The courtyard was a joyless beast. Indeed, it was not where she would've chosen to while away this damp Thursday afternoon, but it was certainly an improvement upon the bespoke private hire room she had recently escaped from.
She had dutifully stood to attention next to Mycroft, receiving teary messages of condolence and shaking hands. The conga line of mourners quickly dissipated and made a b-line for the bar, freeing up Faylinn to turn her nose up at the buffet, reapply lipstick and find the nearest fire escape. As she left, she blatantly ignored Mycroft's non verbal plea for help - he was tied in to a conversation with a couple whom she didn't recognise (at least not from the back of their heads, although the cut of his suit had Oxbridge written all over it).
Her absence would go unnoticed; the gathering would churn along without her, behind her back. She didn't have a role to play there anyway. Her role was to be played here, off stage with an all too familiar shape between her index and middle finger.
Faylinn had faced what was perhaps her biggest challenge of the day so far when an extremely shaken Greg Lestrade had approached her outside the church. It had already taken a great deal of effort on Molly Hooper's part to convince the detective that he was welcome at the service and he was incredibly conscious about the possibility of over staying his welcome. It was for this reason that he had taken his leave before the wake. A real shame, as Faylinn could've done with a slightly less overbearing smoking partner.
"Come here, kiddo" Greg said, voice slightly hoarse as he pulled her in to a trademark bear hug. He had taken her by surprise, as up until this point most of the guests had simply floated around her, grey and black figures in outfits that had been pulled out of the depths of their wardrobes and dusted off especially for today. Greg was the first person to actually greet her, one of the few on the steps of the church that knew who she was.
She relaxed in to him as the intuition that told her to lash out and resist melted away. He'd lost weight, most likely because of the stress brought about by the threat of dismissal from the force, but even so he smothered her easily. There was a void in the space next to her shoulder, where traditionally Greg's police badge would be tucked in to his inside pocket. She also noted the loss of a small silver button that had been fashioned in to a keying - straight from the uniform of his grandfather, a present offered to him when he started work at The Yard. The suit he wore, once slightly too tight, was now a relaxed fit. He hadn't worn it for weeks. Even from within the envelope of his arms, it was easy to tell that he hadn't yet returned to work.
Finally having been released, she finally got a decent view of him. His forehead was more lined than she remembered and grey circles that almost touched his cheekbones told a story of endless sleepless nights. This was the face of a down trodden man. Was this something Mycroft and Sherlock had accounted for in their stupid little plan? Faylinn suspected that she knew the answer.
"Hey Greg. How are you?" Of course, the answer was clear before the copper even opened his mouth.
"Oh... you know. Just trying to muddle through, really. I... I just can't believe it. It doesn't feel real, does it?"
He swept his palm over his eyes then ran his fingers through his greying hair, which further contributed to his dishevelled look. Faylinn failed to come up with anything more than 'no'.
"Anyway, it's not about me, is it?" He paused to look her straight in the eye, grabbing the top of her arms with warm, reliable hands. "I'm so sorry, kid. After everything else... you don't deserve this. No one deserves this."
Thankfully, Lestrade made it clear that he did not expect a reply. Instead, he pulled her in to a second hug. Faylinn wanted to push him away, tell him that he was the one that deserved to be absorbed in to a reassuring hug, not her. His situation was the one that warranted sympathy, not hers. But alas, she restrained herself and stuck to the script, accepting his solace and pity with a great deal of guilt.
She could relax when she was alone. Eyes on the pebble being propelled over the concrete by her patent heels, she pondered how many families had stood in this void, a secret oasis hidden from the city. Some would have smoked to remember their loved ones, others to forget their troubles. Faylinn couldn't decide which category would be preferable. The pomp and ceremony had placed her firmly in a reflective mood. The smoke was helping to shake off the 'what ifs', the 'maybes' brought about by her eldest brother's tribute.
Footsteps on gravel. Almost impossible to decipher. She estimated the height of their owner - just over six foot - and accounted for the likelihood of them carrying a cane.
As the man rounded the corner, she learnt that her senses had betrayed her. It was not a cane. It was an umbrella.
"Ah, sister mine. Fancy seeing you here."
Faylinn puffed her cheeks out. Predicting a lecture regarding the smoking, she made a pre-emptive move to lean against the Victorian red brick, allowing it to take her weight. Wide blue eyes stared up at him expectantly. Long dark lashes, which had proven their persuasive abilities since the age of thirteen, were wafted in his direction. Mycroft wasn't sure whether she knew she was pulling that face.
He held her gaze, unfolding the claret and white package in his hand with the use of instinct as opposed to eyesight. He pulled out a cigarette and inverted it before replacing it back in to the tightly packed carton. Faylinn had seen this ritual preformed by both of her brothers, and simply assumed that it was a habit passed on from their father. A strange legacy, but a legacy nonetheless.
A mound of ash had formed in her right hand, leaving her to regret the waste. She flicked it to the floor as Mycroft finally lit up. The 'leader of the free world' had his back to her now, like a child shunned with nothing but the cracks in the plaster board for company. He cradled the flame in his hands, protecting it from the breeze.
They allowed themselves to bask in the quiet air that threatened rain. Clearly even Mycroft had exhausted his plentiful conversational reserves. It was hard to blame him. Faylinn's had begun to run dry hours previously.
