A/N: A bit of explanation for this story, I suppose. I have loved Sherlock Holmes for years, and especially the Holmes/Watson dynamic. I profess to be an adament Holmes/Watson slash shipper, but I believe that shipper or not, you have to admit the two men were soul mates/life partners platonic or not, and that cannot be denied. Spurred by a visit to the Sherlock Holmes museum in London and a recent viewing of "Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows," in the theater, this has been the result. I wanted the Great Hiatus as seen not by Sherlock or Watson, but Mycroft, and the mythical third Holmes sibling, Sherrinford. I hope you all enjoy. I beg your indulgence on the language, as I am American, and my knowledge of language used in Victorian Britain is slim. I have tried to copy Doyle's writing as closely as I could, but do not claim to be the great writer himself.

Disclaimer: All you see and recognize, including Sherrinford Holmes, belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Penelope Holmes is mine. This story was created merely for the joy of writing.

Summary: In late 1891, Mycroft visits his brother to bring him sorrowful news. A look at the Great Hiatus. Mention of Holmes/Watson, but only in the sense of discussion. One-shot, complete.

Be it Ghost or Mirage, Memory Still Lingers

"Right this way, sir. The lady will see you now."

Mycroft Holmes stepped farther into the large manor he had once grown up in and grimaced up at the portrait that loomed over him. His brother refused to remove it, saying that he liked the reminder of generations past, of their illustrious heritage.

Mycroft was fairly certain his brother used their father's overly large portrait as an intimidation tactic, although he would never admit to such a petty thing.

The quiet maid led the younger Holmes into the parlor, where a willowy woman rose from her seat to greet him with a smile. "Mycroft, welcome."

Despite the urgency of his business, despite his sour mood after having been pulled from his Diogenes Club on a wonderful afternoon to attend to family matters, Mycroft still managed to muster a smile for his graceful sister-in-law. "Penelope, you look wonderful," he said, raising her hand to his lips while bowing his head courteously. "It appears the country air agrees with you."

Penelope Holmes offered a broader smile at his pleasantries, and motioned for him to take a seat in the overstuffed chair across from her own. With her graying chestnut curls pulled back into a low knot, she appeared much more the girl who had married the eldest Holmes over twenty five years ago, instead of the matron society would know her to be.

"Sherry will be in at any moment," she told her brother-in-law, cupping her cooling china teacup in her fine-boned hands. "He's out seeing to a problem in the kennels."

Mycroft greeted this news with a non-committal grunt. He would never understand his brothers' penchants for dogs. His elder brother had a fascination with the creatures that led to his daily perusal of them, and more often than once had Mycroft discovered them roaming the halls of the manor, free as they pleased. The great hounds shared his brother's heart with his wife, and Penelope was well aware of the nature of that bond.

Mycroft's younger brother, on the other hand, seemed to use dogs for a more practical purpose. Whenever his cases brought him out to the country, it seemed that either a dog was involved, or his brother would use a dog to assist him in completing the case. The man already had an able partner, what did he need the dog for? Mycroft feared he would never understand.

He was saved from having to make further dreaded small talk with Penelope—there was a reason no talking was allowed in the Diogenes Club!—by the sound of approaching footsteps.

Bringing the smell of open fields and fresh hay with him, Sherrinford Holmes swept into the room, shadowed by a hound the size of a small pony. Mycroft shifted in his seat and eyed the dog as it circled the table, sniffing Penelope's skirts, snatching a scone off the table, and then sniffing Mycroft with interest before it trotted away to lie beside the door, gulping its stolen prize down in a matter of seconds.

The eldest of the Holmes brothers, Sherrinford, bent to kiss his wife. "Darling," he said by way of explanation, ignoring the monster who had followed him in and his younger brother, who was eyeing said monster as if the creature would come for him next, "Desdemona is going to whelp soon, and Rufus is worried that the coming frost won't help her if the kennels are too cold. She's to stay here until the pups come."

Penelope responded to her husband's embrace and then glanced over at her brother-in-law, who was watching Desdemona as if Sherringford had loosed a lion in the house, not a hound. "Dearest," she told him, pulling away, "Mycroft is here to speak with you."

As Mycroft stood to greet his elder brother, it amused him, as always, that he had to look down. While the Holmes men were known to be tall, and Mycroft and Sherlock had gained their father's height, both standing near or over six feet, the eldest Holmes sibling had taken after their fierce and petite mother, standing barely over five and half feet.

However, his short stature when compared to his brothers did not make Sherrinford Holmes the butt of many jokes, as one might suspect. Mycroft owed Sherrinford too much to ever insult his brother, and both he and Sherlock had always been well aware that their elder brother was much more intelligent than they were. Why the man was content being a simple country squire, Mycroft would never know.

