Chapter Text
My younger brother is a sensitive, volatile man despite his attempts to pass as a cold-headed reasoner. He yearns for affection and kindness he was deprived of, for our parents passed away when he was very young. We both learned the hard way how cruel the world could be.
I had always taught Sherlock not to get attached, but to no avail. His first major attachment ended in a disaster. A college friend seduced him, spent a few months with him, and then left, both the university and Sherlock. If only Sherlock was able just to amuse himself casually, not letting a person he shared bed with into his heart. No, for Sherlock a mere dalliance was impossible. It had to turn into a fully fledged affaire de coeur. As a result, Sherlock dropped out of the university as well and would have followed his former lover abroad, had the said lover explicitly asked him not to.
And I was there to pick up the pieces. All of my reasoning fell on deaf ears; Sherlock didn’t listen to any of it. He took to drugs. He ran off with an amateur theatre company and traipsed around the country until he became of age and could receive his part of the humble inheritance from our parents. Without a degree, without systematic education, without much knowledge of the world Sherlock decided that he would be a private inquirer. To work with the police! To be mixed up in various sordid matters, such as thefts, blackmailing, and murders! Definitely not a career a gentleman should pursue. I was outraged yet unable to do anything about it. At that point we almost stopped communicating.
Nevertheless, I kept an eye on him. Surprisingly, little by little he gained a reputation as a capable professional. I realised that not all was lost yet: he could make his way in the world and with due handling could be useful to our country and, consequently, to my own career. Solving cases which I directed to him proved to be beneficial for both of us.
My brother is also a proud man. Therefore, when Sherlock had a wish to improve his living conditions, he refused any kind of help from me. He was compelled to search for a flatmate and thus met John H. Watson.
My sources reported that Watson was a decent if somewhat disorganised individual, an offspring of impoverished Edinburgh gentlefolk, an impecunious doctor who had been driven to seek his fortune in the army. After being invalided out, he gambled and often lived beyond his means, but otherwise was quite harmless.
Sherlock was reluctant to discuss his new friend with me, and yet it was clear that my brother committed the very blunder I had warned him against: he developed feelings for the man. No matter how hard Sherlock tried to hide it, I could see the tell-tale sparkling in his eyes whenever that fellow Dr. John H. Watson was mentioned.
During the first year of their cohabitation Sherlock’s affections seemed unrequited. I hoped that in due course Sherlock would get over his infatuation. Aside from it, the doctor’s company had a positive effect on him: his drug use diminished while his enthusiasm to establish himself as a criminal agent doubled, since he strived to impress the doctor.
And then the situation went downhill. Much to my dismay, it turned out that the doctor loved Sherlock back. They became involved. Now they were in constant danger of being discovered and disgraced. The indiscretions they allowed themselves were appalling—they could gaze at each other as the love-besotted fools they were, transparent to anyone more or less observant. I watched them from my brougham on several occasions when they were out on the street, having a walk or investigating. Sherlock was annoyed by my supervision, yet thanked me for my advice to be more careful. Naturally, I ensured that their household would not betray them. Their landlady and servants were trustworthy folks.
Watson’s foray into writing proved to be an unexpected and curious turn. Apparently, he wished to do justice to Sherlock, who was never credited either by the press or the police, so he penned a novel about my brother. The novel was of a sensational variety, lacking a systematic approach and waxing poetic far more often than advisable. Sherlock complained and grumbled but couldn’t deceive me: he was pleased. The novel attracted much attention among our acquaintances even if it wasn’t a success among the general public.
Despite its shortcomings, that little book had a great deal of value, for it offered a good insight into the doctor’s character. Romantic, self-effacing, he had a dry sense of humour and a knack for obfuscation too. The real circumstances of the case were cleverly disguised. Sherlock’s finest qualities were lauded whereas the darker aspects, such as his mood swings and drug addiction, were glossed over. Sherlock might fail to perceive it, yet the book was a love letter to him. Watson was undeniably a man of passion, and that was what worried me most.
One day the doctor could grow weary of Sherlock’s antics. Watson remained appreciative of the fair sex. One day he could wish for a conventional union, for a wife and a family. He would leave Sherlock, and Sherlock would spiral down into self-destruction again. This time it would be much worse, for Sherlock’s attachment to Watson was no youthful infatuation.
Their relationship had been steady for six years when Sherlock finally relented and agreed to introduce Watson to me. I had a minor case on my hands which served as a pretext for Sherlock’s visit to the Diogenes Club.
The most obvious thing about Dr. Watson was his natural charm. He was attractive physically, with his powerful build, intensely blue eyes, gold-brown hair, and sincere, boyish smile. He must have fully recovered from his misfortunes in Afghanistan, for there was a spring in his step and a general air of robust health about him.
Yet physical qualities alone would not have been enough to capture Sherlock. Watson might not possess a particularly sharp mind, but he was quite bright, brighter than an average person. He was delighted, even awed, to meet me because I was Sherlock’s brother. It was amusing to see his astonishment at the differences between Sherlock and myself. He hung on Sherlock’s every word, taking copious notes, and during the investigation itself proved to be a good helpmate to Sherlock. No wonder Sherlock had become so emotionally invested in him.
I pondered the matter over and came to a conclusion that a direct approach would be best. It was necessary to have a conversation with Dr. Watson. He seemed a sensible fellow, and I needed to check whether he realised how serious the state of affairs was.
A fortnight after our introduction I sent my brougham to Dr. Watson’s surgery with an invitation to dine with me at my club. The message to the doctor stated that the dinner was nothing as formal as to require dress-clothes and that his attendance was requested as soon as his working hours were over. I was certain the doctor would be too intrigued to refuse. Intercepting him in this fashion prevented him from discussing the invitation with Sherlock, and thus my brother had no opportunity to meddle.
The table was set in my study so that we could talk without the risk of being overheard in the Stranger’s Room. At half-past six there was a tap at the door, and the butler announced the doctor’s arrival. I could see from Watson’s fatigued face that he had had a busy day. He glanced at me warily as I waved him into the chair opposite to me.
A good appetite was a trait the doctor and I had in common. We enjoyed roast beef—my chef’s specialty—and a comet vintage, engaging in small talk. As I asked Watson about his practice and Sherlock’s well-being, it tickled me to observe the gears working in his head. He was clearly wondering why I had invited him.
At last, when the main course was finished, Watson put down his fork and gazed straight at me.
“Pardon me, Mr. Holmes, but surely you didn’t summon me just for the sake of a social call?”
I have to admit that I admired his courage—very few of the cabinet ministers dare to confront me with such audacity. My intent to intimidate him had failed. Watson was no coward. In fact, there was only one other person who could stand up to me in this manner. It was rather satisfying to find out that the man was a match for Sherlock.
“Then I shan’t beat about the bush, Dr. Watson,” I said. “What are your intentions with my brother? If this is some sort of a temporary arrangement for you, you must desist at once.”
Cold fury blazing in his eyes, Watson sprang to his feet. His cheeks flushed and his nostrils flared; his lips curved in a snarl. It was a treat to watch him suppress his temper. He was on the verge of shouting abuse at me, yet managed not to. Excellent.
“Mr. Holmes,” he said in a very level tone. “Your concern on Sherlock’s behalf is understandable. Let me assure you that it is groundless. I would marry him if it were possible. Does it make my intentions clear? Good evening.”
He threw his napkin on the table and stalked off past the butler who was bringing in the dessert.
I chuckled. The outlook wasn’t too bad. I tested the fellow, and he rang true so far. He was devoted to my brother. He was hot-headed, but didn’t always allow his emotions to reign. There was some hope in that.