Author's note: Okay, here it is, after very long in the making, the start of a HIGHLY ambitious Holmes AU project. A few things about this story to warn people against wasting their time: of course, this doesn't adhere to Canon very much at all. I make several parallels, and have many of the same stories/characters, but very, very different. Also, Watson will not make an appearance in this story. If I ever get to the sequel, he will turn up, but one of the huge bases for this story was what if Holmes had found someone else to room with instead.
The full circumstances of this story are longer than a summary line can provide, so I will elaborate a little: It begins much like A Study In Scarlet, but without Watson, and it takes place a few years prior. Sherlock has just reached the end of his schooling at Cambridge, and he is without a career, much to the chagrin of his family. He gets the rooms in Baker Street one day when Stamford introduces him to Toby, who was a transfer student that had been under everyone's radar for quite some time. He finds himself becoming equally intrigued by Toby, and by a young woman he observes in his chemistry classes, but on top of these self-assigned enigmas to solve Mycroft has grown weary of his indecision and assigned him the task of solving the murder case of a well respected aristocrat and charitable investor, Lawrence Jameson. So as you see we veered off of Canon pretty fast.
By the way, very few romantic undertones going on in this story. Like if you want them to be there, they're there I guess, but as of now… no. A sequel? Much more chance. But this is pure Holmes-the-scientist intrigued by this young woman as if she's a complex math problem that has solid answers if you look hard enough. So I guess sorta. Either way it's kind of an unusual relationship Holmes develops with her… and everyone else, for that matter. So just don't get mad if they don't get together in the end, cause… they won't.
……………
It is with both a great reluctance and an utter necessity that I take up the pen. Only two others know of the story that I feel compelled to tell, and while I trust one of them more than anyone or anything else, there are certain facts that I have withheld which make my tale difficult to be told by anyone else. As for the other… well, I consider it rather improbable that it could be done. So it falls to me to recount the notable events of my line of work. As a final word before truly beginning my story, I wish to assure the reader that I write in the interest of enlightening future generations of my profession, and I vow to adhere to the only details that matter in these cases; the facts.
I suppose my true first case came long before I was settled in my profession. I was still very young (just recently turned twenty-five), and although my primary education had been completed, I had remained at Cambridge to the extreme chagrin of my family. This is not to say that they were particularly disappointed with me, but as it was I had not yet informed them that I had made a decision for my future. Instead I remained reticent in expectation that I would be allowed to continue my education (which was what I desired- I felt my knowledge of chemistry was hardly adequate to suit my purposes); only my elder brother Mycroft knew of my career choice.
Perhaps my advanced chemistry class is a proper place to start; it is, after all, where I initially noticed and became intrigued with Audrey Sheridan. In physical appearance she was quite unusual; her hazel hair was far too short to be fashionable, and quite often thrown about in a tousled manner that was more eccentric than appealing. She was average height for her age and gender, but possessed a somewhat striking mental stature that far overcame the physical height of most of the male classmates; it would be quite impossible for Audrey to look down her nose at them, but she did so nevertheless.
To me there were so many mysteries surrounding her; the most obvious was perhaps her very presence. After an unbearable period of curiosity, I began to ask the other classmates, and they had divulged to me that she was the daughter of a woman who had nursed with Florence Nightingale, as if the very fact excused every enigma about her. Indeed it had driven away a significant amount of them, for certainly the daughter of such a woman would have to meet high expectations, and if these expectations were too high for society, than she would have to suffer through those affairs gracelessly. She was not the only female of the university; there were a few other rare cases such as her; however she was the only one of them to have reached this level.
Once I had learned these minimal facts of her background (her father's side coming from old money, retaining a very prestigious position in most social circles), I began to watch her every occasion I had. What I observed in her did not correlate with this background information. Every personality trait that I would have expected to find in such a woman was not there, or, if it was, it was for an entirely unpredictable reason.
She did not pay attention in class. It was remarkable- to think she had attained such a higher degree of education, most likely the most intelligent woman for her age, and she sat in class idling away her time drawing what appeared to be crude caricatures of the professor. I began to think that perhaps she had no interest in learning, and that her only reason for attending class was her mother's wish, but it became evident to me that this was not the case. Occasionally in class, instead of drawing, Miss Sheridan would instead pretend to be reading the text while disguising a different book on the inside, and on further observation of these books, they were all scientific texts. They were mostly contemporary and some rather farfetched- she had a few works written by an odd Austrian fellow by the name of Sigmund Freud. To me this did not suggest a distaste for learning.
