It had been three weeks since the fall. Mycroft Holmes had a second of that time for himself. It didnt seem to have occurred to those bloody reporters that he might have wanted to grieve.He had to admit to himself,however,he didnt know how to grieve. Not for Sherlock. the brother he's hated and loves in equal parts. Just as the media frenzy was dying down,a nondescript cardboard  box appeared  on his doorstep.In it was a pirate hat,complete with a skull and crossbones pinned to the inside was a note.

Mycroft paled.He knew that handwriting. It was written in immaculate cursive with flamboyant,sarcastic flourishes. He only saw this kind of handwriting from one person. He knew,even before he lifted the note in between,shaking fingers to read the message.

"Thanks for playing along."