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It was a cold February evening. The wind was strong and the atmosphere bore the unmistakable weight of imminent rain. The consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes strolled alone down Pall Mall. He was looking as moody as the weather, seeking refuge in one of the most eccentric and quietest places in London, the Diogenes Club.
Holmes frequented there from time to time, not only to see his brother but to enjoy the soothing atmosphere and solitude this institution provided.
It was around 6 p.m. Mycroft Holmes was sitting in his usual corner near the window, reading. He was always there, from quarter to five to twenty to eight, only a national crisis could compel him to alter his schedule.
Sherlock occupied a seat not so far away from his brother's. The eldest Holmes noticed him immediately but seeing that he wasn't called to meet with him in the outer room, he merely offered a brief, acknowledging glance before returning to his book.
The Diogenes Club had a very strict rule of no talking and no disturbance of other members, being one of the founders Mycroft was very respectful of these rules.
Sherlock leaned back in his chair and rested his hands on his chest. He tried to relax his body and arrange his raging thoughts. Hoping to benefit from the quietness and change of place but alas he was too restless to achieve the blissful mental clarity he longed for.
He spent the rest of the evening staring at the ceiling and listening to rain hit the windows.
Mycroft closed his book and left the room at his customary time. Sherlock waited until his brother was entirely out of his sight before rising from his own nook. Being much leaner and more energetic than his brother, he was still able to catch up with him at the exit.
"Sherlock" Mycroft greeted his younger brother as he prepared to leave.
"Heading home, brother mine?" Sherlock inquired, although he was well aware of Mycroft's habits.
"Yes," Mycroft replied, opening an umbrella. "You really should have dressed more appropriately for the weather, Sherlock. With all the wind and those ominous clouds in the sky, it was quite easy to predict rain," he gently scolded in his ever-older-brother tone. Sherlock replied with a casual wave of his hand, "I don't mind a few drops of rain."
"It's not just a few drops, my boy. It's pouring. You need to be more careful, you don't want to catch a cold."
Sherlock always found it contradictory that his brother paid so much attention to these things when he led a sedentary, unhealthy lifestyle. Perhaps he was more cautious because of it. Nevertheless, being a dutiful younger brother, he only smiled and said, "I'll keep that in mind."
"Mind if I join you?" He asked while offering to hold the umbrella.
"Not at all" Mycroft replied, and they crossed the street to Mycroft's rooms, located just opposite the club.
One of the distinctive aspects of the Holmes brothers' relationship was their ability to go for months without seeing each other and yet interact naturally -as natural as a Holmes could be- as if only a few minutes had passed away when they reunited.
After they were in, Mycroft retired to his bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes leaving Sherlock to settle in front of the fireplace, where he stretched his legs and smoked his pipe.
Dinner was served not long after.
Mycroft Holmes had a great passion for food and often had a substantial dinner prepared. Therefore, having an unexpected guest was hardly an issue.
They didn't talk much that night, and when they did, it was often about nothing in particular. Mycroft seemed to be waiting for Sherlock to initiate a conversation, but his younger brother appeared to be in a less talkative mood.
Mycroft opted not to comment on it. He was one of the calmest individuals Sherlock had ever known, even in the most dire circumstances.
Sherlock always found comforting familiarity in his brother's composed company. While some might perceive Sherlock as cold, he was the more animated of the two siblings. Even with his brilliant theatric skills, he occasionally struggled to control emotions such as excitement, anger, and boredom, which insisted on betraying their owner by showing in his facial expressions and demeanour.
Sherlock had idolized his brother as a child, profoundly impressed by Mycroft's skills, almost the same way Watson was by his.
Although there were times when he felt jealous of him growing up, he held a deep admiration and respect for his elder brother.
During their childhood, Mycroft had been his mentor, introducing him to the principles of deduction and helping sharpen his senses through their little games and challenges. Sherlock always looked forward to them as a boy. These games still held a place in their lives today, although it was mostly a way of providing some entertainment and spending time together.
