Mycroft Holmes and the Edinburgh Affair

by Janina Woods

  Sherlock handed me the calling card he had found. What a fool, indeed.

  “A newspaper editor,” I stated.

  “What did you expect he’d write on his card? Assassin for hire?”

  “I was simply confirming my suspicion. Mrs. Hudson was right. Do kindly cease the needless jokes.”

  “I will, if you get your head on straight. You’ve been irritable and short tempered - even more so than usual. Just because no one else noticed, because you can keep this all down, doesn’t mean you can fool me. I’ve seen the way you move your fingers restlessly, bunching them up to control your anger. A commendable facade, yes, but entirely unnecessary here.”

  While Sherlock was talking I walked to the sideboard next to the window. It contained the very meagre selection of spirits this household had collected over the years - more since Watson had moved in. I gazed upon the bottles for a while, but then turned away from them to face my brother instead. We locked eyes for a few seconds, then I closed mine and half reclined on the edge of the table next to me.

  “Two people are already dead,” I said quietly.

  “Please. You’ve laid waste to more than that on several of your missions. Edinburgh for example.”

  Sherlock’s words were harsh. He had never been one to talk around these matters, especially not with me. On one hand, he knew it was senseless to try and conceal anything from me, because I had always been smarter than he. On the other hand he knew just how well I could deflect any argument, and the direct way was often the fastest.

  That didn’t mean I had to like it.

  “Two innocent people. Dead. Because of me. A count that’s likely to rise.”

  “Still not any different from your-”

  “Those are not innocent people! Everyone who stands in my way on missions is guilty of at least some crime!”

  Sherlock looked at our captive. Even my raised voice hadn’t woken him, much less Dr. Watson, who was still blissfully dreaming in his morphine-fuelled sleep. When he was sure the man wouldn’t stir any time soon, my brother slowly walked to my side of the room and stopped only a step away from me. There was no anger on his face, only sadness and... pity. I could’ve handled anger. Fury even. But this?

  “Say it or leave me be,” I managed to squeeze out between clenched teeth.

  My body was tense. I realised I was ready to bolt. Sherlock saw it too. For once I could see him thinking about what he was about to say, carefully rearranging the words in his head.

  “You know my opinion about your work ethic. Your methods to fulfil your missions. The lengths you go to, and the moral code you have adopted. No matter what you are allowed to do - there are certain things you should think twice about, before you actually carry them out. It’s getting worse, Mycroft.”

  “Sherlock, I-”

  “Let me finish, please,” he said in measured tones, but his clenched fists betrayed the depth of his emotions. “I’ve often tried to talk to you about this and I know Watson has too. He told me all about your journey to come to my aid. He was horrified about your actions in Milan, but chose to come along for my sake. Have you ever wondered why you work alone?”

  I shifted my weight, uncomfortably. This whole thing was already a mess. First Clarke tried to ruin my professional life, now it had shaken up everything in my personal circles as well. I supposed I should send him a card expressing congratulations on a plan well-executed.

  “Because I refused to take another partner after what happened to Hawkins,” I replied. “I couldn’t bear to be responsible like that and fail... again.”

  “Edinburgh wasn’t your failure.”

  I laughed, slightly broken.

  “So everyone keeps telling me.”

  “Look, Mycroft, I believe I know best just how capable you truly are. I’ve even admitted to Watson that you are my superior not only in your mental capacity, but in many other abilities too. You know I don’t do that lightly. But even someone like you can’t keep everything together at all times. You can’t bend fate to your will, no matter how much you want to.”

  “Doesn’t mean I won’t still try.”

  “My point is that you’ve crossed a line somewhere, many years ago. And you can’t go back. It gets easier with every shot. Every swing you take. I know that all too well. I’m not happy with all that is happening, believe me. But if it makes you see your actions in a new light, at least some good will have come of it.”

  I straightened my upper body and narrowed both eyes at my brother. There it was again: The pity. The patronising tone. Oh, how I hated this. Sherlock’s words, of course, but also the way the flames of rage bloomed so quickly in my chest, how hot my head felt, and how I could barely restrain myself not to lash out, physically or verbally, at the barest hint of criticism. I bit my lip to stop me from uttering something I’d regret.

  Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again, but I cut him off by putting my hand on his chest and pushing him backwards, just a little, then raised a finger to indicate that I needed a moment. Much to his credit, he took a step back, so I turned towards the sideboard. I grabbed an almost empty bottle of some nondescript spirit, then a glass and poured the remnants. I wouldn’t drink from the bottle. I was emotionally compromised, not a savage.

  In a swift gulp, I emptied the whole glass. The liquid burned its way through my mouth and down my throat. It helped to bring a few things back into focus, least of which was my tendency to reach for the bottle in times of turmoil.

  The line. Where had it been, and why had I crossed it?

  I remembered the first body I had left behind on a mission. I had still been a rookie, assigned to covertly guard an important royal guest at a social function, not long after I had joined the Service. It should’ve been an easy assignment, but it had all gone very wrong. Still, I managed to intercept the attacker. In our struggle I had pulled away his blade and ended his life, before he could do the same for me.

