Mycroft had been expecting something like this, had mentally accepted that he was about to see the face of a girl that he had seen in pictures, behind someone's desk. Perhaps had even caught a glimpse at some fancy function, being fussed over by her mother. He knew she would be young, would have that sad slap of paint on her to make her seem older than she really was.

Still, it was something of a viseral punch to the solar plexus, to see the room. The needles, the blood staining out in a spread pattern (inaccurate shooting, someone just picking up the gun and shooting it without really pointing. Messy, 'crime of passion'. Sentiment gone horribly, horribly wrong.), and even the doll-like quality of the girl's blue eyes, staring out at nothing.

Mycroft lifted his umbrella, so he could kneel beside the girl, a pensive frown working over his face. "...this could have been Sherlock, in different circumstances."

He shook himself out of it, before he slipped his gaze over the room. "We can subtract the drugs, for the family's sake. It seems she was a careful addict - probably took it between her toes, and in the webbing of her fingers. That is a comfort, at least." He gazed at the body. "I will suggest a closed casket - even though her face is intact, her chest is all but caved in."

He measured the girl, thinking. "These were straight on, with no angle. So whoever shot her was standing up, and approximately her height."