Even now, Mycroft's counsel remained invaluable, and a word of approval from his brother could still brighten Sherlock's day, although he'd never openly admit it as an adult.
As they sat sipping their tea near the crackling fire, Mycroft proposed a game of chess. Sherlock rarely emerged victorious in a match against his brother, but he could hold his own as a decent opponent and never backed down from a challenge.
After several moves, the chessboard found itself with few white pieces almost completely trapped by Mycroft's black army.
Mycroft sighed before playing his next move and finally broke the silence, "Out with it, my dear boy".
Sherlock looked up from the chessboard, his brows slightly furrowed in surprise and confusion, "Beg pardon?"
"You usually overcome your embarrassment rather quickly, especially when it's related to a case. So what's bothering you tonight? It must be significant for you to leave Baker Street and yet be unwilling to discuss it," Mycroft remarked, his tone gently probing.
Sherlock attempted to deflect with his usual charm, responding, "Can't a gentleman visit his brother for some innocent entertainment?"
Mycroft, however, was not so easily swayed. He leaned back in his seat, interlacing his fingers and resting them on his stomach, fixing his penetrating gaze on Sherlock. "Certainly, but you'll need a better excuse to escape my questions tonight, Sherlock," he retorted.
"Shall you make your move, dear brother?" Sherlock beckoned Mycroft's attention back to their unfinished match.
"There's not much left to it now, is there?" Mycroft remarked casually.
"It isn't over until checkmate" Sherlock replied, his fingers drumming with what seemed like newfound enthusiasm on the arm of his chair.
Mycroft arched an eyebrow, "So you are telling me you have developed sudden interest in our game?"
"I'm sorry that you can't find someone who makes the game worth playing" replied Sherlock with a hint of bitterness.
"This isn't the case, brother mine. I'm well aware you're quite capable, but your mind doesn't seem to be in it tonight. That brings us back to the unanswered question: What is troubling your thoughts?" Mycroft inquired patiently.
Seeing that there was no hope of resuming the game, not that he was really interested, Sherlock lit his pipe and asked with exasperation, "What gives you that impression?"
Had it been anyone else, Mycroft wouldn't have bothered mentioning it, let alone asking about it twice. It had been quite a while since Sherlock had been this difficult, and Mycroft would have found this situation nostalgically amusing if he wasn't genuinely concerned. He wanted to convey that everything painfully indicated that something was troubling his brother, but instead, he let his eyes wander in the room as if searching for clues before speaking,
"Well, for a start, you only take out that cherry-wood pipe when you're in a bad mood. Then there's your restless fidgeting since you were at the Diogenes. Someone who knows you might assume you're merely bored due to the lack of cases, but someone who knows you better would understand that can't be the issue, as you didn't inquire if I had a case at hand for you."
"I saw no need for that because I knew you would have told me if you had one," Sherlock responded rather defensively. He shot an angry look at the pipe in his hand for telling on him, and returned his gaze to the fireplace, against the voice in his mind that warned him this mere act was enough to condemn him.
"Perhaps," Mycroft conceded. "But the absence of signs of narcotic drugs on you, for which I'm thankful, and your absentminded playing suggest it isn't the lack of stimulation that's bothering you." He maintained his gentle tone, kindly refraining from explicitly pointing out his brother's telltale tone and inability to maintain eye contact.
"Had it been a case, we would have been discussing it by now. It's unlike you to delay the path of justice. You arrived through the usual route without any concern for a public appearance, ruling out the possibility of being followed or facing urgent danger. And if my eyes serve me right, you appear slightly thinner, which implies it's been on your mind for a while." Mycroft continued with a pause after each sentence, as if inviting his brother to interrupt and confide in him.
It appeared that divine providence decided that Sherlock Holmes should receive some of his own medicine. It wasn't often he found himself on the receiving end of such astute observations, under the scrutiny of eyes even more skilful than his own. He empathized with Watson for once and was relieved that he wasn't here with him tonight. Usually, he wouldn't mind it, but tonight he felt torn. On one hand, he wished to be left alone, but on the other, he longed for his brother to read his mind without the need for words. After all, wasn't that the reason he found himself sitting opposite his brother on this rainy night instead of being in Baker Street?
