His face was a mask of indifference. His hands, however, betrayed him, and he cursed himself. He fumbled with his tie, swearing and muttering under his breath, growing every more frustrated, feeling the walls of his emotional state beginning to crumble. Suddenly, a soothing voice was near him, speaking quietly.
"Let me help you," Molly said. He let her push his hands aside, taking the heavy silk in her hands. Deft fingers wove his tie into a Windsor knot, her large eyes were red from crying, and she worried her bottom lip.
"Where is Sherlock?" Mycroft asked finally.
"He's sitting with your father at the moment, he sent me to help you."
"You should go to him," Molly looked up at her brother in-law. Sherlock would give way to his emotions in private with her later, for now, he was doing his best to keep himself in check. When he was ready he would come to her. Mycroft, however, would go to no one. He would keep his emotions bottled in, slip into the ice-man again and be the cold, heartless man everyone thought he was. "Please," he said quietly, and stepped away from her. "Please excuse me now, thank you, but I need to-" he almost faltered. "I need to finish getting ready, I cannot-" Molly watched him, her gaze was steady. Before his voice could break he turned away to face his desk. He shut the cover of one of the open books, lining the spine up with the edge of the desk calendar.
"No," she said, and her answer surprised and frustrated him. "No I won't leave." Truly she feared for him. For the first time in her life, Molly Hooper Holmes was afraid for Mycroft. He turned away again, fussing with the buttons of his waistcoat, trying to do them up. His hands shook and he could not, so with a grunt he left them half-buttoned, turning back to the desk. Suddenly the pens were all out of order. The letters needed sorting, his day planner was jumbled and it was all wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Nothing was right today. How could he put up a front at this sodding circus if he couldn't even keep his desk organized? Things were seldom right when you had to bury someone. His hands flew over the papers, trying to find some semblance. He yanked at his tie, feeling for the first time it was choking him. He scattered his papers in one childish attempt to clear the desk, giving way to his frustrations. He sank down in the chair with a groan, forcing out a sob before he covered his mouth, ashamed of himself. Head in his hands, he shut his eyes tightly, trying to breathe evenly.
He recalled the telephone call he'd received two days ago.
"Mr. Holmes, there's been an accident," Anthea's voice was soft. "Your mother's car was hit by a lorry, she died on impact."
"The driver of the lorry?" he heard himself ask, not recognizing his own voice.
"The driver was suffering a seizure," Anthea replied. "He died as well."
"Send flowers to the family."
"Shall I call Sherlock?"
"No, I will." Mycroft had hung up the phone, then picked up the receiver again, dialing his brother. Sherlock had responded much the same, but he could hear Molly on the other end, gasp as Sherlock related her the news and then she'd begun to cry softly. He knew well enough as soon as he hung up that Molly would draw Sherlock into her arms and he would mourn. Mycroft could not and would not give way to his emotions. He wouldn't. Caring was not an advantage. It helped no one.
Suddenly, his sister in-law was there, holding him, and he struggled for a moment, startled. She still held him, combing her fingers through his hair, soothing him. His cheeks were wet, and his arms were grasping hers of their own accord, returning her embrace.
"It's alright," she soothed. "It's alright, Mycroft," her voice was soft and warm, she pet him almost the same as his mother did when he was a boy. "You've been strong for so long," she murmured. "It's alright to let go, even for a moment," she said quietly and actually kissed the top of his head. Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet, out of her arms. He straightened his tie, and buttoned his waistcoat properly. Molly turned and picked up the papers, setting the desk to rights. Her black silk dress rustled as she moved, her arm instinctively cradled her belly. At five months pregnant it was harder to hide her baby bump now. Mycroft was reminded of his mother's weekly call, telling him of her excitement to be a grandmother, and how she'd always wanted to be; now she never would.
"If you would go to my father," Mycroft said his voice somewhat hoarse. He cleared his throat, and then spoke again. "I would much appreciate it."
"Yes I will," she answered. He didn't respond when she hugged him again, but he didn't push her away. She left him there, and as she was shutting the door, he realized she was wearing the pearls his mother gave her.
At the graveside, as the coffin was lowered, Molly was clutching Sherlock's arm, tears streaming down her cheeks. Sherlock stared into the grave, anger, hurt, frustration at the helplessness he felt washed over his face. On Molly's other arm, she held their father's hand, her fingers laced in his, squeezing tightly. Sigurd Holmes watched the coffin being settled into the grave, for the first time unsure of how to feel. He was holding a nosegay of violets and lavender to lay on the stone after. The receiving line formed and in a short while everyone had kissed each Holmes or shook their hands. Molly stood by Sigurd after, who was staring at the grave while Sherlock and Mycroft took a short walk away from everyone. Molly knew it was so they could mourn in their own way. From where she stood, she could see them under the boughs of the trees, the tip of a cigarette glowed, then another. She turned back to Sigurd, squeezing his hand. He bent, placing the flowers on the grave.
"There's rosemary," he murmured, "that's for remembrance, pray you, love, remember," Molly bit her lip, blinking back tears. She linked her pinky with his, a silly tradition she'd had with her own father before he died.
"And there is pansies," she said, ever so softly and Sigurd looked at her, startled. She returned his gaze, a bittersweet smile hung on her lips. "That's for thoughts."
"Did Molly fix your tie?" Sherlock asked as they stood beneath the trees, some distance from the grave. He took a drag of his cigarette. "It's crooked."
"So's yours," Mycroft replied.
"She always ties it crooked,"
"All this can't be good for the baby," Mycroft said. He meant the day's events. Sherlock nodded.
"She handles it well; she's been through it before, losing a mother."
"Mm."
