WARNING; TRIGGERS; WARNING!
Flowers reached as far as the eyes can see. Mycroft scanned the area, seeing how many graves held bundles of roses, tulips, and many others. Lilies, poppies, daisies,  peonies, zinnias, carnations, hydrangeas, gladiolas, larkspurs, and orchids galore. Too many to specify how many of each, but never anything different. Except for what he held. Sherlock watched from a distance. He never bothers Mycroft on this day, and if he does speak, it's the only time he's nice to him. Waiting for Mycroft to place the small, but size able bouquet of Bachelor's buttons, Sherlock held his own. He never knew her as well as Mycroft, but he did no one thing. Mycroft had never been one for emotions, he didn't mind Sherlock having them, just not any of his own. Until she came around, and Mycroft almost resembled a human being. He felt, dearly, for her. Sherlock's best memory of her was when she took him to show her the garden. It made her feel good to bring a colourful blossoming life into the world. Begonias. That's what she showed him that day. Sherlock always assumed the cuts on her arms were from gardening, not that he didn't know how to deduce. He could tell if someone cut from a mile away, but she was different. She was always so happy, so caring. Sherlock simply couldn't fathom that the girl his brother loved, always so happy, so loving, he couldn't understand how she could hate herself. Couldn't fathom that. She was never the prettiest girl... Heck, most people called her ugly on a daily basis. Her mother included. But Sherlock and Mycroft always saw how beautiful she really was. They saw the look she had tending to the buds from far away places. Florists came from the far reaches of London to take some of her flowers back. BleedingHearts had always been Sherlock's favorite, well, until she died. Then he chose the one she always looked so excited to show him. The fiery red of the begonias. They just looked so pretty in the reflection of her eyes... Mycroft went a little more... Sentimental. Her favorite was his favorite. Bachelors Buttons. The vibrant blue. She always had trouble keeping them in supply, but she loved them. They were a pain to grow in containment, but she worked hard.
"I know you're there, Sherlock. She'd love to see you, please, join me." Today was the day the brothers would share in a collected sorrow for a woman no one understood. Sometimes, not even themselves. Sherlock made his way to the grave, standing by his older brother. He gingerly set the flowers down, waiting for Mycroft to do the same.
"If I may, y/n, I do believe Mycroft misses you." Sherlock commented. Mycroft had a small smile grace his lips, a smile so genuine that it only came out during these little visits of his. Sherlock remembered the one time he had fooled Mycroft, when Mycroft hadn't a clue anyone was around, and he caught him talking, and laughing with no one, but himself. Sherlock didn't judge Mycroft, however. He himself had caught himself doing this multiple times with the woman he thought of as an older sister. The woman he swore Mycroft would marry one day. He could only imagine (actually, he wasn't even sure he could get close to imagining) how much worse it was for Mycroft. He was the one who found her, after all. Found the love of his life in her bathroom, which had been painted red with her blood...

~Flashback~
"Hey! Fatso! C'mere!"
"Yo! Look who it is! The ugly slut-ling!"
"How many mirrors did ya break today, pig?"
Insult after insult. One by one you buried them in the roots of beautiful flowers and sweet days with the Holmes boys. Sherlock was like your little brother, always curious to all the different types of flowers, and what they meant, symbolized. Mycroft, however, was your boyfriend. He loved everything about you, and you, him. Sweet sixteenth was today, but no one seemed to remember due to all the breaking of your self esteem they were doing. You tried to hide it for Sherlock, Mycroft desperately tried to help. He worried constantly. He even swore that the day you turned 18, he'd take you from the madness of your life, and you'd live happily together. But another two years of torture was something you could no longer stand. Your father was shouting at you with drunken slurs from the stairs he couldn't climb because he was so smashed. Tears blanketed your face as you tried to talk yourself out of it, but the voices of mendacious lies rang clearer than the truth.
No one loves you.
Just kill yourself, no one cares!
You'll be doing everyone a favor!
The only thing you held onto was that Mycroft loved you. With all his heart... But then that stone was thrown over as well.
He only pretends to care. He doesn't love you; he pities you!
The final blow, and you couldn't take another second of it. Your father didn't care enough to stop you from bringing the knife up with you. So, you sliced over the wounds, again, and again, and deeper, and again. Until you began to pale from the blood swimming from your veins. Your father's shouts had stopped, must've knocked himself out. A pounding on the front door, but it seemed all distant now... Someone climbing the stairs... Two at a time... The door swinging open... Mycroft. Horror spilling over him as he witnessed the scene of his dearest love bleeding out by your own hand. He ripped his jacket from himself, tying it tightly over the wounds of one arm, then his shirt over the other. He held you close as your heart beat slowed. The light whispering as he called 999. He pulled you close, once again.
"Hold on, y/n! Help is coming, please, stay with me! I love you!" He desperately plead, but even he knew it was too late. A blood soaked hand reached up, and lightly dragged itself down his cheek.
"Just like a daydream." Tears stung his eyes, spilling over uncontrollably, as he held you ever closer. Your last breath and he cried out where you couldn't understand what he said, but you could hear the animalistic plea. The sirens blared much too late as they rounded the corner. Finding the boy weeping over your lifeless corpse, unwilling to let you go as they attempted to pry you from his arms.
~End of Flashback~

"That I do. She was one of a kind, I'd say." He tried to remain cold, but here in front of the sparkling tombstone, it was all the more difficult.
"I'd agree. What was it that she always said?" The words gave Mycroft comfort, if only he'd remember to dig them from his memory every once and awhile.
"A daydream is a hero. Doesn't matter if you dream of blossoms or princes, daydreams are what save us in the end." One thing was certain; Y/n L/n was Mycroft's only true daydream.