Chapter 4
Mycroft did not have to think where to find where Sherlock had gone. It was one of two places that were deemed to be his natural habitat: his room or the library. And considering all the books Sherlock owned will have been read and placed back in his room by the page boy, it was quite an elementary deduction to say he was in the library.
Indeed he was. Sitting cross legged in a bucket chair by the window, his limbs folded expertly into an obviously comfortable position, was Sherlock. He looked as though he had been there all afternoon, meditating on a lily pad of cushions and wood. Open on his lap was a copy of Gray's anatomy on the nervous system section of the tome, with a detailed picture of a sliver of brain showing the medulla oblongata, the optic tracts and difference in grey and white matter.
However, the boy wasn't looking at the book at all. His elbows were dug into his thighs whilst his hands cradled his face, covering his eyes with his palms as if he were trying to press his hands through his head.
Mycroft frowned at this perplexing behaviour, but he had seen his brother like this before. Right before the end of his time at the grammar school, he went very insular and self-destructive to a degree. But, Mycroft thought, if he could come out of it once, he can bloody well stop himself becoming like it again.
Bringing another chair over, he sat down opposite his brother and leant forward in his seat as far as his build would let him. Sherlock still hadn't noticed he was there, his sinewy forearms showing from the top of his disturbingly large frock coat sleeve.
"Sherlock."
Holmes' head sprang up, eyes red from the pressure he was exerting on them with his hands, looking thoroughly beside himself.
"What's wrong now?" Mycroft said wearily, though the care behind his words crept through.
Holmes closed his eyes slowly and held his forehead up with his left hand, his right turning the page in the book. "I'm so… so very bored."
"Everyone gets bored. That's the banality of life I'm afraid." Mycroft said tersely.
"Banality." The younger man's voice had become laced with cynicism and contempt. "Humdrum… prosaic, everyday actions… is that what boredom is going to end up being? A natural part of a routine?"
Mycroft didn't know how to respond.
"If so, then I want to deny it that privilege. I want to, but I can't, for I know that it will slither its way back through the cracks like a viper… and when its fangs sink in…" He laughed coldly at his own metaphor.
Mycroft noticed Sherlock gently massaging the inside of his left elbow absent-mindedly as he spoke.
"And when they sink in, you must administer an antidote?"
Sherlock's head snapped to face his brother and shot him a look of pure poison. Slowly he turned his head back to the book he was attempting to read and turned a page disconsolately.
"So bored, bored, bored, bored, BORED!" he virtually screamed through his clenched teeth, turning a page ferociously with each exclamation, eventually flipping the back book cover over and launching it over the left arm of his chair onto the floor. It landed with a dull slap which echoed around the virtually empty room, Holmes resting his mouth on his fist, glaring at the far wall.
Without a word, Mycroft stood up and walked over to the side table and brought it over. Setting himself down, he saw Holmes eyeing the table's movements as it was put in front of him and he surveyed an old familiar battleground. He glanced up at Mycroft from his moody perch.
Mycroft tapped the side of the table lightly. "Chess?"
Five minutes later, the two brothers were sitting, leaning over their half of the chessboard, both tapping their temples in thought. Holmes liked chess. It was a very definite game, yet within it, it had so many subtleties. So many stratagems and so many possibilities that could come from a defined rulebook as to how each piece moved. It symbolised everything he loved; sheer force of mind and nuances of brilliances. All from simple manoeuvres.
Mycroft lifted his kingside bishop and placed it down near Holmes' left flank. "I bumped into Laura on the way up here."
Laura Holmes was Sherrinford's wife of nearly four years. She had become a part of the household and had agreed to take up residence in Galway to help run the estate with Sherrinford. Quiet and elegant, she made a lasting impression on the family but kept to herself when family matters were brought up, which is why she was so well accepted; it wasn't the best idea to try and out do the matriarch.
"Small talk Mycroft?" Sherlock said, as he took a lone pawn on the right side.
"I was a little concerned. I wouldn't be saying it otherwise." Mycroft paused with his finger still on the rook he had just moved. "She looked like she hadn't slept for days."
"Well, I saw her on the landing as I came in. I'd say she hasn't had a full night's sleep in nine days, and is possibly taking a herbal remedy of hibiscus oil and lemon balm judging by the stain on the top of her left sleeve. The only way to get a stain there is if you drink and it splashes over the rim, you see, and she is left-handed. Also, I believe Sherrinford may have mentioned something of insomnia as I went into the sitting room. Hurry up and finish your move."
"It was actually as you were pouring drinks. You need to be more precise with such things."
Sherlock scoffed slightly. "I knew it was when I was pouring drinks. I would have corrected myself." And he moved a knight to take the bishop that was threatening his first line of defence.
