Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

Set just after the events of The Sign Of Three.

Who leaves a wedding early?

A heartbroken man, that's who. A man who had loved too much and hurt too deeply. A man who could no longer hold back the tears that threatened to fall.

As Sherlock approached his flat alone, a single tear carved a path down his gaunt cheek. He made no move to wipe it away but let it fall onto his coat. He couldn't help it. Everything hurt so much. Another tear fell from his other eye, creating a twin streak along the other side of his face.

Upon seeing the straightened door knocker, Sherlock instantly wiped his face clean. He rubbed at his eyes, hoping to erase any red that might have gathered there, before taking a deep breath and entering. The lights were on, and the faint scent of tea hung in the air. Sherlock shut the door behind him and went up the stairs.

Mycroft was sitting in his flat, on his couch, with a cup of tea in hand. Its twin sat on the coffee table invitingly. Sherlock picked it up and sat, lacking all his usual protest. The warm steam hit his nose. It was a small comfort, but Sherlock was grateful none the less.

"What brings you here, brother?" Sherlock asks after taking a sip.

"Concern for you," Mycroft replied uncharacteristically honest.

"I'm not involved," Sherlock protested weakly.

Mycroft's eyes examined him with sympathy. Sherlock steeled himself for the painful deduction that was undoubtedly about to pass his brother's lips. He knew it, of course. How could he not? It completely consumed him day and night, causing such incredible aching and longing. Still, hearing it out loud would force him to admit its validity, which would make it all hurt even more.

"You love him," Mycroft finally said. His voice softened with pain. An unrecognizable emotion lit up his eyes as he took a long sip. "How did I not see it before?"

"Because what do either of us know about love?" Sherlock replied, half answering and half asking.

Mycroft remained silent as he shifted closer to Sherlock, letting their shoulders touch. Sherlock felt the hesitancy in his movements and leaned into him reassuringly. It was nostalgic, sitting there with his brother. The last time they had sat together like this was after Redbeard had been put down.

His brother leaned closer, and it dawned on Sherlock that Mycroft was lonely too. He sat alone in that large house every night with no one to talk to. He was probably as comforted by Sherlock's presence as Sherlock was by Mycroft's.

Sherlock ran through a list of names in his head. Anthea? No, she was too young, too cold, too distant. Lestrade? He was single. However, he had kids, and Sherlock did not wish to overwhelm his brother. Donovan? She had been much kinder since Sherlock had returned, but he couldn't imagine her being remotely interested in Mycroft.

After another long sip, the cup was empty. Sherlock sighed. Only one of them needed to be miserable. Sherlock resolved to find his brother a suitable companion. It would provide him with a much needed distraction as he adapted back to living on his own again.

The loneliness hung in the air, making Sherlock's lungs feel heavy. Finally, Mycroft stood to leave. "If you need anything, you know where to find me," he said before exiting the flat. Sherlock nodded mutely. He didn't trust his voice. Mycroft couldn't give him the one thing he needed. John. Sherlock needed to hold him and know that he loved him back, but that would never happen.

The image of John's smiling face after he had kissed Mary kept appearing at the front of his brain. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and rubbed at them, hoping to scrub it away. John was happy with somebody else, but he was happy. That was all that mattered, Sherlock reminded himself.

Sherlock crossed the room to John's armchair. Away from prying eyes, he curled up on it and let himself sob. By the time his coat sleeves were soaked, he had fallen asleep.

The familiar ache of loneliness followed Mycroft as he walked down Baker Street the next morning. Truth be told, his brother was the only friend he had, and there was nothing he could do for him.

Just as he had the previous night, he invited himself in. The flat was unusually quiet for this time of day. The sun was already high in the sky, and the birds were awake, making as much noise as possible. Mycroft climbed the stairs and opened the door, unsure of what he would find.

There, on John's armchair, lay Sherlock. He was still in his clothes from the wedding, and faint tear tracks could be seen on his face. Mycroft felt his heart break again for his brother. Deciding that now was probably a bad time to disturb him, Mycroft left quietly.

Mrs. Hudson stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at Mycroft with sorrowful eyes. "Is he alright?" she asked, her voice quivering.

Mycroft descended the stairs to stand in front of her. "You will look after him, right?"

The landlady nodded her head eagerly. By the dark circles under her eyes, Mycroft could tell that she hadn't slept much last night.

"He needs us, Mrs. Hudson. Then maybe he will be alright."

