The Brothers Holmes
A young Sherlock Holmes, age 9, was sitting at a large desk with his older brother, Mycroft, who was seven years his senior. The small, pale boy had a skinny frame and long wiry arms. His bright blue eyes stared at the math problems before him and he groaned.
"Come on, Sherlock." Mycroft said with a dreary voice that sounded bored and slightly agitated.
Sherlock let his head fall down on the desk. His long, curly black locks cushioned his head from any real damage.
"God, you are an idiot." His brother sighed and looked at his watch. "I've seen you do this before. Just do it already."
"I've got it!" Sherlock exclaimed, suddenly sitting up. "All 12 of the travelers are the murderers!"
Mycroft blinked, not understanding at first what his brother meant then he furrowed his brow. "…Sherlock! We've barely gotten through that book. You've ruined the ending for yourself again. Now what are we going to read? Anyway, it doesn't matter right now. You're getting distracted. You have to focus. I told mummy I would make sure you got your homework done. She knows you haven't been doing it and now it's my problem…pft, like I care." He rested his chin on his fist and tapped the fingers of his other hand against the desk impatiently.
"This is completely pointless!" Sherlock said, his hands outstretched to his homework. "None of it matters!"
"If you want to fail, what does it matter to me? It will just prove that I've been right that you're an absolute idiot."
Sherlock looked at his brother's tapping hand and then examined his face. Shaver marks. New haircut. He looked down. Shoes shined.
"You obviously have a date tonight, Mycroft. But why did you shave? You don't even have facial hair."
"Shut up!"
"Just go."
"I promised I would stay until you were done.."
"I don't need you to watch over me all the time. Go."
Mycroft got up and turned to leave. Before exiting the room, he squinted his eyes at his little brother.
"You better get that done."
"I will!" Sherlock replied with a smile. When Mycroft left, the boy's smile fell quickly from his face as if it was never there. He ripped the homework out of his notebook, crumpled it up and threw it into the garbage. He went to his bedside table and pulled out a half drawn treasure map.
Sherlock had already acquired the treasure, Mycroft's favorite pocket watch given to him for Christmas the previous year. Now all he had to do was finish drawing up the coded clues and wait for Mycroft to get back. He knew he would get home early as he always did when he went out on dates. Although his big brother was socially better with people, his true cold and uncaring nature always seemed to come out when under pressure.
As usual, Sherlock was right in guessing that Mycroft would be home early. He looked flustered and was muttering angrily to himself as he walked through the door.
"Plenty of fish in the sea, they say. And what of us who do not want to date a goldfish?! Is it possible to get a dolphin, at least? Something with enough brains to listen without forgetting what I say only seconds later? My Lord, what cursed aquarium have I been born into?"
At that moment Sherlock jumped out from around the corner dressed as a pirate, equipped with a bandana, eye patch, and wooden sword.
"Arrr! I see ye heart belongs on the land and not the sea. I know where it lies, but do ye?" He held out the finished map to Mycroft and grinned.
"I'm not in the mood for games.." He sighed. But the detail on the map caught his eye and he took it. "Hm, I'm almost impressed. And what is the treasure, Captain Crunch? One of Redbeard's bones?"
"That's Captain Flintlock, ya scurvy knave! The treasure be ye heart of gold, like I said. Well, not so much gold, but Pyrite. It was still beatin every second when I took it."
"Sherlock!" Mycroft suddenly realized that the treasure was his pocket watch. "I told you not to go into my room!" He shouted and threw the map down. "Where is it?" He advanced on Sherlock, wanting to hurt him.
Sherlock took a step back and lifted up his wooden sword to protect himself. Mycroft grabbed an umbrella from the nearby stand and pointed it at Sherlock. They began to fence, both with precision and accuracy. Mycroft was taller but Sherlock was faster and managed to hit him hard in both of the ankles. The teenager fell and groped his ankles.
"Give it to me!" He yelled.
"No! You have to find it. I worked hard on it.."
Mycroft let out an exasperated moan, snatched up the map and headed to his room. Sherlock rubbed his hands together and waited. It took the clever teenager two days to decipher the code and to trace it to exactly a meter away from where he had left it in his room. As utterly pissed off as he was, he was still proud of his little brother for being so clever.
"You'll make a good pirate one day." He remarked to Sherlock as he clasped the found pocket watch onto his coat. Sherlock's eyes shone and he smiled genuinely.
Two years later- 1989
It was Sherlock's first year at Secondary school. He was sitting in his math class, looking subtlety at the students around him. While other kids were jotting things down off of the board, he was finding out who was being abused by their parents and who had a crush on who. He was so enthralled with his findings that he did not hear the teacher call his name.
"Mr. Holmes! I said, can you come up and solve this problem?"
"Of course I can." He said nonchalantly and got to his feet. As he passed by the teacher's desk he looked down into the waste basket beside it. It was one of his habits to look at everything in a room.
Once Sherlock got to the board he noticed a barely visible upside-down handprint towards the bottom of the board next to a medium oval smudge. He stared at it.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock blinked and then went to the problem. Barely looking at it, he sprawled numbers and letters onto the board. He finished, rubbed the chalk off of his hands and looked at the teacher.
"You know that Mrs. Hentford is married. You really shouldn't be kissing her, Mr. Litwald."
"What..what are you talking about?"
"There's a napkin with her lipstick on it in your garbage from when you wiped it off of your lips. When I saw Mrs. Hentford after lunch she had chalk dust on her bottom. I thought she might have pressed against her chalkboard but I see the chalk is from yours. Not to mention one of her hairs is on your jumper."
"Lies! Get out of here, you little liar!"
"I'm not lying." He said, looking confused. "And I solved the problem…In a much more coherent way than you've been teaching. You're welcome, by the way." He said, looking at two students who was vigorously copying the problem and answer down with a look of sudden understanding. "There is no reason you should kick me out."
"I'm kicking you out because you are a dirty liar..and-and a freak of nature! Go to the Headmaster's office and do not come back to this classroom again!" The teacher yelled as he grabbed an eraser and erased the hand print and answer that Sherlock had given.
