ShErLoCk oNeSiEs

The Dead Winds of the East

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.