Mycroft owed Sherrinford everything. If Sherringford had not come first, being two years Mycroft's senior, the second Holmes son would not have his comfortable rooms in the city, his cherished Diogenes Club, the ear of Her Majesty. Sherrinford had embraced the burden of being the eldest son, of taking on the inheritance of the Holmes' manor and the life as lord of the manor, leaving his younger brothers to do as they wished.

It was on behalf of their younger brother that Mycroft found himself out here today, and he very much wished that this meeting was over.

"You have heard the news?" he ventured to ask, and his brother sank down in a leather chair beside his wife.

"Of course I heard the news," he told Mycroft brusquely, his sharp eyes—more blue than gray—taking in more than the other man could process. "We are not without means, you know."

Wincing—he had never meant to make such a jibe—Mycroft soldiered on. "I suppose, then, you have come to the conclusion that Sherlock Holmes is not dead?"

Irritation drew lines on Sherrinford's brow, and that annoyance was thinly veiled as he spoke. "Did you come here to repeat news that I have already had confirmed?"

Judging by his sister-in-law's lack of reaction to such shocking tidings, Mycroft came to the conclusion that Sherrinford had shared his suspicions with Penelope, and she was eager to believe them. She had always had a soft spot for Sherlock, much to Mycroft's consternation. Gritting his teeth, Mycroft continued. The sooner he said his piece, the sooner he could depart. He was missing his Diogenes Club at the moment, that blissful silence, so unlike this strained one.

Clearly his throat, he found his next words. "I suspect that Sherlock would have kept his existence a secret from me, had I not had the keys to his rooms on Baker Street and access to his cheque-book." Withdrawing the packet of letters and telegrams from his coat, he offered them to his brother. "You know of the Norwegian, Sigerson?"

"His exploits are well-known, and much is written," Sherrinford murmured, inspecting one of the smudged telegrams closely, sliding it through his long fingers, browned by the sun. His dark brows snapped together for a moment, but when he looked up, he was relaxed again. "Sherlock?" When Mycroft nodded in affirmation, Sherrinford chuckled, flipping over another letter to examine the stamp on the envelope. "'Sigerson.' Clever boy."

Perhaps the name sounded foreign to most of the Queen's subjects, but to the Holmes brothers, it was a code, meant to keep them appraised of Sherlock's whereabouts. "Sigerson" was nothing more than two words placed together, and in a sense, it was a moniker that Sherlock could truly claim. "Sigerson" could be broken into "Siger's son," which Sherlock was-he was the third and youngest son of Siger Holmes. Still chuckling, Sherrinford continued. "He always did have a flair for outrageous disguises, and he never was good at deflecting attention."

Silence descended again, only broken by the rustling of parchment against paper as Sherrinford perused the correspondence Mycroft had provided him. Suddenly, the sounds stilled, and Mycroft looked up to find Sherrinford studying him. "What of the doctor?"

Mycroft sighed, and shifted again in his seat, resisting the urge to toy with his cane, as he always did when he was uncertain. "The doctor is why I am here, Sherrinford. I need advice."

For the first time, Sherrinford seemed to register Mycroft's attire—dark clothes, his best jacket, a silver-topped cane—all appropriate for mourning. Mycroft knew that his brother had noticed his clothes the moment he entered the room and probably had even seen where his carriage's horse had kicked up a bit of dirt and it had landed on his trousers as he exited. The man never missed anything, much like Sherlock.

"What's happened?"

Mycroft sighed heavily, his gray eyes taking on a darker cast. "I have just come from the funeral of Mrs. Mary Watson."

This news was a surprise to them. Penelope stifled a sharp cry, her hands flying to her mouth and throat, and Sherrinford uttered a sharp curse as he started forward in his seat, as if to stand.

"You see the dilemma," Mycroft continued, secretly pleased by their reactions. It took much to startle Sherrinford Holmes.

The eldest Holmes nodded, his brows knotting together as his long fingers tapped against the letters, the only link he had to his supposedly dead youngest brother. "Does 'Sigerson' know?"

Appreciating his brother's discretion, Mycroft shook his head. "No, and it worries me what he might do if I impart the news."

Penelope was a sharp woman, and saw farther than they both did in this matter. "He will come home."

As both Holmeses turned to stare at her, she lifted her chin. "He loved-loves the doctor," she told them, squeezing her husband's hand as she stared at Mycroft, her brown eyes bright. "I only met the two on one singular occasion, and I knew. This news will bring him from the Continent, and he will come to comfort the dear doctor. You know this as well as I do."