What, then, were her reasons for her odd behavior? Frequently she did not do work, did not even seem to care about it as if it were not an important part of the class, and she seemed incurably bored, yet she consistently attended and left class with little fanfare.
I gave up my futile efforts to divine more about Audrey Sheridan the day she discovered me watching her. I will contest to being perhaps slightly discomfited when her head began to turn in my direction, but it was far too late for me to pretend I had been looking elsewhere, so I held my gaze rather awkwardly. She met it evenly, and after a brief moment she raised an eyebrow rather peevishly, and smoothly returned to her latest speculative science article. This was the first time she infuriated me, and for good reason- with that simple gesture, she had made me feel more ashamed than I had been since I was a child.
Perhaps three days after this incident I was in the laboratory at Cambridge after an unbearably long wait. I had been biding my time for the laboratory to empty out one afternoon so that I had an opportunity to test the latest blood test I had been toying with in my mind. I was mired two or three hours in the experiment when the unwelcome intrusion of Stamford and a strange young man with a very dark countenance entered from the opposite side. As they stood aside conferring for a few moments, I did my best to ignore their presence, deeply wishing they would disappear.
Of course, they did no such thing, but it hardly mattered three second later. Suddenly my experiment had ended- I stared in disbelief for a moment at the newly discoloured liquid in the test tube.
The young man glanced half-heartedly towards the chemicals, head tilted and brow furrowed. Suddenly he sniffed the air oddly; more like a hound than a human.
"For what purpose have you altered this human blood?" he asked blandly, giving me a rather bemused scrutiny.
Slightly deflated (mostly by my own intrigue rather than his apparent lack of it), I explained the details of my experiment. For months I had been toiling to find some small way to make my rather unorthodox trade easier. This had been my final idea. Of course there had to be a positive test for hemoglobin somewhere, but I had hardly appreciated the long hours it had taken to find it until now.
The young man listened attentively with a singularly unwavering gaze, standing rigidly straight with his arms firmly by his sides. For a moment I thought he might be a military man, but his eyes held too much intelligence to be a soldier. Whatever his occupation was, however, must be a very dangerous one, for his stance was much like that of a coiled spring, ready to release all tensions in a fury at the slightest disturbance.
"What is the use," he began slowly after my explanation was done, "of such an odd test?"
I was rather astonished; he seemed far too intelligent not to realize the practicality of this test in criminal justice. For a moment I had even pondered whether he was an inspector; now all such premonition was banished from my mind.
"You do realize, of course, that with this test, it will be possible to determine whether a blood sample found at, say, a crime scene, is human or not?" I prodded gently, searching a sign of revelation on his face.
No such revelation came to him- the only reaction was a small, rather stilted shrug.
"I have never had a need for such a thing," he explained blankly. His ability to speak without inflection was remarkable- he was obviously not an inspector, but what a fine one he would make! Particularly among the blundering fools they kept at the Yard these days.
"I see," was my meager reply. It was merely something to say to fill in silence. His statement suggested an extreme self-centeredness, yet if I was listening hard enough for some sort of tone in his voice, it was hardly spoken that way. If anything, it was more apologetic. But I could make no assumptions on this man. He remained- to me, and I'm sure to Stamford (who was standing slightly apart with a pitifully bewildered expression at our entire exchange)- an utter enigma.
"But for now, this test of yours is not the issue I wish to discuss," he said. I began to notice his rather unnecessary prolixity; it suggested a complete deficiency in social affairs. "My name is Toby Crawford. I have heard from Stamford-" he nodded his head in Stamford's general direction without turning his head away, "-that you have been searching for living quarters, and that you have found one particular flat that would require more investment than you can afford. I happen to be under the same circumstances, and so Stamford has referred me to you."
Before giving him a reply, I gave him a more thorough and complete exanimation. In physical appearance there was nothing terribly distinguishing about him; his unkempt hair was of a nondescript gray-brown color that resembled certain varieties of pewter. His face was neither narrow nor wide, and in height he was neither tall nor short. In general his appearance was highly practical; disguise comes very easily to such average physical features, and even without disguise his common looks would act as chameleon-like screen that would render him invisible in a crowd to an untrained eye.
