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“You all ways were different Sherlock. Always took the different road then others.” Mycroft insisted as he stood above his brother’s grave umbrella in hand.
He never went to the funeral, he felt it was his fault his brother was six feet down. He always felt whatever bad happened to Sherlock was his fault, even if it wasn’t.
“If I would have known what Moriarty was going to do I would not have done it. I would have protected you as I always did. When mummy got angry, when you were at UNI, even with that, John Watson, I was there.” He started swinging his umbrella around in a circle.
“You better not tell anyone I am saying this but, I miss you.” He squatted down not worrying about getting dirt on his pants or that his secretary could see him, “No matter what mean things people said about you, about, Alfred the funny little skull of yours, or you and Victor Trevor, I would be there to stomp out the bad and leave the good.”
He reached out to trace the engraved lettering, “that’s what big brothers do right?” he choked on the verge of tears.
“I know you’re I alive. I know your probably watching me stand here at your grave. I hope you are. I hope you’re watching.”
Clouds began to form above, “I hope you know I…I…I have always loved you. I’ve always been there for you and that I always will be.” Sobbed and clutched the hand that hand ended on the ‘K’ to his mouth just as the first rain drop fell.
“I guess that’s all I have to say.” He stood and turned his head up to the clouds welcoming the plump drops to fall on to his face at least they will hide his tears.
“Good luck Sherlock. I hope that heart of yours that no one but that, John Watson, has, deduced will last you. Goodbye, little brother.”
He left the grave, satisfied at his words and returned to his secretary, “what about your umbrella, sir?”
“Leave it, he’ll come and get it.” Mycroft told her, “We’re getting a cab.”
“But….Yes sir.”