Both men had to concede in the face of her logic, and Sherrinford leaned over to brush a kiss to her temple in defeat. "My wife is right." He turned to his younger brother. "Is it safe for the Norwegian to return?"

Mycroft could only shake his head. "Moran is still out there, prowling like the tiger he is. Sherlock would be foolish to return now, and he knows it. He continued this ruse because Moriarty threatened the good doctor, and Sherlock knew that Moran would target Dr. Watson if Moran had any inkling that he survived."

"But if he knew of the doctor's loss…" Penelope began.

"He will not know." Mycroft cut her off, his gray eyes sharp as silver. "His news from London is scant, and I control most of the correspondence he receives. For his survival, he must not know."

Sherrinford gave a stiff nod, as if he had already come to the conclusion and was simply waiting for Mycroft to do the same. "If he were to come home, all is ready for him?"

Mycroft couldn't help but chuckle. "Oh, Sigerson was very clear on that. His rooms at Baker Street were kept as they are, that landlady of his was given strict instructions to let no boarders in unless it was myself or the doctor, and she was quite happy to agree after the price that I gave her."

Sherrinford's lips twitched in the shadow of a smile, and his dark hair fell into his eyes, making him look nearly like a boy again. "It seems that you have it well in hand, Mycroft."

Ignoring the frown marring Penelope's brow, Mycroft stood. "I have intruded on your company long enough," he told them, taking Sherrinford's hand as his elder brother stood and offered it, retrieving the packet of correspondence as well. "I must return to London."

Penelope leaned against her husband and he wrapped an arm around her waist as they watched Mycroft Holmes depart for his comfortable Diogenes Club, the carriage being pulled back to London at a brisk trot.

"What's bothering you, darling?" Sherrinford Holmes had not married Penelope only for her grace and beauty. He admired her sharp mind as well, and when she was quiet, it meant she was plotting.

Her brown eyes gazed at him. "Did you happen to notice the most recent address on those letters?"

Her husband's blue eyes warmed as he gave her a slow smile. "Penelope, what are you planning?"

Giving him her own dancing smile, his wife refused to answer. "Did you?"

Pressing a kiss into her soft curls, Sherrinford pressed a scrap of paper into her hand. On it was scrawled a nearly-illegible address, but Penelope had mastered the art of reading her husband's handwriting long ago. "He's somewhere in Tibet, I believe, nearly three months ahead of the papers, as they had him somewhere in Greece only yesterday."

As Penelope secreted the address away in the folds of her skirts, her heart beating with excitement, Sherrinford caught her arm. "Wife, what are you about?"

"Doesn't Sherlock deserve to know?"

Her husband did not pretend to be a stupid man, and she loved him for it. "Penelope, is that wise? Mycroft advises against it."

Penelope stared at her husband, her mouth dropping open in unladylike shock. "Sherrinford Holmes! When did you start listening to Mycroft?"

Her sharp comment made him roar with laughter, and then his arms were around her, pulling her into his broad chest. "True," he admitted, pressing kisses to her forehead as if they were young lovers of twenty instead of nearly fifty, "I don't listen to my brothers."

Sensing her victory was drawing nigh, Penelope looped her arms around his neck and simpered at him, unable to keep the smile from her lips. "If my husband had died, dearest, and you were waiting for me, wouldn't you want to know of my loss?"

For a moment, she could see that sharp and incredible brain of his working, drawing conclusions and parallels from her brazen words, thankfully spoken in the silence of their large home. Such words could never be uttered anywhere but in the most private of places, as their implications were staggering and abhorrent to many. His blue eyes gazed into hers, and as she curled her fingers into a fist around the slip of paper, his arms tightened around her.

"Who is this other husband you speak of?"

Laughing, Penelope wriggled out of his arms and darted back into the parlor, where Desdemona watched their antics, her tail beating against the floor. "No one, dearest." Tucking the slip of paper between the pages of the book she had been reading before Mycroft had appeared unannounced at their door, Penelope could not help but embrace the sense of hope that she felt rising in her breast. It was not hope for her, but for the poor, lonely doctor in his practice in London, for her brother-in-law, forced to hide on the Continent.

They needed each other. Sparing a quick prayer for the quiet rest of the soul of Mary Watson, nee Morstan, Penelope decided that she would pen a short missive tomorrow, and hope that Mycroft did not manage to find it. The man knew too much, and she was sure that he would rifle through the mail if he found her penmanship.

Then Sherrinford's arms were around her again, having come up behind her while she stood lost in her musings, and Penelope decided that such worries could be banished for a few hours. There were very few days when her husband finished his task of being lord of the manor so early in the day, and she intended to enjoy every moment of his attentions.

~Fin

A/N: Reviews are much appreciated!