Apologies for the wait. One of my projects has just been completed and I have taken the time that would have otherwise been spent on that and channeled it to here.

I am not a sentimental man, Watson, but to see the look of sorrow cast across the face of mon mémé as I got on the train for Calais threatened to turn me into one. By the time the train had reached Calais, I was ready to defy my father's commands and take the next train back to Paris. Luckily, Mycroft had been sent to meet me at the station, perhaps out of some sort of premonition that I would as soon resort to hitchhiking my way back to Paris as get on that boat across the channel. He greeted me with a stiff smile and a handshake. I reciprocated with a similar grace as I scarcely knew the young man before me. In the space of four years, Mycroft had grown into both his height and width, making him scarcely recognizable as my pseudo-caregiver and brother. I dare say that Mycroft should not have picked me out as the grey-eyed rascal who used to do experiments in our kitchen or cause him so much trouble either. I had grown taller and my features had grown thinner and keener. The almost blond hair of my youth had grown darker so that it almost appeared black; and my nose had been broken slightly due to an unfortunate brawl with a schoolmate. I must have appeared an entirely different person to him. Of course, he did not say as much in words. He did however make some note of my change as we boarded the ship.

"You've grown," said he, seeming mildly perplexed that such a thing should occur.

I adjusted my baggage over one shoulder before glancing back at him as he stepped onto the deck. "I believe that is a natural side effect of aging," said I.

Mycroft smiled. "Quite right."

There was little animosity or awkwardness between us after that point. He quickly learned to accept that I was not overly fond of returning to England and even spoke what little French he knew with me on the return journey. I, in turn, did not try to escape my present torment, though thoughts of swimming ashore or becoming a pirate had invaded my thoughts since the ship had left the dock. By the time we reached Dover, I was almost resigned to returning to Oxford and to father.

We arrived there the following day. Mycroft, at this point, was attending University and needed to go back to his studies—a task which he asserted could not be performed at the family home. Thus, father and I were left alone with one another. You can imagine what the next few months were like. For the first full week, I refused to speak English, choosing instead to respond to any question or comment en Francais. My father tried to reason with me, but to no avail. It was when people began asking if my father was taking lodgers or hosting a foreign exchange that he took to more drastic measures. I will not bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that I was speaking English, albeit slowly, by the second week. It was at this point that I also took to loitering about the parts of the university dedicated to medicine and chemistry. There, I amused myself with more research, reading articles on logic, chemistry, and some interesting ones on forensic pathology written by a Dr. Joseph Bell. I attended a local preparatory school in addition to this, but found that it was not that challenging and certainly not hard enough to distract me from my more in depth studies.

I have said before that the countryside fills me with foreboding; that it presents a more dreadful record of sin and crime than the vilest alley in London. I say that not merely out of theory, but out of my own experience. Some of the most violent and horrifying crimes I have ever witnessed took place within a few miles of where you stand. None of them, however, were complex enough to catch my interest. They were usually simple domestic crimes brought on by low wages, drink, and misguided passion. There were a few that presented some interest, but evidence is so easily erased by bush, beast, and the sheer vastness of the crime scene that my juvenile self scarcely stood a chance. Nonetheless, I began to hang around the police station and study both crimes and criminals. Some of my information came from half a dozen Newgate novels* that I found in an old bookstore*. Such literature did not interest me on the sensational level for which most read it. Rather, I read them so that I might capture some insight into the criminal mind, for even then I knew that to understand a villain's brain is to comprehend his every move. I came to be so proficient in my subject that I began to outdo the local police force, who took to referring to me as "Bloodhound". Indeed, many of the cases that I worked on in those early years were accompanied by the phrase "Looks like 'Bloodhound' Holmes is on a scent." I will not say that the name was a particularly congenial one to me. Nevertheless, the level of familiarity that such a pseudonym provides was enough to make it useful to me in learning my craft. The police began to see me as a mascot rather than as a nuisance, possibly because I was often the first to discover a vital bit of evidence or deduce who had done the deed, and this opened up my field of inquiry more than any fifteen year old boy could reasonably have under any other circumstances.

Father, naturally, was against this situation. Indeed, I believe it irked him more than my speaking French had. He did not see crime as the proper subject for a blossoming professor nor policemen as proper companions. He urged me to take an interest in literature, even going so far as to invite Charles Dodgson, a mathematics professor at Christ Church, to dinner under the pretense of my liking his fictional works. It was much to his chagrin that I engaged the man in a discussion of symbolic logic and declined to mention any of his literary achievements.

When it came time for me to attend University, Father was set on my going to Oxford. It was the only choice, in his mind, and the most rational one. After all, he was a professor there and knew the school intimately. There was also a certain amount of pride in his doings. He was, and is, convinced that Oxford is the only place to get a true education, no matter the subject. Naturally, such an idea is foolish. Different universities excel at different things, and my particular passion was chemistry. While Oxford is an excellent institution, its chemistry program does not compare to that of Cambridge. Therefore, much to my father's chagrin, I applied to Cambridge and was accepted. There I continued my study of chemistry and crime.

*Newgate novels were stories common in the 1820's to 1840's glorifying the lives of criminals. One particularly famous example is Moll Flanders. Such tales were arguably the precursors to the first detective novels.

*No, it's not Blackwell's. I checked. Blackwell's wasn't established until 1879, when Holmes would have been roughly 25. Believe me, I wish I could have used it.

For the record, the name Sherlock means "fair haired." And does anyone know who this Dodgson fellow is?

Review appreciated as always.