Sherlock went to his desk, gathered his things and began to walk away. A few students were sniggering while others were whispering "freak" as he passed. He didn't know how to feel. He felt close to nothing. He was confused and wanted to be angry. Even as he was walking out, he couldn't help but look at the people, hearing things in his head like "poor", "alcoholic mother", "average student", "suspects his grandfather is dying; he's right". He found himself saying these things out loud without meaning to and when he tried to close his mouth it felt like a fire was in his brain, burning him until the words formed on his lips. He ran out of the room and didn't look back.
Later that same year
It was a typical weekday evening in the Holmes household. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were on the couch. Sherlock's mother was with a newspaper and his father with a book. Mycroft was sitting in a recliner watching a political talk show on the television as he munched on biscuits. Meanwhile, Sherlock lay belly-down on the floor as he peered at one of his dog's hair through a toy microscope. It wasn't powerful enough to learn much of anything, but it was interesting to see the hair from a different perspective. One thing he could deduce is that he needed to give Redbeard more water. A gasp from his mother made him stop examining the hair. He didn't take his eye off of the eyepiece, but he listened.
"My goodness! A boy about Sherlock's age died yesterday. Oh, and he was from Brighton. That's only about an hour from here. As a mother it always terrifies me to read stories like this. I can't imagine losing my little boy…"
Sherlock pushed himself up and looked at his mother. "Was he murdered?"
"No, it was just a tragic accident. It says he had a fit and drowned during a swim meet."
Sherlock took the section from his mother who scorned him but he ignored it as his eyes scanned the article.
"It says he had a seizure yet he doesn't have a history of epilepsy, nor does any of his family. What caused it then? There's something else… Oh this is most definitely murder.. I can feel it!"
He read the article again and again, his heart beating faster each time. Mr. Holmes shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He didn't like to see his son get so worked up. Sherlock looked at the moving slippers on his father's feet and his brain clicked.
"The shoes!"
"What about them?" Mycroft asked nastily without taking his eyes off of the television.
"It says that the police found all of his belongings safe in his locker; pants, a shirt, a jacket, a watch, a backpack, but what about the shoes? They don't mention the shoes!"
"You're reading a newspaper article, not a police report, Sherlock." Mycroft said, rolling his eyes. "They don't include every single detail."
"Why would they find it significant to list a watch but not shoes?"
"Honestly, I don't care."
"Sherlock, dear… I think maybe you've been reading too many of your father's murder mysteries. If Scotland Yard thinks it's an accident, it probably is." Mrs. Holmes said, trying to be as gentle as possible.
"But the shoes!" He shouted, now getting angry.
"Enough!" His father said fiercely, standing up and towering over the boy. "Do not yell at your mother. I think she's right. You have a big imagination that likes to create situations that aren't real to amuse yourself. You don't always have to be right, Sherlock, and in this case you're not."
"Yes I am!"
"Go to your room, young man!"
Sherlock clutched the article in his hand and marched to his room, slamming the door behind him. He then put his Mendelssohn's violin concerto in E minor cassette into the player and turned it up loud. Realizing that he was still holding the article in his hand, he went to the cork board above his bedside table and pinned it next to an equation for alcohol fermentation.
Sherlock threw himself onto his bed and sulked. After taking a deep breath, he steepled his fingers under his chin and imagined the scene with closed eyes.
There was a large indoor pool. Parents and children were on the sidelines, cheering loudly and clapping as swimmers raced from one end to the other. Sherlock stood at the starting end and watched as Carl Powers, the large boy in the lead, suddenly stopped and began to thrash in the water. He was sinking with his limbs still flailing about him. The life guard noticed right away that something was wrong and took action but by the time he was pulled out, he was no longer moving or breathing. The life guard performed CPR but the boy never responded.
Sherlock looked around and rubbed his temples.
What causes seizures?
brain injury
brain tumors
drugs
poison
birth defect
infection o-
Poison
How? Why?
Things to find out: medical examination, toxic report, list of medications, family members and friends, enemies; suspects?, find the shoes = find the murderer.
As Sherlock was working in his mind, Mycroft had come inside his room. Hearing footsteps, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at his brother. The music was off. He wasn't sure if it was because it ended or if Mycroft had turned it off. He felt as if he had just shut his eyes but sometimes when he did this he would be gone for hours.
"Get out. I'm trying to think and your presence is a big distraction. Emphasis on big."
"Sherlock, stop brooding. You shouldn't worry yourself over matters that don't concern you. There's nothing you can do."
"There is so much I can do. I can solve it like I can solve any other mystery. I just…I just need someone to listen to me for once. I always speak the truth and nobody listens. They just get mad."
"You can't solve this, Sherlock, and nobody is going to listen to you. Do you know why? Because this isn't a fictional story. It's real life and you're just a child. Your opinion doesn't mean anything to anyone. Even if you were right about this being a murder, what makes you think Scotland Yard will accept it? They don't want to be outwitted by an eleven year old boy. Ultimately that's what it comes down to. Even when you grow up, people won't listen to you because you're a know-it-all and a show off. You can't help yourself. The minute you show you are even slightly more intelligent than these fish they see you as a worm and they'll try to devour you, dear brother. Sometimes you just have to pretend that you don't know half of the knowledge that you do. Do you know what I'm saying, Sherlock? If you want to get anywhere you have to blend in with the normal people and stop acting like a genius."
"I can't. What kind of existence is that anyway? A life built on lies."
"No more than the average man."
"If I did that I would become a murderer. The murderer of the great man I should have become instead of a great coward that hides in plain sight. You can have that life, dear brother. The life of a liar and a murderer also known as a politician."
"I'm trying to help you. You seem to be the only one that doesn't realize there's something wrong with you. I can help you manage it."
"Get out!" Sherlock yelled, his eyes growing wide with rage. "The only thing you should be managing is your weight!"
When Mycroft stared at him indignantly, Sherlock seized a nearby book and threw it at his brother who retreated at once.
