The folder lies on an antique desk, thrown there haphazardly in a rare emotional outburst. Papers have slid out and his eyes are drawn to the words just barely visible: "… all three …"
Such unsuspicious words, but his memory automatically fills the blanks and finishes the report. "… passengers instantly dead. Technical failure…"
Instantly dead. At least there is that. No suffering, the words normally offered as a solace. He supposes they work.
His fingers shake slightly when he holds the whiskey tumbler, bringing it to his lips, the ice cubes clink in an unfinished melody.
He thinks of the pilot because it is the easiest part, the part while he can stay detached and cold and pretends this is just a minor misfortune. Accidents happen. The pilot, a loyal man, former RAF, one of the best men at his disposal, one that should have made the way home safely. Now he is leaving a wife and two sons behind.
Mycroft doesn't make a mental note to provide them with financial stability, he is sure his secretary will take care of that. The man is one of the most efficient persons he has ever met, only outranged by Carol-Ann (or 'Anthea' as she preferred).
It is harder to stay detached now, with his mind wandering to his assistant. Of course he regrets the loss of such a competent woman. There are not many out there that are willing to exchange their name for the greater good, the boredom of bureaucracy and the oddities that come as part of the package Mycroft Holmes.
Including a much too careless brother. (But this time it's not his fault.)
He can't hold the sob that grows in his chest. The sound escapes his lips as does a trace of humidity from his eyes.
Sherlock, his brilliant, infuriating little brother.
Sherlock who was supposed to be coming home with this flight, to return to the living, to Baker Street, to his little puzzles, to John.
John, the most important thing Sherlock had left in Mycroft's care. To keep him alive until Sherlock's return.
At least John won't suffer, there is that.
This time the sob is harsher and his vision gets blurry. John doesn't know anything, doesn't suspect. He believes Sherlock to be dead and has just started slowly to recover from the 'suicide'. There is no way Mycroft will ever tell him the truth and for once he is sure that Sherlock would actually agree with him. (He is not sure he could witness again the incredible pain, too much for a simple friendship; doesn't want to witness it again, doesn't want to see the sure feeling of betrayal, the disappointment at being excluded.)
In another atypical emotional outburst he buries his face in his hands when more sobs are starting to escape his throat. Those unfamiliar sounds and his ragged breathing are the only sounds in the room and it enforces the feeling of loneliness that he never before felt as heavy as in this moment.
Usually there had been Sherlock; similar enough to understand without words, but now there is no one else like him out there, no one he could speak to, no one who would understand.
It takes what he would otherwise consider an embarrassingly long time until he manages the appearance of calmness. Not only his secretary would be surprised to see Mycroft Holmes this affected by the death of a pilot, his assistant and her 'fiancé' when he had showed almost no emotion after his brother's suicide.
With a calm movement he shoves the papers back in the folder before he calls out for the latest files on several Anglo-Asian treaties. It would take Holmesian observation skills to notice the little tremor in his hand as he opens the file. It takes all of his concentration to actually read the words, his mind still caught up in another file.
AN: This is what my brain comes up with at 6 am after four hours of sleep.