She hesitated in selecting a second smoke, as this confined space didn't seem to have room for two intellectual egos. It was very much Mycroft's way to ruin the fun by digging out secret hideaways. The same had happened when she was just six, in the library at home, where she and Sherlock had gone unnoticed for almost forty eight hours. It was funny to think of that room now - even after everything that had happened, all the years that had passed, the Aladdin's cave was still tucked away behind it's secret doorway, unchanged and riddled with dust.
Unlike the man next to her, she was able to light up with just one flick of the lighter - a useful skill, but not exactly one that sat comfortably on her CV. Again, both were content and conversation seemed unnecessary. Their ears pricked immediately as two muffled voices grew closer, clearer.
"Hello?" Mrs Scott called around the corner.
Rabbits in headlights.
Spinning around to face the old woman, who had now stepped in to full view, Faylinn and Mycroft scrambled to hide their cigarettes behind their backs. She tried desperately to limit the guilt that threatened to blush her cheeks, hoping that Mycroft was doing the same. It wasn't lost on Faylinn that the British Government was scared of his old housekeeper.
Mrs Scott, who was joined by her silent husband, frowned at the siblings. The pink blemishes around her eyes confirmed that she was fully submerged in the falsehood, but they did not detract from her ability to command the space.
"Are you two smoking?"
"No!" Mycroft blurted.
"It was Mycroft!" The youngest held her breath, ensuring that ornate swirls of smoke would not give the game away.
Mrs Scott looked between them, suspicious but nevertheless happy to take the bait. Her husband stood behind her, nothing more than an obedient accessory; it was impossible to know what he was thinking as even after twenty five years, Faylinn was yet to see his facial expression change.
"Well, we're going to have to shoot off. We shall catch the next train home." She turned to look at Mr Scott, who nodded in confirmation. This gave Faylinn a vital window to release a small grey cloud from her lips. Both Holmeses visibly tensed as Mrs Scott approached them, inevitably expecting them to step in to her open arms. Faylinn took an automatic step back (societal and familial rules be damned). This gesture was, rather amazingly, enough to deter the housekeeper, who settled in the no man's land between the siblings and her husband. Faylinn suspected that the 'trauma' of the day was what prevented her from asking questions, even if she recognised that something was out of place. They were excused from the usual inspections.
"I just wanted to say that if you need anything, anything at all, then all you need to do is ask. I've left some cake for you both inside. I think you need it - look at you, you're wasting away!" The youngest had to fight extremely hard not to smile at that. Behind her back, she clawed at her knuckles and bit the side of her mouth in an attempt to mollify her own anatomy. She could hear Sherlock's snigger from here.
Turning to make her exit, Mrs Scott fiddled with the lapels of her husband's suit jacket, matriarchal energy fizzing out and not allowing her to rest. They collected themselves.
"I really am sorry. Sherlock will be sorely missed." There were more prepared words to come, but her upper lip quivered; she looped her arm around Mr Scott's and squeezed it tight. Faylinn glanced towards Mycroft for reassurance of her own, feeling helpless in the face of such sorrow. After exchanging nods and brief understanding looks, the siblings were left alone once more.
"Remind me again why we invited all of these people?" Faylinn sighed.
"You don't invite people to a funeral, Faylinn. You simply inform them that the funeral will be taking place and they decide whether or not the wish to attend." He replied, recoiling slightly as he recognised the condescension in his tone. "Although I do agree with the sentiment behind your question." He corrected, making a shameless attempt at regaining favour. Ever since the scrap in his office, Mycroft had felt a responsibility to tiptoe around his baby sister. He had not expected her to feel so offended about her exclusion from LAZARUS, and felt a certain brotherly obligation to prevent the rift between them from widening further.
"When I die, feel free to just dump my body in the sea and be done with it." Faylinn added, eyes glazed over and clearly drowning in her own thoughts.
The corners of Mycroft's lips were teased upwards in remembrance. The young woman in front of him was, in fact, not the first person to have made that exact request in the past 24 hours. Sherlock had said the same thing, sitting on the littered floor of his living room, wafting newspaper around noisily as he was incapable of speaking without gesticulating. The eldest Holmes responded in the same way now as he had done then:
"Noted. Although, your request does require you to shuffle off this mortal coil before I do. Even with your tendency to go looking for trouble, that is statistically unlikely, is it not? Plus, you rank up there in the top two most stubborn people I know. It wouldn't surprise me if you were to cling to life in order to 'beat' me."
His sister smiled, recognising the truth in this statement.
"Well, just keep it in mind."
"Hmm. One funeral at a time, if you don't mind." Mycroft spoke in to the ground, hiding his face.
At this point, both cigarettes were long gone and it was clear that both were waiting to survey the other's next move. Neither wanted to take the plunge back in to the world of sympathy and mingling. The cryptographer had managed to avoid John Watson thus far and did not want to stumble in to his path at this late stage in the day. Even after working undercover for months, she still felt uncomfortable with this particular lie. It was too close to home. If she wasn't careful, it could consume her.
Upon finally reaching her hotel room, she collapsed back on to her bed, high heels almost puncturing the duvet. She let out a breathe that had seemingly been held all day. She was restless. Another soulless, clinically clean room that allowed her mind to stray and remember too much and run away with itself. Grabbing her coat from the armchair in the corner, she raced for the door, determined to get lost in a city she knew like the back of her hand.
I have reworked this chapter SO many times. It turned to be something very different to what I originally intended to write. I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.
Results day is almost upon us and I should imagine I will be doing a lot of writing to try and take my mind of it. Please do let me know if you have any prompts/feedback/questions.
Thanks for reading!