The next day Sherlock skipped school and went to the police department. He figured it didn't matter if his parents didn't believe him. They were unimportant and couldn't do anything about the murder. But if he could at least get one officer of the law to hear him out, he might be able to help the truth come to light.
When he walked inside he was greeted by a stern looking woman glaring down at him from behind the clerk's desk.
"Can I help you, young man?"
"Yes, I need to speak to a police officer concerning the death of Carl Powers. I have important information." He said confidently.
"Just a moment." She picked up the phone, pressed a button and spoke something that Sherlock couldn't hear to someone on the other end. Moments later a policeman walked out in full uniform.
"Hello there, little man. What do you need?"
"I need you to listen. I read the story about Carl Powers yesterday and I am sure that his death is not an accident. It was murder!"
"Why do you say that? Do you know who did it?"
"I-no..I don't know who did it..yet. But uh..the shoes."
"The shoes?"
"Yes! The shoes. It's a minor detail, but they're missing. Don't you think that's unusual?"
"Not really. There are thefts in locker rooms all the time, specially when there aren't any locks on them."
"But why specifically him? Why didn't the thief take his watch as well? I think the murderer took the shoes..like a..like a reward. Or maybe there was something on the shoes to give away who he is and how he poisoned Carl."
"Poison? On his shoes?" The policeman shook his head. "No..I don't think so. The toxicity report came in about an hour ago. I really shouldn't be telling you this but there's no sign of any poison. It was an accident, kid. We'll look into the shoes, but right now that's not on the top of our priorities. I get it. This kid about your age dies and you get scared. You want to make sure the people that are paid to keep you safe are doing their job, and let me assure you, we are. No murderer is going to get you."
Sherlock looked at the ceiling and let out a sound of pure anguish.
"Is there anyone else I can speak to?"
"How about your teachers? Shouldn't you be in school right now?"
Sherlock's expression dropped. At that moment he knew that the police force were good for nothing and he gave up faith on their dependability.
"Yes. I'm going now." He said with a sigh.
"Let me give you a ride."
"I'll pass." He said quickly, feeling a prepared lecture for troubled youth coming on. Before the officer could say another word, Sherlock dashed out of the building and sprinted to the library, where nobody would bother him.
A month went by and Sherlock could not get a lead on the case. He wrote a letter to the newspaper, explaining his theory and asking them to put the heat on the police department to investigate the death further. He received no reply. He spoke to Mrs. Powers over the phone several times, always ending in hopeless sobs. The last time he called, Mr. Powers took the phone from his crying wife and began hollering angrily over the receiver at Sherlock, telling him not to call back again. After this, Sherlock knew he wasn't going to get anywhere. With defeat in his heart, he took the article off of his wall and let it drop into the garbage.
"Maybe later…"
Five years later
Sherlock is fifteen now, just about to turn sixteen. After several years at the Secondary School he had learned that the boy's restroom was his sanctuary. It wasn't only a place to escape bullies, but it also became the place to acquire his new love, cigarettes. A tall and bulky boy, two years older than Sherlock, would provide whenever the younger boy asked (and paid, of course). The older boy, nicknamed Torch, had a green Mohawk and several piercings in his face. He usually wore plaid pants and a black t-shirt.
One day Sherlock came into the restroom and found Torch hidden in his usual place, sitting in the corner behind the stalls. Sherlock sat beside him and threw him a couple pounds. The older boy gave him a cigarette and a lighter. Breathing in the smoke was like breathing in life. He held the smoke in his chest until he became a little light-headed and breathed out with a smile, barely emitting any smoke. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tenner. He handed it to Torch.
"What is this for?" The young punk asked.
"I need you to buy me a pack for the weekend."
"Ah, so you're becoming a professional smoker now, eh? You're alright, Sherlock. Yeah, I'll get you a pack before Friday. Better get as much money out of ya now before you turn sixteen and can buy your own fags."
"Thank you." Sherlock said with a sigh of relief. The previous weekend without a smoke proved to be one of the most trying weekends of his life. As he puffed on the wonderful stick between his fingers, he pulled a book out of his bag and began to read as if he was alone.
"Whatcha readin'?" Torch asked, smoke pouring out of his lips with each syllable.
"It's called 'The Memory Palace of Matteo Ricci'. It's a book on the method of loci, a type of mnemonic device to help store information in your mind. Funny enough, I first read about it in Silence of the Lambs in which Hannibal Lector stores memories of intimate details of paintings and interviews with his clients, later victims. I thought this might be useful to me to help solve a personal problem I've been having for awhile." He spoke all of this rather fast.
"Silence of the Lambs? That movie scared the shit out of me. Wha? You plan on killing people and eatin' them or somethin'? Man, I don't care but don't put me on the top of that list."
"Hah! No. I always do whatever is in my best interest. Killing people would go against that. Even if it was interesting and provided me with some kind of purpose, I would eventually get caught and the game would be over forever, wouldn't it? Murderers are stupid. No, I need this…mind palace because there's so much information constantly going through my head that I don't know how to categorize. I already do something similar but it's not as organized and structured. With this method I can store things and bring them out only when I need them. Also, if I can store things, theoretically I can delete things that don't matter, right?"
Torch shrugged.
"Well, it's worth experimenting, anyway. It's not something Thomas Harris made up. Greeks and Romans were practicing this thousands of years ago."
Torch lit another cigarette and looked at his hand in boredom. Sherlock took it as a hint to stop talking and he went back to his book.
"Oy, Sherlock. I know you're gonna be leavin' soon, going to Sixth Form or college or whatever, but if you ever need anything, you can call. I'm done with school. I been held back twice and I know I ain't goin' any further. But that's okay. I'm about to start up my own business, ya know what I mean? So ya just call me if ya need anything that I can hook you up with and I'll give you a discount."
Torch wrote his number on a piece of paper and handed it to Sherlock. He looked at it for a long moment then put it in his pocket with the smallest nod.
Two years later
Sherlock was doing exceedingly well in college. Along with great grades, he was making great money by doing the Chemistry homework of multiple people, including those in higher levels than him. By this time he was as tall as Mycroft and his voice deeper than most of the males in his class. Many girls started to take notice of him, and despite his arrogant and often mean comments, they only became more attracted to him.