"Indeed." Mycroft said. "But remember Sherlock, you must look passed the obvious of what you observe." And with that, he picked up his rook, and gracefully set it down where Sherlock's knight was and placing the young Holmes in check. Sherlock stared at Mycroft.
"From what I have observed in the past six hours I have been here, I can tell you that Sherrinford and Laura have been in arguments recently over the prospect of having children. I can also tell you that Laura is thinking about moving back to Liverpool to live with her parents for a while and I am amazed that the glaringly obvious fact that she is thinner than you are indicates she blames herself for the lack of an heir for Sherrinford."
Sherlock looked upwards for a bit as if watching the pattern of his brother's observation materialise in front of him. "Yes, I did observe after his initial reaction to me in the carriage had died down, he was subconsciously fiddling with his traveller's cap, which I deduced earlier that Laura disapproved of, most likely said in a heated argument about a far more important subject. Also, when I came in he looked down almost hastily at the point in the hall where outgoing luggage would be placed if it were to venture outdoors, suggesting he was half expecting to see his wife's bags. But, from what I've seen, I would have to disagree with you with the shape she's in."
"How so?"
"Because sleep deprivation can cause such fluctuations in one's weight." Sherlock said, contemplating his counteracting move to prevent his king from dying a horrible death.
"Yes, but you have to take into account the cause of her not being able to sleep." Mycroft leant back slightly as he watched his brother place his bishop between his king and the threatening rook. "The arguments, or rather the subject has probably kept her awake at night."
"I suppose. She seemed positively miserable."
Mycroft nodded solemnly. "It's crucial one feels happy in one's own skin. But it appears that it much more of a problem for womankind-"
"And they blow it out of proportion" Sherlock sighed and indicated for Mycroft to play his next move.
Mycroft sighed. "We'll leave this topic there, I think." He said leaning forward and moving his queen to defend a solitary knight.
"Thank you…" Sherlock said, rolling his eyes and taking Mycroft's rook. "I was waiting for you to realise what an unconsidered conversation this was…"
Mycroft quickly counteracted with his queen moving into enemy territory, causing a bishop to be in great danger of being cut down. "I see you've lost some weight."
Holmes truculently picked up a pawn and placed it down to stop the offending royal. "I see you've gained some weight…"
Mycroft stopped for a bit. "At least I can admit that I've put on a few pounds."
Holmes was tempted to answer with a snide comment, but stopped himself. He sighed quietly. "I have lost a bit of weight, yes."
The elder brother watched as Sherlock averted his gaze to look at the floor, in an act that some would consider sheepish. "Oh? A look of guilt."
Holmes looked at him out of the corner of his eye, brow furrowed.
"So this state you're in is your own doing?" Mycroft said playfully and watched his brother lean over to take Mycroft's bishop with as much malevolence he could put into the action.
Holmes leant back in his chair and folded his arms, his right hand cupping his opposite elbow defensively. He glowered at his brother with his resolute eyes and frowned. "I know you've already worked out why I'm like this."
"I would like to hear you say it yourself"
"Why? You know, I know. Enough said. Now play the goddamn game." Holmes spat, and Mycroft slowly leant forward and placed his brother in check once more. Holmes was silent for a bit. "It doesn't need to be said. And it isn't important right now."
"I'd say it was pretty important if it kills you." Mycroft said quite casually, setting himself back in his chair. He tilted his head forward and looked through his brow at the lanky young man opposite. "Mother would never forgive me."
Holmes said nothing, but stared at the board with half lidded eyes, massaging his forehead.
Mycroft continued. "Are you addicted?"
"No."
"When was the last time you had some?"
"It was… 3 months ago." Holmes said, closing his eyes and rubbed his tired eye sockets.
The game continued without another word. All that was heard was the gentle tap of stone on wood as the pieces were moved expertly around the board; attacks were executed, counters were put into play, interesting gambits were used. Holmes was getting quite lost in the game when his brother spoke.
"Dinner is in half an hour. Do you think we'll finish in time?"
"We can always leave it set up. Check." Holmes replied as he calmly placed his queen on a diagonal to Mycroft's king. Silence ensued until Mycroft sat back coolly.
"Clearly, chemistry isn't enough to stimulate your mind; otherwise you wouldn't be taking the cocaine during term time."
It was the first time the name of Holmes' vice had been mentioned between them for nearly two years, and Sherlock was surprised at the effect the word had from him when it came from his brother. It was said with so much distaste, Mycroft had virtually spat it out. "Am I right?"
Holmes leant back and stretched out his long back as he rested the nape of his neck on the back of his chair, trying to ignore Mycroft's last comment.
