Thank you to sagredo for his/her wonderful reviews and to everyone else who has read this little series I've created.
Mr. Holmes led us from the foyer into a little sitting room on the west side of the house. It was a small fairly dark room, with two gas lights on either side of a mantelpiece providing the illumination for the room. The only other light came from a large latticed window, which gave a view of a neatly kept garden with different flowers and vegetables in various states of bloom and decline. The room was furnished with four Queen Anne armchairs, some side tables, a liquor cabinet, and a mantelpiece with an assortment of books and, strangely enough, a human skull. The liquor cabinet stood on the far side of the room and that is where Mr. Holmes immediately went, telling us to seat ourselves. I chose a comfy looking red armchair with a cushion embroidered with a red rose. Holmes chose the chair closest to the door and draped himself over it so that his long legs hung over one arm of the chair and his head was supported by the wing. He then folded his hands over his stomach and began staring out the window, seemingly oblivious to the little room and its inhabitants.
Holmes' father did not seem to notice this peculiar behavior. Instead, he began pulling out glasses, checking them for spots and then choosing a select few for each of the guests. "What would you like to drink, Doctor?" he said as he examined a wine glass.
"Some gin would be nice," I said, cutting off my customary "if you have it" given his reaction to Mycroft's inquiry.
Mr. Holmes nodded and exchanged the glass for a tumbler he had previously inspected. "Eh, would you like that with tonic or on the rocks?" he said, already pouring the gin into a tumbler.
"With tonic if you don't mind," I replied.
"Not at all, my dear boy, not at all," Mr. Holmes said. "To be perfectly frank, I prefer it with tonic myself, but you never know how one likes their drink until they ask for it." He smiled and poured some tonic into my glass, then handed it to me with a wink. "Gin and tonic," he murmured half to himself. The idea seemed to amuse him greatly. "You're my kind of fellow, Dr. Watson," he said as he walked back to the liquor cabinet. "I would drink gin myself, but my stomach's not what it used to be. My doctor says that it's ulcers, but I put it down to just being an old man. I am of the sixth age, the lean and slippered pantaloon—" Here he pulled at his trousers as if demonstrating how they were "a world too wide for his shrunk shank" but only succeeded in proving them a credit to his tailor. "—And with that comes things like not having a stomach that works as a stomach should." He shook his head and began pouring a glass of port. "It's a shame, but it's the natural cycle of things. I'm simply glad that I'm not in the seventh stage."
"A second childishness," I chimed in, eager to prove myself knowledgeable concerning literature.
Holmes gave a little snort of derision. The old English professor seemed not to hear him though. He nodded a little sadly and murmured to himself, "Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything." He gave a little sigh and set down the decanter of port. "It truly is a pity."
For a moment, we stayed like this, with Mr. Holmes wistfully staring off into the distance and I staring into my glass of gin and tonic. Holmes made no effort to intervene, instead maintaining his own silent contemplation of the garden. Finally, Mr. Holmes shook his head and gave me a small, sad smile. "Well, we must taste while we can, mustn't we?" he said, topping off the glass of port. He took a large gulp from the glass and eyed it with a certain fondness before turning back to his work. "I suppose, Sherlock," he said over his shoulder as he pulled out another inspected glass. "That you'd like port along with your brother?"
"Actually, I'll have gin with the doctor," Holmes replied absently, not removing his gaze from the garden. Usually, such intense attention on the part of the great detective was a sign that something significant was happening. I turned my head to see what it was my friend was so interested in, but to all appearances it was simply an ordinary garden—with no inhabitants or tools. Indeed, from where we sat one could not even see the ground as a thick hedge had grown under the window. I turned back to the room, puzzled as to why Holmes should take such an interest in something so mundane. It was then that I truly looked at Holmes and his countenance. It was not attention that he was holding. His eyes were glazed over and his whole attitude reflected a man who was trapped in a place where he did not wish to be and was trying to make the best of it by pretending he was someplace else.
"Fine, Mycroft and I will share the port," Mr. Holmes said as he prepared the drinks, not seeming to notice his son's demeanor. I began to wonder whether things had always been this way in the Holmes household. Had Sherlock always been staring out windows wishing he was somewhere else while his father stood obliviously making drinks and chatting about Shakespeare? I looked at the white haired old man humming a bit of the Marriage of Figaro to himself between sips of port, and wondered whether he had ever actually known the smart young detective whom I met at St. Bart's all those years ago.
Well, whether or not he truly knew his son, Mr. Holmes at least knew enough not interrupt his contemplation. He set the gin and tonic on the end table by Holmes' head before retreating to the chair nearest the liquor cabinet. Holmes gave it a passing glance and then resumed his staring match with the window. Mr. Holmes glanced from his son to me, seeming unsure how to start any sort of conversation with one forth of the party absent in spirit and the other fourth physically. Finally, he turned to me and cleared his throat.
"Well, Dr. Watson, I hope Sherlock hasn't painted us badly for you," he said.
I was about to heartily deny it when Holmes spoke up.
"Actually, I've given him very little in terms of information," he remarked casually, not removing his gaze from the garden.
Mr. Holmes looked at his son in bafflement for a few seconds. "You mean to tell me you've just brought him over without telling him anything?" he said.
Holmes pulled out of his trance for a moment and looked steadily at his father. He then turned to me and said with a wave of his hand, "Watson, you know my methods. Deduce."
To be honest, I was a trifle upset to be put on the spot like that, especially in front of his father. But seeing as there were no alternatives, I gathered my wits about me. "You are an English professor at Oxford," said I, stalling as I scanned the man in front of me for any clues. "You have a garden out back which you were working on recently. And you type a good deal."
"That's very good," said Mr. Holmes. He turned his attention to his son. "I really do think you ought to teach, Sherlock. You're always complaining about how no one is able to reason properly. Why not show them how?"
"I do, in my way," Holmes replied, his fingers now pressed together. He took the tumbler that stood beside him on the table and took a sip of it in much the same manner that I have seen him use his pipe. Indeed, to my eyes, he seemed to be using it as a substitute for the beloved object—which he had pointedly not packed. "As I have said before, I write a good deal on the subject and I instruct those that show an interest. Besides, it is not as simple a matter as you make of it. For example, despite my tutelage, Watson has failed to notice that you generally wear glasses, are left-handed rather than the usual right, and have developed the unfortunate habit of picking at your nails with a pencil."
"You're too hard on the boy," Mr. Holmes said, frowning at Sherlock. "I think it was well done."
Holmes gave a dismissive gesture with his free hand.
I flushed, torn between the two sides and embarrassed by my failure. Finally, I murmured a swift "Thank you" to Mr. Holmes and buried myself in my gin and tonic.
Poor Watson. He's ending up dealing more with Holmes' father than Holmes is-hardly the way to treat a guest. Well, let's hope this visit will finally satisfy his curiosity about Holmes' family.
I'll get to Holmes' mother soon enough. Have patience!
Reviews appreciated as always!