Andrew Lane: Red Leech

He shrugged; a slight movement of his massive frame. “I will not be staying the night, but I wanted to check on your progress. And I was hoping to see Mr Crowe as well. I’m glad he’s here.”

“Your brother and I will conclude our business,” Sherrinford said, “and we will see you in the dining room.”

It was a clear dismissal, and Sherlock pulled the door closed. He could feel a smile stretching across his face. Mycroft was here! The day was suddenly even sunnier than it had been a few moments before.

“Did I hear your brother’s voice?” Amyus Crowe rumbled from the other side of the hall.

“That’s his carriage outside. He said he wanted to talk to you.”

Crowe nodded soberly. “I wonder why,” he said quietly.

“Uncle Sherrinford said you can stay for lunch. He said they’d meet us in the dining room.”

“That sounds like a plan to me,” Crowe said in a louder voice, but there was a frown on his face that belied the lightness of his words.

Sherlock led the way into the dining room. Mrs Eglantine was already there, standing by the wall in the shadow between two large windows. Sherlock hadn’t seen her pass him in the hall. For a moment he wondered if she might be a ghost, able to pass through walls, but he quickly decided that was a stupid idea. Ghosts didn’t exist.

Ignoring Mrs Eglantine, he headed for the sideboard, grabbed a plate and began to load it up with slices of meat and chunks of salmon. Crowe followed, and began at the other end of the sideboard.

Sherlock’s head was still spinning after the sudden reappearance of his elder brother. Mycroft lived and worked in London, capital city of the Empire. He was a civil servant, working for the Government, and although he often made light of his position, saying that he was just a humble file clerk, Sherlock had believed for a while that Mycroft was a lot more important than he made out. When Sherlock had been at home — with his mother and father, that was, before being sent away to live with his aunt and uncle — Mycroft had sometimes come down from London to stay for a few days, and Sherlock had noticed that every day a man would turn up in a carriage with a red box. He would only give it to Mycroft in person, and in return Mycroft would hand across an envelope containing, Sherlock presumed, letters and memoranda that he had written based on the contents of the previous day’s box. Whatever he was, the Government still needed to keep in touch with him every day.

Mouth full of food, he heard the door to the library open. Moments later, the tall, stooping figure of Sherrinford Holmes entered the dining room.

“Ah, brōma theōn ,” he proclaimed in Greek, gazing at the sideboards.

Glancing in Sherlock’s direction, he said: “You may use my library, my psykhēs iatreion, for your reunion with your brother.” Turning to Crowe, he added: “And he specifically requested that you join the two of them.”

Sherlock put down his plate and moved quickly towards the library. Crowe followed; his long legs covering the ground quickly despite his apparent slowness of gait.

Mycroft was standing in the same position over by the French windows. He smiled at Sherlock, then walked over and ruffled the boy’s hair. The smile slipped from his face as he glanced at Crowe, but he shook hands with the American.

“First things first,” he said. After quite an exhaustive investigation by the police, we have found no trace of Baron Maupertuis. We believe he has fled the country for France. The good news is that we have not found any deaths of British soldiers, or anybody else, due to bee stings.”

“It’s debatable whether Maupertuis’s plan would have worked or not,” Crowe said soberly. “I suspect he was mentally unstable. But it was best we didn’t take the chance.”

And the Government is suitably grateful,” Mycroft replied.

“Mycroft — what about Father?” Sherlock blurted.

Mycroft nodded. “His ship will be approaching India by now. I would expect him to disembark with his regiment within the week, but we will probably not get any word from him, or from anybody else, for a month or two — the speed of communication with that far continent being what it is. If I hear anything, I will tell you straight away’

“And... Mother?”

“Her health is weak, as you know. She is stable for the moment, but she needs rest. I understand from her doctor that she sleeps for sixteen or seventeen hours a day.” He sighed. “She needs time, Sherlock. Time and a lack of any mental or physical exertion.”

“I understand.” Sherlock paused, fighting a catch in his throat. “Then I am to stay here at Holmes Manor for the rest of the school holidays?”

“I am not sure,” Mycroft said, “that Deepdene School for Boys is doing you much good.”

“My Latin has improved,” Sherlock responded quickly, then mentally cursed himself. He should be agreeing with his brother, not disagreeing.

“No doubt,” Mycroft said drily, “but there are things a boy should be learning other than Latin.”

“Greek?” Sherlock couldn’t help asking.

Mycroft smiled, despite himself. “I see that your rather pawky sense of humour has survived your time here. No, despite the obvious importance of Latin and Greek to the increasingly complicated world we live in, I rather think that you would respond better to a more personal and individual style of teaching. I am considering withdrawing you from Deepdene and arranging for you to be tutored here, at Holmes Manor.”

“Not go back to the school?” Sherlock searched himself for some sign that he cared, but there was nothing. He had no friends there, and even his best memories were those of being bored, rather than being happy. There was nothing for him at Deepdene.

“We need to look ahead to your matriculation,” Mycroft continued. “Cambridge, of course. Or Oxford. I think you will have a better chance if we focus your learning a little more than Deepdene can manage.” He smiled again. “You are a very individual boy, and you need to be treated that way. No promises, but I will let you know before the end of the holidays what arrangements have been put in place.”

“Do I presume too much when I ask if I will have some small part to play in the youngster’s teachin”?” Amyus Crowe rumbled.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, lips twisting slightly, “you’ve obviously kept him on the straight and narrow so well to date.”

“He’s a Holmes,” Crowe pointed out. “He can be guided, but he can’t be forced. You were the same.”

Yes,” Mycroft said simply. “I was, wasn’t I?” Before Sherlock could check his sudden realization that Crowe had been Mycroft’s teacher as well, Mycroft said: “Would you be good enough to allow Mr Crowe and I to speak privately, Sherlock? We have some business to discuss.”

“Will I... see you before you leave?”

“Of course. I won’t be going until this evening. You can show me around the house, if you like.”

“We could go for a walk in the grounds,” Sherlock suggested.

Mycroft shuddered. “I think not,” he said. “I do not believe I am properly dressed for rambling.”

“It’s just around the outside of the house!" Sherlock protested. “Not out in the woods!"

“If I cannot see a roof over my head and cannot feel floorboards or pavement beneath my feet then it counts as rambling,” Mycroft said firmly. “Now, Mr Crowe — to business.”

Reluctantly Sherlock left the library and closed the door behind him. Judging by the voices coming from the dining room, his aunt had joined his uncle for lunch. He didn’t feel like subjecting himself to the constant stream of chatter from his aunt, so he headed outside. He wandered around the side of the house, hands in pockets and kicking at the occasional stone. The sun was almost directly overhead, and Sherlock could feel a thin film of sweat appearing on his forehead and between his shoulderblades.