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Letters from the Dead: Prologue

Mycroft sighed, uncomfortable with the tedious task his father had put upon his 21-year-old shoulders. He had never been close to his mother, had never really understood her. They had never been close, no, that was Sherlock's position.

Sherlock was the youngest, and their mother's favorite. He was the one she had doted on, the one she took a special interest in.

It was fitting, in a way. Mycroft looked more like his father then his mother, though they shared some similar features. But Sherlock, Sherlock had been his mother's child through and through. The same high cheekbones, skinny frame (it helped that neither of them ate much), curly black hair, striking blue eyes.

Mycroft wasn't bitter. No, he enjoyed the attention he garnered from his father, the advice and help he received as he entered British politics.

It was just awkward and tedious to have to clean out his mother's bedroom after she was gone. Who knew she had so many papers in her closet? Most of them academic, though some were obscure things that even a smart man like Mycroft could not understand. Diagrams of weird machines or models of something that looked celestial, but Mycroft wasn't sure. He didn't care either way.

Hours passed, her closet was empty. Papers stacked in neat piles in the center of the spacious room, her clothes in bags next to the piles. Mycroft moved on to his mother's bed-side table, whose drawers were, no doubt, filled with either trinkets or even more papers.

It was the latter.

Dearest Sherlock, the top page said, inked in a shaky hand that was still recognizably his mothers. Mycroft glanced at the open door, knowing that he probably shouldn't be reading past that. In fact, he should have probably put it in the piles with the rest of the papers. But curiosity gripped Mycroft, and he began to read.

Dearest Sherlock,

You have known for a very long time that this day would come. You knew it before I did, somehow.

Because of this, I want to tell you something. Several things, in fact.

The following pages were written for my own amusement, ways of remembering memories that would quickly fade or never faded at all, but everything grows blurry in my mind now as the medicine affects me.

Now they are for you, Sherlock, my son. Remember them.

Remember me.

Please.

Violet Holmes

Mycroft shook his head, sighed, and gathered up the pages out of the drawer. It wasn't his place; these were not meant for him. He padded down the hall, past his father's room and his own, until he stood before his younger brothers door.

The door itself was normal, but what lay beyond it was anything but. Just barely cracked open, Mycroft could hardly see the patterned wallpaper behind the large amount of papers and posters dotting the wall.

Not bothering to knock, the elder Holmes brother slowly opened the door and entered the younger brother's room.

A marble statue does not do justice to the stillness Sherlock Holmes held himself with. It was apparent the fourteen year old had not moved from his upright position on his bed since their mother's funeral almost a week ago.

Instead of trying to "wake up" his little brother, Mycroft put down the papers next to him.

"Whenever you want to, you can read these. They're for you, from her," Mycroft whispered, turning. "Don't forget to eat something, eventually."

The elder brother barely heard the younger's response as he left the room.

"Thanks."