November 1895

Mycroft sent the telegram to his brother's rooms at Baker Street, not expecting an affirmative answer. Sherlock had never answered yes to an invitation of the sort, but after the extraordinarily successful finish of the Bruce-Partington case, Mycroft had agreed wholeheartedly with the Crown that honors were due.

He wasn't surprised, therefore, when a return telegram arrived within minutes, saying only:

I will accept honors. No knighthood.

Mycroft sighed. He could never understand why Sherlock had refused every knighthood offered to him. Speaking objectively, Mycroft could think of few men who had done more for Great Britain than his brother, and many who had done less and were knighted anyway. He sent back another telegram asking why, and was rewarded a few minutes later by his brother's appearance in his offices, with Doctor Watson in tow.

"It is good to see you again, Doctor," Mycroft said. Sherlock had rarely been to see Mycroft lately without Doctor Watson; only on the most personal or secret matters. And even then, sometimes, Sherlock simply ignored protocol and invited the doctor along anyway. As he had done in the Bruce-Partington case, although Mycroft hardly minded. At this point, seeking the services of Sherlock Holmes meant receiving the assistance of Dr. Watson as well.

"And you, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Watson said, looking around the office with interest and a little awe. Mycroft smiled.

"And this is where the British Empire is occasionally governed from, Doctor."

Dr. Watson flushed and turned his attention back to Mycroft's desk. "I'm sorry. I hope I didn't see anything I wasn't supposed to."

Mycroft laughed, "Relax, Doctor. I trust you as I trust my brother." Seeing Sherlock intently studying some papers on his desk, he added sternly, "Perhaps slightly more."

"What was it you wanted of me?" Sherlock asked peevishly. "We were on our way out to dinner."

"I wanted to ask you why you refuse all honors offered to you! Confound it, Sherlock; the Crown has wanted to honor you on several occasions for your services."

"Now, Mycroft, I did not refuse all honors. I said I would refuse a knighthood if it was offered," Sherlock said.

"You refused a knighthood?" Dr. Watson said in some surprise.

"On two occasions," Sherlock said. "The first was after the case you so charmingly wrote up as 'The Adventure of the Second Stain.' The second was after I returned from my three-year sojourn following the events at the Reichenbach Falls."

"But why?" Dr. Watson asked, perplexed. "Why refuse such recognition of your career?"

Mycroft watched with interest. He suspected that Sherlock might be more willing to explain himself to his friend than his brother.

"My dear Watson, in my profession, recognition is the most dangerous thing one can have. Detectives must live by anonymity."

"You certainly have done a good job at that," Mycroft observed dryly. "Every town in the Empire is ringing with your name, and your address is likely the most well-known in London." Dr. Watson was unable to stifle his laughter and giggled in a most un-gentlemanlike manner.

Sherlock didn't look as if he believed his own statement either, but he shot Dr. Watson a glare before haughtily saying, "Well, if you had not seen fit to romanticize my cases-"

"I would remind you, Holmes, that you gave me permission to publish your cases," Dr. Watson said, but with no real anger. He looked, instead, fondly exasperated. This was clearly an argument they had had numerous times. From the looks of things, they had never come to an agreement and were unlikely to do so now.

"Well," Mycroft said, and they both turned to look at him. "If you will not accept the knighthood, I am sure we can find something else with which to reward you for your service."

"The work itself is my reward, as you well know," Sherlock retorted. "Besides, if you really must know, simply look at the other men who have been so honored in recent years. Most have simply given large amounts of money to 'charitable causes' or have contributed to the general misuse of military power abroad. I have no wish to be associated in any way with such men."

While Mycroft had often decried the tendency of the British Empire to attempt to rule areas that he knew would be unlikely to succeed, in that moment he defended the Crown as any loyal employee should. "You call our efforts across the Empire misuse?"

"Certainly the Boer War was an exercise in futility," Sherlock said. "The entire campaign was beset by misinformation, poor planning and overconfidence on the part of its leaders, and the result was a three-month conflict in which too many lives were lost."

Mycroft was astonished, not least because he had no idea Sherlock was so well-informed about anything other than crime, but because he was largely correct. The Boer War had been a disastrous campaign that brought nothing but grief to everyone involved.

"To say nothing of the Afghan conflict," Sherlock continued. "My dear Mycroft, if no one since Alexander the Great has been able to successfully conquer and rule Afghanistan, what would make anyone possibly think we could do better?"

Oh, of course, Mycroft realized, looking at Dr. Watson, who still carried a heavy walking stick due to injuries received in Afghanistan. It made sense that Sherlock, who had seen the doctor through his early convalescence after his return in 1881, would have strong feelings about the powers that had sent him there.

Mycroft could not truly argue. Both campaigns had been disastrous affairs that did much to erode British control in the areas they took place in, although the Afghan campaign had become moderately more successful after the Battle of Kandahar, only a month after the defeat at Maiwand.

"That is not to say that military power can never be used correctly, and is even sometimes necessary," Sherlock continued, glancing over at Dr. Watson. "Every nation must be able to defend itself but you see why I cannot stand alongside such men with pride."

"Of course, Sherlock," Mycroft said, conceding the argument with a sigh. Dr. Watson looked askance at his fellow-lodger, and the elder Holmes suspected they would be discussing this over dinner.

"Holmes? If you don't mind, I think I may take a turn around the block. I find it is a little warm in this room," Dr. Watson said, after a few moments silence.

"I will join you in a moment," Sherlock said, barely looking up as his fellow-lodger took his leave and left. "If there is nothing else, that is, Mycroft. Please find me some honor that is less public than a knighthood. You know how I dislike taking credit."

"Sherlock, wait," Mycroft said. "If you do not wish any publicity, why do you permit Dr. Watson to write those stories? They have more circulation than news of a knighthood ever could."

Sherlock sighed theatrically, "Because, dear brother, I would far rather have praise from someone whom I respect and admire in return than from the establishment that plays games with the fate of nations and then calls on me to fix them. Good evening."

There was logic in that, Mycroft supposed. Sherlock never did have much respect for authority. He gave Dr. Watson high praise indeed by allowing him to write those stories that had made them both famous. He wondered for a moment if the doctor knew this and then reasoned that he probably did. They were an almost seamless team by now; one did not become that way with Sherlock Holmes without being able to read between the lines.

And really, how arrogant, and how like his brother, to assume that the only thing he would receive from both his friends and his government was praise for his abilities and service.