A/N: Standard disclaimer: anything recognizable does not belong to me.
The prompt for this one was 221 words on the first time John meets Mummy.
There weren't many people at the funeral. Mycroft was there, obviously. Lestrade was, too, although he had the decency not to approach John. Mrs. Hudson and Molly, both crying but dignified. (Sherlock would have approved of the lack of obtrusive sentiment.) And an older woman who John, even having never met her before, was able to instantly deduce as "Mummy." She was helped out of a car indistinguishable from the one in which Mycroft was prone to abducting John, by a coifed young man who John could only describe as a male Anthea. Mrs. Holmes was, like everyone present, dressed all in black, but with the kind of casual elegance that suggested that it was the shade that made up the majority of her wardrobe. Her eyes were Sherlock's eyes, John noted.
It was cold day, and overcast; not grey - there didn't even seem to be any storm clouds gathering - just lack of color and warmth. Later John would realize, sharply, that every day from now on would be like this: lacking color, warmth, and that mad, manic energy that was Sherlock Holmes. Even when John had returned home from Afghanistan, there had been something to distract him. Colors were too bright, too harsh, noises too loud. Interactions with people too strenuous. Now everything was on mute, and empty.