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The ride was an extremely rough one. Holmes did the best he could to hide his pain beneath his usual mask of indifference, but it did not take a medical man to see the sweat on his brow or the clenching of his jaw.

"Mycroft," he said, his voice remarkably cool and calm. "I trust you are taking the doctor and I back to Oxford?"

"I am taking you home, yes," Mycroft replied stiffly.

"Have you a plan for how to deal with Father?"

Mycroft huffed to himself. "We have been for a long drive," said he as if he were already facing their father. "I had begun my evening constitutional when I met up with Sherlock and his friend on St. Giles' and decided to join their party. We sent a boy to return the dogcart and the pony and got a four-wheeler. When we had gotten further out into the countryside, Sherlock wanted to look at a sample of Centaurea cyanus…"

"Why this sudden interest in botany?" Sherlock grumbled in a perfect imitation of his father. "And what does a cornflower have to do with…"

"Blast it! He would not know that Centaurea cyanus means cornflower!" Mycroft cried. "And what would you suggest? Telling him you were chasing after butterflies*?"

"I would suggest," Holmes said, gritting his teeth against a sudden bump in the road. "Geology. He knows I have an interest in different soils. Tell him I stopped the cab to observe a particularly interesting bit of histosol and, in my carelessness, fell down the hill."

"How on Earth did you manage to sprain your ankle then?" Mycroft said in a less accurate imitation of his father.

"During my fall, my foot got caught on a tree root," said Holmes as if the thing had actually happened. Another jolt in the road caused him to close his eyes. "Speaking of which, when we get there, might I have a glass of whiskey? I'm afraid the injury is somewhat… aggravating."

I bit back a comment about him having aggravated it and focused on doing what little I could to ease his pain.

It was a tense half an hour. I was continually trying to get Holmes to adjust his leg so that it might be somewhat elevated, even going so far as to arrange some of the suitcases into a pseudo-footstool. He, in turn, refused to take any direction, asserting that he was completely fine and that I ought to spend my energies in some other way than making a mess of the cab. I would have consulted Mycroft on the manner, but throughout the ride he wore a drawn and anxious look—as if anticipating some frightful event in the future. Every so often, he would turn to me as if he were about to say something, then abruptly turn to look out the window without speaking so much as a syllable. When this curious practice had been repeated around three times, I conjured the courage to address the matter.

"Mycroft," said I. "Is something wrong?"

Mycroft did not move. Instead, he continued to stare out the window without the slightest acknowledgement that I had spoken.

Holmes, on the other hand, instantly became more alert. He looked from his brother to me with a nervous tension that I had only seen before in some of his more complex and urgent cases. After staring at Mycroft for what seemed an eternity, he slumped against the side of the four-wheeler with a sort of snort.

He made no attempt to hide his wincing at the next bump in the road. Rather, his mind seemed to be entirely occupied with something else.

With both Holmes in a state of contemplation, I found myself spending the remainder of the ride wondering what it was that was being kept from me—for their behavior did not fit the model of men without some secret. I had always known Holmes to be a very private man and had, with a few exceptions, respected that privacy. However, knowing that the two brothers were contriving to steer me away from some secret made me feel ill at ease. I had witnessed and even been party to Holmes' burgling, spying, and even threats of violence. I had witnessed his greatest moments and his blackest moods. I had killed men for him. The idea that anything about Holmes could be too dark, too horrible for my ears sent a chill down my spine. Had he murdered someone? If he had, I would naturally be the first to forgive him having shot men myself in Afghanistan. Was he using an even worse drug than cocaine? Surely, as a doctor, I would have noticed the symptoms. And, even if I had not, by that same token I should be the first to know of Holmes' habits since I was his physician. Any sort of criminal transgression was scarcely worth such fuss. I had aided Holmes too many times in breaking the law to be put off by the idea. Surely, Holmes knew as much.

The secret seemed to be connected to his home. I chanced a sideways glance at Holmes who was leaning against the side of the carriage with his hands steepled against his chin. I noted, with some consternation, that the closer we got to Oxford the more agitated my friend appeared. He had taken up drumming his fingers again—this time against the seat of the cab—and clenching and unclenching his jaw. Just as when we had first arrived at the old professor's house, he had about him a mantel of coldness and irritability; and I feared that what might await us at the brothers' boyhood home was graver than I might have imagined.

*Yes, this is an oblique reference to Hound of the Baskervilles.

It must be a dark secret indeed if Sherlock feels he can't speak to his Boswell about it! Perhaps darker then than now...

We are very close to the end, dear readers, and I would like to thank you for reading this. You have no idea how much it means to me to read your reviews and see that people have been enjoying my work.

Of course, it isn't quite farewell. There are still a few more chapters to publish.