The funeral wasn't publicized; in fact it could hardly be called a funeral at all. A funeral, in Sherlock's narrow definition, usually had to be attended by more than two people. It had to have included a priest, or a blessing of some kind, it had to involve a cemetery! And yet they avoided such formalities, for fear that their father's tragic end might be made public, and might be scrutinized. Instead of a crowd (as if there would have been one at all) they were the only two attendants. Instead of a priest they merely blessed the grave themselves, and instead of a cemetery they decided to merely dig a hole in the large backyard, and burry him there themselves. It was a depressing thing, with no ceremony at all; they merely dumped the man's body into the fresh hole and covered him back up again. Both boys were ashamed of admitting their feelings, their fear of what came next, their remorse to have lost their second parent, and their despair at having lost what should have been a key figure in their lives. Neither could admit their emotion, not to the grave and not to each other, and so together they walked miserably back to the house, dragging their shovels with the mud caked to their knees and their hands, not saying a word and trying to forget the man they were leaving behind in the ground. It was only two days later that they heard the doorbell ring, shrilly throughout the house, for the first and last time in what felt like ages. Sherlock was sitting alone in the library, trying to concentrate on a book that he had set before him, trying to ignore the crushing reality that was falling around him, falling right on top of his shoulders. No matter how hard he tried he could not forget Mycroft's words, his horrible reminder that they were the last of a dying dynasty, and that the fate of their entire family tree relied on their being able to create families and...produce heirs. Sherlock shuttered at the thought, yet he of course understood that he could not be the last leaf of such a large and extensive tree. Then again, could Mycroft not be the one to take on such a burden? He was, after all, the oldest of the two. He had made the necessary sacrifices before; surely he could manage once more?
"Sherlock, the door?" Mycroft growled, starting down the hall with a stern and disappointed look upon his face as he marched through the house himself.
"Oh...sorry!" Sherlock exclaimed, completely having forgotten that there might have been neglected company upon their front step. He made it just in time to see Mycroft swing open the door, revealing a rather haggard old woman that he had never seen before in his life. She was very batty, with sagging skin though her age could not have been above sixty. She wore very old clothes, moth eaten yet elegant, and looked at the two with a watery yet dominating stare, as if she was already sizing them up for a battle of wits and dominance.
"Mycroft Holmes?" she presumed, clutching onto her beaded handbag with tight fingers, as if she was trying to prevent any sort of theft. The boys stared at her for a moment longer, trying to figure why such a woman could have come to visit them.
"Yes, how may I help you?" Mycroft wondered quietly. The woman shuttered, looking up into his eyes once more with a shred of pity, as if she was looking into his face and seeing much more.
"I am your aunt, Agatha." She announced, taking a deep breath and holding out her hand rather fearfully for a shake. Sherlock stared for a moment, so utterly taken aback that he hardly remembered his manners. He crept behind his brother, staring at the woman and trying to make sure that she was not joking.
"We don't..." Sherlock began, but Mycroft silenced him with a slap across the chest.
"Agatha, nice to meet you." Mycroft managed. "And on which side, do you claim to be?"
"Your father's of course. I heard that he was dead, and that is a crying shame that is indeed." She muttered quietly. Sherlock stared at her some more, yet he could not remember seeing her before. In fact, he had never heard her name or knew of her existence before this point exactly.
"There is not an inheritance, if that deters you." Mycroft warned. The woman blinked, looking at Mycroft with obvious offense.
"I am not looking for any money, Mycroft." She snarled. "I am looking to say goodbye to my brother, and to watch over his children." Sherlock dared not say anything to that, for all the while he had considered his response he knew better than to blurt out any initial denials. Well of course he considered himself old enough to live without any guardian other than his brother, yet he knew that his own foolish words might go against Mycroft's better judgement.
"Come inside, Aunt Agatha, and have some tea." Mycroft offered, waving the woman into the house and pushing at his brother to go and put the kettle on. Sherlock did as he was told, darting off to the kitchen through the dark and shadowy house. The tea was ready not long after, and he arranged it as neatly as he could on a tray set for three. It was very odd, putting that third cup down and knowing that it was bound to be used and drank from. For so long he had put the third merely as a formality, with all the intentions of putting it right back into the cupboard as soon as tea was concluded. Sherlock hurried with the tea to the sitting room, where he found that this mysterious Aunt of theirs was sitting on the couch, entertaining Mycroft with pictures she had retrieved from her handbag. Mycroft was seated next to her, staring closely at an old and browning photo as if trying to find the lie in it all. And yet Sherlock could see in his rather perplexed expression that he could find no fault in this woman's identity, or her story in general.
