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It was a few minutes later and still nobody had spoken. The only sound that could be heard was Holmes' small, dark chuckle and the occasional tinkle of glass as more and more drink was consumed. No one knew quite what to do, and I certainly wasn't the one to solve the problem as my presence was the very center of it. Holmes saw it all as one grand joke, and no doubt felt a sense of entitlement in proving that his silence about his family had been kept for a reason. The other two members of the family were both in a profound state of embarrassment, which I could see no way to alleviate other than to vanish completely from the face of the earth. Finally, Mr. Holmes spoke up.
"Dr. Watson, I'm terribly sorry that you had to see that. I don't know what came over me. I just…"
"It's alright," I said, seeing that the man was about to break down completely. "I've seen much worse with some of my patients. A sickroom is never a jovial atmosphere and I've..."
"Yes, but as our guest…"
"If Watson says it is alright, then it is alright," Holmes said with finality.
I did not know whether to take this sudden agreement as a compliment or simply Holmes' way of ending the discussion. It was the first time that he had sided with me on something since we'd gotten here and, to be truthful, I was desperately in need of such a gesture. Though I had maintained my composure, I was beginning to feel the strain of being the outsider in a complex and tempestuous household. I gave Holmes a brief nod and smile which he returned in an even more subdued manner.
"Well, there's no use dwelling on it," Mycroft said after draining the last of his port. "What's done is done. Let's find a cheerier subject. How is the state of affairs with the young thespians?"
"Our production of Hamlet is going well this year," his father said in soft, humbled voice.
Holmes swung his legs over the arm of the chair so that he was sitting normally in it. "My father," he said, in what I assume was a purposefully theatrical manner. "Is in charge of the little shows that occasionally spring up at Oxford."
At this, Mr. Holmes began to look a bit more cheerful. "Sherlock here," said he. "Once played Mercutio in our production of Romeo and Juliet. He did a fine job of it too." A smile came to his face. "He nearly outdid the fellow playing Romeo, if I recall correctly." Holmes gave one of his brief smiles at the mention of it. Now, I must admit that the idea of Holmes actually acting on the stage had occurred to me. Indeed, I have said before when I witnessed his sudden transfigurations from Holmes of Baker Street to common workman that the stage lost a fine actor when he devoted himself to crime. Somehow, it had never occurred to me that he had ever acted for the stage outside of my fancy. It was the most logical conclusion given his range and abilities, yet something about his cold demeanor made me assume that his artistry was confined to the study of crime and the violin. Now, though, as I listened to his father practically re-enact Holmes' portrayal of Mercutio, the thing seemed perfectly obvious to me. "I wonder that you had not told me about this before, Holmes," I said after Mr. Holmes had shouted out the last few lines of Mercutio's final speech in perfect imitation of my friend.
Sherlock gave me a puzzled look before replying, "You never asked."
"Oh, but that was nothing to the time the two of them," his father continued, now leaning conspiratorily towards me. "Played opposite each other as Feste and Malvolio."
"I still believe that locking in the closet scene is a bit too dark for the play," Mycroft said, giving me some idea of which character he had been playing. As if to cement this conclusion, he locked eyes with his brother and added, "Though Sherlock did play an excellent fool."
"Far better than being one, I fancy," Holmes retorted, not breaking the staring match that was developing between them.
For a moment, I thought that this was the start of another feud, and began to brace myself for it, but soon I recognized that they were not attacking each other in earnest. Both brothers, though not quite smiling, had an element of mischief about their features as they stared at one another. Holmes was poised on the edge of his seat, his thin hands pressed together in the way so peculiar to him. The only other times I had seen Holmes look so were when an interesting problem was presented before him or he met with someone whom he found intriguing. The attention and liveliness that was so commonly his had been restored to him and for that I was very grateful.
Mr. Holmes, on the other hand, did not see this state of affairs as an improvement.
"Good lord, are you two still fighting about that?" he said as he leaned back in his armchair, a worried look on his face. "If I had known that you two would keep going at each other over it, I never would have cast you for the parts."
"It is just a little jest, Father—quite far from the battle you deem it to be," Holmes said, his eyes still locked on his brother. "We both know that I am no fool."
"Do we now?" replied Mycroft. "And what proof do you have for that deduction, my dear boy?"
"My chronicler might be able to answer that one, brother mine," Holmes answered, turning to me.
I was flustered and beginning to grow tired of Holmes constantly using me as a tool in his little familial disputes. Nonetheless, I proceeded to recount some of Holmes' more interesting cases. Mycroft listened with only half an ear, having played a part in some of them and having heard the rest a dozen times before. Mr. Holmes, on the other hand, listened with such rapt attention, occasionally throwing in questions about certain details or persons, that I began to suspect that he had never heard of these cases at all. Drink having made me bold, I went so far as to put as much into words.
"Surely, you've heard of some of these stories, Mr. Holmes," said I after I had recounted 'the Adventure of the Cardboard Box'. "I publish them quite frequently in the Strand."
"Oh, I don't get the Strand, my dear boy," he said, crossing his hands over his stomach. "What you say is entirely unfamiliar to me."
"But surely, Sherlock…"
"My father has very important work to do, Watson," Holmes cut in. "He hasn't time to read your fabrications of my cases."
"I did read one of them," Mr. Holmes said, looking anxiously at his son. "It was… oh, what was its name? It had something to do with a goose. One of my students showed it to me."
"The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle!" said I, glad to see he had at least some knowledge of his son's work. Holmes on the other hand seemed unimpressed.
"Ah, yes, the Ryder case," said he. "A pitifully simple problem. I hardly see why you chose to write it down, Watson."
"Well, it made for a good story in my mind," Mr. Holmes said.
"Precisely," replied Holmes. "A good story and nothing more."
"There is merit in a good story, Sherlock," said Mr. Holmes with worried eyes. Mycroft had set down his drink, ready to intervene at the best possible moment. "Surely, I have taught you that."
"I do not place any merit in fiction, father," said Holmes. "Facts are what the world needs, not pretty little stories wrapped up in lies."
There was a palpable tension in the room. Mycroft began to say something when Mr. Holmes stood up.
"I have essays to grade," he said in a low monotone. "Excuse me, gentlemen."
With that, he left the room.
As the sound of Mr. Holmes' footsteps slowly receded, Mycroft spoke up. "You know, Sherlock," he said as he gazed at the door. "It wouldn't hurt you to learn a bit of tact."
"I do not suffer fools gladly," Holmes replied.
Mycroft turned to his brother and I believe I saw something of anger in his usually stoic gaze. "Yes, but you could at least not make fools suffer."
Holmes looked at his brother for a moment, as if considering the idea, then waved his hand dismissively. Mycroft shook his head and downed the last of his port.
Oh dear, Sherlock is certainly getting out of hand. But then again, he is terribly uncomfortable in this situation. Wonder why...
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