"A brother may not be a friend, but a friend will always be a brother." - Samuel Richardson
Chapter 12: "Always Be a Brother"
Watson:
I stopped, bandages in my hands, and stared at Mycroft Holmes in surprise.
Holmes stiffened beside me, and impatiently began firing rapid questions at his older brother. Mycroft was not amused at his belligerent attitude and sternly reprimanded him for it, much to my amusement.
"Sherlock, I am not telling you anything until you cease with that verbal bombardment! And not until you HOLD STILL, Sherlock, so that the Doctor does not have to injure himself in order to patch you up!"
Under the stern elder brother's gaze, I saw Sherlock flush uncomfortably, and he did sit still, allowing me to clean and bandage his bleeding knuckles – it was rather a hard task to do with only one good arm and the other only partially mobile in a sling; but I vowed to manage it somehow and I did.
Proud of myself for actually accomplishing something without help, I then moved onto the angry welt I could see on Holmes's neck and the other on the side of his face. He winced but made no sound as I gently cleaned the wounds, thanking me once I was done – then he impatiently turned back to Mycroft.
"Now, brother, tell me what has happened! What have you found?"
"Sherlock, have you slept at all since this business started?" Mycroft fired a question of his own at his hyperactive younger brother.
Said younger brother bristled indignantly, and I recognized the signs of an approaching nervous breakdown – those occurrences were more frequent than I would have liked, for Holmes had little or no regard for his own health, though he was quite caring about mine.
I wondered if I could get him to sleep for a while.
I, get Holmes to sleep? I scoffed mentally at the very notion.
I saw Mycroft's eyes upon me, and as I looked at him, he glanced at my bag, then at Holmes, and then back to me, nodding slightly.
Did I interpret his meaning correctly?
Mycroft was about to answer his brother's increasingly vehement questions when Mrs. Hudson arrived with our dinner. I smiled as the man's eyes lit up at the sight of the hearty meal, complete with a full pot of Mrs. Hudson's hot tea. That gave me an idea.
As Mycroft started for the table, I slipped a paper packet into my pocket from my bag and rose to follow. Holmes took my elbow almost mechanically and guided me over to the table, where he sat on top of his desk and peered down at us while we ate.
I was reminded rather uncomfortably of a vulture, so predatory did he look perched up there. Mycroft sighed and began his tale as we started the meal.
"I traced that Tartan plaid, Sherlock, Doctor," he began, "and found something very singular."
"Spare us the poetry, Mycroft!" Holmes snapped. Truly, the man's iron constitution was crying for a rest, and Mycroft looked warningly at me.
"That Tartan, Sherlock, belongs to the sept of Gersauch. It was a part of the clan Farquharson over a hundred years ago."
"Was, you say?" I asked, picking up on the word.
"Yes, Doctor. Was. The Gersauch sept has become extinct."
"Obviously not, since the Tartan is still active, Mycroft," Sherlock said, his brows knitting with interest.
"That is not all, Sherlock," Mycroft said, digging with great gusto into his meal, "There have been whispers among the Scottish informants that a radical anarchist group has been appropriating various little-known Tartans and names to use as identification within their circles."
"Anarchists?" I gasped.
"Yes, Doctor. This Tartan is one of three that we know of as being apparently active, although all members have been deceased for over a hundred years."
"That is very suggestive," Holmes said, steepling his fingers together and gazing at us.
"Yes, Sherlock. I would wager that the thistle, coupled with the identification of this Gersauch Tartan, is an identification of the group that killed your brother, Doctor. Whether or not he was one of them, or whether he just knew too much, we cannot ascertain yet."
"Then I suppose our next step is to board the Flying Scotsman(1) and head straight for Edinburgh and then on to Rythclythe!" Holmes cried, flying off the desk and beginning to pace up and down.
Mycroft glared at him, and then he frowned, his great broad brow furrowing.
"Wait a moment! Sherlock!"
Holmes spun around at his brother's tone. "Mycroft?"
"We have been fools! Do you not see, that there has to be a reason why these people are just now coming after Watson here? Andrew has been dead for nearly a year – why just now?"
"I would say, that the watch has just come into his possession, but –"
"But I have had nothing of Andrew's come into my possession since the funeral in January," I said.
"Then the only remaining explanation is…"
"That the group has only just learned of the watch's whereabouts," Sherlock finished his brother's statement. "But where does that leave us? How would they have found out, at any rate, Mycroft?"
Suddenly the solution lit up before me like a flash of lightning illuminating a landscape.
"The Strand Magazine," I whispered.
"The what?"
"The Sign of the Four, correct, Doctor?" Mycroft asked me. I nodded.
Then Sherlock made the deduction for himself, slapping his forehead in dismay.
"Of course! Your florid story told the entire literate populace that your brother had died and left his watch to you!"
