We reached the Oxford train station at about a quarter to twelve. Despite my eagerness to meet his family, Holmes seemed to be insistent on doing his utmost to delay the prospect. The first thing he did upon leaving the train was go into a nearby tavern and order us dinner. I was somewhat surprised by this, having assumed that we were going to dine with his family, but I made no objections lest he take offense. Furthermore, I was very hungry as Holmes had insisted that we get to the station two hours ahead of time and I had not had a bite to eat all day.

As I ate my cold chicken and gravy, I noticed that Holmes was in a most agitated state. He tapped his fingers relentlessly on the windowsill and was grinding his teeth so hard that I feared he might injure his jaw. He had not a bite to eat, preferring instead to smoke a cigarette and stare out the window at the passing traffic. In this curious manner, we passed half an hour. Finally, Holmes broke his staring match with the window, glanced at his watch, and swiftly left the tavern with only the sound of a few coins dropping on the table and an abrupt gesture to indicate that I should depart with him.

As accustomed as I was to Holmes' abruptness, this was a whole new level of suddenness for me. I hurriedly put down my fork and made a hasty attempt at making myself presentable before bolting out the door, leaving behind a very confused and worried manager. By the time I caught up with Holmes, he had already hailed a cab from the line outside the train station. The young cabbie looked at me curiously as I ran up to the curb, but a fierce look from Holmes made him turn his gaze back to the horses. "I have already given him the address," he said as I slid into the cab after him. "Although I fear our young cabbie may have more eyes than ears." With that he thumped his cane twice on the roof of the cab, signaling the cabbie to start driving.

We had scarcely made it two blocks before Holmes once again tapped on the top of the cab with his cane and hopped out.

"Holmes, what are you…?" I cried, only to be silenced by an imperious wave of his hand. With that he disappeared into a nearby florist emerging some minutes later with a dozen red roses wrapped in blue paper.

"It is part of our ritual greeting," he said as he pulled himself back into the cab. He took one of the dozen out of the paper sleeve and examined it like it was one of his scientific curiosities. "There is very little that can induce my family to follow the simple laws of reason apart from these few gestures of sanity," he explained, finally placing the flower in his lapel.

"They are for your mother then, I take it?" I said, attempting to grasp what was occurring.

He gave a short, loud snort which almost could have been considered a laugh. "Yes, Mrs. Holmes is fond of roses; the irony of which is inescapable," he replied, unceremoniously dropping the parcel between us. "But it is mostly a family offering. I scarcely think she would mind anymore if I forgot them."

I sat back in the cab, wondering what sort of rift could have caused a mother to stop caring about the affection of her son, if I could ever call anything Holmes did affectionate.

Within five minutes, the cab was parked outside a simple two-storied Georgian affair with dusty brown bricks and a grey shingle roof. Holmes paid the cabbie and signaled to me that this was the place. I immediately jumped out of the cab and began examining the house with great interest. A small wall of the same dusty color as the house framed the side and back yards. Outside the house, various bushes were growing with some white buds spotting them here and there. Three thick vines of ivy framed each side of the door and the right side of the house, making it look like it was slowly being consumed by the greenery.

As Holmes and I walked up the path to the house, I noticed the severe agitation which my friend seemed to be under. Just as at the tavern, he was continually drumming his fingers, though now the tapping was largely maintained upon the side of his thigh as he walked. His eyes, usually keen to take in the tiniest detail of anything around him, were glued to the walk with such intensity that had I not known better I would have thought he was studying it for footprints. I had scarcely seen my friend so agitated since that ghastly case concluding at Reichenbach Falls. I would have asked him what was worrying him so, but his demeanor was all coldness and irritability. I should not have asked him the time of day when he was in such a mood, much less anything personal.

When we finally reached the front door, Holmes knocked on it with his cane. Within a few moments, an old man appeared. As soon as I saw him, I knew that he had to be Holmes' father. He had startlingly white hair that was parted with an almost mathematical precision on the left side of his head. He had the same tall, lean frame-now a little bent with age—and the same piercing grey eyes that seemed to see straight to the heart of whatever they were looking at. They even shared the same strong, square chin. The only difference was that the elder man's nose was a shade larger and thicker, and had the redness that usually betokens a drunkard.

"Well, come in," the man said as soon as he saw us. Holmes nodded and stepped into the hallway and I quickly followed suit. "You'll have to excuse me answering the door myself," the old man said, his gaze focused on me. "I'm afraid I've gotten into the habit of doing it so that the students might not be scared off. Undergraduates are a very shy lot—especially in the English department."

I nodded my understanding and he smiled. "Very good," said he, now turning to his son. I could see his gaze harden somewhat as he looked his son up and down. Holmes looked straight ahead, giving me the absurd impression that he was a statue and Mr. Holmes was studying the craftsmanship. Finally, Mr. Holmes spoke up, "Well now, how is our man from the other 'Other Place'?"

"Cambridge," Holmes mouthed to me before replying, "Very well, thank you. This is my friend, Dr. Watson."

I smiled and offered my hand, which the elder man shook with an earnest, curious air that unmistakably reminded me of his son. If I had any thoughts that Holmes was playing a trick on me they were instantly dispelled.

"I hope you got my telegram?" Holmes said almost as soon as our hands had parted.

The older man's brow furrowed. "Yes, we did, though I'm not sure if we have enough room for the two of you and Mycroft."

Holmes' eyebrows rose. "Mycroft is here?"

"Yes. He said you two had planned on coming the same weekend," his father replied, his brow furrowing with consternation.

"I'm afraid he did not mention this to me," Holmes growled.

"Well, no matter," said a voice from the stairs. Mr. Holmes turned to reveal Mycroft standing in a maroon dressing gown at the foot of the stair. He rolled a cigar between two fingers and grinned at his brother. "I reserved a room at the inn as soon as I heard that you were bringing Dr. Watson. My room will be vacated by ten o' clock." He delved into his dressing gown pocket to retrieve a silver plated lighter with which he proceeded to light his cigar. "Until then, I suppose I am allowed the luxury of a dressing gown and a good smoke."

I could see Holmes roll his eyes, but with that little smile of frustrated amusement that I had come to associate with his interactions with Mycroft.

"For God's sake Mycroft, put that away," Mr. Holmes said, gesturing with impatience to the cigar. "Your mother will be in fits if she so much as smells it."

Mycroft simply shrugged his shoulders and extinguished the cigar. "As you wish, father."

"Mrs. Holmes is a sensitive sort, Dr. Watson," Mr. Holmes said, turning to me. "I'm sure you understand."

"Of course," said I.

"I shouldn't like to upset her, what with her sensitive condition."

I could see out of the corner of my eye Holmes about to say something, but a warning look from Mycroft cut it short.

"Well, if we shan't smoke, I suppose we ought to have a drink," Mycroft said. "Father, might you show my brother and his guest into the sitting room? I'll be back down in a minute. There is port is there not?"

"What do you mean, is there port? Of course we have port!" Mr. Holmes said, seemingly insulted by the idea. "What sort of household doesn't have any port?"

"I was just making sure, Father," Mycroft replied, already half-way up the stairs.

"Well you needn't. I can take care of my own business, thank you," the older man called back. He shook his head as Mycroft disappeared into the upper story. "Just because he audits the books for the government doesn't mean he has authority over my liquor cabinet," he murmured half to himself. "But I digress. This way, gentlemen."

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