Usual Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are the creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me, no matter how much I wish they did.
Warning: This fic is pretty much complete fluff.
ART IN THE BLOOD
In all my years of acquaintance with Mr Sherlock Holmes, I discovered barely anything about his family; and practically nothing about his early life beyond the odd anecdote of sibling rivalry whenever his brother was mentioned. I am convinced that, had Mycroft not summoned his brother in connection with the affair of The Greek Interpreter, I would have remained in complete ignorance of the elder sibling's existence. Holmes was, and is, pathologically reticent, so much so that it borders upon wilful secrecy, which merely serves to inflame the curiosity of those close to him rather than dampen it. After all this time, I have still not been able to discover in which county he was brought up, or even the first name of his sire. It is as if, in striving to appear unique in the eyes of the world, Holmes deliberately packed away everything which might give one a clue as to what sort of environment created a creature such as he. However, on occasion information did slip out, despite his efforts.
These thoughts, I admit, were not troubling me that morning in late 1897 when a telegram arrived in the middle of breakfast. Holmes, opening it with the butter knife without taking his eyes from the front page of The Times, barely gave the contents a glance. "From brother Mycroft," he said in answer to my unspoken question.
"Is it important?" I enquired. The elder Holmes rarely communicated without good reason, and never called upon his brother unless the safety of the kingdom was at stake.
"Hardly. He suggests I take a look at a new exhibition of French art in Mayfair." Holmes threw the telegram into the middle of the table, narrowly avoiding a half-eaten plate of bacon and eggs, and returned to his newspaper, his brother's communication of no apparent interest.
I took up the yellow form instead. The message was short and to the point, typical of a man who would not expend energy if it were possible to avoid it:
COLLECTION OF FRENCH ART, INCLUDING MILITARY PAINTINGS, ON DISPLAY AT CRUIKSHANK GALLERY. RECOMMEND YOU PAY VISIT. M.
"It sounds interesting," I remarked, reaching for the coffee pot. "The military pictures in particular might be worth a look."
Holmes looked at me in surprise over the paper. "You wish to go?"
I shrugged. "I have nothing else to do today. Are you busy?"
His long fingers plucked the telegram from my grasp and he read it again. "What the devil does brother mine mean by this?" he wondered. "I am sure he has not waddled round there to view the paintings himself." For some moments he stared at the form, tapping his knuckles upon the table, a frown between his brows. At length something seemed to occur to him and he cast it aside, turning again to The Times, and flicking through the pages until he came across an article which made a slow smile spread across his face. With a rustle, he closed the paper and tossed it onto the sofa, abruptly pushing back his chair. "Well, Doctor, shall we go? I take it you have finished your breakfast?"
"Of course, but Holmes, what is all this about?" I asked, trying not to burn my mouth as I hastily drained the last of my coffee. Holmes had vanished into his room to finish dressing, and I heard him banging drawers and slamming the doors of his wardrobe. A few moments later he appeared in hat and coat, carrying his gloves and stick.
"A touch of mischief on the part of my eminent sibling," he replied, and ushered me out of the door.
***
Holmes would say nothing during the short walk to the gallery, despite my attempts to question him.
It was still very early, and few visitors graced the elegant rooms, leaving us to peruse the collection at our leisure. As I had expected, the battlefield paintings, particularly of Napoleon's victories, were most impressive, as were the older seascapes, full of excitement and dramatic lighting. Holmes, however, appeared to be more interested in the handful of portraits which hung alongside the huge military canvases. I had no idea of their significance, as he had denied me the opportunity to buy a catalogue on entry, but they were very fine. As I looked I perceived a definite family resemblance between them, and something else upon which I could not put my finger. There was a kind of familiarity about the faces which was very odd as I knew I had never seen any of them before.
"Holmes, what is going on?" I asked eventually as I followed him into the last room of the exhibition. "There is obviously a reason why Mycroft suggested you come here, but I cannot for the life of me imagine what it was. Do you know the artist?"
"Three artists, to be exact, from the same family," he replied, "and no, not personally. They have all been dead for some years."
"Then why are we here? Is your brother being deliberately provoking?"
"Always. It comes naturally to him. But take a look over there, my dear fellow, and then tell me that you still do not understand why we are here." He pointed with his stick to a canvas in the centre of the opposite wall and gestured to me to approach it.
This I did, though he remained where he was, observing me with a sphinx-like smile. I turned to face the indicated canvas, and as my gaze touched it I could not restrain a gasp – in that second I knew immediately why Mycroft had sent us here. The man in the centre of the painting was looking back, almost over his shoulder at his audience, apparently disturbed in the middle of smoking a cigarette. To his left stood a stepladder and the brushes and palette of an artist, to his right a view which appeared to be Italian. He wore a royal blue coat and sported impressive whiskers of the same chestnut shade as his hair, but the face…the face was one I knew very well. I would have recognised the aquiline features, the hawkish nose and the piercing eyes anywhere, and had to glance back at Holmes to make sure that he was indeed still standing behind me.
He crossed the room to my side, and looked at the painting with me. "Horace Vernet, my great-uncle," he said in explanation. "I believe he painted the portrait when he was director of the French Academy in Rome back in the thirties."
I gaped at him. "This is your grandmother's brother?"
"Indeed. Really, Watson, your education in the arts is severely lacking," said he with a chuckle. "This whole exhibition is the work of my ancestors – the Napoleon battlefields are the creation of my great-grandsire, and the seascapes come from the brush of his father. Mycroft, isolated as he is in the ivory tower that is Whitehall, thought that I would not be aware of their presence in London."
"Good God. But the resemblance, Holmes – you look just like him!"
"It has been remarked upon before, I assure you. My mother became increasingly irritated by the implication that there was nothing of her family in me."
I shook my head. "I had absolutely no idea."
"Of course you did not, old man, because I chose not to tell you. However, when one's ancestry is on full view to the paying public it seems rather churlish not to show it to you myself." He waved a hand, encompassing the room with a single flick of this wrist. "And there you have it."
"I am grateful," I said, and I meant it. Given Holmes's reticence about his family, this was a gesture to be cherished.
"I do have one condition," he continued, "At no point are you to mention this in any of those romantic farragoes you base upon my work. Celebrity can be useful at times but I have no desire to see hordes of the London populace queuing to see my ancestry."
"Your secret is safe with me," I assured him, hoping that he had forgotten my mention of his grandmother in my version of the case of Mr Melas some years previously.
He smiled brightly. "Excellent, Watson! Well, now we have obeyed brother Mycroft I suggest we have some play. Morning coffee and then the concert at St James's Hall?"
"Capital notion, Holmes," I agreed, and allowed him to steer me from the gallery.
As I passed the portrait of Horace Vernet I gave silent thanks to he and his family for bringing me just a little closer to my friend. Putting Holmes in the context of his ancestors did nothing to destroy his uniqueness, for there truly is no one else like him in the world. On the contrary, it merely made him more, human, and, just for a moment, more like the rest of us. I wondered what they would think of him. No doubt they would be proud, as I am.
Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms…
FIN
Author's Note: This piece was inspired by the portraits I found yesterday of Holmes's 'ancestors', the Vernets. If you're interested in seeing them, please visit my profile and click the link to my homepage to find the related post at my blog. The self-portrait of Horace Vernet described in the story is at the Cleveland Museum of Art, Ohio.