The Diogenes Club, where Holmes's older brother spent his days, was located not too far from his apartments on Pall Mall, on a street comprised mainly of gentleman's clubs. The club itself was an odd one—it catered to gentlemen who wished solely to be left alone. They went there to avoid socializing, and spent hours in heavy silence. I suppose for some, it was pleasant. It was closing on noon when Holmes, Ben Kenobi, and myself stepped down from our hired carriage outside the Diogenes, and most of the crowd around us was comprised of gentlemen on their way to business or entertainment, with here and there small eddies of color that were women on their way to pay calls.

Before we had left Baker Street, it had been determined that Ben would require less-conspicious clothing. That had proved something of a problem, as Holmes was taller and leaner and I was shorter and heavier. A thorough search of both my wardrobe and that of Holmes's had resulted in a reasonably presentable outfit for the young man, so long as no one looked closely enough to see the less-than perfect fit. A workman's cap, unearthed from Holmes's disguise closet, looked at odds with the rest of Ben's attire, but served to cover his strange hairstyle. The braid, refusing to remain tucked under the hat, was stuffed down the back of his shirtcollar.

The heavy fog of the previous night had burned off, and the sun shone in kind autumn warmth over the city. Ben—I found it easier to think of him as Ben, though I had not yet learned just how Mrs. Hudson came about calling him that—looked about him with open interest. "How many people live in this city?" I heard him ask Holmes.

"A little over four million," Holmes replied.

"So few?"

I turned to stare at the young man incredulously. "What do you mean? London is one of the largest cities in the world!"

Holmes, too, was watching him closely. Perhaps sensing he had let more slip than he'd intended, Ben changed the subject. "This man we're going to see—you said he was your brother, Mr. Holmes?"

For a moment, I didn't think Holmes would let him get away without an explanation. His grey eyes were keen on the younger man's face. Then, he seemed to relax. "Yes. My older brother, and my superior in intellect and observation skills."

"Is he? And is he also a consulting detective?"

Holmes laughed at that. "Heaven help us if he were! No, he is an accountant."

Now Ben's eyes were a sharp as Holmes's had been moments earlier. "But he is more than that."

"I will let you form your own conclusions about Mycroft Holmes," my friend replied. His voice was suddenly cool, giving nothing away.

The interior of the Diogenes Club was dim and plushly furnished. The porter, recognizing Holmes and me immediately, ushered our small group into the room where Mycroft spent most of his time. It was empty, but the man informed us that Mr. Holmes's brother would be along shortly.

I seated myself on the sofa, pausing to pour myself a snifter of brandy. Holmes accepted one as well, though Ben, taking a sturdy chair next to the window, declined. Holmes took up a position by the fireplace, resting one long arm on the mantelpiece. The room was silent, save for the soft ticking of the clock above the mantel. I sipped my brandy, allowing my gaze to wander about the comfortable, ornate room. As I did, it struck me again how very different these two brothers were. Where Holmes had little use for personal possessions—the clutter dominating his study and bedroom was not a result of avarice but rather an accumulation of items he found useful or interesting—Mycroft appeared to enjoy creature comforts. Everything in the room was in top condition and designed not only for an attractive appearance but also for supreme physical comfort. From the chairs to the décor to the brandy I held in my hand, it was all first class. I wondered what sort of salary Mycroft's 'accounting' brought in, or if this high-class lifestyle was allowed him by his superiors (if he had any) to keep his vast knowledge of international and government matters to himself. Then I dismissed the thought as unworthy. Mycroft may have been, in his way, even colder and more calculating than his younger brother could be, but he shared with Holmes the same deep love of humanity and good.

"You are contemplating something very hard, Watson," Holmes commented suddenly. "I perceive it has to do with my brother. Wondering about the benefits of his occupation?"

I shook my head. "Holmes, you never cease to amaze me. However did you guess that?"