Being in a new school also helped his image. There was nobody there that knew of him simply as "the freak". He was the mysterious genius and he found that when he opened his mouth people actually listened and appreciated what they heard. Sure, there were still people that rolled their eyes and walked away, but only a few. People followed him around like a god and he loved the praise, though he would never admit it.
Although life seemed to be going much better than it ever had in the past, Sherlock found himself constantly in a state of depression. There was nothing to challenge him. When he was sixteen, he took up the violin and mastered it in under a year. Another year and composed his own concerto piece. Since then there was nothing else that gave him a sense of satisfaction. Nothing seemed interesting and life in general was a bore that had to be endured day after excruciating day.
One day as Sherlock was laying in his bed, staring aimlessly at the wall, his body convulsed slightly as he came to a decision to something that had been on his mind for weeks. He closed his eyes and pulled the number of Torch from his mind palace. Still seeing the numbers before him, he opened his eyes, grabbed the phone and called. After two rings, a voice spoke through the receiver.
"Ello? Jay Good 'ere."
"Torch." Sherlock said. He recognized the voice, even though he didn't recognize the name. It was a little more hoarse than he remembered but it was still the young punk.
"Oy! That's a name I haven't heard since school." He said with a laugh. "Who is this?"
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Well, fuck me! Sherlock! Its been ages! How ya doin', mate?"
"Do you sell cocaine?" Sherlock said impatiently, not wanting to partake in small talk. The door to his room was closed and music was on so he wasn't concerned about his parents hearing him.
"Sure I do. Didn't figure ya a party animal."
"When and where can I meet you?"
Torch gave Sherlock an address to go to in two hours. He was familiar with the flat as it wasn't that far and also notorious for prostitutes and drug dealers. He walked there on foot within 20 minutes and was greeted by Torch in front of the building. His head was completely shaved and his face was now sporting a long beard. He shook Sherlock's hand then led himself inside.
The flat opened to a large and spacious living room. It was kept in fair enough order, but smelled strongly of marijuana and cigarette smoke. Torch offered him a seat and he lit up a joint. He took a couple of puffs then tried passing it to Sherlock, who shook his head.
"What about some tea, then?"
"Yeah…" He said reluctantly. "I suppose."
Torch went off to the kitchen for a couple of moments and when he came back he had a tray hosting a teapot, two cups and sugar.
"So, what kind of coke do you fancy? Rock, powder, or liquid?" Torch asked casually as he was pouring the tea.
"I've never done it before. I think liquid is what I'm looking for."
"A needle man, eh? As a first timer I would suggest powder, but it's up to ya." He gave the cup to Sherlock who stared blankly at the liquid inside. He set it down without drinking any.
"It's what I want. Give it to me."
Torch took a long drag of the joint and then put it out in a nearby ashtray. He reached under the table and pulled out a large suitcase. He opened it and Sherlock could see a plethora of vials, weed, and pills. He pulled out a vial, a syringe and a tourniquet and handed them to the eighteen year old before him.
"Here…you're a friend." He paused for a long moment as if thinking something over. "First one is free if you do it here and stay a bit. Y'know..to try it out and see if you want to buy more when you come off the high."
Lonely. Desperate for friends.
"Deal." Sherlock looked at the needle.
"It's clean, I swear. Brand new. You won't get AIDs or none of that shit here." Torch said. Sherlock looked at his eyes and knew he wasn't lying.
He rolled up his sleeve and tied the tourniquet around his upper arm. He plunged the needle into the vial and draw it out full of the liquid cocaine. He had some proficiency with a needle from his biology classes by volunteering to inject the dissecting specimens with formaldehyde but he never thought such a skill would be used for this. He tightened his fist and seeing a vein pop up on his narrow arm, he stuck it and injected the liquid.
Sherlock let the needle slide out of his arm and onto the ground. He removed the tourniquet and slumped over in his chair. The world was spinning and each spin became faster and faster. His heart was beating in the same rapid rhythm as the spinning. He felt like he was going to be sick, but that feeling passed quickly and was replaced with a better feeling. For the first time in months, he felt alive.
Sherlock's parents were out of town visiting Turkey and Greece for a month. They had already left two weeks prior, leaving Sherlock alone in the flat. He took this opportunity to take a big chunk of the money he had saved up over the years of tutoring and playing violin gigs to buy as much cocaine as he imagined would last a month if used sparingly.
He shot up and after the initial burst of euphoria, he managed to get all of his homework and everyone else's homework done within a half an hour. His thoughts were faster than usual, but they were absolutely clear and uninterrupted by any other thoughts, which was unusual. Ever since he first took the drug, he started journaling the experience and its effects on his body and mind. He scribbled down a quick evaluation but when he found himself unable to sit any longer, he grabbed his violin and began to play it while moving around the house in dance-like movements. In an hour he felt himself starting to come down. He put a classical cassette on and lay down in his bed.
As he stared at the ceiling, he could hear his heart still beating fast in his ears. He turned over on his side and stared at the already prepared syringe on the table beside him. He sat up and clapped his hands together.
"Well, I wasn't falling asleep anyway. Might as well.." He tied a tourniquet around his upper arm with his teeth and grabbed the syringe. Just as he was about to stick himself Mycroft walked through his door. He stood in the doorway and gaped at his brother.
"What the hell are you doing?" Mycroft snapped angrily.
"Oh. Hello, Mycroft. This is a bit awkward." Sherlock looked back to his arm and poised the needle towards a vein.
"Don't you dare.."
Sherlock injected the needle into his arm and forced the liquid cocaine into his body. He undid the tourniquet and waited for the effects. He wringed his hands and closed his eyes as his heart started to feel like it was going to jump out of his chest. After a moment in silence, a big smile spread across his face and he looked at Mycroft, who looked disapprovingly at him with folded arms.
"I have a brilliant idea!" Sherlock said, jumping to his feet. He was looking giddy and full of energy.
