Keisuke Matsuoka - Sherlock Holmes - A Scandal in Japan

It was nearly two in the afternoon. Sherlock disembarked from his carriage onto the long-missed Baker Street. The area remained unchanged, and it was hard to believe that three years had passed. There was the familiar entryway door, crowned with its arched window. There was the number, 221B.

Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside. He faced the back of an old, grey-haired woman. She remained stooped over, polishing the stairway banister with a rag, as she called over her shoulder, “Welcome, come in. Mr. Holmes is waiting on the second floor.”

Sherlock felt momentarily disconcerted, but soon realized the situation. His brother must have only told her he was expecting a visitor, but not who it was.

Mrs. Hudson turned around. She stared at him blankly, blinking several times. A violent look of surprise overwhelmed her. She staggered toward him, eyes wide, and gave a strangled cry. “Good Lord! Mr. Holmes!”

Her knees buckled. Sherlock grabbed her to prevent her from falling. Mrs. Hudson’s joy was beyond anything he would have imagined. She cried like a little girl. She must be off her trolley, to greet him in this way.

Mrs. Hudson’s voice trembled. “I was sure we had lost you. They all talked of having a gathering, it’s near to the day of your passing. Last year Inspector Lestrade sent an entire carriage of white carnations, it was a fine thing.”

“Please calm down, Mrs. Hudson. It is very good to see you again. Did my brother tell you nothing?”

“Nothing at all. Oh, that scoundrel, he told me to ready the rooms because a guest was arriving from a laboratory in France!”

“And so I have. He was not wrong. He is upstairs, then?”

“Yes. I am just on my way up with the tea things.”

“No need, please rest downstairs. You and I shall have our tea together after I come down.”

Mrs. Hudson eagerly invited him to find her in the back room of the first floor. Then Sherlock straightened his collar and climbed the stairs. Trust Mycroft—although he had surely heard the commotion below, he did not step out to greet his brother.

The door had been left ajar. Sherlock stepped inside. The room, which he had not set eyes upon in so long, was organized as though someone had hastily put it in order for visitors. The table and sofa remained in their former position. The laboratory equipment atop the desk also remained untouched. The Persian slipper sat upon the mantelpiece. Likely even the tobacco remained inside, though it would be stale and unusable by now.

Mycroft, who sat in the easy-chair, was thinner than Sherlock remembered, but this made him look younger as well. He stood slowly and extended both arms, a smile creasing his face.

Surely he was not expecting a hug. Sherlock grimaced. “I see everything has been left as it was. It would have appeared less suspicious to Moriarty’s ruffians if you’d just cleared the entire place, but I suppose disposing of so many household articles proved too trying. Very like you, Mycroft, to continue to pay the rent simply because it demanded less effort.”

“Sherlock, the least you could do is say hello.”

“Yes, and you might welcome me back.”

He expected a sarcastic rejoinder. Instead, Mycroft said readily, “Welcome home, Sherlock.”

The sincerity in his tone left Sherlock momentarily speechless. It took effort for him to say, “It is good to see you…”

Mycroft’s expression was not the same as when they had parted at the Port of Livorno. From that day Sherlock remembered only the reproach in Mycroft’s face, but now he seemed to be congeniality itself. Perhaps there had been no need to worry so much over their clashing opinions, after all.

Indeed, Sherlock finally understood how much trouble his brother had gone to help him escape. And the difficulties he must have suffered for the three years that followed.

“You look well,” Mycroft observed, his face showing subdued joy.

“As do you,” Sherlock replied.

“I heard of what unfolded in Japan. There was nearly war with Russia.”

Sherlock smiled, and placed his finger to his lips. “I was sworn to secrecy by Chairman Ito. Excuse me, Prime Minister Ito.”

“Yes, he has been made Prime Minister once again. And the Dalai Lama and Caliph?”

“I was able to gain an audience.”

“Ask and you shall receive!”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said. At the moment he felt he could speak openly. “It is thanks to you, brother. I am very grateful.”

Mycroft seemed a touch embarrassed. “I was not the one who made the trips possible.”

“But you provided the opportunity. A chance for a little fish to see the greater pond. I understand now what it means to be brothers.”

The bell chimed, announcing the time as two o’clock. Mycroft’s expression softened. He hesitated over his words for a moment, then spoke in his usual deflecting manner. “Your decision to return sooner than your original intention has left me rather harried. I thought we would have you pop out from your coffin during the third anniversary of your passing, and scare everyone half to death.”

“I heard of the Park Lane incident.”

“So you already know. It occurred just as I said it would: after the trial, two of Moriarty’s men went free. Your evidence was not enough.”

“I still believe what I had gathered was strong enough to make Moriarty desperate.”

“We are of different minds.”

No matter. “So be it,” Sherlock said softly, staring off into space. “Certainly brothers may be of different minds.”

So long as they agreed on a deeper level.

Those were Sherlock’s genuine feelings. However, it was more than he was capable of putting into words. He hoped that Mycroft understood, even if he did not say as much aloud.

His brother seemed sensitive to his meaning. He smiled and nodded slightly. “Oh, and Sherlock. If you have exhausted your savings during your travels…”

“I have royalties from the record of my Tibet explorations, which I published under the alias Sigerson. It is enough.”

“I see.” Mycroft approached the table where a bottle of scotch and some glasses had been set out. “A poor showing, but let us drink to your return.”

“I must pass. I have given up drink.”

“Given it up?” Mycroft’s eyes grew wide. “Truly?”

“Yes. I have had enough spirits for a lifetime.”

The elder brother had lifted one of the glasses in the air. He returned it to the table. “That is for the best, I suppose. We do not have any soda water anyway. The seltzogene is broken.”

“I thought the room had been left exactly as it was, but I see you did not get around to making repairs.”

“There is also one other difference.”

“An acceptable one. I have already noticed. I do not plan to ever again partake of cocaine.”

A faint look of surprise crossed Mycroft’s face, but he said nothing. He only nodded silently, with no sarcastic ribbing.

They didn’t say anything else for a moment. Then, as though remembering, Mycroft looked apologetic. “Ah, and Sherlock? Perhaps… you hold a grudge against the man atop the cliffs that day, Colonel Sebastian Moran, but I hope you will not do anything so rash as you attempted with Moriarty…”

“Fear not,” Sherlock reassured him. “I detest murder.”

Mycroft sighed. “You have changed, Sherlock. For the wiser. In a nation of laws, one can get quite far by reading the faces in a jury.”

“I shall take your word for that.” Sherlock crossed the room and stared down at Baker Street below through the window. He felt as if he’d seen the same view just yesterday.

Across the street, a suspicious man leaned against a gas lamp. Sherlock recognized him: Parker, a small-time strangler and thief. Moriarty’s gang was watching him, after all.