated those words, nor how long it took for Rose to cry herself to the brink of exhaustion before falling asleep in his arms. Long after she fell asleep, Mycroft sat there holding her and rocking her, his mind racing with the enormity of raising her completely alone.

For some time he had been the main parental figure in her life, as Mother's health had continued to wane, but Mother had always been there to consult with and to remind him not to take every little misbehavior so seriously. Now he was alone. Well, there was Sherlock, but he was no replacement for their mother's seemingly infinite wisdom when it came to childrearing. It was a frightening thought and it would be Rose that paid the price if he did this wrong. Looking down at his sleeping sister, her face sticky with spilled tears, he only hoped that he was fit for the task.

It was just past 10am the following morning when the occupants of the rocking chair began to stir from slumber, mostly because Rose was shivering. "I should have tucked you back in," Mycroft told her with a sigh.

"I'm glad you didn't, because maybe I would've been scared if I woke up," Rose replied. She sighed softly as he wrapped a throw blanket around her and carried her downstairs.

"I'll fix you some tea and make breakfast," Mycroft offered, plopping her in a chair. He had just begun heating up water when Rose suddenly bolted from the chair, her blanket trailing behind her like a quilted cape.

"Sherlock!"

So the wandering brother had returned. Mycroft stepped out of the kitchen and watched Rose throw her arms around him.

"I was scared you weren't coming home, I didn't see you," Rose murmured.

Sherlock bent over and kissed the top of her head. "I'm sorry. I needed time to walk and think. You know how I feel about London."

"You almost love London more than me," Rose quipped.

"Almost, but I'll always love you most in the whole world," he whispered. The smile on his face as he said the words did not reach his eyes.

Mycroft's smile didn't reach his eyes either, namely because he didn't have one. His eyes were narrowed as he scrutinized his little brother and was displeased with what he saw. "Rose, please go wrap up in the blanket again. I need to speak with Sherlock in my study for a moment."

The little girl's head shot up in alarm, her eyes going wide. "But Sherlock just got home. He hasn't had time to be naughty yet My!"

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. "Not every trip to my study ends in a sore bottom Rosenwyn. I just want to speak with him privately about grown up things."

"When am I old enough for grown up things?" Rose asked. She reluctantly released her hold on Sherlock and retrieved her blanket while she waited for an answer.

"When you're considered an adult by the laws of this country; you've eight years to go. Now go warm up." Mycroft shot Sherlock a look that said he had better follow him. He led the way to his study and waited for Sherlock to enter before closing the door.

"You're high." It was a statement and not a question because Mycroft was entirely certain he was correct. "Apparently my suspicions were well founded." Crossing his arms over his chest he pinned Sherlock with a hard look.

"I'm not an addict. I would never engage in anything so serious as an addiction. I can stop whenever I want and am in complete control. It's not your concern anyway," Sherlock state defensively.

"It is indeed my concern and you better hope you can stop at any moment because you need to stop now," Mycroft growled. "This is not the time to be an idiot Sherlock. We're all she has and you cannot destroy yourself in front of her. I won't allow it."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow arrogantly at him. "You can't stop me Mycroft and as I said, I'm not an addict. I'm in complete control."

"You would be very surprised to learn what I can and cannot do!" Mycroft thundered. "What you do outside this house I cannot stop, or at least will only be partially successful in stopping, but don't you push me Sherlock. Don't you dare. You will not be high here in our home with our baby sister. I had best not ever find any drugs or related paraphernalia in this house. Rose's wellbeing is paramount and I will not allow you to bring chaos into this home, so I suggest you control yourself. Are we clear?"

"Are you saying I would hurt her? Put her in danger? Deliberately upset her?" Sherlock asked. "You should know better than that by now Mycroft! I would never do any of those things and she will always be safe in my care. She is not a weapon to use against me, to ensure good behavior. I can control myself just fine without your insulting threats. Don't you dare use the baby against me like that!"

"I am going to hold you to that Sherlock," the eldest Holmes replied in a dangerously low tone. "I am going to hold you to that assurance that she is and always will be safe in your care. Now go upstairs and clean yourself up."

After giving his brother a scathing look Sherlock departed the study and went upstairs, inwardly fuming at the very idea that he would not keep Rose safe.

Sighing heavily, Mycroft took a moment to calm himself before returning to the kitchen to make breakfast.

"How should I know?" Sherlock asked, scowling darkly at his brother. "Why are you asking me?"

"Because clearly I don't know either. You're certain you don't know? Truly certain? You've been here more hours of the day then I have been generally. How can you not know?" Mycroft sounded far more puzzled than frustrated, but there was a bit of that too.

"For the same reason you don't know," Sherlock retorted. "It was never important before to analyze the patterns of Mother's dressing habits. It's not like she would let me experiment on her clothes, though not for lack of asking on my part."

The brothers fell silent and stared into Maud's closet, scowling at the items of clothing as if they were the most offensive items on the planet.

"Did they ask about things like… stockings, too?"

Mycroft nodded, giving a slight shudder. "Head to toe what we want her buried in and all I could do is say I'd get back to them as soon as was possible. Which at this rate won't be anytime soon."

