This was the last time, he swore to himself. The very last time.
Mycroft sighed and leaned lightly against the sturdy umbrella in his hand, using it almost as a cane or a crutch. He knew this wouldn't be the last time he would be staring at a decrepit, abandoned and partially destroyed flat, and certainly the first of many to be ruined by Sherlock Holmes.
He closed his eyes, childishly trying to block out the sight of an ever-buzzing downtown London passing outside the dirty window. He forced all thoughts of the country he swore to protect out of his mind, and instead focused contemplatively to the sounds of several members of his taskforce wordlessly clearing out the apartment. He listened to the slow trickle of glass being swept up, of small bags of powder being collected into larger bags to await their eminent doom, and the soft thud of books being boxed away, not to be destroyed like most of Sherlock's possessions, but to be preserved. Taken to him later in the clinic if he so wished.
Mycroft heard something quietly slide up to his feet. The scrape of plastic against the dust covered wooden floor. He opened his eyes curiously. There was a small, unmarked package in front of him; it must have been accidentally kicked over by a worker. He bent to pick it up carefully, not knowing what it may contain.
He paused, turning it over in his hands.
"Ah,"
He should have known. Sherlock was poisoning his body with so many other substances, of course cigarettes would be a logical step in the chain of a slow suicide.
Filled with a sudden disgust, he threw the package into a clear plastic bag marked;
'DESTROY'