Hey, there! This is my first forray into the Sherlock fandom, and I'm kind of nervous about this. This little plot bunny has been tinkering and festering at the back of my head for the longest time, so I decided to finally scratch that itch and type it all out. What you'll see below are the results. Well, the prologue to the results, at any rate. Please tell me what you think of it. Reviews, criticisms, thoughts, advice...lay it all on me!
Mycroft Holmes slowly sank down onto the carpet, the heavy box he was carrying dropped down with a muffled thump of finality. Such was the impact that an errant stethoscope, ancient looking but nevertheless well cared for, bounced off from the box onto the floor.
He buried his face into his hands and sighed, somehow managing to convey more grief in that one exhalation of breath than any full-blown wail or gnashing of teeth. Perhaps it was to do with the fact that, even to a perfect stranger, Mycroft Holmes was the epitome of the classic British stiff upper lip. He was the man who, if a nuclear bomb were to detonate in his living room, would merely raise an inquisitive eyebrow, before incinerating into dust. Probably. There were whispers about Mycroft Holmes from all four corners of the world. Most of the whisperers privately agreed they wouldn't trust him to stay dead if his ashes were locked in a strong box then dropped into the deepest depths of the open seas.
Bending forward, his back creaking in protest, Mycroft began the arduous task of sifting through the belongings: a chipped mug and a wooden cane here, a magnifying glass and a test tube there. Some of the buried items (like a much abused deerstalker) made him smile, and others (like a rumpled packet of cigarettes) made him frown. The worst though, were things like a soft, well-worn blue scarf, which made his heart clench sharply with still fresh grief.
Buried the all the way underneath, however, was a rather thick looking leather bound book. Curious, Mycroft stretched down and carefully lifted it up for inspection. It was a photo album; obviously the work of the doctor. His brother had never needed photographs to remember any particular event at any point of his life. Arguing with him was a tiresome process; where grievances decades long past would be brought out and dusted down and used as bitter projectiles against whoever he was arguing with. Which was Mycroft himself, more often than not, but since he readily employed the same tactics himself he was hardly at a disadvantage.
Were this a tediously predictable movie, or a fanciful blog post by the good doctor, this would be the part where Mycroft carefully blew the dust off the photo album. However, if a little battered-looking from age, it was perfectly clean and well cared for. Again, no doubt the work of the doctor. Dusting, like all manner of housekeeping, was obviously a concept long deleted from his brother's mind palace; a cavernous mental structure which would have been no doubt unspeakably dusty and filthy as well, had it not been for the persistent efforts of one good army doctor who patiently scrubbed out the sticky cobwebs of hatred and isolation and the cloying grime of impending madness and self-destruction from those cold stone walls of intellect.
People talk breathlessly about Sherlock Holmes, the legend, the deliverer of justice and truth, the hero, but rarely did people take note of the quiet, steady man hovering unobtrusively but unwaveringly by his side. His brother took this as yet more irrefutable evidence of stupidity of the general population. Mycroft privately agreed.
With a steady hand and a deep breath, Mycroft carefully flicked open the front cover and stared bemusedly at the first picture.