Sherlock almost felt childish. He knew he should cut to the chase and simply tell him. He wasn't even denying that something was occupying his thoughts. It was the reasonable thing to do, and they would get to it sooner or later. But for some mysterious reason, unknowable even to him, he couldn't.
"I don't mean to intrude, but I can't help but notice that you're likely feeling guilty," Mycroft pressed on with his deductions after seeing that his younger brother was still unready to talk.
"You mentioned the good doctor earlier this evening, so I assume there's nothing concerning regarding him or his family, nor any quarrel?" He said with a questioning tone.
"Doctor Watson and his wife are doing quite well. I met with him just yesterday," Sherlock affirmed, leaving no room for doubt.
Mycroft chuckled to himself before adding, "Don't tell me you were thrown out of your rooms again, because I assume that you are mature enough now, and your current landlady is more tolerant of your habits. Or am I wrong?"
Sherlock coloured at the memory, it wasn't fair of Mycroft to bring it up. It had only happened ONCE, and he was very young at the time. "I won't dignify that question with an answer," he replied curtly.
Mycroft wasn't actually serious about this one. He only wanted to lighten the mood before pressing on, although his brother wasn't exactly amused.
With a more serious demeanour, Mycroft continued, "To my knowledge, you shouldn't be facing any financial problems. Nevertheless, if that is the issue, you can confide in me, and we will see it through."
"Why not go ahead and add 'conspiring against the Crown' to your list? I didn't realize you think so poorly of me, brother." Sherlock replied sarcastically, annoyance evident in his voice, though directed more at himself than his brother. He knew that he had given his brother good reasons to justify this 'what-have-you-done' approach with him in the past.
"I do think the world of you, Sherlock." Mycroft said with genuine sincerity.
He leaned slightly forward in his chair as he was talking, closing the distance between him and his brother, fixing Sherlock with a steady gaze, his eyes conveying the depth of his concern,
"Forgive me, it's only natural to assume it was bad news that's worrying you. You aren't exactly helping with your persistent silence."
His words had their intended effect, soothing Sherlock's anger like water quenching a flame. He knew that his brother didn't make such profound statements lightly, and if Mycroft said he cared, he meant it. Sherlock sank back wearily into his chair, his eyes that were filled with defiance earlier, now reflected a defeated glimmer of vulnerability.
"I'm here to assist you, Sherlock," Mycroft spoke softly, "You can tell me anything".
"It is actually a silly thing, nothing that important" Sherlock admitted with a sigh.
Several minutes lingered in silence, and observing his brother's lingering reluctance, Mycroft decided to give him a final nudge.
"Well, if you say so. It is quite improbable but could this be concerning a lady?", Mycroft began once more, a playful twinkle in his eyes as he regarded his brother's puzzled expression.
Sensing that Sherlock was now fully engaged, he continued as if he had received an affirmation, "It's only natural for one's perspective to evolve over time. The solitary life of a bachelor can become wearisome, and you, my dear brother, are still quite young. You have my blessing of course".
"Mycroft!" Sherlock finally protested, growing increasingly irritated with each word. "Would you kindly cease this nonsensical banter? You're starting to sound remarkably like Mrs. Hudson, and I must admit, the resemblance is rather disconcerting."
"It was, in fact, a case" he finally gave in, his voice carrying a hint of resignation, "One that took a most unfortunate turn."
"I see. Isn't there anything that can be done about it?" Mycroft asked with a solemn tone.
Sherlock replied with a touch of gloominess, "No, it has been over for quite some time now."
"This is unfortunate, but one unsuccessful case every once in a while isn't something to be overly concerned about. It holds little statistical significance compared to the numerous cases you've successfully solved," Mycroft tried to reason with him. He understood that his brother might be disheartened after a failed case, but such instances typically didn't have a lasting effect on Sherlock and it was rare to see him that depressed over it.
"Have you heard about the tragic death of John Openshaw?" Sherlock asked.
