The Game
"Come in, Sherlock," beckoned Mycroft Holmes from somewhere upstairs as his younger brother walked into his compact rooms in the forever-flowing London district of Whitehall, "sit down and help yourself to the tea."
The younger brother obliged his elder's request and sat after easing the creaking front door closed, and setting his pitiable collection of belongings on the floor. Sherlock picked a simple wicker chair by the great bow window over-looking the busy street below, and after settling in, glanced about his brother's home. Everything was in its proper place and nothing without a specific purpose was laid out in sight. The hearth of the fire burned brightly, and it was from the heat rather than the light which was the most comforting: three of the clock precisely, just as Mycroft had arranged. The walls were decorated with wall paper, a rich burgundy colour, laced with the familiar patterns of swirling Victorian nuances. The tea set was old (it belonged to their mother, Sherlock observed) but pristinely shined and placed in only the most practical order. There was a light blue sofa that was positioned in front of the fire, also belonging to their late parents. It had worn a great deal, and appeared to be sagging in the middle; Sherlock predicted its life would only last some five years longer before it would run the gamut. He walked along side it, and ran his sensitive skeletal fingers across the satin surface. Smiling, he remembered when he was young and often jumped over the sofa's back to reenact the adventures he read about in The Three Musketeers. Mycroft, he recalled, was never very amused when he did this.
To the left of the azure sofa was the chair Sherlock was using along with the small end table to accompany another chair opposite. Across the other side of the sofa was a large, dark russet-coloured armchair, also once belonging to the parents. There were stacks of envelopes on the mantle above the fire, the only things that were left unorganized.
Brother has not acquired his own furniture or tea-set even though some of it is in desperate need of repair, despite his meticulous disposition. The envelopes will undoubtedly prove to be containing bills and tax receipts, and he has not bothered to properly oil or replace the door. Sherlock was so involved in his observations that he hardly noticed the object of his annotations coming in to sit in the chair opposite himself and transfer some tea into his cup from the pot.
"Conclusions, Sherlock?" Asked his brother calmly, tipping the glossy cup to his thin lips.
"Your position in the government is slowly advancing and you've had the monies available to purchase such a home as this, but you have yet to obtain the weight of office proper for more suitable furnishings. Besides the pay being sub-par, your superiors are using you to their advantage. They will give you work and some money but not the time to pay or even look at the voluminous mound of bills that are stacked up against you on the mantle. You hope to appear wealthy until you achieve the position in which you so desire, and then will probably dump what you have on me. As for your person," Sherlock continued glancing at his elder brother up and down, "I see that your shoes haven't been shined and the left one has two scratches on the inner soles, you have a slightly better shave on the left side of your face than the right and there are precisely four candle stains on your pants. All that adds up to is that you are in desperate need of a more efficient servant girl, you moved the dresser in your room from the left side of the room to the right so as to have better light for shaving, and you've taken to using candle-light over gas as it is less expensive. Did I miss anything?"
Mycroft paused and bit into a brittle, sugary tea biscuit. "Not a thing, brother mine. I've taught you well."
Sherlock beamed and leaned back in his chair. Receiving a compliment or even a positive critique from the older Holmes was as unlikely a thing as plucking a precious pearl from a shriveled oyster. Looking back at his brother, Sherlock took in his appearance for the first time. Mycroft was very tall, considerably over six feet, and had the air of someone significantly taller. Although the family had something of a tendency for heartiness, Mycroft expounded upon the trait in the way that he was, much to Sherlock's ever-lasting concern, exceptionally obese. The fingers which gripped Mycroft's cup were reminiscent of large, curled Polish sausages Sherlock had espied at the butchers on occasion. Even so, more astonishing than the sight of his great girth was the perplexing influence of his most singular blue eyes which at first seemed watery and lazy like the rest of his corpulent form but transformed into the most sharp and daunting aspects of his entire person. They were really the eyes of some great predatory bird of prey which, after observing a singularly delectable morsel, lunges towards it in the hopes of some great chase. Such was the effect of these voracious and cold eyes that one often forgot the girth of the man and only remembered the great and ever-encompassing intellect.
"How old are you, Sherlock?" asked the senior Holmes, breaking the younger out of his reverie.
"I am nearly sixteen years, brother." Sherlock replied, raising an eyebrow. "That makes you twenty-two years of age."
"So it does. When was the last time we played our game?"
"It has been nigh on one year, Mycroft."
"Shall we?"
Both brothers turned their chairs to have a better look at the busy street below them. The game and its unwritten rules went like this: Sherlock and Mycroft would sit in silence and pick out a victim from the street. When someone piqued either of the brothers' interest, the one who noticed the subject in question would signal the other using a hand gesture and the other would either approve or deny the victim as an object of interest. When someone had been decided upon, they would attack this poor pedestrian helplessly with the fortitude of their observation and reasoning. Sherlock, after some time, noticed a woman among the crowd and pointed to her. Mycroft nodded, and it began.
"Twenty-five years of age, I wager."
"Has a cousin in Scotland."
"How far along would you say her flu is, Sherlock?"
"Hm, a week and a half, I say."
"Explain"
"She has a medicine bottle that is nearly empty inside her pocket."
"Good. She lives in the East end."
"Probably near the wharfs."
"Surely not, my boy; she hasn't the clay on her shoes."
"Ah yes, apologies. My next wager is Dorset Street."
"Excellent. Now, she has fallen on hard times, probably a woman of ill repute."
"Prostitute."
"Actress."
The last two words were spoken at the same time by the brothers; Sherlock voiced the latter while Mycroft the former. It wasn't the first time that the brothers' Holmes were at ends but Sherlock would be damned if his senior, and supposedly brighter brother won this round.
"You'll notice the peculiar pockets inside her dress, Sherlock." Started Mycroft, matter-of-factly, "It is not a handsome dress, in fact it is a rather common type of low-quality seen all too often in the lower classes. These pockets that are sewn into the seams are a common enough practice among the—women of a kind—to hide odds and ends from their competitors or to stash their sums quickly into their bodice."
"But," Sherlock started, suddenly feeling the impression of petulance. "She hasn't the health for a woman of such inclinations. Obviously she just acquired money; otherwise she wouldn't be buying a present for her cousin. I would say that she is an actress and is keeping the "hidden" pockets on her person to hide it from those who know her. Actresses, as you know, are not generally appreciated in society."
The younger brother smiled slightly, waiting for his brother's next move. He didn't remember the last time he compelled Mycroft into such thought.
"We shall see then, Sherlock, we shall see." Mycroft commented before he slowly rose and hampered his feet with their heavy burden. Walking to the mantle, he pulled the bell rope and shortly the aforementioned "inefficient" servant girl came bounding from up the stairs. She curtsied to Mycroft Holmes who was scribbling something on a piece of paper.
"Yes sir?"
"Melinda, do you think you can do something for me? Deliver this note," Mycroft asked of the girl, handing her the note along with a sovereign, "to the lady in the black dress outside? Tell her if she answers the question in the note, she may keep the currency."
Both the brothers waited as the girl left the house to speak to the other. Mycroft tapped his fingers upon his desk while Sherlock calmly sipped his tea. Finally, after some few minutes, Melinda returned.
"She said she is an actress and she hopes that you'll keep it a secret. She is trying to keep it hush-hush from her family who believe she is a governess." Melinda curtsied and walked off.
Sherlock smiled smugly. "A free mind does not a prostitute make, brother."
They never spoke of it again.