December 22: "The magician" (from Michael JG Meathook)
Back again here in early January! I have one more Christmas gathering on the 14th, so my new goal is to finish by then. :D
For today's tale, I couldn't resist a Good Omens crossover.
Sherlock Holmes was never one to give into superstition. From the tender age of three, he proclaimed his disbelief in Santa Claus on the grounds that it was mathematically impossible for one man to visit every single home on Earth, even if the reindeer were able to transport him instantaneously from place to place. By four, he had renounced religion entirely—loudly, and in a church—much to the embarrassment of those around him.
Mycroft had, of course, come to the same conclusions when he was a tyke, but had the wisdom and self-control to keep these things to himself.
When the boys were twelve and five, respectively, and Mycroft was home from school on the winter break, the nanny got the bright idea into her head that she ought to get them out of the house by taking them to see a magic show, to be hosted by one of their wealthier neighbors. Mycroft was mature enough that he could find some little enjoyment in the tricks and the sleights of hand displayed, even when he could see through them easily; he objected to going because he much preferred the comfort of his room and his books to going out among other children. Sherlock was more social, and objected because "magic is not real". The nanny, to her credit, tried to frame the expedition as an opportunity to simply enjoy seeing some little tricks performed, no belief in magic required. Sherlock seemed to accept this explanation.
So it was that the boys were taken to the grand estate eleven miles down the road and joined perhaps two dozen other children gathered in one of the more informal sitting rooms in the large house and waited for the show to begin. Mycroft, for his part, occupied himself during the wait by examining the walls and ceiling and calculating the square footage, and other such mathematical problems he could find around him. Sherlock fidgeted incessantly.
At long last, a door opened, and in walked a man of middle height with curly white-blond hair and side whiskers protruding from under a tan top hat. He had a mustache as well, but it appeared to be drawn onto his face rather than being a nature fixture. He wore a frock coat to match the hat, unbuttoned to reveal the brown waistcoat beneath. A slightly crooked but immaculately pressed cravat was tied beneath his chin. The overall effect was of both mild dishevelment and effeminate foppishness.
"Terribly sorry I am late," he said, straightening his cravat, and promptly began his show.
It was even more disappointing than Mycroft expected, with even the most foolish of the children swiftly losing interest.
Sherlock, the lover of attention that he was, took the opportunity to announce to the children nearby how a particular trick involving a rabbit and the magician's top hat was done, much to their astonishment and delight. Mycroft looked on with mingled amusement and embarrassment as his little brother's commentary grew bolder and louder, until he commanded the attention of over half of the children, most of the adults, and ultimately the magician himself.
"You're a clever lad, aren't you?" said the magician. "Why don't you join me up front?"
Sherlock complied, back straight as he marched to the front of the room. What would one day be a masterful presence was for now manifest only as a childish arrogance.
"Just stand there, yes, just there, lad," the magician instructed and Sherlock stood about two feet to the man's left, and turned to face the audience.
"Now," said the magician, "I have a very special conjuration for you, my boy." He handed Sherlock a Christmas box, its lid wrapped separately from the box, so that it might be opened without the paper being torn. "Tell me what is in the box."
The boy opened the box and examined it closely, lifting it, turning it over in his hands. It was empty, the audience could see. But Sherlock fiddled with it until he discovered a false bottom, and brought out a long string of colorful handkerchiefs tied together. As he pulled the long rope of them from the box, the children tittered and laughed.
"Very observant of you," said the magician.
"Elementary," the boy replied, the last of the handkerchiefs tumbling upon the floor.
"And anything else in the box?" the magician asked as he scooped up the handkerchiefs.
"Nothing," Sherlock replied.
"Excellent," replied the magician, and stuffed the handkerchiefs back in the box. "Now, hold very still while I say the magic word."
But before the magician could go on, he was interrupted by one of the adults in the back of the room, who now strode to the front. He was a little taller than the magician, with an immaculate black suit and top hat and dark glasses. Something about him struck Mycroft as odd, but he could not put his finger upon it.
"Why don't I give you a hand with this trick," the newcomer said, joining the magician and the child, and wiggling his fingers over the box. "Alakazam!" he exclaimed.
Sherlock's arms fell downwards suddenly, as though the box were suddenly burdened with additional weight, and Mycroft could have sworn he heard a soft hissing noise. Sherlock lifted the lid off the box and a snake reared its head, scales so black they nearly looked blue, and it hissed at the boy, fangs exposed.
"Now, really, Crowley, that was uncalled for!" the magician exclaimed, snatching the box away from Sherlock. The boy let out a scream—as did most of the other children—and he ran back to Mycroft, throwing his arms around his brother's middle. Mycroft gave him a stiff pat on the back. For all his intelligence and self-assurance, he was still a little child.
A moment later, the nanny was gathering the boys up and the three of them bustled out of the room, accompanied by all the rest of the groups, the event abruptly brought to an unpleasant end.
That evening at dinner, Sherlock commented that he could not fathom how the snake got into the box. Mycroft was forced to admit that he, too, was at a loss. Perhaps it would remain a mystery forever.