There was little to gather from his countenance; his face held a remarkably blank expression. Not merely an expression of suppressed emotion, but an expression that suggested that emotion was foreign to his mind. His stance was wide and his arms were clasped behind his back, creating a rather commanding aura. For a brief moment I thought he was perhaps a member of the aristocracy, but it was impossible; his accent suggested otherwise. Middle to lower class. It was rather an anomaly.
It was then I replied to him, accepting his rather prolix offer to go halves. It was hardly an opportunity to pass up; he certainly seemed like an intelligent young man, and with more time I could perhaps solve the many mysteries surrounding him. In any case, I hardly thought that such a characterless young man would be a terrible companion.
In the short conversation that ensued, I learned that he was completing his studies at Cambridge to become a medical doctor. Shortly after learning this meager information he departed under a hurried excuse, and I was left alone to ponder the encounter.
The next day in class, it occurred to me that with the semester and my entire academic career coming to a close, the one and only tie between the elusive Miss Sheridan and myself would be severed. Despite the fact that I hardly knew this young lady at all, I could not help feeling a small regret to this end. As a matter of fact this ignorance was the sole cause of that regret; to have Miss Sheridan vanish from my sight after having pondered her very existence for so long would leave me little closure on the matter.
Just as class ended and I was fiercely debating whether or not to meet her directly, Miss Sheridan, on rising from her seat, turned and walked directly to my desk, dropping an unpleasantly familiar magazine on its surface. A quick glance at the pages opened before me confirmed my suspicion.
"A very informative article; a trifle pretentious, but such arrogance can be excused when its owner displays such ingenuity," As I had predicted, her voice had a very bored, subdued tone, more pronounced by its unusual but not unpleasantly low pitch. Her direct gaze was through tired, relaxed lids, which combined with the current formation of her mouth lent her a rather smug air about her which I found more than a little irritating.
"How did you know that I was the author of this piece?" I demanded; the only other person I had made privy to this article was my older brother, who I could hardly keep in the dark.
"I suppose you would find it surprising to know that I guessed," she replied tiredly, the upward curl of her lips deepening slightly.
"And if I had turned out not to be the author?"
"Then you would have found my remark highly irregular, and considering the fact that you seem to be fascinated with me, I'm sure it would have been a memorable event for you," she answered immediately in an unbearably wry tone. Of course I was slightly startled by this sudden confession of her knowledge, but I could not dwell on it for very long, for I found myself adding her unorthodox remark to the many tiny mysteries that hung about her presence. Just as I began poring over this newcomer, trying to understand what could possibly have moved her to come to me in the first place, I looked up and with the faintest awareness noticed she was leaving.
I saw this as the first, and quite possibly the last, opportunity to satiate my curiosities about her and dismiss her from my mind forever, and it was a rapidly departing chance at that. I gritted my teeth, cursing my indecision; the only options I had were to confront her directly or let her slip away from my fingers entirely. It seemed ironic and rueful that the direct, straightforward approach was not always the path of least resistance; however it was, at least in the case, the most satisfactory.
"Miss Sheridan," I called, standing rapidly, snatching up the magazine on the desk. She half turned towards me and gazed with an expectance that may have been peppered with some bemusement. I cleared my throat uncertainly, for it seemed I could only remain in a half-bewildered state when in her proximity. Sensing my hesitation, she spoke first.
"Mr. Holmes, I know very well how I intrigue you, but you need not concern yourself with any offense on my part. Feel free to ask me anything you wish," she assured mildly.
"Well, this is hardly the appropriate location," I replied, surreptitiously noticing that the two of us were now attracting the undivided attention of the professor. I was at a loss for further words, unused as I was to such social matters. My meager suggestion was that we depart for the library. Miss Sheridan was irritatingly amused by this remark.
"I think I have a better idea," she replied gently.
A quarter of an hour later, Miss Sheridan and I were seated in a small café near the university; so far she had been listening intently to my apologetic explanation of my observation of her over the past few weeks. I felt it necessary after realizing that my attention was not unnoticed, and somehow this feeling was made more acute by her apparent nonchalance towards the whole matter.
"Mr. Holmes, I hope you forgive me for saying so, but if you ask me, I think your fascination is quite comical," she announced at the end of my statement.
"The question was not in my line of inquiry, and I had gathered as much, but pray tell why, Miss Sheridan?" I asked in return, grated by her remarks, but at the same time anticipating her reasoning.
"Well, it's the simple fact that the only reason that I intrigue you so seems to be a mere difference of character," she replied simply.
