Brotherly Love
It was several weeks before I heard from John again and shortly after that tense moment in their living room I had returned to my home, but all the while I kept nervously checking several sources of news from London for any hint of what they were up to. On the one hand, if Sherlock had been called to action to foil some grand plot and save an entire city one would think that might get a passing mention in the press- even if not naming him directly then at least providing some details of the event. But on the other, if he really was some type of secret state agent his work may not become public knowledge so as not to blow his cover or incite panic over what could have been. Governments carried on those types of things on a daily basis without their citizens knowing what was going on behind the curtain.
Interestingly, he was apparently something of a reluctant minor celebrity as I was easily able to find articles both of the informative and tawdry type about him with a quick internet search. But of all the information to be had, I found none so intriguing than the blog of Dr. John Watson. I read through all of the archived articles voraciously as he outlined their many adventures- the lady in pink, the Chinese smuggling ring, the taxi driver who made others effectively commit suicide in some sick game of power and it was only then I began to realize who John Watson was and what he'd gotten himself wrapped up in. There were the occasional missed meetings and odd occurrences of him turning up with inexplicable cuts or bruises, but no one had any idea how he may have gotten them. Now it all made sense- albeit in a perfectly improbable way.
Even more telling were the comments left on his blog apparently by Sherlock himself. He wasn't so much bothered by the fact John was chronicling his missions as might be expected if he were truly an undercover agent, but more to the point he was aggrieved with how he chose to convey information. Sherlock was miffed that the accounts were more focused on what happened and neglected to highlight the process behind it. It was interesting to me because it screamed for a need to be recognized for his brilliance- not that he wanted to be recognized for anything at all- but if it had to be, that's what he wanted to be known for. It was almost as though the outcome of a case was inconsequential compared to how clever he was in trying. Sherlock was a man of deep insecurities and I almost laughed at myself for missing the obvious. At some point he was made to feel less than, probably by someone close to him who had the power to do so and during a critical period of his development such as childhood, and he devoted every moment of his life thereafter to proving them wrong. He didn't just have to be better than his tormentor; he had to be better than everyone so no one could ever again question his worth. Classic overcompensation.
Those words echoed in my head as I sat awkwardly at the kitchen table at 221B Baker Street, not really sure what to do. I had returned to England for a brief stay and John had asked me over to look at some data we had collected. He realized shortly after my arrival he left some papers he needed for the project at the office which was a short distance away and asked if I would be alright there alone while he sprinted to get them. He assured me Sherlock was out and so of course I agreed. However, this couldn't have been further from the truth as it turned out and I wondered if it was some prank schemed up by them both. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Sherlock shuffle around the house in bare feet wrapped in a bed sheet and I suspected nothing else. It wasn't the flashes of pale skin from his upper thigh or chest that made me look away- it was the precarious way the sheet held on to his shoulders and the manner it was loosely and lazily wrapped around his waist that gave me pause.
It took him a moment to even realize I was there and once he did, it surprisingly never once seemed to bother him. He squinted slightly and in a flat tone stated, "People often complain of the NHS, but they've done a remarkable job with your gender reassignment surgery, John. All in all, an improvement, although people certainly will talk now."
"Good morning, Mr. Holmes." I mumbled to the table. "I'm sorry to surprise you, but John said you were out."
"Clearly not." His tone shifted and became slightly more playful as he reached up to stifle a yawn, causing the sheet to slip a little more. "Though I am amused by typical American Puritanical prudishness. Do I offend you?"
I reflexively looked away and responded, "Nudity in and of itself doesn't bother me, Mr. Holmes, but context matters. This is your house and you can do as you like, but if that sheet slips any further I'm not really prepared to know more about you than I want or need to given the circumstance."
"I suppose I'll have to go put trousers on again." He grumbled miserably as if the very thought of getting dressed was a useless chore. "Your presence is starting to become ill-timed and off-putting." His head snapped up sharply as though he heard a familiar sound I didn't detect. He quickly shuffled to the window, tightly gripping the sheet so it wouldn't be lost along the way and frowned deeply as he deadpanned, "And speaking of off-putting."
