Nick's room had seemed icy cold, even though it had been summer. Cold as the grave. The curtains were drawn back and the bed neatly made. Nick was a neat boy. He liked order. Or at least he had done. Past tense. Everything was past tense now thought Mycroft as he stood in the room and looked around. Mrs Garrideb had asked Mycroft to pack up his things. Perhaps she had not wanted to do it herself, or perhaps she was affording her son one last bit of privacy by asking his best friend to go through his things. Perhaps she thought she would find something that would be embarrassing. Which was ridiculous. The dead didn't get embarrassed.
Mycroft started on the wardrobe, packing clothes into Nick's school trunk. Making sure that everything was clean. Even polishing Nick's Sunday shoes. He knew there was no point, that everything would probably just be thrown away, but he did it anyway.
There were stacks of books, a microscope, fossils, Air-fix models, the usual detritus of boyhood. There was a periodic table and a picture of Albert Einstein sticking his tongue out. Mycroft put everything in trunk. Like filling another coffin with Nick's things. He had shut the door. Keeping the eyes of the rest of the House, the School, the World away from his own private memorial service. Earlier he had sneaked in to the room and swapped the pillows over. Taking Nick's pillow and trading it for his own. Now he carefully removed the covers from the bed and put them in the laundry bag. Where they would be sent to be washed. To wash all traces of Nick away.
He reached up onto the last shelf. The one above Nick's bed to take Wordsworth down. Wordsworth was Nick's Giraffe. A slightly soggy creature with floppy legs and a sarcastic expression. Nick always said it reminded him of Mycroft. The Giraffe was looking at Mycroft with an expression that clearly said it didn't want to go in the trunk. Mrs Garrideb had said he could take whatever he wanted. And he thought Nick would appreciate him looking after Wordsworth. He would of course have to hide him from Sherlock. Teddy bears were for babies and Cissy-boys. Daddy said so.
And just behind Wordsworth, on the shelf was a small box. Mycroft could not remember ever seeing it before. When he opened it he realised why.
There was a note. Nick's handwriting was truly appalling; he maintained he was practicing for when he became a Doctor.
Mycroft,
You are my everything. The other half of me. Please let me be the other half of you.
Nick.
And inside the box. A ring. A simple but elegant gold band. Mycroft slipped it on to his finger. Perfect fit.
"I do." He whispered. And he swore to himself he would never take it off. Ever.