"How so, Miss Sheridan?" Now my interest was most genuinely piqued. It was the start of the answers I had been awaiting, so I could deflate the air of mystery around her and go on living my life in peace.
"You are fascinated by the fact that I do not pay attention in class. To you, of course, this is unthinkable- you obviously have a great passion for the subject, and even if you didn't, there was a practical reason for taking this course and you were going to fulfill that purpose. You wouldn't understand why anybody else has a reason not to pay attention, and I have the acute feeling that it would be pointless to attempt an explanation to you. Shall I give one anyways?" she asked knowingly.
"Yes," was my completely unnecessary reply. She sighed tiredly; I had noticed a downward trend in her attentiveness and energy throughout our conversation thus far.
"This is the best I can offer you, I'm afraid," she warned, and continued, "I do not pay attention because… I do not want to."
I felt my shoulders sink involuntarily. This was going to be harder than I thought.
"But… how… if you do not want to pay attention, why are you even enrolled in this university?" I asked, painstakingly building a new line of inquiry in my mind.
"I understand your confusion. Obviously, I am an intelligent woman," she acknowledged the fact quite honestly, in a way that may or may not have suggested arrogance, "So why would I not want to take up my rare opportunity to learn? I will explain, but you must promise not to interrupt, for I fear I shall take some time."
All former questions now crumbling apart, I reluctantly agreed to be patient. She began:
"To begin, I had very little to do with my enrollment. Much of it was to do with my mother- of course she wanted me to be educated, and legitimately, at that. It was her opinion that I should be able to become independent, and need not have to worry myself about finding a suitable husband She was, of course, a fiercely independent woman herself. I have fancied that the two reasons she conceived for her marriage were the respectable means to conceive a child and the money to raise her (it must be her, mind you) with the best advantages," she spoke with very little negativity in her tone, despite the incredibly cynicism I detected in the words she chose. She continued with another of her peculiar half smiles, "I have an older brother, you know." It was an offhanded comment, but she paused to make sure I understood its significance. "Anyways, my father is quite a different matter. He spends his time as he has done for decades, idling around with the money from his family, and the occasional necessary investment to keep his funds alive. He lives quietly, choosing only rarely to look up and critique some aspect of the family before settling back down. His quiet nature makes him quite an agreeable man, and so he had no qualms about mother's educational plans for me.
"So you have the reason for my enrollment. I never really made an active contribution to the affair. I suppose I followed this plan out of a lack for a better way of occupying myself. I had no plans for myself, and I'd just as soon mind not having any, but I have no complaints. I just… have no passion for this sort of thing, is all," she completed, looking a little brighter. "Do you see, Mr. Holmes? Does it make perhaps a little more sense now?"
Surprisingly, much of her narrative had finally led to a better understanding of her peculiar scholastic habits; I was, however, finding myself now more intrigued by other details. To my frustration, this one understanding had set off a series of other anomalies. To respond to her question, I nodded in affirmation, but I felt it far too brash to mention anything of these new developments. Instead I subtly began a new discussion, hoping to steer the correspondence into one final revelation.
"Miss Sheridan, if scholastic learning is not a subject that appeals to you, is there anything else you pursue?" I inquired. She appeared to give the question a fair deal of thought before answering.
"I suppose I have taken up many hobbies- I play piano, sketch, and less occasionally I write. But I have pursued none of these on a motivated level," she added.
"I see…" I tried to say something more, but an increasing frustration begged me to stop. Perhaps if I left this conversation to the ashes, I would be able to leave this unpleasant mystery behind. It would not be the worst thing in the world to have just one problem left unsolved. It was rigidly against my nature, but I felt I had no other choice at this point than to raise the white flag. Miss Sheridan, being the highly perceptive observer I had just realized she was, picked up on my hesitation.
"Mr. Holmes, it is rather a long time now we have spent conversing- perhaps we should take our leave," she suggested politely.
"Perhaps we should," I responded with a tired smile of my own. I stood and offered my hand. "It was… an interesting experience, Miss Sheridan."
She stood to meet me, and as she did I noticed an evident wobbling in her feet- for a few moments it seemed as if she had not the strength to stand, but in the next she was shaking my hand in a firm, albeit shaky grip. Feeling uncomfortable at the prospect of leaving her in such an apparently weak state, I lingered unsurely.
"Miss Sheridan… do you feel adequately energized to make your way home? I could escort you, if you wished… to ensure you make the journey safely," I said hesitantly, not knowing if the remark would cause her any offense.