"I'm very cross with you right now. Mummy told me to come and check up on you. I'm going to tell her exactly what I walked in on."
"No you're not. She doesn't know and you know it would crush her. Some secrets are best left unsaid. Speaking of which, how is the government job going? No, don't tell me. I don't care." He looked at Mycroft. New shoes, at least 200 pounds. New suit, at least 1000. Manicured fingers. Stiff wrist; lots of typing. Dark circles under his eyes, lack of sleep. +2 lbs. "Sounds quite dull. Aren't you going to ask me what my brilliant idea is?"
"No."
"Boxing. I think we should box."
"What?"
"Like we used to. Right here, right now. Come on." He put his fists in front of his face and bounced on his toes.
"As much as I want to punch you right now, I have to decline your offer."
"Promise I won't get blood on your suit."
"Sherlock. I am not going to-" He was suddenly caught off guard by a jab to the gut. He looked up viciously to his 18 year old brother and threw an uppercut to his face. Sherlock leaned out of it and pulled back his fist at the same time. He shot it out before him into Mycroft's open side just below his arm. The man fell to the ground and groaned.
"How disappointing. You're a lot slower than I remember." Sherlock remarked as he stroked his chin. "Get up, I have another brilliant idea." He helped Mycroft to his feet
"I don't want to hear it! What was so brilliant about the last idea?"
"It kept my hands busy for about 32 seconds. Stop being a baby." He said as Mycroft winced in pain. "We're going for a walk!"
"I don't want to go for a walk."
"No, of course not. But you could use it. You've gained two lbs since I last saw you. Tut tut."
"I despise you."
"I know. Let's go!" Sherlock briskly walked out of his bedroom and threw his large coat over his shoulders. He didn't have to look back to know that Mycroft was following close behind him.
As they strolled the streets of London, Mycroft couldn't stop looking at his brother with concern and astonishment. Sherlock pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He offered one to Mycroft who took it with a frown and puffed on it delicately. A coughing fit soon followed.
"Where are we going?"
"Just walking…"
"Sherlock, when did you start this?"
"Walking? About two minutes ago. You should know. You were there."
"You know what I mean."
"Oh, the drugs? One month, two days, and fourteen hours ago. It's cocaine, by the way, not heroine, if you were wondering. "
"Why would you do that? You're smarter than that."
"Research, I suppose. I was reading about it's effects on the dopamine receptors in the brain and figured I would experiment. It's highly recommended by Freud."
"Cocaine isn't an anti-depressant."
Sherlock made a skeptical face and wagged his head back and forth. "Hmm…Freud would beg to differ." He stopped walking for a moment and realized where he was. "Oh! Oh! We're close!" He said before Mycroft could say anything else. He began to start running.
"I thought you said we were just walking!" He yelled and chased after Sherlock.
"You didn't let me finish my sentence. Just walking..to a crime scene. Well, now we're running! Isn't it great?"
Mycroft stopped running. "What?" It was too late. They were already at a building that Sherlock seemed interested in. He flicked his cigarette butt into the street and went into the alley. When Mycroft reached him, he was looking at a window that was a couple feet taller than him.
"Boast me up." He demanded.
"No. You can't go in there. You'll get arrested."
"I can do anything I want." He said. His eyes flashed dangerously. "Either you help me or I climb up on a garbage can. Now, a garbage can isn't as sturdy as you, so if I fall and break my neck you'll have to tell our mother that it's your fault that I died because you refused to help me."
"Help you break into a building where I'm sure a murder has occurred…" He sighed. "You're so dramatic." He stood under the window and held his hands out to boast him up. "If I'm sighted doing this, your body will be the next one found."
"Hmph, and you call me dramatic." Sherlock put one foot on his brothers' hand and stood up. He reached up to the window sill and slid the window open. He stood on Mycroft's shoulder who shouted, "Mind the suit!" but Sherlock ignored him and pulled himself into the building.
Sherlock knew a medical examiner who worked on most of the central London murder cases. Whenever the man came across something interesting, he let Sherlock know. Sometimes the young man would pay the medical examiner to leave a window open so he could come by and investigate the scene himself.
He put gloves on and looked around at the room. There were little Markers with numbers on them scattered everywhere. He recalled everything the medical examiner told him.
Jane Dowe, 48, lived alone in the flat. Housekeeper at a hotel. No sign of break-in. Death appeared to be heart attack but suspicious because there seemed to be signs of a struggle. Skin found under the victim's finger nails and she was holding a metal figurine in a fighting position. A clue?
Sherlock began to move around the apartment, kneeling down and looking at the detail of everything around him. Upon a table near the couch where the body was found, sat an empty cup of tea. He went to it and saw sugar on the bottom. On the same table was a post-in pad. He noticed that the two top notes were torn off separately. Some writing was legible on the top piece. He noticed that there was also a pen on the floor near the body markers.
She must have tore the first piece out. It's a more even rip. The second piece is uneven and must have been torn at an angle meaning the killer ripped out that one. But where is the first note if the woman tore it out?
Sherlock looked under the couch. Not there. He lifted the cushion off of the couch and found it there, precisely as he expected. He picked it up and looked at it. It seemed to be a crude drawing of what looked like a lion and a unicorn fighting. Government symbols. Parliament?
Sherlock put the clue into a baggy and shoved it into his pocket. He then looked at the post-it pad again and saw the faint outlines of the last note as if the person writing was pressing hard. He lifted the sheet so that there were no other pages behind it and held it up to the light. It appeared to be three letters GLB scribbled rather hastily.
"Hmm." He tore it out and put it another baggy to add to his clue collection.
"Hurry up, Sherlock!" He heard Mycroft shout from the window.
He rolled his eyes and continued. He moved to the kitchen. On the counter was a jar for a tea blend, a flour jar, but no sugar jar? There was just enough room between the flour jar and toaster for a sugar jar but it wasn't there. He went to the counter and saw a few shiny grains of sugar in the empty place. He looked in the cupboards and found no other sugar. Yet she had used some in her tea. He went to the empty tea cup and scooped out some of the sugar into another plastic baggy and put it in the same pocket at the notes.