"The young man who drowned near Waterloo Bridge last September, I do recall reading about it in the papers. It was ruled out as an accident." Mycroft recalled without much effort.
Sherlock couldn't help but smile, though it was tinged with melancholy. "Your memory remains as brilliant as ever, brother."
"Were you called to investigate his death?" Mycroft asked, inviting his brother to elaborate further.
"No," Sherlock replied somberly. "He was my client, seeking help on a stormy night much like this one, and he was found dead the next morning. It was no accident, he was murdered."
"Are sure about that?" Inquired Mycroft, clearly interested in hearing more.
"Absolutely," Sherlock affirmed. He went on to share the grim details of John Openshaw's tragedy – the mysterious envelopes containing five orange pips, the subsequent deaths of the father and uncle after receiving similar letters, and the connection to the KKK organization, along with the incriminating papers they were seeking.
Mycroft listened with unwavering attention. Whether he pondered if there could have been a different course of action that miserable night, we can only speculate, for he remained silent throughout Sherlock's narrative.
"I believed that even if I couldn't prevent such a fate from befalling him, I would at least be able to avenge him." Sherlock confessed.
He continued, his agitation evident as he recounted the steps he had taken to weave the web of his revenge, the whole day he had spent looking for their ship, the "Lone Star", how he identified the leader of the gang and sent him a threat using orange pips, mirroring their own tactics, and the plan to have the police of Georgia arrest them for murder upon their arrival.
"Impressive effort," Mycroft acknowledged, noticing that his brother had taken this case personally.
Sherlock sighed deeply, sinking back into his chair. "It doesn't matter; it was all for nothing," the weight of disappointment heavy in his voice.
"Did they change their destination?" Mycroft asked.
"No. There was no trace of the ship whatsoever. I've been waiting for news everywhere and for so long. It was lost in the sea. It wasn't until a few days ago that I learned a shattered stern-post with the letters 'L. S.' carved upon it was found in the Atlantic, and that's all," Sherlock recounted, reaching the end of his story. "And that, dear brother, is the miserable story of unfortunate Openshaw, who, for all my efforts, remained unavenged", he dramatically concluded.
"It's a petty feeling, I know, but it hurt my pride," Sherlock admitted, his expression revealing more emotion than his words conveyed.
"It seems to me that your pride isn't the only thing wounded. You're grappling with guilt," Mycroft observed, sensing that his brother carried a heavy burden due to the loss of the client.
"He was young, Mycroft! So scared and desperate. He sought my help despite the harsh weather, and I sent him right to his death" Sherlock lamented, his distress no longer concealed.
"You didn't, Sherlock. That sinister gang did. There was little anyone could do to save him. They had him in their hands and the poor fellow was unwise to travel alone in that time and weather" Mycroft offered words of solace.
"You should have seen him, trying to reassure himself that there was no one who could outsmart me," Sherlock chuckled bitterly and continued, seemingly lost in his memories "I admit to him that it wasn't true, that I was beaten a couple of times. I still advised him not to despair, he said that I gave him hope", he paused "It never occurred to me that my own folly would lead to his demise."
"Sherlock Holmes, look at me," Mycroft began sternly, not continuing until the younger man complied and raised his gaze. "You are being illogical. This was not your fault. I know that you always want to be the hero and save those in need, but sadly, you can't slay every dragon, and there are always things that are out of our control."
He knew that his brother possessed a heart as brilliant as his brain, or maybe even greater. Only those who were close to him knew how noble and heroic he could be.
"Don't patronize me, brother. Out of control? That's an unusual notion to you, isn't it? After all, you are the British government." Sherlock's voice carried a mix of subtle sarcasm and frustration. He knew, in his rational mind, that there were forces in the world beyond even any mortal's control. However, a stubborn part of him couldn't help but think that a better mind, perhaps even his own, could have done better and saved his client. For all the years he had known him, Mycroft was never wrong, and that feeling stirred a sense of unjustified indignation toward his brother at that moment.