Apparently it did not, for she gave me a rather grateful smile.
"I do believe that would be best," she replied. I gave her my arm and we left the café to call a hansom. "I have always tired rather easily," she explained on the way. I could not think of any suitable reply, and my silence settled upon the both of us for nearly the entire cab ride to her estate in Palace Gardens. At last, upon departure of the cab, I felt the oddest need to say something more.
"You know," I began weakly, "I have an older brother too." I was stunned at the inane nature of my own comment.
"Do you?" Miss Sheridan replied with a smile that nearly threatened to break into a small chuckle. "What's his name, this brother?"
"Mycroft," I replied absently. The answer seemed ridiculously interesting to her.
"Really?" she asked, with more energy than she had possessed moments ago. "He would not be your elder by seven years, would he?"
"Have you heard of him?" I asked in amazement.
"Only in reference to the Jameson case. That must mean you are the one assigned to investigate," she said.
There was no outward shock evident on my features, due to an extremely concentrated effort to conceal my complete ignorance on the preceding statement made by Miss Sheridan. Unfortunately I'm not sure I did half as well in my attempts to smother a very familiar anger. I knew exactly what this meant.
"Yes, I suppose I am," I replied, unable to refrain from grating my teeth. She did give me a curious scrutiny for a moment, but thankfully her apathy took control and her interest was assuaged.
"Well, thank you for escorting me home," she remarked, seeming rather pleased to change the subject. At my blank look, she indicated a large estate beyond the gate we were now approaching and continued, "That is my home."
"Ah," I acknowledged rather blandly. "It's… lovely." I was unsure whether I was expected to make a commentary, but at the present that was all I could offer. My mind was rapidly being occupied by other concerns.
Rather hastily, I took my leave of Miss Sheridan and departed for my next errand- it would seem I had another call to make that day.
"You're a new one, I take it," I spat to the nervous young steward I was currently verbally wrestling for entrance to Mycroft's residence.
During the few years Mycroft had inhabited London, he had developed an ironclad defense of rhetoric and bureaucracy around both his offices and private residence. I was currently situated at the latter, knowing full well that Mycroft would always be at home during these hours; the model creature of habit he was, Myrcoft's movements were as reliable as the waning and waxing of the moon. However, this poor young lad, like the rest, had been trained and brutally drilled in a meticulous series of pretexts and excuses designed to keep all visitors from the premises, regardless of stature, integrity, or, apparently, familial relation.
The steward, instead of rebutting my statement with another vapid evasion, sputtered in a way that suggested Mycroft had not yet prepared him for such a response. Growing weary of the verbal struggle, I roughly pushed passed him with a dismissive glance and promptly headed for the study. There, his languid form seated on a couch, his eyes watching the entrance as if he quite expected me, sat my distinguished brother Mycroft.
"I expect the reason you arrived here with such… vigor," Mycroft pretended to choose the word carefully, but I knew he himself would never use rhetoric to skirt around the blunt truth, "Over the matter of the Jameson case."
I took a moment to calm my breathing to an acceptable level of composure, and finally I moved to sit down on a rather plush armchair across from m brother.
"You would agree, of course," I began stonily, "That when one is assigned by their elder brother to a certain task, that this person would be fully entitled to the knowledge of the aforementioned task before anything had been confirmed?"
Mycroft sighed tiredly; for a brief moment I associated the sigh with the similar gestures Miss Sheridan had made during our earlier conversation, but immediately I banished the thought with distaste. Miss Sheridan's appearance gave the air of an inborn physical weakness, whereas with Mycroft's expression the word I could not eject from my mind as I looked upon my brother was laziness.
"I understand the offense this must have caused you, and I won't make an excuse for myself. You should know that by now," he scolded in a way I could only take as condescending. Then, like a bear rising from hibernation, he rose to his feet and moved to the desk in the far corner. He took from its surface a rather large packet of correspondence and all but hurled it to me as he continued, "The family's patience has really been waning for the past few months, Sherlock. Father is close to furious, Mother is practically sick with worry, and the rest of them will not stop clamoring with their thoughts and suggestions. The absolute irony about the whole matter is that because of your lack of a stable address, it is I, as yet the only established member of the family, who is the butt of all of this aggression!" his voice had raised, and the energy from his outburst had caused him to pace shortly, but furiously, in front of the entrance.