  I still remember the feeling of his body going limp in my grasp, suddenly all dead weight, pushing down on me. The warm blood on my hands. The bystanders, who had fled the room in horror. I had never looked back. With bloodstained clothes, and hands haphazardly wiped on a nearby table cloth, I had led the guest to safety. I remembered the praise I had gotten for my success more than anything else. Threat neutralised.

  Bloody well done, Mycroft Holmes.

  When had bloody well done turned into this?

  The glass in my hand was too empty. I reached blindly for another bottle. Clear liquid. Vodka? Gin? It would have to do. Sherlock made no comment as I poured another drink. I hadn’t crossed the line then, I figured. My first kill on duty had been justified. In a way they had all been. But my brother was right. It had only become easier since then.

  Too easy now.

  “My problem is that I’m lazy,” I said, more to the glass I was filling once again, than to anyone else in the room. “I tell everyone that I’m trying to complete the mission as well as I can, when I’m only ever searching for the quickest and easiest way out. It’s too much effort to cover all my bases. That’s why I killed those men in Milan. That’s why I killed all the other people on my missions. Too dangerous? That’s what I told Watson, didn’t I? But in reality I couldn’t care less. My job is always dangerous. But I’m just lazy.”

  “Mycroft you’re rambling...”

  I whirled around and pointed a finger at my brother, who had wisely taken another step away from me.

  “Then shut up with the moral lessons and just tell me! Tell me I’m a bad person! That I don’t care for human life! Oh, no, that’s not right. I do care for it, but only when it suits me. I’ve crossed too many lines. Just say it! I’m a liability now. To myself, to you and to the Secret Service! Maybe Challenger is right and I should stand down from all of this. Let the real professionals handle the situation!”


  “You’re not a bad person,” Sherlock said quietly.

  He seemed very unwilling to join me in my argument, and in that moment his reaction made me even angrier. I emptied the glass again, and in an impulsive move, threw it at my brother. He caught it neatly.

  “I’m leaving,” I huffed, already on my way to the door. “Have fun with your would-be murderer.”

  I couldn’t go far, as Sherlock managed to grab my arm just as I was reaching for the door handle. Instinctively I tried to get out of his hold, but when I looked into his eyes all fight suddenly drained out of my body.

  “You’re angry now, and I understand,” Sherlock said, still in his measured voice. “But you’re not angry at me, or Challenger, or even Clarke. You’re angry at yourself because you know there’s some truth in my words, which you can’t accept. Yet. It’ll take time, and frankly, being caught in the middle of this mad campaign isn’t the best time for any of this.”

  My shoulders slumped. I knew he was right, but...

  “I can’t do this right now,” I whispered. “Clarke can’t... you can’t just pull that rug from under my feet. Not now.”

  “The only one who can pull that away is yourself.”

  “After the mission. I can’t... not now. I have to perform. I need to be me right now. Or whatever I think is me.”

  There was a beat of silence.

  “Alright. Let’s wake up my murderer then, shall we?”

  Sherlock squeezed my arm once before letting go. If he noticed that I took a few additional seconds to first wipe a stray tear from my cheek, he didn’t point it out. I could see him sort through a selection of vials on the other side of the room, deliberately pretending not to find the right bottle, just to give me time. I felt strangely touched by this simple gesture. Finally, I cleared my throat, and Sherlock got the hint.

  “Ah, there it is. Smelling salts. It doesn’t seem like our guest will be waking up on his own any time soon, so we’ll have to resort to different methods. If only Watson were awake. But, no. He probably wouldn’t want to see this.”

  “Thank you,” I simply said in response, and Sherlock nodded, understanding. “Have you found anything else on his person that could give us a clue?”

  “Only a few ink smudges on his clothes and an empty candy wrapper in his pocket. As far as the visible evidence suggests, there’s no way to doubt Alexander Thompson is actually a newspaper editor. He seems vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  I checked the rope again, and when I found that it held securely, Sherlock opened the bottle and waved the chemical under the man’s nose. It took only seconds for him to wake, and he did so with a start. I almost wanted to jump forward to keep him from screaming, but then he turned his eyes on me, and even though he still seemed shocked, his shoulders almost immediately relaxed. Very strange.

  “Mycroft, oh my...” he slurred, still half out of it. “I never wanted to... How...”

  “Why are you addressing my brother by his Christian name?”

  The man shook his head to clear away the fog, but groaned as he only just now realised the wound he had sustained.

  “What did you do to me?”

  “Frying pan,” I replied.

  “That damn woman...” he huffed, but Sherlock leaned in immediately.

  “I will not have any bad sentiments towards Mrs. Hudson expressed in this house, or anywhere else for that matter. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Very,” the other man groaned.

  My brother stepped back and we eyed our captive again, who curiously kept holding my gaze the whole time, as if he were trying to tell me something that... I released a string of curse words that made even my brother blush.

  “Oh no. That... no. Why? No. No!”

  I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to deal with this right now. Not at all. I hadn’t just barely calmed the storm in my mind only for him to agitate the waters again. The audacity!

