I glanced out the French window to see my father in animated conversation with a lady.
" –so, it was James after all!"
She laughed. I emerged a little nervously, catching my father's eye. He beckoned me out. "Miss Gerald? My son, Mycroft."
"Oh, is this Mycroft?" she replied, surprised. "I assumed that was the young gentleman coming up the path."
I looked up. It was Sherlock hobbling along. His broken ankle gave him an odd shambling gait. He might have been a beggar.
"No," said my father, a cloud crossing over his face. "That is Sherlock. My other son."