If Mary Had Missed
(an AU 221b)
This time, all the proprieties were observed. Naturally, the details had fallen to Mycroft; Mummy and Daddy meant well, but... Well. All finished, now, and in the can, so to speak. Sherlock's undamaged organs were being useful elsewhere; the rest was ash.
The final propriety was disposal of the deceased's effects. Mummy had requested –– demanded! –– that Sherlock's friends each choose something to remember him by. Mycroft rolled his eyes but indulged her, as always: Now, especially.
He gathered them all in Baker Street, sans Mary Watson (that matter would be seen to eventually... revenge is a dish best savoured cold...) and Mycroft explained Mummy's "request." They shuffled and snuffled, hesitant. Mycroft waited.
Mrs. Hudson broke first, lifting the skull from the mantle and cradling it, her lips pressed white. Miss Hooper, chin quivering, quietly took down that ghastly painting, steadying its skeletal grinning blue against her leg. Lestrade, gripping the terracotta Chinese archer, swallowed hard. "I remember..." His sturdy voice cracked, faltering.
Fists in pockets, John shook his head: No.
That would not do. Mycroft chose for him: The glass pyramid, heavy with sand and shell and memory. He deliberately let go; John caught it, grating, "What about you? Or would that be sentiment?"
A dark reflection glinted behind Mycroft's bland smile. "I'm certain there will be something for me. Later."
