Final Chapter! Oh man, this has been so much fun to do! Thank you EVERYONE for your support. I'm definitely going to write something else but enjoy the final installment!

"Are you almost ready?"

John pulled the tie up to his neck and buttoned his jacket closed.

"Just about."

He checked his watch. The service was in 20 minutes. "Hurry!"

They'd gotten back four hours ago and both of them were completely exhausted physically and mentally. Sherlock decided to power through the service with his broken ribs and get checked out afterwards. John promised he'd go back to his therapist and actually fill his prescription this time around. He could never had another incident like that again.

He didn't think that they'd make it back in time. After their fight, Sherlock and John sat on the ground and just stayed there in silence. They both cried, they both talked, they both listened. John finally told Sherlock what had happened in Afghanistan and Sherlock told John stories about his mother. It was a somber conversation with not a lot of back and forth. Mostly it was vomiting words out to the ether just to release them from their bodies. They were toxic and killing them both and just speaking them seemed to help.

At six in the morning they finally got up and went to the animal shelter that Mycroft had taken Ruxton. It turned out that little Ruxton was a twelve year old cocker spaniel that had one good eye and a squeaky bark. The moment it saw Sherlock it started jumping up and down and panting. He'd never seen his friend so happy as he was petting that dog. They brought it in the car the whole way and Sherlock didn't stop holding it the whole time.

Mrs. Hudson appeared at the doorway to the flat. She had a somber expression that quickly shifted as the bouncing dog came running towards her.

"Oh my!" she said as she bent down to pet it. "Where did he come from?"

"It's Sherlock's from when he was a kid. Don't worry, we're trying to find a place for him."

She was in love with his drooping little face. "Oh bother. He's so darling. Aren't you?" she said as she rubbed its head. It nipped at her feet and nuzzled its head against her leg.

"Thanks for coming," John said.

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Oh darling, of course. I've known her for a number of years. It's only right. How is he doing?" She whispered that last part.

John shrugged. "Up and down. It was a long night but I think he's alright."

Sherlock walked out of his bedroom with a black suit and a navy tie. He had his hair moussed down and he was wearing something resembling aftershave. John had never seen him so dressed up.

"Ready?" John said.

Sherlock didn't answer but moved towards the door. He fiddled with something in his pocket as he went for the exit. Ruxton wouldn't let him get out without a fight. He jumped up on Sherlock's leg and barked excitedly. Sherlock had a slight grin as he rustled with the dog's head and stood behind Mrs. Hudson.

"You look so handsome," she said as she patted him on the cheek.

Sherlock looked at her with the sheepish gaze of an embarrassed boy around his grandmother. "Thank you," he said.

Mrs. Hudson grabbed him and brought him in close for a hug. She whispered something in his ear and her eyes began to water. Sherlock gave her a quick squeeze and backed away before he got any more ensnared in her emotional turmoil.

"John?" he said.

John grabbed his keys and headed towards the door.

There wasn't much of a turnout at the church. The Holmes family was little to speak of, just a few somber looking relatives that sat in the back. In the front of the pews were Mycroft, the aunts, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and John at the end for moral support. At the front of the church was the maple casket. It was a dark wood, ultra elegant and classy. To the side of the casket was a framed portrait of Evelyn Holmes in a black dress and bright shining pearls. She had big smile on her face and friendly eyes that seemed to be laughing through the photo.

The organ music cued up a solemn chorus as the priest walked to the front of the pew and bowed his head. John had made the decision to sit in between Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock as to avoid the never-ending gestures of comfort that she'd extend to Sherlock. He needed his hand held like a he needed a bullet in the head.

Sherlock bowed his head with the rest of the audience as the priest gave a brief overview of Evelyn's life. Mycroft had flown in her friend, the local priest from their hometown, to do the service. He was an older man, in his eighties, and spoke with a light voice as he talked about the kind and generous Evelyn that he'd known for almost twenty years.

Mycroft was the first to speak. He was supposed to say a few words about his mother and read an excerpt from her favorite book, at least according to the program.

He was dressed as he normally was, in a tailored suit and slicked-down hair. He had a stony expression as he walked to the front and laid a small stack of index cards in front of him.

"My mother was a good woman as many of you know. I remember when Bernie, our sister," he pointed towards Sherlock, "was ill. She never made us feel scared or anxious. Mother was always making sure that the two of us never had to feel the sorrow that she felt about her daughter's illness."

John couldn't help but notice that Mycroft wasn't looking at the cards. He seemed to be rambling. It was strange to see him speak about anything so personal in front of so many people.

"When she passed, I was away at school and I got the phone call from her after my English class. I remember my mate handed me the phone and her voice was so…"

He had never felt more unnerved by a man talking. Mycroft was clearly drunk and hadn't even looked at his cards. This story was coming out of nowhere and he was not ready to say it.

Mycroft stood in front of the people and looked up with tears in his eyes. The words would not come. He stared at his cards and was speechless.

John wanted to rescue him. He wanted to be the one to shuttle him off so he could cry in peace but he was beat to it.

Sherlock got to his feet and walked to the front of the church. He stood in front of Mycroft and gripped his arm. They exchanged a few words and Mycroft nodded and walked away from the front and back to sit next to his aunts. They immediately put out their hands and grabbed his as he whimpered into a handkerchief one of them pulled out from their purse.

"Hello," Sherlock said as he adjusted the microphone and pulled a sheet of paper out from his pocket. "Thank you for coming today."

John sat back and watched in anticipation for a train wreck.

"My mother always loved poetry. For hours, she and I would read books of poetry in my bedroom long after everyone else had fallen asleep. It was her that taught me to read and when I began primary school I had already read over fifty titles. Her favorite was an 800-page tome of poetry that her own mother had given to her as a girl. Her challenge to me each morning was to pick a poem to read and, throughout the day, I was to memorize it. If I could tell it back to her without error by dinner time I was given extra dessert."

The crowd laughed. John's grip on the program loosened as the tension in the room lowered with each passing word.

"I memorized nearly one thousand poems by the time I left home for secondary school. She used to tell me that every poem was her favorite and she would smile every time she heard me recite one. However, she did have one that she loved above all others.

'A Late Walk' by Robert Frost

When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words

A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.'"

Sherlock spoke slowly and deeply, letting each word marinate and float over the people listening. It was like he'd said the poem one hundred times and he knew which beats to hit. John felt himself get choked up as Sherlock spoke and made sure to dab the tears from his eyes before he was caught.

"I am the person I am today because of Evelyn Holmes. Thank you Mother for everything you've done."

He bowed his head and, on his way back, he let his hand run down the casket's head before sitting down.

John wanted to say something but it was so silent that everyone'd hear him. Instead, he just looked over at his friend and caught his eye. With a simple nod of his head he conveyed I'm proud of you and with tears in his eyes and a sad smile Sherlock nodded back.

Thank you for making me do this, it said, and I'm sorry.

No need, John thought.

No need.