"If you're our aunt, why has no one mentioned you to us before?" Sherlock asked almost immediately, setting down the tray on the table. Mycroft sighed heavily, as if he was unhappy to hear that question phrased so immediately yet happy to hear it spat out all the same. It was the question which was on both of their minds of course, yet only one would be bold enough to ask it so directly. The woman sighed, watching as Mycroft prepared her cup of tea as she prepared her response.
"I rather think it was because of that alleged curse." She admitted finally. "Your father was afraid of me, afraid of the past that I remembered, the past that I clung to."
"What do you mean? You're not...you're not crazy?" Sherlock asked, sinking into a chair across from her and staring very intently.
"No of course not, Sherlock. But I never believed in the curse, I disregarded it. That was what you father could never understand, when we both saw our father..." She sighed heavily, shaking her head and taking a rather trembling sip of her tea. "He never accepted our father's death for what it was. And he never understood why I stayed in the house. He was embarrassed by me, I suspect, and never wanted you to be exposed to a woman who would have spoken the truth."
"We don't believe in the curse either, we believe in mass hysteria." Mycroft assured, sipping at his tea very daintily, as if he was proud to be sitting among the rational members of his family. Sherlock didn't respond to that, for of course way back in his head he did accept that there was something tainted in the blood of a Holmes. Yet he stayed quiet, knowing better than to discredit what was being accepted here as gospel.
"Where is he buried?" the woman wondered.
"How do you know that he is dead?" Mycroft wondered. Agatha bowed her head, looking mournful as if she did not want to admit it.
"Perhaps I don't believe in the curse, but I do believe in spiritual connections. I felt greatly saddened, as if a part of me had died. We hadn't seen each other in thirty years and still...well my heart broke with no explanation. He was the only man who had ever been dear to me, and so I knew of course that it must have been his death at last." She admitted quietly.
"Do you know how he died then?" Sherlock wondered.
"Sherlock, not now." Mycroft growled.
"Do enlighten me." she pleaded, setting her tea cup rather tryingly on its saucer, as if preparing herself for a fight. Sherlock's eyes flashed dangerously, happy to deliver the final news to such a disbeliever.
"He went mad." He said finally. "He saw a man who was never here, and eventually shot himself." The woman winced, as if those words were too morbid for a woman's fragile ears. Mycroft scowled at Sherlock, patting their aunt's shoulder as if to offer some solace, yet she opened her eyes on her own and sat up strong once more.
"I knew he was destined for it. He let the idea poison his mind long before he ever lost it. He accepted its existence- and that made him weak." The woman admitted finally. Sherlock sat back, nearly defeated in his chair though he didn't see why. Perhaps he was reading the signs in her lips as well, and listening to Mycroft's words just reechoed. The same promise was seeping into his brain, the belief that would turn to destiny. The Holmes curse, could it really be just hysteria? Seeping into the minds of those who might believe in the superstition of it all? Mycroft seemed very impressed by the woman, daring to sit a little taller now that his own hypothesis had been proven.
"I do agree." Mycroft agreed quickly, looking over towards Sherlock with something of an all knowing glance. Sherlock frowned at him, yet continued his tea in silence.
"Boys, I want you to come live with me at your ancestral home." She said finally, looking up to the Holmes brothers with a very determined look in her eyes. "You will live as my nephews, in a good and prosperous home. I will marry you off into good families, and secure your futures as strong and influential men, as the Holmes were always supposed to be."
"We will...we will have to discuss it between ourselves." Mycroft muttered rather hesitantly, looking towards Sherlock after a moment of rather stunned silence. Sherlock looked back at his brother fearfully, not wanting to voice his hesitations in front of the woman herself. Yet even now the idea sounded preposterous, surely Mycroft could not take it into consideration? Shipping themselves out to live with a stranger, in a house that reeked of madness? Certainly it was impossible, even despite the family connection! He nestled down more into his chair, listening as Mycroft went to direct the woman to their father's gravesite, so as to give them both some time alone. She would have her last moments with her brother, and they would have some time to discuss their futures in private.