His expression turned a little pained. "Please, Watson. I never guess—I deduce." I noticed Ben watching us closely. "You twirled your brandy in your glass," Holmes continued, "which is of excellent quality and no doubt very expensive. Not something we often have at Baker Street. I saw you studying the room's decor—also very rich—and rubbing your hand along a worn spot on your trousers."

"All right, all right." I laughed. "One of these days I shall learn to stop asking you how you accomplish that."

"Oh, don't do that. How ever will I entertain myself then?"

Soft laughter from Ben drew our attention. "That is most intriguing, Mr. Holmes. Your methods are fascinating."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, my boy," Holmes said with a small grin. "I feed off information."

"I take your hint, Mr. Holmes, but there is little that I am at liberty to tell you."

The door opened, breaking off further conversation, and Mycroft Holmes entered. He was as tall as his brother, but where Holmes was as lean as a wolf, Mycroft was built more like a...well, a whale. One had to look closely to see their resemblance, despite the identical black hair and piercing grey eyes. "Sherlock!" he boomed. "I didn't expect to see you for at least another day!"

"Really, Mycroft. You might give me some credit for being good at my job." Holmes's tone was light, however, showing he took no offense at his brother's words. "Allow me to introduce you to a new acquaintance. Mycroft, this is Obi-Wan Kenobi. He prefers to be called Ben, however. Obi-Wan, this is my brother Mycroft Holmes."

Ben had risen from his chair, his hat held loosely in one hand. I saw that the braid had slipped free from his collar and was dangling over his shoulder. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes," he said politely, extending a hand.

Mycroft hadn't moved, his eyes narrowed on the young man. "Dear heaven," he muttered. "This is the last thing I need!"

"What the devil do you mean?" Holmes demanded.

Mycroft ignored him, opening the door again and speaking quietly to the man outside. "Get me MacEiver. Now." Then he closed it again and turned to study Ben. "Forgive my rudeness," he said, suddenly all warmth and jovial charm. He crossed the room to clasp the young man's hand. "Please, be seated. I see you have been recently injured."

Ben, though he had been as startled as Holmes and I at Mycroft's outburst, had recovered himself quickly and took his seat as the big man requested. I fancied, however, that a flicker of hope crossed his features. No doubt he hoped that Mycroft had already found his missing master.

"What is this about, Mycroft?" Holmes asked again.

His brother waved a pudgy hand. "Patience, patience, Sherlock. I hope all will be revealed."

Holmes, truly irritated now, growled in the back of his throat. "Mycroft—" he began.

"How did your meeting with your informant go last night?" Mycroft interrupted smoothly, seating himself in an overstuffed chair.

My friend fairly choked. "I didn't tell you about that!" His brows snapped down into a black line over his eyes. "You wouldn't dare set watchers on Baker Street. If you have, this will be the last time I ever work for you again."

"Calm down, Sherlock." His smile was faintly malicious. "Doctor Watson has been rubbing off on you." Mycroft turned his grin, friendlier now, towards me to soften the words. "No offense, Watson."

I was used to it. "None taken."

"What do you mean—?" Holmes broke off, and the scowl was replaced by an exasperated smile. "Of course. The note is still in my pocket, and there is mud on my shoes from the riverdocks."

"And you didn't bathe last night. Where did you go—the Roll?"

"Naturally."

"Ah. I thought I recognized that particular reek."

"Thank you ever so much, brother," Holmes said dryly. "As for the meeting…it didn't go well." He briefly outlined the events, starting with our rescue of Ben, and Mycroft's broad face grew grim.

"I don't like this, Sherlock. And you think there may be a link between Moriarty and this thief?" At Holmes's nod, he sighed heavily. "We will have to wait then, until MacEiver gets here."

Holmes turned to prop his shoulder blades against one of the mantel's posts, twirling his half-empty brandy snifter in his long-fingered hands. "I thought I knew most of your men, Mycroft, but I don't think I've met this fellow."

"You don't know half my men, Sherlock. You only wish you did. And he isn't my man, strictly speaking."

Holmes sneered amiably at him. I was mildly startled. It was rare to see the two men behave like normal brothers. "Who is he?" my friend repeated.

