I did not like it when my brother visited the club. Sometimes it was alright. Sherlock would stroll in, asking about my work, talking about his life and playfully deducing passersby. But usually he would shuffle in and sit quietly in front of me in the Stranger's room. My side of the conversation was always the same while his varied from day to day.
On this particular day, our conversation went like this.
"Which was it today, case or client?"
"Client."
"Name?"
"Blessington."
"The criminal? Why was he your client?"
"He did his time and was a free man. His former partners had decided that he had not suffered enough."
We waited for my usual departure time in the complete silence of the club. Then we crossed the street to my rooms. Walking upstairs to my bedroom, in the privacy of family, Sherlock showed his heart.
"He might have been a criminal once, but he lived an honest life now. He was hanged in his own room. The whole thing was made to look like a suicide. The first time I met him I knew he feared for his life. And yet I left him. I told him that he should tell the truth, then abandoned him to his fate."
During this rant, my brother had removed his coat and tossed it to the floor. Kicking his shoes off, he curled into a ball on my bed. I sat next to him and ran my fingers through his hair. Sherlock had tears in his eyes. I hated seeing him tear himself to pieces. Then I did something irregular, I sang.
I had not sung since we were children, but I found I had not forgotten how.
"I am fire but ice,
Crueler but nice,
Like the eye of a storm,
A chaotic sort of calm.
I bring violence and war,
With my funds for the poor.
To bring away the world's cries,
The east wind sweeps the skies."
It had not taken long for Sherlock to fall asleep. Siting in my bed, I thought of our mother. She had been the one to first sing that song to us. It was the first song Sherlock had ever learned on the violin. We had prepared it as a duet. I could see him now, on Mother's birthday. He was so eager to show her what we had learned, he could hardly contain himself. I sang, Sherlock played, Father laughed, Mother cried. We were so happy. I smiled down at my baby brother. He might be six foot five and have both his front teeth, but he was still the same little boy I had sung with.
"The east wind is coming, Sherlock. Ready yourself."
Mycroft Holmes got no sleep that night.
What do you guys think? I was thinking of making a series of these moments after Holmes fails and he goes to his brother. Tell me what you think.
POP