After looking around the flat one last time to make sure he didn't miss anything, he headed over to the window and called for Mycroft to stand below it again.
"Catch me!" Sherlock said.
"No." Mycroft said definitely.
"I need to close the window. Stand where you were."
"No!"
"For God's sake! Then bring a garbage can over. What was the point of you staying if you weren't going to help me down?"
Mycroft made a face and pulled a garbage can over for Sherlock to stand on. He pulled himself out of the apartment and landed lightly on the garbage can. Standing on it, he pulled the window shut and hopped off.
"Put the garbage can back, will you?" Sherlock said, already walking away. Mycroft huffed angrily and pushed the can back, then ran after Sherlock.
"Well, what now?"
"Now? I go home. I'll be coming down in about 10 minutes. I can already feel it coming."
"No, I mean about the murder. Did you find anything?"
"More than the police, I'm sure."
"You have to tell them what you know."
"I'm not sure what I know yet. I have a few ideas. I might need your help."
"Why me?" Mycroft groaned. "I hate it when you need my help."
"Do you know anyone in the government with the initials GLB?"
"Of course I do. Gordon Lyle Bradbury. He's a Conservative Lord in Parliament. I'm his personal assistant. I've told you several times..if you were listening-"
"Well, it's very tedious and boring to listen to every word that comes out your mouth. If I were to listen to all of it I would have killed myself years ago."
"I could say the same about you."
Sherlock looked back at Mycroft with a half smile on his face.
They reached the house and Mycroft followed him inside. When Sherlock tried to close his bedroom door Mycroft stopped it with his hand and came inside.
"You can go away now."
"Sherlock, what are we going to do about this drug problem of yours?"
"We? Problem? This has nothing to do with you. And this is an experiment, not a problem. I'm testing it in a controlled environment and can stop any time."
"A crime scene is hardly a controlled environment. Look, Sherlock. As long as you're doing drugs I can't associate myself with you. I'm trying to make a name for myself and I can't do that with a junkie brother in the way. So, until you find something more stimulating than this, I want nothing to do with you."
"Don't be stupid. Tomorrow I'm going to interview your boss." Sherlock said. He went over to his boom box and put in a Sibelius cassette. Violin bursts through the speakers. He sat on the edge of his bed and pulled a small vial full of clear liquid and needle out of the bag beside the table. He prepared the needle.
"Not again!" Mycroft shouted.
"It's morphine. It makes the crash more bearable and helps me sleep. Why are you getting so upset? It's just chemistry." Sherlock said matter-of-factly. This time when he shot up, Mycroft looked away and stared at the music player.
"I hate the violin. It's like the sound of your suffering. To me, it's like hearing you scream."
"I play when I'm happy."
"You're never happy."
"I am lately. You should come around more often. Today was fun." His speech was beginning to slow down and his eyes seemed to be having a hard time focusing.
"Sherlock, I was serious when I said I want nothing to do with you."
"Shut up. I'll see you tomorrow." He rolled over on his side so his back was facing Mycroft.
"You are not going to interview my boss!"
"Yes, I am. Bye bye, brother of mine." He said, waving an arm lazily in the air.
A frustrated noise came out of Mycroft's mouth as he glared at Sherlock. He stormed out of the room and slammed the front door behind him.
The next day
Sherlock decided he would skip his last class of Biochemistry, as it was the easiest, and went to meet with Mycroft at his job. He waited in the massive lobby of the government building. He felt not only physically sick, but also quite miserable. He plopped down into a leather chair and called Mycroft on his cell phone to let him know that he was there. Several guards kept looking at him suspiciously as he glared at them from behind a coffee cup. An elevator door nearby opened and Mycroft came out. He immediately caught sight of his brother and hurried over to him.
"Are you high today?" He whispered.
"Do I look high?" He snapped back and opened his eyes wide, showing that his pupils weren't dilated.
"Is there any way you could possibly do this without actually meeting him? I know how you are with...people. He's out right now anyway, so.."
"Yes, whatever! I'll ask you some questions and if I could see his office, at the very least, that should be enough." He got up and went to the elevator. Mycroft used his ID and the door opened for them.
"Are you going to tell me what this is about? You don't actually suspect that he murdered that woman, do you?"
"I suspect he might have something to do with it. Has he been acting unusual lately?"
"Well, last week he received an unaddressed letter that made him go rather pale when he read it."
"Hmm.."
When the elevator dinged at the 8th floor, they got out and Mycroft lead the way down a long corridor. He opened a door to the left and went into the large office room. Sherlock didn't waste any time to start looking at every thing inside. He opened a closet and found it full of clothes.
"What is this about?"
"He has fights with his wife every once in awhile and stays at a hotel. He comes in early and changes here so nobody will notice."
"How long has that been going on?"
"Well… we hasn't stayed at the hotel for two weeks now, but before that, about three to four times a week for the past two years.."
"Two years? Why not just get a divorce? Oh, don't tell me you wash his clothes." He muttered as an afterthought.
"Well, I'm his personal assistant. I do what I'm told! He doesn't want to get a divorce because it could hurt his political image. He's a big supporter of the nuclear family unit, though his two children are moved out already."
"You realize he's having an affair, right?"
"…"
"You are either blind, stupid, or lazy if you don't."
"Honestly, Sherlock. It's none of my business what he does outside of this office. Unlike you, I can turn off my powers of observation when it's appropriate to do so."
"I'm guessing that he was caught having said affair two weeks ago and that's why he stopped staying at the hotel. A week later he gets a letter. Most likely blackmail from Ms. Jane Dowe, the housekeeper who walked in on him. He panics and hires someone to kill her. Easy. But there seems to be something missing. I understand that if he was caught having an affair and it was exposed, his career would be over. But if he was caught in the involvement of murder his career, his freedom and his life would be over. Would he risk everything simply because he was cheating husband or is there more? Did anything unusual happen the day after he went to the hotel that last time?"