Although I felt my ill temper towards Mycroft elevate with his words, I was forced to acknowledge the truth in his words, and felt completely unjustified in making any remark. Worse was the fact that my forced silence only bred more blind aggression towards my brother. Having completed the first part of what was evidently becoming a lecture, Mycroft turned and gave me a calculating glance which I met with my own icy glare. I was prepared to sit in this cloud of hostility for quite some time, but after a few seconds Mycroft resignedly bowed out and continued:
"Sherlock, the simple fact is that you cannot continue with your current lifestyle any longer. Your rather fruitless schooling has been completed, and for weeks all you have done is linger aimlessly without any direction or purpose. You have no more excuses. The family- and I- have offered you all the time until this point to choose a path in life, and yet you stubbornly have not given an answer."
"Mycroft, do you really presume that something so inane as stubbornness is to blame as the sole cause for my reluctance, when I have explained to you my indecision on several occasions prior?" I was being ridiculous to ask something so obvious, but I felt justified at the time by his equally ludicrous statement, particularly when the words he spoke were so unlike his usual frankness. It seemed very much like Mycroft was channeling Father; or, I thought briefly as I gazed upon the packet of letters, perhaps quoting indirectly.
"It is no longer enough, Sherlock. Whether or not you have found a desirable career, you can no longer remain undecided, receiving the benefits of society and making no contribution," these words, however distasteful to me, were genuinely Mycroft's once more.
"Perhaps there is no way I can contribute to society," I muttered insolently, refusing to meet Mycroft's stare again.
"Sherlock," he warned, "I know I have no need to inform you of your own intelligence. There are many ways that you can serve society."
Something compelled me to raise my eyes at that point. I found Mycroft gazing at me intensely in a manner I could not interpret, but as I sat there I grew increasingly disturbed by it. Something in his eyes seemed so displaced in Mycroft- something almost akin to worry. Suddenly a brief, fleeting revelation flashed in front of my eyes, and I couldn't grasp it in time to fully understand it, but in that moment I saw strange similarities between the two of us I had never noticed before. Unfortunately, all of these thoughts vanished as soon as they came, and all I had left was an inexplicable unsettling feeling. Feeling suddenly restless, I stood abruptly and gazed upon Mycroft with a final determination.
"I won't do it," I said with a quiet vehemence.
"It's temporary. I swear to you, I will not hold you to anything after this is done. The case simply fell on my desk, and I thought it might spark some sort of interest on your part. If it doesn't… we can deal with that problem when it arises," he responded evenly, shocking me with his promise. A shrewd man like Mycroft usually knew to shy away from such practices.
I hesitated; the prospect was becoming brighter than it had seemed before, but unfortunately the trust Mycroft had gained from me in the past few years was dubious.
"Sherlock, there is… one more thing," Mycroft began slowly, "Father… cut you off from your allowance."
"He…" I trailed off, appalled. It had happened to plenty of my peers, but I had always looked down upon them as idlers and loafers. Is that all my father had come to view me as? I inwardly shook these thoughts from my mind. There was a more material problem at hand now. "I just went halves on a flat in Baker Street."
"He's just temporarily irritated about the matter. Sherlock, he seemed to calm down upon news that I had assigned you this case; if you take this case, I'll cover the expenses of the flat until your commission can support the costs. And I'll owe you a very large debt- I'd be willing to give almost anything," he added, very reluctantly.
"Do you feel you have to offer such rewards to me?" I spat out petulantly; the words came out rather rapidly, and I barely realized I had said them until a few moments afterwards. I did not check Mycroft's reaction to see if they had struck a chord, but I quickly appended, "I apologize, I have no idea what possessed me to say that."
My eyes, for a time, had remained fixed on the dull off-white packet of paper in my hands, but after a few moments Mycroft's voice spoke up from the silence.
"Sherlock, this favor… it would include my answer to the question you asked me not so long ago," my eyes shot up, and his glance was full of meaning. It didn't take long at all to remember the incident he spoke of.
"This matter is that important to you," I stated evenly. The extent of the reply I received was a curt nod from Mycroft. I didn't think any longer. Instead, I moved towards the door and thrust back the enormous packet of letters to him.
"Inform the Yard of my involvement in the case," I requested, with a look devoid of all emotion.
Wordlessly, Mycroft reached over to the desk and handed me a thick envelope that had been lying there. We shared one final glance, but suddenly I was overcome by an inexplicable feeling of disgust. Irritated and unbelievably drained, I departed swiftly to spend my final night in the shelter of Cambridge.