  I stumbled backwards to get some distance, both hands over my mouth as I scrutinised him again. The reddish hair, the blue-green eyes. The crinkle around his eyes as he smiled at me. The slight curve to his mouth on one side that had always caught my eye... There was no denying it.

  “You?” I asked, disbelievingly. “You can’t be... how?”

  “I’m here to warn you. I suppose you couldn’t have known that earlier.”

  “It’s usually polite to enter through the front door on a social visit,” my brother said, voice kept light, but as I looked at him, I already saw that gaze that tried to figure out just how the man and I were connected. I didn’t want to do this in front of Sherlock, but I had no choice.

  “Sherlock. You remember... Smith?”

  “There are many people called Smith. It’s a very common name. I could-”

  “Smith,” I cut him off. “The Smith. The only one.”

  It took my brother a few seconds to process the meaning behind my words, but then I could see understanding dawning on his face, and he looked onto the man tied up on the chair in what I could only call surprised curiosity. Nothing of the horror I’d expect other people to show, which was good, but a little too much calculating gaze and pondering slant of the head.

  Smith... no, Thompson on the other hand had shed his earlier fear and now looked at me with a gentle smile on his face. You could almost think he wasn’t tied up in the middle of a sitting room.

  “I’m married now, before you ask. I took on her name... I know it’s not common, but there are so many Smiths...”

  “Stop talking like we had simply met on the street,” I hissed. “Are you even aware of your situation?”

  “How could I not be? Apart from that one experiment with the absinthe in university, my head has never hurt so much.”

  “Have you been sent just to make me miserable? As a reminder, perhaps? As a threat? How far have they dug into my past?”

  Sherlock stood back while I talked to Thompson, evidently not daring to meddle with anything... yet. I wondered how long he would be able to keep himself contained like this. Here he was, that one man I had forbidden him to ever talk to while we were still at university.

  My Songbird.

  “I’m here to warn you! They’re going to blow up your house with you in it!”

  “What?”

  “And they don’t know anything... about us. It might sound silly, but I think I may have been placed here by a higher power for a reason.”

  “Into my sitting room, tied to a chair?” Sherlock mused.

  I knew he wouldn’t be able to contain himself for long. But I hadn’t quite thought it would be over so soon.

  “No! Of course not! I mean into this whole mess of a situation. Oh, please, can’t you untie me now?”

  My hand twitched involuntarily, as I immediately felt the desire to do just what he asked for. But my head knew better, so I willed myself to stay. Sherlock hadn’t moved at all. Of course. He had no ties to the man in front of us. I had made sure of that.

  “I’m not sure I can trust you just yet,” I said. “No matter our shared history, you’ve broken into my brother’s house with malicious intent and-”

  “Malicious intent? I said I’m here to warn you! I couldn’t very well waltz into the front door while it’s being watched. They’d know immediately!”

  It was clear that Thompson had a deeper involvement in everything than it might have seemed at first glance. I was unsure what to do, with my head still reeling, and that unwelcome flood of emotions rushing back into my chest, making it ache with something complicated that I didn’t even remotely want to think about.

  “Sherlock, would you be so kind to treat his wound? I wouldn’t want him to fall unconscious again, or worse. We might still need him.”

&
nbsp; My brother hummed his agreement and proceeded to fetch the needed implements from Dr. Watson’s room. I had expected him to act more reluctantly, but then again, can anyone ever fully predict Sherlock’s actions? In the silence, a dull ache started creeping up from the back of my skull.

  “Thank you,” the accursed man finally said, all but whispered, just before Sherlock returned.

  My brother went to work in silence, first assessing the damage as he stood behind him, then cleaning the wound with something that made Thompson hiss in pain. All throughout, Sherlock looked at me over the man’s head, as if I were a puzzle he was destined to figure out. I was sure that he had already come to correct conclusions. The matter was rather obvious. But without voicing them explicitly, he’d never know if he were right.

  “Now, would you start from the beginning? This is all very confusing,” I urged Thompson, while sitting down on another chair, which I had drawn out and positioned in front of him.

  “Confusing? For you? That I’d live to see the day, Mycroft,” he laughed softly, despite the pain that Sherlock was inducing by attempting to play doctor.

  “Alexander, please, just... concentrate on the matter at hand.”

  The pleasure of me calling him by his name was immediately apparent on his face. I hadn’t meant to... it had happened involuntarily. Again. Curse this man. I could only thank the gods that Sherlock was occupied right now. No, the way he smirked for just a second told me that he had seen it all. Probably angled himself just right to... ah, yes. The mirror near the door. I narrowed my eyes at both of them.

  “Alright,” Thompson acquiesced. “About two months ago, I was approached by-”

  “I said the beginning. Go back.”

  “How far?” He seemed confused.

  “The day we said what we supposed to be our final goodbyes.”

  “Is that really necessary, Mycroft?” Sherlock interjected, even though he seemed interested. That was probably my fault for not sharing this part of my personal life with him.

  “It could be,” I deflected.