The Last Stone Lion Part Three
Chapter 3
Personal correspondence of Mycroft Holmes to Miss Irene Adler
Miss Irene Adler
221b Baker Street
London, England.
April 4th
Dear miss Adler,
It was such a delight to spend a sunny afternoon with you locked away in the dark stacks of the British Library.
That day was rather a mirror of yourself. Beautiful and charming on the outside with the mind of a scholar tucked away inside.
Refreshing company for an aging civil servant such as myself. I do hope my brother has not caught on to our clandestine affair of old bookstores and libraries. He would tease me mercilessly.
I do wish you could see this town of Bilboa. Perhaps you have already, in your travels, though it doesn't seem a destination for too many travelers. It is a wild city, very rough and dirty. Maybe you have seen such places in America.
I imagine you have finished that book by Freud. What do you make of it? Its very like I said, isn't it? The way the trauma of childhood overshadows us for the rest of our days, tempering our every decision. I would love to discuss it in person, but there are some relevant revelations I feel you should know of, as you are there in London, and I am on the high seas, as it were.
You may be wondering why a man of mathmatics and statistics would even be delving into such subjects as Neurology and the like. Indeed it is not a subject I should ever have looked into on my own, but Home Office was very much interested in it. The past as prologue, and all that, because there were some of the younger men who were certain we could apply Freud’s prinicpals on large groups of peoples. If a science were accurate for individuals, they reasoned, then why not on groups, cultures, countries even.
I admit it intrigued me. But the research did not get very far on the government level, some of the older officers and secretaries found it unbelievable, and as so much of the study involved relationships of an intimate nature, it was ultimately scuttled.
But not before it had claimed me as an adherent. For I could see everything Freud proclaimed as being absolutely accurate for my family.
I wonder how much you know of our family, Sherlock’s and mine? I can’t imagine he speaks of it at all. Our childhood was rather painful, Sherlock’s more than mine. It involved the death of our mother at a young age. Certainly not an uncommon event. Many children loose a parent. A father to war or accident at work. A mother to childbirth. But the tragic event happens and there is mourning, and then the family moves on.
Our mother, Sherlock’s and mine, was a very beautiful woman. Father married late in life, and as such she was quite a bit his junior in age, but they made a nice match and we were happy. Have you seen a picture of her, again, I’m certain you have not, because you would have remarked upon it. She had auburn hair, nearly the same as yours, perhaps a bit darker, and it never had the opportunity to go to silver, so in our memories, mother was always sorrel haired. She was also of delicate build, like yourself, and because she became ill shortly after Sherlock’s fourth birthday, she never had the time to grow into that fullness that older women take on as children grow into adults and bring home grandchildren to be fussed over.
I can see your expression, even over the hundreds of miles as you read this. But I will explain myself more after I finish the exposition. If you can be so kind as to read further.
Mother contracted a disease, tuberculosis, and was treated with the best medicines by the best doctors. As such she was able to cling to life longer than most, as I say, she became ill when Sherlock was four, I was eleven, and at first she was able to go out with us on trips to town, on picnics or just walks, around the grounds. She could still come in to tuck my brother in at night and kisses goodnight. Gradually, however, she grew weaker, and was spending more and more time in her room.
It was decided that as Sherlock was so young, he would be kept ignorant of mother’s condition. I was sworn to secrecy on the matter as well. A conspiracy of kindness was enacted, with Sherlock at the center, and always there were excuses made.
“Oh, mother must go in now and have a nap, so tired after this walk.” and then later, “Mother cant walk with us to the pond, Sherlock, she’s having a head ache, … or a tummy ache, …or she has to work in the house today.”
It was so gradual, and because we lived in the country, there were no other mothers to compare ours to, so Sherlock had no idea of the deception. For all he knew, all mothers were delicate creatures sent to bed at the slightest exertion. And the deception became rote for me as well. I became a practiced liar on the subject.
And what of father? He was always a man who worked a great deal, and with the medical costs, he worked even harder as she grew more and more weak. Although I believe he would have worked as much anyway to avoid the vision of his once vibrant wife, becoming a living ghost.
And then one late summer day, when Sherlock was 10 and I was 17, she died. In keeping with the conspiracy, we had never let on that the end was near for our mother. In truth we had thought the time had come so many times before, and each time she recovered. Father and I were stunned that this time she crossed over.
Sherlock, well, it’s difficult to describe his reaction. Let’s just say that you would not have believed such an unemotional man, an “automaton” I believe Dr. Watson has described him, would have sprung from that 10 year old boy bereft of his mother. He was inconsolable. And there was really no one for him to turn to. The other women of the house were servants. My father, after the funeral, locked himself away in his study and came out only to travel to official funtions away from home.