"He came in earlier than usual. I get here around 5am everyday. By the time I got here he was already in his office, changed. When I went to wash his clothes from the previous day, I couldn't find them."
Sherlock furrowed his brows and steepled his fingers together. "Interesting.." He said softly. "Do you remember what the date was?"
"6th of March."
"Okay. Good." Sherlock said and began to walk towards the door. Mycroft shouted after him but just as Sherlock put his hand on the door it opened and in came Mr. Bransbury. He looked from the teenager to Mycroft.
"Mycroft, what in the world is going on? If I find out you're a queer, I'm firing you this minute!"
"What? He's not- Oh no, he's my brother, sir!"
"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock said, offering his hand then pulled out his ID to prove who he was. While the large man looked at the ID, Sherlock looked the man up and down, picking up everything he could.
"He wanted to meet you and write a paper about you."
"Political science major like my dear brother." He forced a smile.
"Oh, so you want an interview?"
"Well, I did, but unfortunately something came up and I need to go. It was great meeting you, Lord Bradbury. Maybe we can meet over a cup of tea. Good day!" He shook the man's meaty hand again and went around him to get out of the room.
Lord Bradbury looked at Mycroft with an uncertain expression.
"I'm almost certain that he's adopted." Mycroft said solemnly.
When Sherlock got to his house he went to the pile of newspapers on the kitchen table that had been growing since his parents left for their trip two weeks prior. He flipped through them, looking for dates and finally found the two he was looking for. The 6th and 7th of March.
He had both newspapers sprawled out before him, scanning one then the other with tremendous speed and flipping them at the same time. After about two minutes of this, he had found what he was looking for.
"A-ha!" He exclaimed and began to read the article under his finger.
Murder on the Thames
Marcus Gubul, age 34, was found dead Wednesday morning. The body of the male was discovered by Patrick Denning, an American photographer, who was near the coast taking pictures of the London skyline at dawn. "I got closer to the water to get a better shot of Big Ben and then I saw the body. At first I thought that maybe it was a trash bag or something but then I realized it was a naked man!" Denning told Daily Mail. "I walked to him thinking he might have been a drunk, but then I saw the stab wounds and called the cops."
Once Scotland Yard was contacted, Detective Inspector Lestrade came to investigate the gruesome scene. The statement he had for reporters was that the only information he could reveal is that the "victim suffered from seven stab wounds and the murderer will be brought to justice."
According to last year's murder rate-
Sherlock put the paper down, having read all that he needed to know. He nodded knowingly to himself. He was much closer to fully understanding now.
The next day Sherlock went to his Microbiology lab class. As the other students were preparing slides for their compound microscopes, he was staining the sugar substance that he had received from the crime scene. He went to one of the few electron microscopes in the class and looked at it. The female professor seemed to notice Sherlock and came over to him.
"Mr. Holmes? Shouldn't you be working on your lab report?"
"Finished." He said, holding up the finished assignment he had ready to show without taking his eyes off of the microscope.
"But you didn't even do it."
"I don't need to look through a microscope to understand what I would see. It was easy."
"If I didn't know you better, I would think you were cheating. But I know you better so I know that's not true." She said looking at all of the correct answers. "What are you working on?"
"Uh…A personal project. Do you mind taking a look? What do you make of it?" He pushed the chair aside with him in it and outstretched his hand to the microscope. The professor went to it and peered inside.
"Glucose molecules."
"But-"
"But something is mixed in with it. What is that..? A hydrochloride salt."
Sherlock nodded his head.
"It has the shape of a Phenethylamine but a little different than the ones I've seen. It's a drug. Perhaps a psychedelic drug. I'd have to reference some books to give you an exact answer. Does that help?"
Sherlock was staring into space. His mind was racing.
"Mr. Holmes?"
"Can I be excused?" He didn't wait for an answer. He handed the assignment to the professor, grabbed his bag and swept out of the room.
As Sherlock was running he pulled out the large cell phone from his pocket and called Mycroft.
"Sherlock? Why are you out of-"
"Shut up. I'm going to Bradbury's house. What's his address?"
"For what? No!"
"Your boss is a murderer, Mycroft. I'm sure that he murdered Marcus Gubul. I need to go there to investigate. I'll probably find the bloody cloths, murder weapon, and blackmail letter there. Who knows- maybe I'll find a lead on the other murderer."
"I'm not-"
"I have other ways of finding out. Either I'm going now or later so-"
"Fine! Egerton Terrace, Knightsbridge, SW3." After quickly blurting this out, Mycroft hung up the phone.
Because Sherlock often spent sleepless nights walking the streets of London, he knew exactly where Knightsbridge was. When he arrived, he found that only Mrs. Bradbury was there. She was a tall, slender woman who had high cheek bones and wore a lot of makeup. She had blonde hair and was much younger and attractive than her husband.
"Hello. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm the brother of Mycroft Holmes..your husband's personal assistant."
"Right. Gordon has told me about you… He says you want to write a paper about him."
"Yes! That's why I'm here. You see, he said I could interview him over a cup of a tea."
"He's not here right now."
"Oh…well, I've come a long way to get here. Maybe I can wait until he gets back?" Sherlock put on his best sympathy inducing face.
"Alright.. Come in." She welcomed him inside and offered to his coat from him. He shook his head and sat down on the couch.
"So…are there any pictures of Mr. Bradbury that you have that I can use in my paper? Or documents? Professors love that kind of stuff." He tried to put on an average college student persona.
"There might be something in the back. Let me go check." She left the living room and disappeared into the next room.
As she went off, Sherlock jumped to his feet and started to look wildly around the flat for any clues. Any drawers that weren't locked he checked. Every other second he would look over his shoulder to see if Mrs. Bradbury was coming. He opened a closet near the end of the hall that he found himself in and saw a box in the corner. He pulled it to himself and opened it to find the missing sugar jar along with a knife.
"Oh…" He breathed, his eyes full of sudden understanding. When he turned around he was face to face with Mrs. Bradbury holding a long-needled syringe. She held him and stabbed him in the neck with the needle, injecting him with a white liquid. His hand automatically went to his pocket where he felt the buttons on his phone. He redialed Mycroft.
