Chapter Five: A Careful Examination

Sherlock Holmes spent several hours, either folded into the chair before the fire, or pacing back and forth before that very chair, smoke coming up in great puffs from his pipe, a gentle haze could be seen coating the room.

He did nto speak for a long time, and I was well aware that when my friend drifted into these states, any interruption into his thoughts that I might make was unwelcome. When Holmes stepped outside for a while, presumably to get himself some air, I settled myself into his armchair, and soon found myself drifting off to sleep, despite my best desires to stay awake until Holmes had decided to share his speculations with me.

The next morning, I was still in the armchair, somewhat tousled, with the blankets from Holmes' upstairs bed tossed over me, trailing off of the chair on to the floor. Breakfast had apparently been laid out for some minutes, because Holmes was sitting at the table, fingers folded together, watching me keenly over his eggs. Upon seeing that I was in fact awake, he smiled. "I am sorry to have taxed you last night," he said, with a rueful smile. "I often forget that despite all, you try so hard to keep up with my musings, and I did not consider that you would attempt to wait up for me until I'd returned."

"It is not unusual," I said, blinking blearily at him through the still lingering residue of his smoking fit the night before, "for me to wait."

"Quite so," said Holmes. "And with that in mind, I have in turn waited for you to begin breakfast."

I drew up a chair at the table, and tucked in to my own meal with some vigor. In the events of the day before, it seemed that both of us had quite forgotten to eat supper, although Holmes, with his rugged ability to go for days, fueled only on his own thoughts, did not seem to show any signs of particular hunger.

"I promised," he said, "that I would this morning receive Miss Fairchild here, so as to hear her side of Mrs. Allastair's story. It is very likely that she will be accompanied by Lestrade, since it is by his permission that I have the ability to entertain her here at all."

"A favor to you for all the work you've done for the force," I suggested.

Holmes shook his head. "A favor to me," he said, "would be refusal."

I had understood thus far why it was that Holmes was so averse to Mycroft's infatuation with this woman. Holmes had, apparently, from the way he'd always spoken of his brother, been quite impressed with Mycroft's analytical prowess, and his "superior" abilities, and so I presume that he had seen himself and Mycroft as two of a kind, perhaps the only two of his kind that there ever were. Of course it would therefore be a blow for him to discover that Mycroft had taken up with a woman, abandoning my friend to his solitary genius.

I mentioned this to Holmes in a way that I thought was subtle and sensitive, but he in turn just laughed, not maliciously, but not with any kindness either.

"You are forever seeing the good and the human in people, Watson," he said, with a smile. "Yes, I do perceive that after this attatchment, it is very unlikely that Mycroft will ever be that same mechanical mind that he has been, but it is not for myself that I am sorry. It is for Mycroft."

"How is that not better than what I had assumed?" I asked. "You seem to have concern only for him and not for yourself, I do not see how that shows badly upon you."

"It is because," my friend answered, "I am ashamed of my brother. No, it is that I am worried about him, but instead that I realize that he has sunk low enough to be ensnared by a woman's wiles, and so I am embarrassed. We have discussed before how the softer, cloying emotions such as love create only a source of weakness in a mind such as Mycroft's, and I feel that he has wasted his own mind by allowing it to become entangled with such sentiments."

It was not at all unlike the speech that he'd given me upon the nature of happiness, and I was just beginning to get a bit fed up with my friend's superior philosophies, when there was a ring at the bell.

"Ah, and that will be our Miss Fairchild now," said Holmes, and, standing from the table, he went to the door.

It was indeed as he had predicted. Inspector Lestrade, looking rueful and uncertain, was standing behind the tiny Miss Fairchild, who rushed into the room with a cry that indicated how glad she was to be free of her detainment long enough, in the presence of a familiar face.

"There's been a terrible mistake," she said, without any sort of formalities. "Mr. Holmes, if you ever loved your brother, you will understand that there has been a terrible mistake."

"Please have a seat, Miss Fairchild," said Holmes, unperturbed. "Lestrade, you're welcome to a chair as well. Thank you for taking the time to bring Miss Fairchild by this morning."

"Of course," the official replied, sounding hardly genuine. "Anything for our Mr. Sherlock Holmes, of course. I am given to understand," he continued, a bit warily, "that this situation is somewhat personal to you, then?"
Holmes shook his head airily. "Hardly," he replied. "I am simply searching for the truth in the name of justice, as you would only expect." And then, with a sigh, "and doing a favor for my brother, of which you're quite aware. As to the matter being personal, however, it is far more personal to him than to me, and you needn't worry about any bias on my part."

"Very good, then," said the unconvinced Lestrade. He took a chair quite close to Miss Fairchild's, and she launched into her narrative without any further prompting.