There was no mistaking the seismic shift in his demeanor as he patiently awaited his fate. He looked like a man who was about to be executed with his hardened eyes, tight jaw, and slightly bent head that clearly signaled his dread at the sound of footsteps approaching up the stairs. I couldn't see from the kitchen, but Sherlock glanced up at his visitor and the cheerful yet hollow greeting of "Good morning, brother mine."
"Mycroft." He returned, his deep voice equally cordial and acidic.
"I was beginning to worry about you." The man continued, undisturbed by his host's obvious irritation. "I've texted you several times this morning and heard nothing. I was starting to entertain the thought that you might have come into some harm." The dripping insincerity in his voice gave me the chills and it made me wonder if the mystery man really was Sherlock's family or if it was meant to be a facetious dig.
"In which case you could go about your day relieved as if nothing happened." He coldly retorted. "I was much too busy this morning with my own pursuits to jump to your call as though I were a dog at your command."
"I see." He hummed lightly as his footsteps approached Sherlock slowly. "Were there more lost kittens to be found?"
"Rabbit." Sherlock spat in an agitated tone. "It was a glowing rabbit."
"And the dog with the red glowing eyes. Yes, all manner of monstrous glowing things. Perhaps you should open your own petting zoo." Just past the doorframe I could see a sliver of a man who appeared to be about the same height as Sherlock dressed in a tan suit leaning on a black umbrella. He glanced over his shoulder at me and a cold smile crept across his face as he turned back to his brother and took a long look up and down his semi-nude form before giving a small chuckle. "Oh, I don't think so." He chided in a condescending tone.
Sherlock slowly closed his eyes and took a deep breath while he bravely tried to hold on to whatever shred of dignity he had in the face of such an insult. "You don't know that." He shot back petulantly.
"I do." Mycroft insisted, although somewhat softer than before as if he regretted hurting his feelings in some small way. "Don't forget, little brother, who it was that taught you the skills of deduction. Would you like to engage in a little game of guess how I know?" He asked smugly.
"No." Sherlock quietly answered with just a hint of residual defiance.
Although Mycroft clearly heard him, he leaned in closer and continued despite his protest. "Let's begin with the fact that you obviously just woke. Your hair is slightly oily and you've not shaved, suggesting you haven't showered as we both know you prefer to shave in the shower." He edged in just a bit closer and breathed in deeply, causing Sherlock to recoil slightly. "And yet you don't smell like you've gotten on with anyone." The repulsed look on Sherlock's face was enough to make his brother smile with twisted delight. "But then again, you wouldn't know what that smells like, now would you?" He taunted.
He bowed his head ever so slightly almost as though he were pleading for mercy and an end to the harassment. A part of me felt badly for him as though I were watching a child being bullied on the playground, but it gave me some very interesting insight into what were obviously dysfunctional family dynamics. More than just friendly familial teasing, Sherlock's reaction indicated there may have been some truth to his brother's jabs which I found somewhat surprising. I didn't know how old Sherlock was, but I found it improbable that he'd never even experimented with anyone as most do in their pre-teen years. It was possible he was asexual, but biology and hormones are very powerful things indeed. Yet his apparent comfort with his own body and casual ribbing of both John for his choice of websites and my supposed prudishness suggested he wasn't necessarily uncomfortable with such things which made him a bit of a conundrum.
"It's inconsequential anyway." Mycroft consoled in a surprisingly genuine tone, "I think we both agree that such things only serve to distract us from more worthy pursuits." He was unclear as to whether or not he meant nit-picking one another or engaging in relationships in general, yet he obviously felt no need to elucidate as he went on. "My urgency in contacting you remains, but I think utmost discretion is needed." He spared another glance over his shoulder to make a point of telling me I was the problem to be avoided. "I will send a car for you in one hour." He gave him another furtive once over and added, "And please do dress accordingly. You can't continue to be seen as if you're trying singlehandedly to make togas fashionable again."
Sherlock said nothing more, but watched his guest leave with such smoldering contempt it was breathtaking. "Is that really your brother?" I asked quietly.
He continued to watch the street below just to be sure his tormentor had indeed left and muttered, "If only because we were born to the same two unremarkable people. Otherwise, no."
