There were no tears for Eurus Holmes.

The Holmes family stood to the side, united in black. The parents stood, proud and accepting of the universe's play. Neither of the brothers had exchanged a word of consolation as they stood, thoughtful, side by side.

A violin rang out from somewhere through the layers and layers of silence that had encompassed the graveyard. And though Sherlock was very appreciative of the violinist's skill, he thought with a dry sort of pride about how those fingers could not compare to the proficiency of his younger sister.

"Did you see it coming?"

The question flitted over to Sherlock, resting in his ear. His movements were barely traceable as he turned his chin ever so slightly in his older brother's direction. "She was too brilliant for this world."

An unprecedented sadness glazed Mycroft's features as he met Sherlock's gaze with a smile that drove splinters into Sherlock's heart.

"She was, wasn't she," an awed whisper left the older Holmes' lips as he resumed his stoic stance.

Sherlock didn't care much for funeral speeches, they were a waste of time. But his eyes never wavered from the coffin that now held his little sister, his little sister with a bullet hole in her head.

~

"What happened to Aunt Eurus?" Rosie asked, tugging on her curly-haired father's pant leg. The service itself was over, and now if you listened closely, hushed condolences would flutter to you like spells cast from a broken wand.

"She died, Rosie," Hamish spouted.

"Wassat mean?" Rosie searched for an answer in her older brother's eyes.

"I dunno, I heard Uncle Myc say something like that," Hamish shrugged, curiously turning to Sherlock. "What happened to Aunt Eurus, Dad?"

Sherlock started to explain, slightly hesitant about telling children of their aunt's suicide, but John interrupted with a gentler, simpler explanation.

"When someone dies, darling, their eyes don't see any more, their ears don't hear anymore. Their hands don't feel anymore." John kissed Rosie's temple as he spoke. "They stop...coming around."

"Why does Aunt Eurus look like she's sleeping?"

"Because she is," said Sherlock, a melancholy smile gracing his features, now contorted into a look of tender recognition as he gazed at his younger sister's coffin. He placed a hand on his son's shoulder, pulling Hamish closer to his side. "She will be, for a very long time."

"Who put her to sleep?" Hamish asked his parents. "How did she...how does it...?" Sherlock shot his husband a crystalline look of melancholia. He smiled at his son and daughter as they stared up at him with wide, earnest eyes.

"Most of the time, people don't get to choose when...they go," Sherlock explained patiently. "They're not the ones who get to decide."

"Shouldn't they?" Rosie frowned. Sherlock mentally raised his eyebrows, he would have to carbon date her when they got time. Was she really four years old?

"Your aunt was..." Sherlock raised his eyes to John, who was watching the whole conversation with an impossible depth chiselled into his features. Understanding and support were embedded in every line on his face, in the wrinkles by his eyes, in the curl of his lips.

"Exceptional."

John crouched by his children, completing the sentence Sherlock was unable to formulate. "Your aunt was exceptional, and she made sure everyone knew it. She was so strong, she refused to let someone else choose her time for her. And she did so much before she went. Eurus, she..." John laced his weathered fingers with Sherlock's, looking at him with the weight of all they had endured together. "She gave us more than we thought, she gave us context." He smiled a loose smile, free of fear of judgement but subtle all the same.

"Context?" Rosie inquired, cocking her head.

"Another word for another time." Sherlock gave a slight grunt as he hoisted Rosie up, seating her in the crook of his arm. "For now, it's time to go home."

"Oh, can I call a taxi, Dad?" Hamish pleaded John with eyes so wide they would've fit the whole solar system in them. "I could do my taxi cab whistle!"

John feigned being deep in serious thought. He turned to Sherlock, who caught on, shooting John a dubious look.

"What do you think, Sherlock?" John clipped. "Think he's old enough to get a cab?"

"I don't know, he is a bit of a...poopsie," Sherlock sneaked a glance at Hamish, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"I'm not a poopsie!" Hamish pouted.

"Sherlock, don't call him that," John fought to keep a serious face.

The detective laughed as he set Rosie down to let her follow her older brother to the road. His eyes traced their happy silhouettes as he felt John's gaze land on him.

A cool breeze rustled through the trees, invisible fingers tickling branches and flicking dry leaves to dance in tornadoes. The sky was blue, but pale, like the surface of a porcelain doll before it slips through clumsy fingers and shatters on the floor.

Sherlock's breath left his mouth in visible clouds.  His hands delved into the pockets of his funeral suit as the ghost of a smile crept onto his face.

"That was beautiful," he said. "The way you described death to Rosie and Hamish. Just the right amount of deception and truth."

John nodded, the corners of his lips curving upwards.

"She was an aeroplane soaring higher than any of the others," Sherlock said softly. "All she didn't know how to do was land."

"She needed you, and you were there for her."

"And that was all I had to do," Sherlock smiled tightly. "Be there for her."

"Sherlock, you know she wouldn't have wanted to go on living the way she was," John spoke smoothly, no bumps or hitches along the way. "She'd have been living in her own version of hell."

"I know." Sherlock kept his eyes trained on a blade of grass, bending with the wind, but never breaking. Flexible.

Sherlock wished he had been like that.

The feeling of a hand slipping into his own inside his pocket startled Sherlock out of his trance. John's hand coaxed Sherlock's out of its refuge, fingers strengthening as they interlaced themselves consolingly. John squeezed his husband's hand, like reassuring Sherlock that he wouldn't leave. Sherlock squeezed back, as if he meant to say that he knew John would stay.

John leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder, allowing the silence of a thousand blades of grass permeate through the air.

A peaceful few minutes went by.

"Chips?"

The sudden change in topic nearly caused John to break away. "Sorry?"

"I'm in the mood for chips, would you like chips?" Sherlock turned his head to John's. "We could take the children, too, they'd love a change in menu."

"Chips," John pressed a light kiss to Sherlock's cheekbone, "sound fine."

~

That night, as Sherlock pulled the covers up to Rosie's chin, he hummed a light lullaby to her as she drifted into the comfort of her dreams.

Her sweet, sleepy eyes found his tender ones. "Sing the words, Daddy, please?"

"Okay."

I that am lost, oh

Who will find me

Deep down below

The old beech tree

Help succour me

Now the east winds blow

Sixteen by six,

And under we go.

"Good night, darling," Sherlock whispered as the last ounces of energy drained from Rosie's body, her breathing slow and steady. Her gave her one last fond smile before shutting the door behind him.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

yes well hello

sorry I love series 4 too much

I love the show too much

ehehe

nothing to be said here

I hope that was alright, I was really feeling the idea

ok bye ily

~A.M.