Sherlock hummed in place of a verbal response. "Make-up too? Do we bring hers in? I suddenly find myself wishing I'd paid more attention to the arrangements when Father died."

"Mother didn't want you paying attention and there were hardly questions like stockings and make-up to be answered for Father. Mother largely kept me out of the loop as well, said it was her duty and her's alone and it's the place of the child to grieve and come for comfort."

"She was slightly offended you didn't come for cuddles," Sherlock commented. "After all it was Father and you'd known him longest of us all."

Mycroft shot him an annoyed look, pursing his lips slightly. "My hands were quite full of a rambunctious creature we call Rose. Toddlerhood doesn't stop for grieving nor comprehend the concept." His eyes narrowed as he watched something flash across the younger Holmes's face. "What?"

"Well, I've got a possible answer, just possible, but I'm trying to decide if I want to say it or not," Sherlock admitted. "Because I have a feeling you'll just smack the back of my head and call me an idiot." When Mycroft merely quirked an eyebrow, Sherlock went on. "Maybe… Well…uh… maybe… Rose might know?"

Sherlock's prediction turned out to be entirely correct and he let out a pained yelp before rubbing a hand over the back of his head.

"We are not asking our ten-year-old orphaned sister what she thinks we should dress her dead mother in," Mycroft growled. "Have you completely lost your senses? Don't you think this is hard enough for her without the responsibility of planning any of this?"

"It was just an idea! And it might make her feel better to participate, even in a small part. You know, closure… That's what they call it isn't it?" Sherlock blinked for a few seconds then nodded, answering his own question.

"No, that is absolutely out of the question unless she asks us if she can help and any helping will not involve the dressing of Mother under any circumstances. It's time to call in reinforcements." Mycroft took his mobile from his pants pocket and dialed two very familiar numbers

Within minutes Eleanor Gardner and Barbara Gaines were on their way across London.

"We have to pick a song too?" Sherlock asked the following evening.

Mycroft frowned at his younger brother, feeling very puzzled by Sherlock's shocked look. "You were at our father's funeral. There was a song; three songs in fact. How does this come as a surprise to you? Did you delete it?"

"I made a concerted effort to go to my mind palace that day," Sherlock admitted. "Too many people, too much talking and crying, and I found myself overwhelmed by the amount of stupidity."

"And you couldn't stop deducing, could you?" Mycroft asked with a smirk.

Sherlock shook his head. "Nana said I was rude, but it really wasn't my fault that people kept trying to talk to me. I tried very hard to look as unapproachable as possible and naturally you wandered off with the baby."

"There was no way I was allowing all those people, many of whom were strangers and some of whom I actively disliked, to pass Rose around amongst themselves," Mycroft replied. "And you're always rude Sherlock so…" His voice trailed off as he turned towards the door of his study, an eyebrow quirked. "Stop eavesdropping Rosenwyn and come in."

The door slowly opened and a pink-cheeked Rose shuffled into the room. She proceeded to stand there silently and shift her weight from foot to foot. "Can I… I mean may I help? Please? For Mummy?" The words were said barely above a whisper, almost as though she expected to be soundly scolded.

Mycroft could only watch her for a moment, before giving Sherlock a look that clearly said 'you had a point after all, brother mine.' "What did you want to help with?" he finally asked, giving Rose his full attention.

"I want to pick the song, and I would pick Mummy's very favorite song," Rose explained. She slowly approached his desk, unconsciously assuming the same pace and stance that she did when receiving a scolding.

The eldest Holmes could only imagine the outrage from some of those who would be attending the funeral at having a recording of Dean Martin singing When You're Smiling as part of the service. "Poppet I'm not sure that's a good idea. People may not find it entirely appropriate."

"I don't even know why we invited some of those people," Rose interrupted. "Some of them we don't know, some of them we don't like, and I don't see why they get any say at all. It's my Mummy not theirs! Why are we inviting them Mycroft?"

"Because polite society dictates that we do, whether or not we like them. And we don't invite them as one would to a party, we notify them of it and they can come if they choose."

Rose rolled her eyes. "Society is asinine. Also, that sounds just like an invitation."

Sherlock began to roar with laughter, which quickly turned into a coughing fit when Mycroft shot him a look of death.

"We will play Mummy's song," Rose said with as much authority as she could muster. "And if anyone complains, we will tell them to be quiet because it's our Mummy and we want her song." She nodded curtly, as if that put an end to the matter.

"A please wouldn't go amiss," Mycroft responded. His tone lacked the usual firmness as he found himself completely unable to muster the energy to be stern with her.

Rounding the desk, Rose helped herself to his lap and promptly wrapped both arms around his neck. "Please?" she whispered.

Mycroft's arms automatically hugged her tightly in return. "I suppose," he murmured, before resting his cheek against her curly head. "It is our mother after all and I dare say she would approve of such a proposal, regardless of its unconventionality."

