Chapter Text
“Let us commend Mycroft Holmes, to the mercy of God…”
He stood in front of the casket, hands gripping the rim of his hat. It was raining, but he had not a care - after all, the weather was rather poetic for a funeral. There was not many people who stood with him while the priest droned on about Heaven and Hell and Life After Death. He had not been expecting a large crowd anyways because they lacked any other family members besides each other. And now he was all alone.
He could cry if he wanted to. No one would notice. They would mistake it for the rain drops that were already sliding down his face. No one else could see his sadness. No one else cared. The other attendees were huddled together away from him. They stared at the black wood with straight faces but Sherlock knew better. They did not feel any sorrow towards his brother’s passing. They were all acquaintances that Mycroft had made in his line of work and nothing more. These people were here for the sake of propriety, not reasons to do with sentiment. Sherlock wanted them to leave but then he realized that if they did, there would only be him left there, and the last thing he needed was to be alone.
Four of the men that attended started to lower the casket. Sherlock noticed that one of the men, the oldest out of the four, had reddened eyes indicative of crying. That made him feel better, know he was not the only one who mourned Mycroft’s loss.
“We therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life.”
There were sniffles amongst the women that hid their faces behind black veils. Sherlock wondered if those tears were true. He tucked his hat underneath his arm and made slow strides to the casket. He placed his hand on the top and gave a small smile, pulling the flower from his coat pocket - a white lily. He did not normally partake in religious practices but for Mycroft he would make the exception just this once. He placed it on the coffin before the men were able to lower it beyond his reach. His lips twisted into a bitter smile as he whispered, “Farewell, Mycroft.”
The funeral ended shortly after the coffin was buried, and all the guests made their way to the church where the wake was previously held. Sherlock took his seat on the second pew from the front. He stared at nothing while the other guests stood three rows behind him and chattered away as if they were at a banquet and not a funeral. Sherlock shivered from the rain that had him completely drenched. He made no move to stand in leave.
“How have you come to meet Sir Mycroft, Albert?” The woman who was crying at the funeral asked this.
“We were introduced to one another at Lord Henry’s grand ball some years ago. Intelligent man, he was. Spent the whole night in his company.”
“I assumed that Sir Mycroft preferred to be alone.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
Albert replied, “I’m not quite sure what I did to prove a worthy companion that evening, however, I am quite glad.”
One of the other women giggled and they changed the subject. Sherlock’s pew creaked, a sign that someone had decided to join him. He looked to his left and saw the older man, the one who cried while lowering Mycroft’s casket. His hair was greying but Sherlock could still see faint strands of the pure ebony the man would have sported in his younger years. He smiled at Sherlock and then put his elbows on the edge of the pew in front of him, pressing his hands together. He was praying and Sherlock stared at him while he did.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock finally asked.
“We are in a church, boy, I should think that prayer is not uncommon here.”
Sherlock’s cheeks flushed. The man smirked and placed a hand on Sherlock’s wet back.
“I jest. What’s your name, lad?”
Irish. Sherlock had not been able to hear it at first. It suited him.
“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”
The man’s eyes widened.
“You’re Mycroft’s sibling.”
“Yes sir, I am.”
The man removed his hand and cleared his throat, eyes turning away for a moment.
“My condolences for your loss.”
Sherlock’s smile was as wide and false as he needed it to be, "You have my thanks."
The man held his hand out, which Sherlock reluctantly took, and they shook hands briefly.
“The name is Thomas, Thomas Banville. I met your brother two years ago and I am fortunate to say that he was a friend to me. My heart weeps for his loss.”
“As do you your eyes.”
Thomas shrugged, “One sheds tears when met with grief, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock did not respond. He heard the guests talking again, and he could not help but overhear their idle chatter. It seemed that Albert initiated conversation this time.
“I say, what is Sir Thomas doing talking to that queer fellow over there?”
“Mind your tongue, Albert, for if I am not mistaken that is in fact Sir Mycroft’s younger brother.”
“Oh? How is that I have never heard of him then?”
“Keeps to himself most likely, I have heard that he is...rather peculiar.”
“Regale us then, Lady Martin.”
The woman referred to as Lady Martin took off her veil. Sherlock caught a brief look at her face. She had applied an excessive amount of white paint to her features and garish rouge to her cheeks to hide the fact that she was aging, and rather poorly at that.
“He’s something of a wallflower. Sir Mycroft used to bring him along to gatherings and balls and such, but all he did was sit and watch. He does say rather disconcerting things, I can only imagine that Sir Mycroft was simply embarrassed of him and so stopped bringing him all together. I’ve had the misfortune of meeting him on one occasion.”
“And?” The other woman asked. “How did it go?”
Lady Martin smirked. “I would prefer to not make his acquaintance again.”
The group shared a laugh.
“I am terribly sorry you had to undergo such misfortune, Lady Martin. My word he even looks odd - that mess of curls he wears on his head!”
“You would think that, coming from a lineage of geniuses, he would have had the sense to bring an umbrella! Look at him, he resembles that of a stray mutt.”
The group broke into snickers once more and Thomas saw the flicker of hurt in Sherlock’s eyes.
“Do not take their words to heart, my boy, they are only heartless nobles, spawned from England’s upper class.”
Sherlock nodded but he could not bear to stay any longer. He had to return home.
“You’ll forgive me, Sir Banville, but I must take my leave. The rain has let up and I would like to be home before it starts again.”
He rose abruptly and held his hat underneath his arm once more. He didn’t look at Thomas as he shuffled past him. His pace quickened even more as he passed the hateful group of three. He tried to ignore their laughs and cold stares. His yearning for Mycroft had been emphasized even more by their words - Mycroft would have never allowed such chatter to continue. He hailed over a coachman as a carriage came into view. The driver stopped and looked down at him.
“Where to?”
“Holmes’ Manor. Please." Sherlock hopped in and immediately felt the movement of the cab, every step of the horses' hooves. He paid the coachman once they arrived and entered his home before the carriage left the front gate. He was immediately greeted by his maid, who gave him a warm smile. She took his jacket and his hat and was careful not to soak herself with his wet garments.
“Good evening, Master Holmes. Would you like for me to run you a hot bath?”
Sherlock nodded and she scurried off, leaving him alone. He found his way to the sitting room and took his seat right in front of the fire. Mycroft would have been in here already, reading a book, or helping himself to a cup of tea. He would have given Sherlock a look of disgust at the current sight of him, and tell him how improper it was to trail mud and rainwater into the house. Sherlock would not have listened, of course, but now he would sacrifice a great deal to hear Mycroft scold him once more.
That night he did not take supper, his minimal appetite reduced to nothing by sorrow. Instead, he retired to bed after his bath though he knew slumber would not grace him. Mycroft would have given two knocks at the door as a sign that he was going to bed as well, but there was no noise in the manor that night, none besides the muffled sounds of Sherlock's sobs.