"My stories are NOT florid!" I said indignantly – he really did need some sleep.
Mycroft snickered. "You have had this discussion before, I see."
I laughed at that, wincing as I again forgot about my ribs – the sharp pain that shot through me was a horrid reminder of my injury.
At my gasp, both Holmeses turned worried grey eyes upon me.
"So the watch is the key to the affair?" I asked.
"Not the subtlest change of subject, Doctor," Mycroft said, fixing me with a piercing glare.
"No, it isn't. Well?"
Holmes shot me a congratulatory grin as Mycroft scowled.
"That seems to be the logical conclusion, Doctor. Your story told the world that your brother had apparently died of drink and that you now were in possession of his watch. And a few weeks after the story came out –"
"You were attacked in the street," Holmes finished his brother's statement.
"Don't interrupt me, Sherlock. It is a most annoying habit," older brother's stern rebuke was not well-received, earning him a glowering look from Sherlock.
Holmes was rapidly becoming more and more irritated, and something had to be done about it.
While the two Holmeses were engaged in a thinly veiled sarcastic argument, I tore open the packet of sleeping draught I had gotten from my bag and dumped its contents into an empty teacup. Then I poured hot tea over it – the stuff was tasteless, and besides, Holmes was in such a mood that he probably would not even know what he was drinking anyway.
"All right, that's enough," I admonished, as Mycroft's irritated voice raised louder than Sherlock's, "for heaven's sake, Holmes, sit down, and have a cup of tea. I may be forced to watch you starve yourself, but you will at least stay hydrated!"
At the fierceness of my tone, brought on by weariness and irritation, both men stopped, and Holmes gave me a glare that would have rendered most men cowering in fear. I, however, was quite used to the man's mood swings and stared right back at him, daring him to challenge me.
Holmes evidently decided it was not worth the effort, and he sat heavily down in the chair next to me, accepting the tea rather ungraciously. Mycroft sent me a questioning look, and I nodded almost imperceptibly.
He hid his grin in his own teacup, and I started to rise from the table, wanting to get comfortable in my armchair. I was pleased at the fact that I was able to wave off any offer of help from the Holmes brothers and made it to my chair without mishap.
I settled myself just in time to see Sherlock Holmes absently down the entire cup of tea in one gulp, swearing as it burned his tongue.
Mycroft sent him a disapproving glare, which the younger man promptly ignored, and seated himself on the couch.
"Then, we have just enough time to make it to the evening departure of the Flying Scotsman," Mycroft said, looking at the time – half past six – "she leaves at precisely eight minutes after ten tonight."
"We shall go to Edinburgh and continue the investigation of the Gersauch sept when we go on Rythclythe…which if I recall correctly is a small village only 8 miles outside of the capital," Holmes replied, hiding a yawn behind his hand.
I smiled knowingly at Mycroft, who asked Holmes if he were tired.
"You know I never sleep on an investigation, Mycroft!" the detective snapped.
"I know it, and regret it," his brother said with heat, "you really should take a nap before we leave."
"I am going to pack," Holmes said, storming to his bedroom and beginning to throw articles of clothing about.
"Give him six minutes," I said in a low voice to Mycroft.
Sure enough, in a little over five minutes Mycroft entered the bedroom and returned a moment later, a wide grin spreading across his wide face.
"He can get at least three hours in before we have to leave," I said, rising a little unsteadily as Mycroft started to don his coat.
"Thank you, Doctor. I do appreciate your caring for him, in pain though I know you are yourself," the man said, his keen eyes once again scanning my face.
"I shall pack for both of us."
"I will be by at half-past nine to pick you both up. Make sure you bring that watch, Doctor."
"Of course," I replied, handing the man his hat from the stand.
He accepted it with a smile. "I will write up a telegram and send it off to Mary Morstan for you. Holmes told me after the Sholto murder case that you two had been engaged and we would not want her to worry. I will tell her you are engaged on a case with Sherlock and myself."
I stammered my thanks, for during the few hours that I had been conscious over the past day I had neglected to think of such a precaution. Indeed, in the light of the revelations I had learned about my brother I had not had time to think of my the gentle, wonderful woman who had consented to be my wife.
I sighed now at the thought of her, and my heart panged a little. I was infinitely grateful that she she was safe and away from this dreadful business.
"And, Doctor?" the elder Holmes asked, pausing for a moment on the stairs.
"Yes, Mycroft?"
"Please, do remember to take care of yourself as well as my brother," the man said, looking at me with a brotherly regard, "I should not like to have to lose either of you."
I felt my face flush uncomfortably as I stammered a promise to do so, and that extraordinary man went on down the steps, puffing and out of breath when he finally reached the bottom, and exited our rooms.
1. The Flying Scotsman was the name of a train that traveled from London England to Edinburgh Scotland.
TBC…