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Mycroft exited the flat to see the black car he had asked Anthea to send to pick him up. He climbed inside the back, expecting to at least see his assistant inside, typing away on her phone. Instead, he was alone.

It shouldn't have hurt, but it did. Mycroft knew that he should be used to the feeling by now. He was always alone. With a sigh, he leaned against the window. The glass made the scenery appear faded. The city that once held so much life now was dull and grey. With a heavy heart, he checked his phone. For a split second, Mycroft hoped it would be purely friendly, but that hope was quickly dashed. It was always work related.

The car arrived at his office. Mycroft, as if in a trance, walked towards it. His eyes were glazed over, but not in the usual cold expression. To anybody watching, Mycroft appeared sad.

Some part of Mycroft knew that he should hide his emotions and appear to be the cold businessman he always was, but he didn't have the energy. Another part of him wanted somebody to notice and ask how he was doing. Nobody did.

Mycroft sat in his office chair, resigned to another day of the same dull ache. Not even running the government could distract him from that ever present emptiness inside. Anthea surely had noticed by now, but she never mentioned it. Even now, she didn't give Mycroft a second glance as she dropped papers off at his desk and left.

For a moment, Mycroft considered calling her back to ask her how she was, but he knew it was foolish. She didn't care for him. Nobody here did.

Molly knows that she shouldn't feel disappointed when Tom texts her, but she can't control it anymore than she could control the weather. With a sigh, she types a short reply. Within a few minutes, he texts her again, and she can't help the surge of irritation she feels.

She shuts the sound off and stuffs the phone into her pocket. Try as she might to deny it, she knew the reason behind her annoyance. She wishes it was Sherlock texting her instead.

As she pushed the door open to the flat, she imagined him greeting her. Instead, only Toby mewed at her. "Hi, Tobes," she replied with a sigh. She seemed to be doing a lot of sighing these days.

Toby rubbed against her legs, and Molly smiled despite herself. "I'm going out to dinner with Tom tonight," she told him. She bent down and scooped him up in her arms. He purred with delight as he settled against her chest. She sat on the couch and buried her face into his soft fur.

"I don't love him," she admitted. Toby stared up at her with an expression that seemed to say, Yeah, Molly, we all know.

"I'm over Sherlock," Molly replied sternly. "Really. I am. Which is why I'm here complaining about my fiancé who I don't love to my cat."

Toby pawed at her face in an expression that Molly knew meant he wanted food. He jumped off her lap and ran to the kitchen. With another long sigh, Molly followed him.

She dumped a scoop of cat food into his bowl and watched as he devoured it greedily. "Good to know somebody loves me," Molly joked. A pang of sudden loneliness struck her chest. Molly ran her hands over her face and sighed for probably the hundredth time that day.

"I should get ready," she said aloud to nobody in particular.

She walked to her bedroom where she had lain a dress out on the bed. She changed into it quickly and stared at herself in the mirror. Not for the first time, she wished it were Sherlock taking her to dinner.

When the doorbell rang, Molly grabbed her purse and her best fake smile before going out to meet her fiancé.

It had been such a long time since Irene had been in England. After Sherlock had rescued her, she had fled to Portugal, where she could lay low.

She had lived a completely different life there. She got a job as an office secretary. She rented a house. She fostered dogs. To any outsider, Irene Adler appeared completely normal.

The dominatrix life was far behind her. Irene had successfully integrated herself into society. She was confident that she had dropped completely off the radar, and that nobody, save Sherlock Holmes, could find her.

However, she must not have been as thorough as she thought, because a letter arrived on her doorstep early one morning from her old assistant. The letter informed her that her mother was ill, and that her presence was requested back in England.

Without a hesitation, Irene packed and left. As she rode away in a cab, she wondered if she would ever see her house again. It was dangerous, Irene knew, but she had to risk it to see her mother.

Now, as she walked through the London airport, Irene's heart was pounding. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger as she waited for a cab.

As soon as the cab pulled up, Irene lowered her head to let her hair cover her face. She doubted she would be recognized, but she was still nervous. Softly, she gave the cabbie the address of the hospital.

Irene watched the passing scenery with a growing sense of nostalgia. She had been homesick, but staying hadn't been an option until now. As the cabbie drove in silence, Irene was pleased to discover that she remembered the way.

It was very surreal as Irene stepped out of the cab and paid him to wait. She kept her head lowered as she approached the hospital. The Iceman had cameras everywhere.

She found her mother's room without incident and sat at her bedside. Soon, Irene would find a hotel, but for now, she took her mother's hand and sat with her.