A week after the suicide of the fake genius, a double funeral was held - for both him and her.

Hearing of Elizabeth's death had broke John further. He had forgiven her. He thought he still had a close friend but he had been woefully wrong.

Mycroft had tried to argue that there was no one worried by Elizabeth's death so, in his eyes, she could be burned and her ashes could be spread for all he cared. But it was both Rita and John that had fought passionately for her to have a funeral and for her grave to be placed by the detective's for John wished to visit them together.

Trying to keep it positive, he thought that at least his two deceased friends wouldn't be alone.

Sherlock had visited the joint funeral from afar, keeping out of sight of all present which really only happened to be a handful. Although, he was surprised to find Anderson and Donovan there. How guilty they must have felt.

Kind of deserved it though for being pricks all the time...

Karma was a (fake) bitch after all.

Two weeks after the suicide, Sherlock had heard that John and Mrs Hudson would be visiting their graves again. He hadn't arrived in time to hear their conversation but had arrived to see Mrs Hudson walk away, giving the doctor a moment alone.

"Um...mmm. Right, you...you told me once...that you weren't a hero," John took a breath, "Um...there were times I didn't even think you were human but let me tell you this, you were the best man and the most human human being that I have ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, okay? So...there." John turned to Elizabeth's gravestone, "And you, you were never a bad person. Ever. No one, not even Mycroft will convince me that you are a terrible person. Never. You were good, through and through and you made mistakes but then, we all do. We all make mistakes. And as I said before, I forgive you for yours."

Sighing, John took a step to stand between both their gravestones, placing his hands on the smooth black stone carefully.

"I was so alone. And I owe you both so much." He nodded, turning to walk away. But he couldn't leave just yet and turned back to face them again, "Oh, please, there's just one more thing, right? One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, Elizabeth, for me. Don't be...dead." The doctor's voice broke, "Would you, just for me, just stop it? Stop this." Sighing deeply again, his head fell as a quiet sob sounded from him and tears fell from his eyes.

John wiped his hands over his eyes, composing himself before looking up again, the soldier in him being given permission to take over, marching him away from their graves.

At least one of us can make his request come true. One day.

Yes. One day. Sherlock watched his friend walk away from their graves, lingering in the shadow of the tree he was under for just a moment, just until he was gone. Then, he paced over to the graves himself, stopping in front of Elizabeth's. He reached down to delicately placed a fine, lone rose on her grave, looking up at his vision of her again.

"I agree." He said, "I wish that you could stop being dead too."

I'm still here.

"It's not the same."

No. But I know you would rather have me than nothing.

* * * * * * * *

The man and The Woman heard shouty singing from behind her apartment door and shared a look. Opening it gingerly, they both peered in, chuckling quietly at the sight they saw before them.

Elizabeth was stood in the kitchen area wearing a large, loose t-shirt and, apparently, only black underwear as they had seen when she had bent down to peek into the oven. She wore headphones too. Standing up straight again to resume her snazzy dancing and awful singing, she waited for whatever she was baking to finish.

"Oh, I was only twenty hours from Tulsa-a-a, only one day away from your arms!"

"Eliza?" The Woman called to her but was ignored.

"I hate to do this to you, but I love somebody new, what can I do? And I can never, never, never go home again..."

"Liza."

The Woman, with a pleasantly amused smile on her face, edged over to the kitchen, tapping her on the shoulder. The thief jumped, spinning around as a sharp gasp left her lips and she tore the headphones off her head. A red hue rose in her cheeks as she stared back at her flatmate and the guest she had brought into the flat with her.

"Um, how long were you stood there for?"

"Long enough." Grinned Ethan, moving further into the room now, moving closer to her to peck her on the cheek, "How're you doing, lovely Liza?"

"Mm, not too good now seeing as you have walked in on me dancing while very underdressed."

"Ah, you look beautiful in everything, even a long t-shirt and...your underwear."

"Ethan!" She flicked her arm at him.

"Nothing I haven't seen before, gorgeous." He pecked her on the lips this time, "So how long should I give you? An hour? Two?"

"Uh..."

"You forgot about dinner, didn't you?"

"Maybe...possibly...I'm so sorry."