"I am. I know you Sherlock; I've known you all your life."
"Well of course you have. But let's not split hairs over the length of time being in someone's presence and knowing a person." Holmes smiled as he watched Mycroft fall into his devious trap on the chessboard. "For Sherrinford has technically known me for exactly the same amount of time and probably couldn't tell you what my favourite colour is."
Mycroft cocked his head to the side. "You don't have a favourite colour."
Holmes laughed, his melancholic mood lifted somewhat. "Exactly. Sherrinford would try and guess. Because," Holmes tapped the side of his nose. "He doesn't know me."
Sherlock then placed his final piece to complete his ruse and looked at Mycroft. "Checkmate."
Mycroft smiled. "Good game." And held out his hand for Holmes in defeat, who took it and gave it a triumphant shake. They began to put all the pieces back to their original places and Mycroft spoke quietly. "I always like to think that chess is a good analogy for the mind. The chessboard is the brain, the housing for the pieces which are not dissimilar to the faculties within our heads. The pieces all have a set thing to do, but when used in a certain way can be a powerful attack force, stimulating to the last." He paused and looked at Holmes, who was looking intently back. "But if you don't find a way to use those pieces to your advantage, you will be in for an exceptionally dull game."
The two brother's sat in silence for the remaining free time, Holmes feigning to read his book. But Mycroft could see that his metaphor had struck a chord with his little brother, albeit a little excessive in its imagery. His brother had all the tools to be phenomenal, he just needed to be put in the right direction.
And Mycroft knew chemistry would be nothing more than a pastime.
Holmes unfurled himself from his chair and picked up the side table to put in back in its place. With a swift movement he had replaced the table, put back his book and was making his way out of the library.
"Where you heading off to?" Mycroft asked as he got up, stretching his back.
"I think I'll go and get ready for dinner." Holmes gave his brother a glimmer of a reassuring smile and made his way to his room.
"I see you've grown quite accustomed to that pipe."
Sherlock looked up from his book and saw that his brother had addressed him from the outer door from the living room. Sherlock removed the cherry wood pipe from his mouth, inspected it before replacing it without a fuss and continued to read his book whilst replying to Sherrinford's comment.
"I don't understand this blessed family's inability to listen to me when I say I find the whole concept of birthdays repugnant." He mumbled. He then eyed Sherrinford who had set himself down opposite him with the newspaper.
"You're not still het up about that, are you?"
Sherlock silently threw mental daggers at his brother's head.
"Thought being away at university would get you out of having to even acknowledge it?" Sherrinford smiled, one eyebrow cocked. "Really, you must have realised you would have come home at some point. And we certainly remember the day you decided to grace the world with your presence."
Holmes ignored the obvious sarcasm that was oozing from every syllable. "Whose idea was it?" he said, slowly turning a page of his book of 'Chemical compounds: Similarities at the elemental level.'
"The pipe?"
Holmes hummed a noise sounding a yes.
"Mother's, I think… or mine… I can't really remember how it came about."
Holmes muttered something under his breath that only he could hear.
"Pardon?" Sherrinford said flopping down the paper onto his knees.
"I said 'Trust you'. I detest presents. And you damn well know it."
Sherrinford put up the broadsheet once more "language…" he said in a stern voice, but his face spread into a childish smirk, knowing he had ruffled Sherlock's feathers quite nicely. After a while, the sound of the sideboard clock was all that was heard, loud and clunky as the pendulum heavily swung from side to side, putting a strain on the mechanism. The late summer sun was beginning to be eclipsed by the threatening cloud, its light clawing around the foaming forms to try and touch the emerald green of the meadows and fields below. It had been a sultry day, and the clouds were beginning to accumulate upwards into a tower of ominous cumulonimbus on the horizon.
"Are you coming to see charlotte off tomorrow?" Sherrinford suddenly broke the silence folding his paper over.
"No."
"You replied to that quickly. Consider it at least." Sherrinford frowned at the spine of the book that had taken so much of his brother's attention.
"Well, it's the same answer I gave mother, charlotte and father."
Sherrinford snorted. "I really don't understand you. It's as if you don't want to be a part of this family."
Holmes again said nothing. Sherrinford put down his paper with a flurry and stalked out of the room.
Holmes closed his book and placed it on the floor next to his chair. He got up, stretched and took the pipe from his mouth before proceeding to tap out the tobacco in the bowl on the lower wall. Looking out over the expanse of green land synonymous with Ireland and the contrasting reddening sky of evening, he couldn't help wish for the next 3 weeks to hurry and pass so he can finally make his way to England. Then he could make the final decision whether he would miss his excitable clan after all.