"She wants to take us away?" Sherlock asked immediately, pulling at Mycroft's arm just as soon as he returned inside. The man nodded rather grimly, shutting the backdoor so as to ensure them complete privacy. Sherlock peered out the window for a moment, making sure that their supposed aunt had made her way clear across the yard before he voiced his opinion aloud.
"I'm not going." He said flatly. "Not to that creepy old house, the one where grandpa died? I'm not going to go."
"It's not like the house is unlivable! Hundreds of people die in hundreds of houses, it's not like they go and destroy them all after tragedy! Besides, we need a guardian...we need money." Mycroft admitted.
"But she's going to...well you heard her. Marriage sounds like an awful quick step, don't you think? I don't think it's proper, just pairing us with whoever comes to mind." Sherlock said with a hesitant little shutter.
"Oh don't take it like a death sentence, Sherlock. We both knew that we couldn't stay bachelors forever." Mycroft insisted.
"I believe in waiting for the right one to come around, don't you Mycroft? Don't you think that's the right thing to do?" Sherlock asked anxiously, trying not to start to get too emotional in his debate yet finding that he was beginning to be outspoken. Mycroft seemed to already have made up his mind, and of course he would have! It was rational, practical, and best for everyone involved. Well of course Mycroft would support the idea, no matter how absurd it seemed! To be yanked out of their family home and shipped off with a woman they had never met before, well surely Mycroft could see that something simply wasn't right about it? That something was a little bit suspicious, when a woman comes merely on a whim knowing that her brother is dead, after not having spoken for so long.
"What does she want from us, what is this, a charity project?" Sherlock asked anxiously. Mycroft sighed, shaking his head and leaning a bit apprehensively against the wall. Evidently he had not considered that, he had not weighed the costs and benefits of their going.
"Perhaps she is merely lonely- or feels an entitlement to raise her brother's children." Mycroft suggested.
"Or maybe she'll make us into slaves...or she's actually a cannibal!" Sherlock exclaimed, rather sarcastically. Yet all the same his brother's expression deepened into something of annoyance, and he shook his head in exasperation.
"I intend to accept her offer, Sherlock. I know I can't force you to do anything, but I do encourage you to follow. We've no job, no real education...you must admit that we're rather hopeless without her." Mycroft admitted finally, tapping his thumbs uncomfortably against his leg as he shook his head hopelessly. Certainly he didn't like to be at the mercy of someone else, especially someone who felt that they had the right and the power to merely walk into their lives uninvited.
"Yes of course. I cannot leave you; I'll be dead in a week." Sherlock admitted with something of an uneasy chuckle. Mycroft bowed his head, obviously too polite to agree outright. Then again, they both knew it to be true. They shared a bond of codependency, in which they relied on each other to ensure that they both made it through alive. It was a sibling's relationship that was built on trust and underlying care, no matter how rough they were on each other they surely couldn't survive the separation of being apart. And so where Mycroft went, Sherlock followed, despite his obvious apprehensions. There were things that were rather off about this woman, starting of course with her mysterious background, her rough connection to the family, and of course her choice of living quarters. The house where their grandfather died, the house where it all began...well should that place not be cursed, should it not be haunted by the ghost of the madman and his victims? Sherlock shuttered to think, yet of course with the same criteria their own house must be the same. Their father had died on the premises, with the same mental disease. Then again, his only victim had been himself, chosen specifically to ensure that no one else was caught in this mess of madness. Yet was he still here, clinging to the walls in a spiritual form, unable to understand why no one could hear him?
"I will give her our answer, Sherlock. You stay here, clean up the cups." Mycroft suggested, patting Sherlock's shoulder rather hesitantly, as if he didn't want Sherlock to be directly involved in this conversation. Perhaps Mycroft was hiding something, or he had special conditions that he did not want Sherlock aware of? That or maybe he could sense there already being a resentment growing between Sherlock and Aunt Agatha, and did not want either of them to speak their mind about their future living arrangements. Either way Sherlock followed the rules; he did as he was supposed to and asked no questions. He merely went back to the sitting room to collect the cups, gathering them up and watching from the window as Mycroft marched up to Agatha in the grass, joining her near the grave at the back of the yard and standing very tall with his arms crossed across his back, undoubtedly feeling very important as he delivered such news. Sherlock sighed heavily, wishing that he might be able to stay in the house in which he had grown up yet knowing of course that it was impossible. Mycroft was right, together they had no prospects! Neither were educated at university, despite their natural cleverness. Neither knew of any suitable brides, nor did they have any jobs lined up for once they decided to make their own money! There was no inheritance to be heard of; there was no future for them at all. It seemed almost necessary to take on a new guardian, to leech off another poor old lady so as to make sure they live another day longer. Sherlock understood of course what had to be done, if only he could accept it on an easier heart. If only he could understand just a little bit more about why they had to be taken away from everything they knew, and into the world of a woman who had walking into their lives just a moment before. 

