2. From W. Y. Traveller: Mansion
Holmes had made some careless asides to me over the years about his upbringing, which I gathered to be refined and privileged, somewhat more than my own. His connection to Vernet was a point of pride he might slyly mention. But Holmes was never garish about his breeding. One evening Holmes returned from the Diogenes club after an evening of introspection with Mycroft with blueprints in hand. I gestured to them, and he smiled, "Come, Watson; let me show you a treat Brother Mycroft has given me. He has somehow, through his connections, found our ancestral home's plans, dated from the last century. I have not pored over them yet myself. I am fascinated to see what changed in the decades from the first stone laid to my birth."
He unrolled the table over a mass of existing papers, his long fingers smoothing the scroll flat. "Shall we see, hm?" His fingers traced the thin lines. "Quite remarkable, Watson. There, I think, is my and Mycroft's nursery. And there...the library... My father did make it larger. I think the servant's quarters are much the same. There's the kitchen...the parlor...the grand ballroom...you can imagine I was never much for cotillions, much to my mother's chagrin, though Mycroft would tell you she coddled me by letting me sneak out early."
"It certainly makes Baker Street seem cozy," I teased. "It's far from a mansion."
"What need have we of a mansion?" Holmes said.
"Might be nice," I replied. "We could never have a cotillion here."
"Ha! I would sooner face another Moriarty."