Mycroft wasn't bothered by that at all, and if he was, it only stemmed from the understanding that Sherlock's frustration was, in fact, self-directed. He knew that in Sherlock's eyes, he loomed large not just because of his physical size, but also due to his formidable intellect, prestigious position, and of course his role as the elder brother. Yet, Mycroft found Sherlock's perception of him as an invincible, almost omniscient figure somewhat exaggerated. However, even the most practical and logical man in London couldn't help but be touched by the fact that his younger brother still held such deep admiration for him.
He said with a smile, "And am I doing a great job? As you can see, the conditions are far from perfect."
"It is decent enough, considering all the challenges and imbeciles you have to deal with." Sherlock replied. He averted his eyes after saying it, realizing he was, in a way, agreeing with his brother's point. He sighed, feeling drained.
"Forgive me. I suppose I'm in a disputative mood, as Watson would say" Sherlock continued, his tone slightly tinged with frustration. "It's just..." It was rare for him to stumble over his words, but he struggled to find the right ones to express his emotions. He felt his throat closing with every word.
"I'm sorry." He managed to say softly.
"Don't be. It's better to confront these emotions than suppress them and let them cloud your thoughts. That being said, it isn't right to blame yourself for something that isn't your fault. I'm sure you give your all to every case, and that's how you've helped countless people, both British and foreigners. You've made this country proud, and I'm proud of you."
Sherlock was taken aback by Mycroft's words. He remembered precisely the last time his brother had expressed such sentiments and it had been years.
"Don't act so surprised, you silly boy. I don't say it often because I thought you smart enough to know it" Mycroft said, feigning annoyance but concealing a genuine pang of guilt when he observed Sherlock's reaction. His younger brother seemed unusually vulnerable and young at that moment, with his tired posture, hushed voice, and glistening red eyes. He had always cared deeply for Sherlock, even if his reserved nature often masked these sentiments. At times, he simply forgot how deeply his brother could be affected by the world around him.
"You know how I need certain things to be pointed out to me," Sherlock said humorously. He cleared his throat with a chuckle, trying to conceal how deeply moved he was. Though moisture welled in his eyes threatened to fall despite his best efforts to prevent it. Mycroft conveniently got up to fetch some blankets and a spare dressing gown, allowing him to discreetly wipe them away.
By the time Mycroft returned and laid the blankets on the sofa, Sherlock had managed to regain some of his composure. "I assume you still prefer the sofa over the spare room?"
"It is warmer here," Sherlock replied with a smile.
"You know, Sherlock," Mycroft said, placing the dressing gown on the arm of Sherlock's chair, "I don't think your client was left unavenged. Maybe not by your hands, but you can surely see the poetic justice in how those criminals met their end in the sea."
Mycroft gently placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder in a rare display of affection from the typically reserved older brother, and looked him in the eyes. "Keep your chin up, brother. You've weathered storms far fiercer than this."
Sherlock, still grappling with his emotions, found himself clutching onto that comforting presence as though it were an anchor in the tempest of his thoughts. Without the need for words, without hesitation, Sherlock leaned into his brother's embrace, and Mycroft welcomed it, enveloping him in a warm, brotherly hold.
For a brief, tranquil moment, they shared their silent embrace, the only sounds filling the room being the distant howling wind, the rain tapping on the windows, and the crackling fire's soothing rhythm.
Finally, they slowly withdrew from each other's arms. Mycroft's hand lingered on Sherlock's shoulder for an extra heartbeat, offering a reassuring squeeze, "Tomorrow, I will find you a case. You will take it, and I won't entertain any complaints. Work is the best distraction."
"Yes, sir," Sherlock replied with a touch of good humour.
"Goodnight, dear brother," Mycroft said, opening the door to his bedroom.
"Thank you, Mycroft," Sherlock responded, preparing his makeshift bedding on the sofa, feeling grateful for so many things.
"Anytime, brother mine," Mycroft murmured as he entered his own room.
That night, as they drifted into sleep, they carried with them a silent promise that they would always be there for each other. It was a reassuring reminder that even in the darkest of times, they could weather any storm together.