"You'll meet him soon enough. I'd…rather allow him to explain."

There was a soft knock at the door. Mycroft, with surprising speed for a man his size, sprang to his feet and opened it, admitting a short, nervous looking fellow in his mid-thirties with a shock of dark red hair and slightly watery green eyes. He was dressed impeccably, in the height of fashion, from his beaver hat to his well-shined shoes and silk waistcoat. "M-Mycroft," he said, his eyes darting to Holmes and I. Ben, still seated, was mostly obscured by Mycroft's bulk.

"MacEiver. Sorry to call you up in a rush like this."

"W-what seems t'be the problem?" He had a soft Scottish burr, noticeable even through his stutter. "I was j-just on m'way to the train station. B-business back home in Edinburgh."

"Rory MacEiver, this is my brother, Sherlock Holmes, and his friend and associate Doctor Watson. They seem to have picked up a stray. I thought you might be interested." He moved aside, gesturing to the young man seated by the window.

MacEiver froze, his eyes widening a little, and said nothing.

"Dammit, MacEiver," Mycroft said peevishly. "Can't you let me know when you're bringing in more people? I'm getting too old to have surprises sprung on me like this!"

The little Scotsman suddenly straightened, all semblance of nervousness falling away. "We weren't getting anyone new in, Mycroft," he replied evenly, and I noticed with a shock that not only had his stutter vanished, but so had his Scots accent. It now sounded more than a little like Ben's, and as I looked closer at him, it seemed to me that he no longer even resembled a Scot. He turned his gaze back to Ben. The young man rose and bowed. MacEiver bowed back. "What's your name, Padawan?"

"Obi-Wan Kenobi, sir."

"And your master?"

"Qui-Gon Jinn."

MacEiver smiled slightly. "I know that name. He taught a few of the saber classes at the Temple right before I took the Trials. Where is he?"
"I…don't know. We were separated, and—and I can't feel him through the bond." For the first time since we'd met him, Ben seemed to lose his calm demeanor, and was all at once a worried young man. "He isn't dead, though. I'm certain of that. Almost."

"Let us hope not." MacEiver hesitated then, glancing at Holmes and I. "I do not like involving more people in this, but…" he shrugged. "Nothing happens by accident."

Holmes folded his arms. "You could start by explaining that intriguing little conversation, Mr. MacEiver," he drawled. "And then you could tell me how it is you managed to so completely appear in every way a Scotsman from the northern part of Edinburgh, educated at Oxford, and who has spent a number of years on the Continent."

MacEiver's eyes glittered in amusement. "Practice, Mr. Holmes. Years of it."

"What is this talk of a temple?" I interjected. "And trials? If you ask me, it sounds like a lot of that spiritualist nonsense."

The red-haired man laughed. "Hardly that, Doctor Watson. Incidentally," he added, "I find your stories in The Strand to be most interesting."

Holmes cleared his throat pointedly, before I could do more than stammer my thanks and realize that MacEiver had deflected my question quite neatly. "It seems that I've asked this question a number of times already, and as I dislike repeating myself, I hope it will be answered this time without any further evasion. What is going on?"

MacEiver sighed, folding his hands before him much as Ben did. "I fear, Mr. Holmes, that you will find my explanation difficult to believe. You pride yourself on being a rational man, and there is no basis of comparison in your experience for this."

Holmes smiled tightly. "I like to think I am not irrevocably narrow-minded, Mr. MacEiver," he said. "To use an American phrase: Try me."

The short man nodded. "Very well then. Obi-Wan Kenobi, myself, his master, and a number of other people scattered through the British Empire and all over this planet are members of an order called the Jedi Knights. We are an ancient order, going back thousands of years to the beginning of the Galactic Republic. We are not from this planet. The borders of our Republic are an unimaginable distance from this solar system. Jedi Knights have been stationed on this planet for a number of years, keeping an eye on its development against the day when it will be contacted to join the Republic."