Prompting Part XXXVI
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She places a plate of biscuits in front of him, and slides into the seat, barely meeting his eyes. “It just doesn’t seem real, Mycroft. I expect him and John to come banging through that door, all excited about some new crime to solve. I can’t understand why…” she trails off and her eyes gleam with unshed tears.
Mycroft places one, perfectly steady hand upon hers, and clasps them gently. The lies fall from his tongue as easily as melting snow from a rooftop, practised and smooth. He feels no emotion as he repeats the words that have been playing through his mind for hours now. “Mrs. Hudson, my brother was very ill. I allowed him to continue with his delusions, and it cost him his life. We are all very sorry for your loss.”
Martha Hudson looks at him, her face wracked with the grief he cannot feel. Even as he sits here sharing tea and biscuits with Sherlock’s geriatric landlady, his brother prepares to disappear into the underworld.
Beneath the grief there is a cunning intelligence to the woman that Sherlock so adored. “Of course, you must have so much to do yourself Mycroft with your… job. And organizing Sherlock’s re… remains.” Her breath hitches slightly at the word and he forces himself to sip the tea calmly, trying to radiate sympathy and the controlled bereavement he should be feeling currently.
Mycroft has always thought of himself as a good actor, but he was finding his limits he feared. “Yes, however. I thought you should know before the… media circus find their way here. I imagine they’ll be hounding you at the windows soon.”
“It’s not true,” Martha says coldly, and there’s no sign of the bereaved friend in her face anymore. Just a fierce anger, made starker by reddened eyes and pursed lips. “Sherlock wasn’t a fake, he wasn’t a liar… none of this is true, Mycroft, and I’m disgusted that you of all people would lower yourself to repeating it.” She stares into him, and for a moment he fancies that she can see the lies scrawled across his face, they must be so bare for her to see. It wasn’t enough time, he wasn’t prepared for this.
He wouldn’t be here at all except Sherlock had begged him to tell her in person. Sherlock, begging. It boggled the mind.
Mycroft understood why though. Sentiment. His brother was ever so prone to it.
He sees the unspoken question. It’s on her lips, and he can’t let her say it because he’s not ready to face the truth.
It’s not hard to find the image he needs and as he breaks Martha Hudson’s heart, he does so while picturing his brother’s broken and shattered body lying on the concrete of St. Barts.
As she shows him to the door after he promises her that the rent on the above flat would remain paid in case John saw fit to return (more sentiment), she has her turn at repaying the favour of her broken heart.
“A mother should never outlive her child, Mycroft,” she says softly, pulling her dressing gown tighter around her. “I never had children before, but I realize now why they say that. I understand.”
Mycroft feels something in his chest crack, just a little.
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All the characterisations are brilliantly done. So evocative.
AWESOME!
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Next chapter is being worked on now :)
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