"And here I was hoping you were going to say you were ready to go as you were."

At seeing his faux dejected and half-amused look, she brought a hand up to his stubbly face, "Awh, Ethan..."

"Dearest lovebirds," Irene called to them, "I have a suggestion - Ethan, leave Eliza with me for fifteen minutes - "

"Fifteen!" Simultaneously, they were shocked.

Irene smiled a simple smile, walking over to Ethan and taking him by his shoulders, directing him back towards the door of their flat, "I'll have her ready for you in fifteen minutes. Trust me. See you in a moment." She waved her fingers at him before shutting the door and rushed back over to Elizabeth and grabbing her hand to drag her to the closet, "With me. Now. My room."

"Woah!"

Having brought the thief into her room, she sat her down and shut the door, turning to her with a sympathetic look, "You're grieving two losses and you are busy dealing with a entire background change."

Elizabeth frowned, "And? I'm - I'm happy - "

"No." Irene shook her head, sitting down beside her on the bed, "You are using him as a distraction."

"I'm not! Irene, I would never - "

She spoke frankly, "You are using him to move on. You don't really love him."

"Irene - "

"You kissed after a day. You slept with him after a week."

"Please, none of that is any of your - "

"Compare him to - "

"Don't! Don't say his name." The thief shook her head, understanding where Irene was coming from but not really wanting to accept it.

"Elizabeth - "

"It's Eliza. Or Liza. Don't call me that. She's dead. I'm moving on."

"But you're not." Irene spoke kindly, "You're not dealing with it. You haven't given yourself a chance to deal with it so that you can move on. And it's been a month."

"I l - "

"You say you love him but it is empty. They are hollow words. When you look at Ethan, do you feel the same way with him as you did with...?"

Elizabeth looked away from Irene, instead choosing to look at the carpeted floor, following the white material up to the bedroom door. No, she didn't feel the same way. But she did feel content. Perhaps she was just happy to have a distraction. Selfishly though, she didn't want to let Ethan go.

"No." She said, "But maybe I can..."

* * * * * * * *

A month and two weeks after the faux suicide of his brother, Mycroft Holmes sat in his mansion, in his office, scanning over some important documents that needed signing. Rita wandered in, a soft smile on her face, her hand clutching a small item that she held behind her back.

"Rita, I've asked that you respect my work hours." The official drawled as he signed one form, "Is something the matter?"

"Nothing's...wrong." She shrugged, meandering her way over to him, walking past his desk and around to stand behind his chair, "Can't I check-in on my husband every once and a while?" Rita placed one hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently.

"What do you wish to tell me?"

"Mm, how did you know I have something to say?"

"Well, you just confirmed you do."

She laughed through her nose, putting the item she had held in her other hand on the desk in front of him as he shuffled the papers. Mycroft froze when he acknowledged what the object was and that there was a small pink line on the tiny screen. He dropped the papers back on his desk and sat back in his chair, stunned.

"Finally, the great Mycroft Holmes is left speechless."

"We're...?"

"Yes." She whispered, kissing the top of his head.

"Really?"

She smiled wider, "Yes."

* * * * * * * *

It had been two months since the psychopath's suicide.

As she was marched down corridors, hands cuffed, scowl upon her face like always to ward away the other prisoners, her eyes scanned the dreary, white tile walls. Sometimes she came across a bloodstain that the cleaners hadn't been able to clear out of the grout. Sometimes she had been the cause of the immovable bloodstain.

As she got to the reception area, a guard called out names.

"Jones, Sophia?"

She stepped forwards.

"You have a visitor."

"I never have visitors."

"Now, you do. School friend."

A frown fought over her scowl. The guards marched her through to the meeting area and they called out another name.

"Sam Waters?"

A stranger sat at one of the tables waved them over.

"You have thirty minutes." The guard said, leaving them to it.

"I don't know you." She said as she sat down.

"No. You don't. But you knew my friend, Jim."

Sophia scoffed, "He's dead now. Why are you here? Who are you, Sam?"

"My name's Sebastian Moran, actually." He paused, fetching the letter from his pocket and sliding it over to her, "And Jim Moriarty says 'hi'."

* * * * * * *

It started with stealing;
Now it ends with us leaving.