Twenty-four hours later, Mycroft was seated at his desk once more, his head in his hands as he bent over a blank sheet of paper. How did one write a eulogy to a beloved parent, let alone when one was not given to public displays of sentiment to begin with? He wanted to honor Mother, yet he struggled with the idea of having to do so publicly. Mother was worth it, of course, but that did not make this process any easier, nor would it make standing before a public audience with emotions on display feel any less of a vulnerability. Finally he picked up his pen and began to write…

It was time, Mycroft realized; his turn to speak. Taking a deep breath he stood and walked slowly to the podium, placing the eulogy on it, just in case. As he opened his mouth to begin, he saw Sherlock and Rose rise and come up to stand beside him, one on either side. His throat momentarily closed, seeming only to open again when Rose slid her tiny hand in his.

"Maud Lavinia Holmes was an extraordinary woman. So extraordinary in fact that to sum her up in such a brief form as this is tantamount to insult. Yet that is the requirement when one loses a loved one, and thus I shall do my best to honor her," Mycroft said.

"There is not a soul to be found in this world that has not been bettered by knowing Maud Holmes. My mother…" He paused to look at Rose and Sherlock. "Our mother, had a kind spirit and gave of herself to everyone around her, even those she had known no longer than five minutes time. It was her nature to do so and the fact that she was far more brilliant than anyone around her never inhibited her ability to connect with people on an emotional and personal level. If she wished to hug you, she hugged you; your opinion in the matter was not sought if you appeared to be in need of one." That had certainly been true for him at any rate!

"She loved deeply and unconditionally, especially her children, whom she said brightened her life beyond belief… Even when one drove the new car through the garage, or set the house on fire, or accidentally poisoned the entire family. I'll leave it to you all to speculate on whom each of those particular misdemeanors can be ascribed. Clearly, among Maud Holmes's greatest attributes can be her counted her sense of humor and an almost saintly amount of patience. Additionally one can count her perseverance, determination, and unfailing courage."

Mycroft paused to take a deep breath and steady his voice before finishing. "She is, in fact, utterly irreplaceable and the world is notably dimmer without her presence in it. She will be remembered, missed, and always loved by those most important to her, who will strive daily to be the good human beings she raised them to be."

One Week Later

The Holmes family slowly transitioned to a new normal; a more complicated version of normal that Mycroft struggled to find his footing in. He was growing increasingly concerned about Sherlock, who had thus far carefully avoided the line Mycroft had warned him not to cross and, at present, did show signs of being in control. Equally worrisome was the feelings of inadequacy he was suddenly plagued with when it came to Rose. For much of the last year or two he had been raising her on his own, and had often taken the household entirely whenever Mother travelled for health or academic purposes. He had thought he was, in many ways, an unorthodox single-parent, never realizing until after her passing how much he still depended upon Mother and her role in Rose's life until she was gone.

Now Mycroft found life filled with all sorts of moments during which he missed his Mother more than he thought possible, such as right this moment as Rose looked at him, clearly aghast, her eyes welling up with tears. All he had done was look at her algebra homework and mark what was incorrect, so why was she about to cry?

Rose took a deep breath but her voice trembled in spite of it when she began to speak. "I liked it better when Mummy did it. She would always say 'Baby, you're quite close; let's try this one together, shall we?' and we'd do it together and then I got it right and Mummy would give me kisses and say I was such a brilliant girl. You… you're just doing it wrong, with your red pen and telling me to go do it over. It's just wrong My! You're all wrong!" She added a stomp for further emphasis.

It dawned on Mycroft that it was not the corrections she was objecting to but the fact that he hadn't done it the way Mother would have. He quickly combed through memories of himself around Rose's age and recalled similar circumstances, albeit with a very different- and hated- pet name. "You're right," he told her softly. "That's exactly how Mother did it."

The little girl nodded briefly before swiping at the tears now trickling down her face. "Come here poppet," he called, opening his arms for her. Mycroft felt a wave of relief when she hurried over and let him lift her onto his lap and hug her tightly. "I'm sorry… that I didn't do it like Mother," Mycroft said sincerely. "I wasn't trying to upset you, or be harsh and I'll be more than happy to sit down and work through those few problems with you. But you must realize Rose, that I can't do everything just like Mother. She and I have always been different in some ways and alike in others but I cannot be what she was."

"You can't do a French braid like Mummy could," Rose murmured. "I… I know you can't be just like her, but sometimes it's hard because you aren't."

"I know," Mycroft replied. He began rubbing her back soothingly as she laid her head on his shoulder. "It's hard for me too. It's hard for everyone, but we're all trying our best. Everything will feel right again soon. A new type of right," he clarified. "But it will feel right again. Until then, we must be patient and take care of one another." And hopefully, he silently added, what I can give will be enough.

"I didn't mean to make you feel bad because you can't be just like Mummy," Rose clarified. "But you aren't going to change, right? You'll still be you and we'll still be us?"

"I will and we will," Mycroft vowed. He hugged her even tighter, pressing a few kisses on top of her curls. One day at a time, he reminded himself. Take it one day at a time.

NOTE 2: Sorry for the delay in posting! Life is exceedingly chaotic at present and people keep telling me I really do need to sleep even if I'm not convinced it's always necessary LOL. Petal gets a turn next!