"She's good for father," Sherlock looked at his wife, who was holding his father's hand. Despite the tears in Sigurd's eyes, he was smiling just the barest of smiles, taking comfort in his daughter in-law's words. "He reminds her of her own father, before…"
"Yes he would, wouldn't he?" Mycroft said. "Artist mentality and what have you."
"If…you wish to come to dinner," Sherlock said slowly. "Molly has fixed a meal."
"I don't need pity."
"No," Sherlock agreed. "But Molly informs me we are a family, despite what we think, and in times of loss, families gather together."
"What for?"
They both looked off in the distance, actually stopping to think.
"I have no idea," Sherlock said finally. He flicked the end of his cigarette. "But she's made some kind of dinner and cooked entirely too much. She says cooking distracts her from grief."
"I wouldn't want to intrude."
"Mrs. Hudson will be there, and Greg and Anthea, as will John and Mary, which means they will have Ella with them." A pause. "It…would be agreeable with me, if you came as well." He wouldn't look at his older brother. "Please." Mycroft put out his cigarette.
"These things don't agree with me."
"You need low tar," Sherlock replied.
"Mm. Don't make that a habit," he said, nodding to the cigarette in his brother's hand.
"Just this once," he replied. Molly wouldn't have him smoking anyway, not while she was pregnant. Mycroft opened his umbrella, feeling the clouds open up. He started for his car parked on the far side of the cemetery. "See you at Baker Street." He called.
"If you wish it, brother-mine."
Molly was picking her way through the grass to where he was, Sigurd on her arm.
"Are you ready? It's starting to rain," she said.
"Yes," he dropped his cigarette, stepping on it before giving her his arm, casting a glance to his father who suddenly seemed old and haggard. He briefly rested his hand over her belly, feeling the fluttering under his fingertips of their child. "You aren't too tired?"
"I'm alright for now," she said. "I'll sit down when we get home. Your father wants to show me a passage in Hamlet," Sherlock looked at his father, who only barely shrugged.
"She knows something of Shakespeare," he said meekly. While Violet Holmes had been a mathematician, Sigurd was a professor of English, well-versed in Shakespeare, and even for a time worked at The Globe Theatre before he married Violet. He was known for quoting long speeches and passages of the Bard, often in public. Today, Sherlock would not voice his chagrin at his father's play-acting, as it seemed to distract from the grief they all felt.
That evening, the group that gathered at 221b was quiet. Sigurd accepted the plate that was handed to him, murmuring his thanks. Molly listened to him tell story after story about Violet, how they started out, when they were married, how she used to fret for Mycroft and Sherlock and how she feared they would make no friends. He patted her hand, unable to find words for how grateful he was that she had found a place in Sherlock's life.
"Will you be staying here, father?" Sherlock asked. "Spare room and all," he nodded to the stairs and Sigurd shook his head.
"No, your brother put me in a room above the Savoy," the Holmes attitude of mourning came over him as he set the dessert plate aside, getting to his feet with a grunt. He kissed Molly goodnight, shaking Sherlock and Mycroft's hand before he suddenly embraced them both.
"We will meet you at the train station tomorrow," Sherlock promised and Sigurd nodded, agreeing.
"We can always go with you, back home, for a few days if you want, if you aren't ready," Molly offered and he said he would think about it. Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a look that meant they knew it had not occurred to their father, and he would never agree to it. Sigurd would mourn privately.
Shortly after he left, Mrs. Hudson bid them goodnight. Mary and John helped put the kitchen to rights, packing away the left overs, promising to come downstairs to make their lunches when Molly realized she had perhaps made too much. They kissed her and Sherlock goodnight before heading upstairs.
"Thank you for arranging this," Mycroft said, Molly seeing him to the door. "It is appreciated, even if we Holmes aren't very good at showing it."
"I've learned to look beyond the outward show," Molly answered with a shrug. "Are you sure you'll be alright?"
"I am…fine," it was hard to say those words, harder still to make them convincing. Clearly his sister in-law did not believe him.
"Come back, if you ever need someone to talk at, brother-mine," she used the term he and Sherlock shared, and he looked up sharply. Rising on tiptoe, she pressed his cheek. "Don't keep this grief in, Mycroft, you do no favors to anyone, least of all yourself."
"Thank you, for the thought," he paused a long while. "I will think about it."
"I know what that means," she said, a tinge of bite in her voice. "Don't lie to me, Mycroft Holmes."
"Forgive me," he said, and he meant it. "We are not…ordinary, Molly. We do not take grief as most people do."
"I know you don't," she replied. "But don't treat it as if everything is the same. I've been through it before, you can't hide it forever, and you can't go on pretending that things can be the same. Things are not the same, they never will be again." Her words were difficult to take, but he accepted them for what they were. She was right. He accepted Molly hugging him again, this time promising to come to tea in a day or so. He shut the door behind him and she started back up the stairs.
Sherlock stood near the window; he'd picked up his violin, playing a mournful composition.
"That's very beautiful," Molly said quietly.
"Did you see Mycroft off?"
"Yes."
"I hope he didn't bite too hard."
"He's licking his own wounds," Molly said, crossing the room. "Is that for your mother?" she asked, speaking of the piece he was playing. He hummed in response. She went to him then, slipping her arms around his middle as he continued to play quietly, her cheek against his back.
On the sidewalk, just outside of his car, Mycroft stood looking up at the windows to 221b, listening to his brother's composition for their mother's memory. He recalled the speech his father often sang or quoted from one of his favorite plays, and he couldn't stop himself from uttering:
"Midnight, assist our moan, help us to sigh and groan,
Heavily, heavily. Graves, yawn and yield your dead
Till death be uttered, heavily, heavily."
The light in 221b was put out, the violin stopped playing and Mycroft at last turned away to the car.