"What did you just inject me with?" His body started to become very tense and he felt nauseous.
"Just a little drug that's popular in the Netherlands right now. It's called 2C-I. In little doses, it's like LSD, but in large doses…well, it's a beast of its' own. Now tell me, what do you know? My husband brought up yesterday that he overheard you and your brother talking before he went into his office. He heard Mycroft say the 6th of March. He doesn't think either of you know anything, but I'm curious to learn why you were talking about the 6th of March. What do you know?"
Colors were becoming bolder and twisting. The floor beneath him felt like it was breathing.
"I know that you and your husband are killers… He murdered Marcus with a knife and you murdered Jane Dowe with this drug. " He said. Her eyes started to look like holes in her head. As much as he tried to blink the image away, the holes only grew bigger. "He was having an affair with that man but then something happened…."
"Yes, very clever. He killed him. From what he tells me, this man was sick of living in secret and wanted my husband to run away with him. He was getting loud and threatening to expose them if Gordon didn't go with him. My poor little husband didn't even know what came over him. He attacked him with the knife room service brought up with their romantic dinner."
"And he called the only pewson he think ooof." The floor seemed to be sucking him into the ground now. He fell and held his head up as if holding his head above water to breathe.
"While I was on my way, a housekeeper walked in on him because of the ruckus and saw the scene. When I arrived he told me but I stayed with him and helped him clean up the mess. After about a half an hour, still no police had arrived. We stuck the body out in a large luggage I brought and disposed of it in the river. We couldn't believe that that stupid housekeeper didn't call the police. She didn't tell anyone. She recognized the government official and wanted money. So she blackmailed him. When he got the letter, he brought it to me, in tears. I was expecting such a thing to happen. Shortly after this, I couldn't believe my luck. While Gordon was at work one day, that stupid woman came here and told me everything. She apologized for taking our fortune and if it wasn't given to her, she apologized for turning my husband in. She felt like I deserved to know ahead of whatever transpired so that I wouldn't be as troubled. What she didn't know is that when I married Gordon, I knew he was gay. I also knew he was very rich. This affair isn't news to me, he's been giving me enough money to keep me a happy wife. When he called me about his little boyfriend problem I saw all of the money that he had given me slip from my fingertips….with lawyer costs, PR consultants, and everything else. I had to fix it. And when the blackmail letter came, I knew I could fix that too.
After she came to visit me, I followed her to her flat to see where she lived. I put my plan together and went for a visit. I came in tears, asking for consolation or some way to bargain. She lead me to the kitchen and turned a kettle on. I asked for some tissue and like a fool, she ran off to get some. I had just enough time to pour the 2C-I into her sugar jar. When she came back I continued to cry. She made a cup of tea and thankfully added sugar to it. She offered it to me but I pulled out a pint of whiskey and declined her offer. We moved to the living room and talked for awhile. You see, in powder form the drug takes a bit longer to kick in. But by the time she finished her tea she was already hallucinating. I played with her for awhile, scaring any information out of her and when I found out she didn't tell anyone yet, I finished her. I gave her a concentrated dose on this drug through the belly button so that no one could see the puncture wound and suspect things. She overdosed and started foaming at the mouth and died. It turns out that the police suspected homicide anyway, so I guess it didn't matter. I only gave you a 1/3 of the injection that I gave her. But I'm thinking I should probably kill you the same way. They might think it was the job of a serial killer. Hell, maybe I'll do the same thing to your brother. He's with my husband right now. All I have to do is tell him to bind him up and then it's over..."
Mrs. Bradbury pulled a vial out of his pocket and used the same needle she had previously used on him to extract the liquid. She moved towards the boy who was now laying on the floor. She kneeled next to him and tried to pull up his shirt, but he flailed his arms at her. In doing so, his sleeve rolled up revealing small red dots along his arm.
"Oooh." She laughed. "Looks like I already have a target. Well, close your eyes and pretend you're shooting up, darling. I'm just helping you with the inevitable- overdosing."
She sat on his arm to keep it still and held the rest of his body with one hand while holding the needle in the other. She poised it, ready to strike.
Suddenly the front door flew open and several armed officers came running in, pointing their weapons at the woman.
"Put that needle down!" One of them yelled. She looked angrily down at Sherlock.
"You called the police?"
Sherlock lifted his head slightly which lolled back and forth.
"Wooorse. I called my bruther! …..Mycroft?" He shouted at the police officers. Mycroft appeared from behind them and once the woman was apprehended he went to Sherlock's side.
"Sherlock! Did you seriously get high before you came here?"
"No! Didn't you hear…on the phoo? Ah well. Do you think I can buy any?"
"Ugh! You're lucky I'm always here to save you but I'm not going to be there for you anymore. I am DONE with you. I don't care how you get home. I heard everything Mrs. Bradbury was saying and I reported it to the police. My boss is being arrested right now, leaving me without. a. job! It's your fault."
"It's not my fault your boss is a murderer." Sherlock muttered while sitting up. He was rubbing his arm where a bruise was starting to surface. Although the background of whatever he was looking at still seemed to be swirling, he could now think a little more clearly. Maybe it was the sound of Mycroft's voice that was bringing him out of it.
"I am leaving you here. I don't care what the police do with you." Mycroft said, turning to leave. One of the officers put his hand on Mycroft's shoulder.
"Hold on, there. We need you to come down to the station with us to fill out a police report. You're a witness."
"Closet. Evidence. Case closed." Sherlock said then fell backwards with a smile on his face. He closed his eyes and felt like he had fallen on a cloud. It was the best feeling in the world, even better than his first hit of cocaine. He finally found his new drug of choice.
"I guess I'll always be stuck with you." Mycroft sneered as he helped his brother up.
"Don't pretend like you hate it. I'm the only one you have."
Mycroft looked as if he was going to drop Sherlock out of rage but then his face relaxed and he pulled the tall teenager to his feet. He silently put his arm around his brother to hold him up and lead him out of the house.
"Come on, you idiot."