Poor Jessica is dead, she's lookin' oh so purty and so nice she looks like she's asleep

[fixeselections]

Mycroft, though he often seems lazy, does work every day of the year.  The last time he took a day off work was December 12th, 2000, which turned out to be a very bad day to be at home with the flu.  It is the lowest moment of Mycroft's career, in his opinion.

Still, his assistants have far more leeway than he gives himself and Jessica, his first admin assistant (as opposed to his first assistant, the ever reliable and indispensable Miss Morstan -- and her BlackBerry) had asked for two weeks off during the holiday season due to the birth of a twin niece and nephew.  Mycroft not only signed off on it, but sent her along with two silver spoons engraved with the newborns' names.  Because Jessica is a clever girl, she knew better than to ask how he found out the names despite not being told.

Thus, her last duty was to wrap the presents for John, Mummy, and Sherlock, before clocking out for a holiday to Carlisle. 

Mycroft arrives at his office early on a Sunday morning to two frantic texts messages and a very distressing sight.

Jessica, the ever dutiful, Jessica, is at her desk, her skin mottled, and the one of her high heels is sitting on the desk.  Mycroft, without even having to look (though he does) knows her feet are now an odd shade of blue.

This time, there is a note with the body:

I hate the decor.

Comments

Mycroft, you ruined America. XD

[consulting-det.livejournal.com]

Sherlock gets the call an hour after it's made. He's been busy in the bathroom. His routine is precise and can not be deviated from, not even if John insists that he can't hold it. Mrs. Hudson has an extra bathroom downstairs, after all.

Not that John's in the flat at the moment. He goes to Sarah's to pout now. It's not as if Sarah's let him into her bed yet.

Sherlock really has no opinion on that fact, one way or the other.

After checking his email and writing very nasty replies about how his time is being utterly wasted by the sheer idiocies of those requesting his attention, his eyes settle on his mobile. Mycroft.

You didn't leave a message. Are you planning on berating me further over my row with John?