"You're going to ask me about yesterday, of course," she said. "And I've really got nothing to say about it, except that I was, from very early in the morning, in the company of your brother, and so could not possibly have been anywhere else."

"Please, from the very beginning," drawled my companion, lids half-open in that lazy, listening style that overtook him when he was in thought. "Yesterday morning, you were at Mycroft's home?"

Miss Fairchild shook her head. "No," she said, "He was in fact at mine, having breakfast with myself and my mother."

"And where do you live?" asked Holmes.

"Only a few houses down, I'm afraid, from Mrs. Allastair's," Miss Fairchild replied with a sigh. "I know exactly what that looks like, but the facts are the best, aren't they?"

"Yes," agreed Holmes somberly. "The truth is your best opportunity." Pausing, he made a little note, and then turned to see if I was listening, before continuing his interrogation. "And so you live with your mother, do you? And does your brother live with you?"

"No, my brother is studying medicine in America," she said. "He's just returned recently on a visit."

"I thought," insisted Holmes, "that you said your brother was much your elder."

"He is," nodded the woman. "He's only just returned to school to learn a second trade, so as to help out my mother. We're alone, you see, as my father walked out some years ago, and we haven't heard from him since. Daniel, that is, my brother, actually thought to find him in America, but having nothing but a photograph to go on, since he may very well have changed his name, he has had no luck in the matter. And before you ask, no, I do not believe that anything tragic has befallen my father, or at least, nothing that he did not quite deserve." Her eyes hardened slightly. "He knew what he was doing when he left us."

Holmes frowned and raised his eyes to meet hers at this sudden show of malice on her part. Miss Fairchild did not attempt to correct her actions, but dropped her hands demurely into her lap and looked away from him.

"And after breakfast," Holmes pressed, "What did you do with yourselves?"

"Well," continued Miss Fairchild, "we did nothing. That is, to say, nothing of note. Mycroft had yet to meet my brother, and we spent some time in conversation with him and my mother, so that it was quite afternoon already when we left. Then, together, Mycroft and I went for a leisurely walk around the house and down the streets, just talking."

This was the first element of the story that seemed to genuinely interest my companion, who sat forward in his seat, and fixed his gaze on Miss Fairchild for a hard moment.

"And you say that it was afternoon by the time you were taking this walk?" Miss Fairchild nodded in assent. "Can you tell me exactly what o'clock it was, after you left your mother's home?"

She seemed to ponder for a moment, and then shook her head unhappily. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I really couldn't say."

Holmes reached over, and dragged the photograph from where he had left it on the table, holding it out to Miss Fairchild. She took it hesitantly, and looked down at it, apparently not surprised to see that it was her own.

"This is Mycroft's," she said. "I had it taken for him only a week ago."

"It is indeed," Holmes agreed. "And you'll agree, then, that it is, without any doubt, your photograph, and that this is yourself depicted in it?"

Miss Fairchild looked surprised. "Why, yes," she said. "It's a picture of me. I don't see how it could be anyone else, the resemblance is not in question."

"Not at all," Holmes replied. "I ask, only because when I showed this same photograph to Mrs. Allastair, yesterday, evening, she was convinced that not only was it the same woman, but that the woman who made the attempt on her family's life was wearing the same dress."

It was apparent that the now whit-faced Miss Fairchild had nothing to say to that last remark, but could only shake her head back and forth in a silent denial of everything that Holmes seemed to stack against her. He tucked the photo away into his jacket, and nodded at Lestrade, standing in one fluid motion.

"Thank you," he said, "That is all I have for you at present. You are free to go, although I think that I might like to speak to Miss Fairchild again sometime in the very near future concerning this matter.

Miss Fairchild went quietly enough, looking back at me once over her shoulder as Lestrade hurried her out of the room. I watched her as she went down the street, her head bowed in frustration, until the two of them had left our line of sight.

"Mycroft is in luck," murmured Holmes, fingering the photograph. "I don't believe that Miss Fairchild is our arsonist after all."

"Well, then, who is it?" I asked eagerly, stepping forward. Holmes shook his head.

"That, I can't tell you until I've made some more inquiries of my own," he insisted. "I shall have to go out for a while. Hopefully I shall not be back quite so late as to keep you up all night. "

"Might I not come with you?" I asked, reaching for my jacket, and trying to smooth down my sleep-mussed hair as I started for the door.

Holmes, however, held out one hand, and shook his head at my attempts.

"No, doctor," he smiled, "I think that I should like you to remain here in my absence, I'm afraid that your more gentle sentiments might interfere in what you know to be a case that so rattles my brother's heart."

I was left standing in the doorway as he walked away, feeling rather taken aback by Holmes denial of my request to go. It was not the kind of thing that he was often prone to do, and I wondered to my chagrin if my numerous attempts to talk him out of his dislike for his brother's young lady had caused me to fall into that same realm of disfavor.