Mycroft Makes a Museum
Author's Notes: As usual, I set out to write one thing, and end up with another. Not part of my The Great Hiatus/Curtain Call universe. Chapters are more like scene breaks. I'm too lazy to invent my own Mrs Hudson, so she is Rosalie Williams. Anything you recognize isn't mine.
The letter was waiting for him when he returned to the Diogenes Club at precisely fourteen minutes to five, the same time he had always returned from his office in Whitehall. It lay sealed in its envelope on a silver salver, placed carefully beside the ashtray on the small table beside his customary armchair. There could be no mistake of its recipient, for it was well known that the seat belonged to Mr Mycroft Holmes, and it was this man's face which was currently twisted into a frown.
The fleshy folds of Mycroft's face contorted and rippled as he glared at the envelope, everything in his expression revealing how much he resented the break in his routine. It was 4:46pm, and according to his custom, he should be sinking into his armchair, lighting a cigarette, and perusing the periodicals. However, for the second time in a just over a week, he had been interrupted by letter.
The first, delivered on the eighth of May, had been from Dr John H. Watson, MD, a friend and colleague of Sherlock's. Mycroft had met the man three years prior, in connection to the trouble with Mr Melas and the Greek conspiracy. The good doctor, compelled by his moral uprightness and sense of duty, begged to inform him of the circumstances of Sherlock's death. A Swiss coroner's report and newspaper clippings were enclosed. The handwriting, revealing the emotions of the writer, trembled slightly, but pressed inexorably onwards. Watson hoped, that as the only surviving relative, Mycroft would know what to do with Sherlock's estate. His own journey back from Switzerland would yet take some days, but that he would help with arranging the affairs of a man who had become such a dear friend to him and a revered hero to so many others.
The doctor's character and intentions were in no doubt, but it was all most inconvenient. The Crown was dealing with issues of a pressing nature, and then there was the sensitive matter of the stonemasons in South America. He had Sherlock's notarised wishes, but without a body, there could hardly be a funeral. This was no time to deal with landladies, solicitors, and property. The letter was returned to its envelope and placed in the inner pocket of Mycroft's smoking jacket.
Patting his chest absently with one heavy hand, Mycroft Holmes reached with the other to the letter on the miniature tray. Tearing the top fold with a paper-knife, he extracted the contents. Inside the cheap envelope with an Italian postmark was a sullied playbill from a performance in a Florentine theatre. Mycroft squinted at the title of the entertainment. The name was worthy of any East End music hall: it was called, "The Vanishing Act." He did not have to examine the envelope or its contents further to know that there would not be any more clues to the identity of its sender.
This communication was a risk; and any action that would result from it would equally be a risk. If it were noted, deciphered, and understood, there would be lives and livelihoods at risk. Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyebrows contracting in calculation. The first letter could be discarded. The second letter must be attended to. And yet, there was the coal-price report to look into…