From Madam'zelleGiry - Black velvet band
The staff at Whitehall tiptoed past Mycroft Holmes for the first week. Their fact-checker, if he could in fact be called such; his role was so unique as to defy naming, was notoriously reticent. He spoke to almost no one in the office, outside of performing his duties, and invited no intimacy. Even the most highly placed Ministers were apt to refer to him as "Mr. Holmes" in hushed, respectful voices.
After the first week, a few brave secretaries who spent more time around Mycroft Holmes's small, neat office dared to offer their sympathies on the death that had been splashed across every morning and evening paper for the past week.
On the whole, Mycroft wished they would stop. Quite apart from finding the constant interruption to his routine irritating, and the sympathy they offered frankly overbearing, it was a constant reminder of the lie he had to tell. It was surely bad enough that he had to read through the highly sensationalized newspaper accounts of his brother's demise in Switzerland – they were piled in a neat stack on his desk, all bearing headlines such as "Famed Detective Dies At Enemy's Hands!" "Britain's Greatest Crime Fighter Given the Drop at Last!" Even worse, he had to do so knowing that a small stack of telegrams from the "deceased" were stacked next to the newspapers, all full of instructions, pleas for money or letters of introduction, reports as to the state of affairs in Italy, and further instructions.
Confound it, Sherlock, could you not have found a less dramatic way to die than falling off a cliff? Mycroft thought wearily, as the third secretary in a row stuck his head into the office to give Mycroft his condolences. He finally packed away his things and headed to the Diogenes Club, where at least he would be assured of a good meal and blessed silence.
It had been a week since Mycroft had last visited the Diogenes; a lapse that was met with incredulity from members who could not remember a day going by where Mycroft did not walk through the doors precisely at a quarter to five. As he took his usual seat with a sense of a return to normalcy, he became aware of being watched. He wondered for a brief moment if this is what Sherlock had felt like, prior to his meeting with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls before shaking his head. These flights of fancy were highly illogical and disturbing to his peace of mind. There were none of Moriarty's gang left, save the tiger hunter who was now chasing his brother across the Empire. At the moment, Mycroft rather thought they could chase each other to the shores of Australia if they wanted, and good riddance to them.
He looked up to see several members looking askance at him, and realized that was where this feeling must have come from. He wondered if he looked at all different, or if they were expecting him to do something unusual when he caught sight of one of the servers, dressed in his usual uniform, but with the addition of a black armband on his upper arm. Mycroft sighed. Of course. He had entirely forgotten he would be expected to mourn. Sherlock was – is still, Mycroft reminded himself – his brother and his only immediate family. The standard high mourning would have to apply. He shook his head in exasperation; such a ridiculously formal custom, all because Her Majesty was incapable of moving on after the consort's death. Mycroft did not pretend to understand the motives behind it, but recognized the necessity of not causing any stir surrounding Sherlock's "death." All the proper forms would have to be attended to.
The next morning, Mycroft found himself in a shop which specialized in mourning attire rather than seated at his desk in Whitehall.
"May I help you, sir?" the young attendant asked.
"I find myself in need of mourning attire," Mycroft said. "An armband, perhaps, and the usual jet black cufflinks." He waved his hand carelessly, not caring how much money he would have to spend or what quality the items were. This was all for show, after all. A necessary ruse to ensure that no one would realize Sherlock was actually alive.
"We have these armbands," the attendant said, showing Mycroft a selection of black velvet armbands from a box. "Which-?"
"Yes, yes, any of those will do," Mycroft said impatiently. He found the act of picking out mourning for his brother more disturbing than he had thought, and had to continually remind himself that Sherlock was not dead. He did not remember finding it so difficult when their mother had died. Although she had passed away after a long illness, and both her rational sons had expected the outcome for months beforehand. Perhaps it was that he found using the forms of genuine grief for his brother's outlandish purposes to be distasteful, yes, that was it. As little as he may have understood it, Mycroft accepted that wearing mourning was a way to grieve a loss, and many people found it comforting. He should not be using it while he had no one to grieve. He was unsure if he should ever use it; he was uncomfortably aware that his own feelings did not run as deep as did those of others, and was unsure if he would be capable of mourning for Sherlock, if he were truly gone.
As if he needed a reminder of this, as he paid and began to leave, Mycroft nearly walked directly into Dr. Watson, who was perhaps the last person he wished to see at the moment. One look at the doctor's face told Mycroft all he needed to know. Dr. Watson was thinner than he had been, more haggard. There were circles under his eyes that said he had not slept, probably since that day at the falls. His eyes were dull and his step was heavy. Mycroft actually attempted to hide his own armband, now that he was faced with the image of true grief.
"Mr. Holmes, forgive me, I did not see you there," Dr. Watson said tiredly. Mycroft thought that this was the surest sign of something wrong; he was not exactly an easy man to miss.
"That is quite all right, Doctor," Mycroft said. "I suspect you and I are here for the same purpose."
"Yes," Dr. Watson said heavily. "I intended to come and see you, to offer my sincere condolences. I am so sorry, Mr. Holmes."
"Doctor," Mycroft said. "It is I who should offer you sympathy. I do not think I grieve for him even half as much as you do." Or at all, since he is not dead! he longed to shout. Mycroft Holmes may not have understood the finer emotions, but one thing he was sure of was that what his brother was doing to his only friend was cruel, beyond what even he would have believed Sherlock capable of. Mycroft smiled sardonically. "My brother and I have never had a deep connection. We are too similar. But you, Doctor, lost a brother that day as well."
Dr. Watson looked surprised. "I – I confess I did think of him that way. I would not presume to think the feeling was reciprocated-"
Mycroft frowned. Did his brother have no care for his former lodger? Did he expect unwavering loyalty with nothing in return? Oh, Sherlock, how is it I have greater knowledge of the heart and the emotions than you do? Mycroft thought. Out loud, he said, "Let me assure you, Doctor, it was."
Dr. Watson's eyes widened, and Mycroft smiled. "It is a curious thing, is it not, that for some men, sharing one's thoughts and feelings is as natural as breathing? Such men do much for their friends as a matter of course, while for others, the simple act of being near someone else requires great effort, only to be expended for those who are truly essential." He raised an eyebrow. "I was not the one my brother lived with all these years, Doctor. I am certain he could have done so with no one else."
Dr. Watson looked slightly taken aback, and then flushed red. "I – thank you, Mr. Holmes."
"Now, I must return to Whitehall," Mycroft said, wanting to return to his ordinary routine. "Do take care of yourself, Doctor." he added. One of Sherlock's many instructions had been to watch out for Dr. Watson, something Mycroft would have done in any case.
But he would be sure to let Sherlock know, whether by letter or telegram or by waiting until he saw his infernally overdramatic brother in person, that his "plan" had all but destroyed Dr. Watson's happiness. Mycroft ripped the armband from his jacket as he left the shop, no longer caring who noticed his lack of mourning. Let those who truly felt grief and sadness mourn; he had no right to put on so hypocritical a show. To do otherwise would be to make a mockery of the very real suffering Sherlock (and by extension, Mycroft) was putting his friends through. He wanted no part of it.
Yet, when Mycroft returned to his desk, he stared at the photograph of his brother that was the front page of the Times and thought, Hurry home, Sherlock. End this ruse, before it is too late and you have lost everything you hold dear.