More headlines. With a small sigh, he returns the newspaper to its table and stares at it for a moment. Face unreadable, Mycroft Holmes turns to leave. Once back in his office, he gathers up his things. The secretary watches him leave, swinging his umbrella without the usual spirit.
As he's driving home, the rain starts to pour down in sheets. The sky darkens and the wheels of his car spray puddles, gray droplets splattering glass. A drenched mother and son walk hugging the buildings to avoid some of the rain. The little boy makes for a puddle, but his mother tugs him back. For just that moment, Mycroft sees his face. Angular, with a mess of black curls.
He shakes his head and returns his eyes to the road. But little reminders are everywhere. Once he nears the hospital, his fingers clench on the wheel and he turns off his route. The car trundles down the street, toward a place he hadn't been since the funeral.
The funeral of the little brother he tried so hard to protect. Mycroft had failed him when it mattered most.
All that was left now was a grave. A shiny, black grave dripping rain onto the grass. Water pooled in the etched letters: Sherlock Holmes.
There he stands, even when the rain begins to chill him to the core. Staring down at what was left of his younger brother.
Slowly, he steps forward and leans his umbrella softly against the stone.
It was too late to keep the grave dry.
Just as Mycroft had before been too late to save his brother's life.
