Here it is, finished! Sentimental because I'm that way. With a Christian perspective because I'm that way too (And of course it is IC and canonical). I hope you've enjoyed it. Thank you for reading.

She was not sure how long she had knelt there, but when she turned, she saw that only Mycroft had remained with her at the site. He leaned now more than ever on his cane, his white head bowed and thick eyebrows drawn together.

She rose to her feet and his ears, still sharp, detected the slight rustling of her clothes against the grass. She made no attempt to conceal her tear-stained cheeks as she walked towards him.

Tentatively he reached an arm out in a gesture of comfort, but, uncertain of his next action, lowered it once again. In several moments she had composed herself enough to speak, and with trembling lips asked the question she had until now been afraid of.

"How... did it happen, exactly?"

"A boy from the gables, that regularly ran errands for him, found him down there." She followed the direction of his finger, which pointed to the steep path leading down the incline to the channel.

"He had a favorite spot there on the flat rock that he was fond of sitting on, and gazing across at the cliffs. the doctor surmised that he suffered a heart attack when he tried to climb back up the incline, for the boy found him sprawled out a quarter of the way up the path, his walking stick in hand."

"To die here... all alone..." She turned her eyes to him.

"I visited him occasionally; he was quite contented here. As the situation was, I think he would have had it no other way. Almost nothing pleased him more than his bees and his library, and.. this." He outstretched his arm to indicate the grand view.

Then, remembering his purpose, he slowly cleared his throat.

"He a left a letter for you."

"A letter!?" She exclaimed with abruptness.

"I think he perhaps sensed he was close to his end. He was never one to be caught unprepared, and so apparently wrote a letter several months prior, in one of two envelopes I found transfixed to his mantel by a jackknife." He smiled slightly, as though the gesture comforted him. "One with my name, the other with yours."

Slowly, almost painfully he reached inside his coat, withdrew the said envelope, and placed it in her hands.

"And now, Miss Anna, I take leave of you. If the fancy ever strikes you, you're welcome to visit an old man in London."

"I should be most proud, sir, to visit you." she smiled, and out of impulse, before she could think of it, stood on tiptoe to lightly kiss his forehead.

He nearly started with surprise, cleared his throat yet again to compose himself, then ever so slightly smiled.

"Good day."

"Good day, Mr. Holmes."

She watched him slowly limp off in the direction of his cab, until he disappeared behind the rise of the next hill. Then, blankly, she stared at the cream white texture of the envelope, her name neatly printed on its surface with black ink. With painful deliberation she opened it and unfolded the paper inside.

Dear Anna,

I had mentally prepared nearly a dozen things to write upon this paper, a dozen philosophical arguments with which to persuade you. Yet I realized they would all have amounted to the empty words of a dull sermon. So I write this little message merely as a farewell, as indeed I owe you a proper one.

Regarding our last meeting, I have always been of the opinion that regret is among the most painful and useless of emotions. I would not wish anyone to feel it upon my behalf, let alone a friend.

As for any grief that your tender heart, so like your father's, most likely is experiencing at my death, I would ask you to dispel it, to let it trouble you no more. I once told a client of mine who was in great distress, that the world would be a cruel jest if there is no compensation thereafter. In my recent years here at Sussex, I am convinced of this truth more strongly than ever, and am certain, even as you are reading this, that the termination of my life will not mean the end, as undoubtedly it was not the end for your parents.

My struggle is ending, yours is beginning. There is nothing else for me to say without repeating myself, except to say that I am confident in your strength of character to overcome, if you so choose.

With that, my dear Anna. I shall close this letter. My best wishes for your every happiness, and believe me to be,

Very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes

***

Several passengers occasionally glanced with sympathy at the young woman with the golden-haired bob, dressed in black mourning and staring out the window with a rather odd expression of tearful happiness.

On the journey back home Anna had alternated in between sleeping, deep thought and overhearing occasional snippets of the other passengers' conversation. The couple directly in front of her seemed especially persistent in making their affairs known to the world as they chatted upon various topics throughout the whole journey. One exchange in particular caught her attention:

" A pity her husband's dead now."

"Such things are always a pity." the woman sighed. "People are born, die, are buried, then forgotten. No one remembers them...it all seems so futile..."

Anna resumed looking out the window with a slight smile, grateful that the woman was wrong, and even more grateful that she was conscious of that fact.