Sherlock waited with his bags on the front porch, having packed what he deemed necessities and leaving the rest behind. They would keep the house, and Mycroft would keep the key if they needed anything further, yet for the moment it seemed necessary just to leave it be. Maybe in another ten years when they had their lives together they could return, and find that things were just as they had left them. For now they merely had to move on, and that meant covering the furniture with sheets, extinguishing all lamps, and shutting the windows to prevent any drafts. That was all they could do for the house in their absence, and they would deal with the rodents or squatters or whatever when they returned in their prosperous future. Sherlock didn't have time to dwell on what he was leaving behind, no not when what he was going towards seemed to be much more daunting. It was rather frightening to watch Aunt Agatha's carriage pulling up, a large black and red cart pulled by magnificent white horses. It looked expensive; in fact it looked to be near luxury. Curious, really. Sherlock hadn't realized there was any money left in the family; he had merely assumed it had all been sucked up when their grandfather was condemned as a lunatic, and a criminal. He had assumed that the Holmes family lost everything when their reputation was fouled. Mycroft sat on the porch swing, rocking himself with merely his toes. He was limited to how far he could swing, considering he had set his bags right up next to the thing. It made a curious little symphony, the tapping of his toes, coupled with the rusted chain straining and the bags getting hit by the wooden swing. Yet soon Mycroft's little chorus was drowned out by the horses' hooves along the gravel, and then it was stopped all together as the older Holmes brother took to his feet, straightened out his jacket, and prepared to meet his new guardian. There was a short carriage boy at the reins, rather disproportionately made with strong arms and a stocky figure, though he moved elegantly as he hopped down into the driveway and opened the door for the woman to appear. She was dressed rather vibrantly, in a light blue dress as if there was something to celebrate. Both boys stepped off of the porch, greeting her with whatever smiles they could manage considering that she was here with the main goal of stealing them away from their livelihoods.
"Boys, lovely to see you again. I assume you've got everything packed, clothes and books and things?" she mumbled, waving her fingers rather unenthusiastically towards the bags that were sitting on the stairs.
"Yes ma'am, everything we thought we'd need." Mycroft agreed, making a lunge towards the bags before the woman shushed him.
"No, no. I hire a boy for the lifting; surely we should make him earn his wage. John, go on then." She insisted, to which the driver nodded his head and started towards the porch. Sherlock watched him rather carelessly as the boy lifted up a bag in each hand, carrying the heavy things almost effortlessly over to the cart and placing them gently in the back.
"Well then, say farewell to your childhood home, and when you're ready you can join me in the carriage. It's very roomy." She muttered, patting Sherlock on the shoulder as if that was her method of empathy, before walking off and making herself comfortable in the cab.
"She's never had children before, has she?" Sherlock presumed, rather under his breath than to Mycroft. He of course knew that Mycroft wouldn't understand sympathy; perhaps he had inherited that same gene. Sherlock knew that there wouldn't be much time for tears, and so he merely let his hand trail off of the banister, muttering under his breath as much of a goodbye as he could manage without getting too choked up. Before long he found himself in the carriage beside his brother, looking back at the house which had become a mere shape in the distance and trying not to remember too passionately the memories which had been made there. They were saying goodbye to their childhood, in which their mother and father were both alive and well. They were saying goodbye to the place of their births, their first steps and words, the very walls which had shaped them into the people they were today. It was heartbreaking, honestly, to watch it all go behind them without saying any sort of words of comfort. And yet Agatha wouldn't understand, and surely Mycroft didn't care. There was only one romantic in the family, and he must sit in agony while the rest of his party sat in mere uncomfortable silence, trying to think of something to speak about without realizing that there was a goodbye to be made, or at least an acknowledgment.