And as fate would have it, at 17 it was time for me to go to university. I had already been accepted to Cambridge and was due to start classes in September. Really, almost as soon as the memorial service was completed, less than a week I believe, I was packing my bags onto a coach and putting as much distance as I could between my broken heart and that sad, sad house hold.
In some strange way, (I guess Freud would say ‘not strange at all’) my grief gave me an excuse to plunge into my studies. While other first year students were taking sports and availing themselves of the freedoms that college brings, I took great solace in the unwavering truth and strength of mathmatics. It was a balm to my spirit. And my grades soared. Away from home, I never had to utter an untruth again. In fact I developed a reputation as a blunt speaker, one who could be counted on to give a straight answer to any question.
When I returned home for that first Christmas break, I was quite shocked at the state of my home.
Father was still a hermit in his own home. But now a routine had been established, and he so seldom left his study that I believe days passed between times when he would speak to his other son.
Sherlock had changed completely. He had become something of a savage. He suffered rages, and the staff suffered them as well. While my studies had gone well, he had gone through two governesses already, and the third was ready to walk any day. He took delight in causing trouble to others, and if he could get a maid to shriek in anger or fear or frustration, it made him laugh.
I took him for a walk in the heavy snow of Christmas, and as we kicked our way through the blue-white pristine snow, Sherlock lunged ahead with each step. It appeared he was hurrying toward or away from something. I took him out for several miles, until he began to relax and his breathing and pace resembled something like a normal walk. When I remarked that we might better return before night caught us and people became worried, his aggitation returned. His black eyes, so restless, burned with resentment.
“As if they would worry.” he snarled. “As long as father pays them they don’t care about anything else.”
“Well, then lets get back before Father worries.”
“He wont’ care either.” Sherlock picked up a stick and flung it as hard as he could at a song bird sitting on a tree branch some 30 feet away. When it missed he seemed genuinely disappointed. Not the same brother I had left only a few months before.
“Of course he would care.” I said, trying to bring some Cambridge sensibility to the situation.
Sherlock gave me a look as if I was daft, and just shook his head.
“There all liars.” he blurted out. “Father, the maids, the governess, the preacher, everyone.”
He didn’t say me, but the look in his eye put me top on the list. I should have said something, but I didn’t. Here was a chance to repair things between us, but I was afraid to upset what I had. I could have dropped out of Cambridge, transferred to a school closer to home. I couldn’t make our father change who he was, but I could have done something to repair the damage done to my brother.
But I did not.
I was beginning to understand that Sherlock felt betrayed by the whole world. As he grew older, and found out the details of our mother’s long illness he became distrustful of everyone. Everyone was capable of lying. That became a cornerstone of his life. Given the right motivation, anyone would lie about anything. He never took anyone at their word after that. If you told him the sun was shining, he would look out the window to check for himself.
As you see, the long shadows of his mother’s tragic death, created the world’s foremost consulting detective.
They also created a rift between two brothers of blood, myself and Sherlock, and this rift was filled with a new brother, a man of exceptional honesty and loyalty. A man who’s very passionate nature insures that he can not be false or conniving. A perfect replacement for a brother who lied and then left
And the perfect woman, our mother, - always beautiful, always leaving,- well, I suspect he has filled that void with you, Miss Adler.
Now, I understand you must be wondering why it is necessary to be having this conversation with pen and ink, instead of in person. Time spent on the ocean, with nothing else to distract one, allows for clear thinking.
These attacks on Watson and yourself puzzle me. Though they were very real and consequently dangerous, you still walk free, and Watson was not killed. And Sherlock is left standing untouched amongst the wreckage of his new family.
History repeating? What do you think, Irene?
I am the suspicious one, now. And it occurs to my suspicious mind, that we may not be the only ones reading Freud’s new studies. Someone else could be successfully applying the very techniques the Home Office decided against.
But how to prove or disprove such a theory? Well, I’ve given it some thought, and I believe it can be safely and easily done.
If someone, were to try to use the past against Sherlock, they would necessarily have to obtain the information from some source. Watson has not touched on Sherlock’s past, and it’s not something I have ever disclosed, so where did this mysterious conspirator find what he needed?
He would have had to speak to people from our past. Servants, maybe, or a neighbor. The size of our village would make it easy to find half a dozen people who knew about our family. But that would also make it easy to find out if someone had been asking questions about the Holmes family.
Do you feel daring enough to undertake such a mission? I think if you left Baker Street with just your purse, and a light coat, as if you were headed to the market, you could make it past the watchers without being followed. Then catch a train to Chichester and a cart to our country home 5 miles north of there. Stay in Chichester. Don’t return to London, I will send for you when I get back. We can compare our discoveries then.
I feel confident that working from both sides, while all eyes are on Baker Street, we could catch this person at his own game.
Yours truly,
Mycroft.