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1887
It is a foggy morning at the port of Dover that sees Yujin Mikotoba off. Despite everything, he thinks he will miss the peculiarities of English weather upon his return to Japan.
Herlock Sholmes stands opposite Mikotoba on the docks — one hand holding his violin case, the other shoved in his pocket. He looks exhausted. The man was prone to staying up all hours of the night, but his usual spirit is missing.
It had, after all, been an exhausting few months in London. And though the dust of the Professor’s crimes was settling, it did not settle easily with the residents of 221B Baker Street.
“You didn’t need to come with me, you know,” he chides his friend lightly.
“Nonsense,” Sholmes all but scoffs. “I happened to have business here.”
“Oh?”
He tips his hat forward, obscuring his eyes. “My only friend in the entire world is boarding a ship today, see. It will take him from this foggy town shrouded in mystery to the land of the rising sun, all the way across the globe.”
“Sholmes…” Mikotoba frowns.
“I am, of course, talking about the captain of the grand ship behind you,” he adds quickly, the shadow of his cat’s grin tugging at his lips. He flicks his hat up. “I happen to know many secrets about the captains of Her Majesty’s fine vessels, and they should know that if the voyage is uncomfortable for a few certain passengers by any means...why, my tongue just may slip.”
“Sholmes!” Mikotoba scowls now, and Sholmes cannot help but laugh. He bows to his friend, and Mikotoba is struck with the distinct feeling that he would miss this. There was no one quite like Sholmes in Tokyo.
“I am kidding, of course, my dear fellow.” His dry expression does not seem to indicate that it is much of a joke. “You know me. I didn’t sleep, kept awake by visions of you being served stale bread or rotten ham on that long, tedious journey…”
“I think I will be tortured by other things,” Mikotoba says. He shakes his head. “I wish...I wish I was returning to Japan under happier circumstances. Despite the last six years, I am leaving London with more mysteries than we solved.”
“Yes, I imagine it will be busy,” Sholmes sighs. “Twofold my previous workload, if my calculations are correct.”
“It will be more like fourfold, with young Iris,” Mikotoba corrects gently. Sholmes’ smile is wry, but he does not say anything further. “Sholmes, if I could be in both places at once — I would do it without hesitation. To leave you alone with a charge so young…”
“There is nothing in my power I would not do to keep my word to you, Mikotoba. There are many shadows over London, but I will not let them fall on her.”
His tone is sharp, his words direct and clear. That steadfast determination glitters in Sholmes’ gray eyes, which seem darker in the dim light of dawn. Mikotoba is startled into silence. Rarely was Sholmes so serious — but rarely were their situations so grim.
“Even if I am hopeless,” he continues, animated once more, “Mrs. Hudson is watching her at the moment...the madam was delighted to finally have an innocent soul under her roof. She was tired of the two rogues in 221B coming and going at all times of day and night, I presume. So someone will at least keep her fed.”
“What of your brother?”
Sholmes tugs on the collar of his coat and looks aside. “Mycroft is too clever for his own good. Why, he would give me a run for my money, if he ever learned to get up from his desk now and then! But he is well acquainted with the Baskervilles. And the van Zieks.”
The detective does not say his meaning, but Mikotoba catches it. He could figure out her identity. Mikotoba feels his stomach sink. “And the families do not know the truth.”
Sholmes says simply, “They cannot.”
The Professor case had taken so much from them, and would continue to be obscured for years to come. It casts a pallor across Mikotoba’s entire time in London, and as the two stand in silence, gazing out at the choppy seas, he can only wonder what ramifications will follow him back to Japan.
The quiet moment is split by the low call of the ship’s foghorn. Sholmes practically leaps into the air in surprise. From the boarding dock, the voice of Seishiro Jigoku calls, “Mikotoba! Run! You’ll miss the boarding call!”
Mikotoba turns to his dearest friend, and swallows the bittersweetness on his tongue. “Sholmes, I cannot thank you enough for my time in London. It has been an honor to—”
“Oh, don’t,” Sholmes interrupts. “Technology, transport, science, medicine — it all gets better every single day, in this age of enlightenment. Even if you’re on the other side of this blasted world, this is not goodbye forever, my dear fellow. So do not bid farewell — say, ‘I’ll see you soon!’ and we can leave it at that.”
He grins. The darkness in his eyes vanishes as he flourishes his violin, suddenly free of its case and in his arms. “I brought my beloved Stradivarius to see you off. Can I interest you in a sweeping melody to herald your departure?”
“You are in a mood,” Mikotoba objects, not without affection. “If it is anything like those screeching dirges you play when your spirits are low…”
“Hush! Catch your boat, Mikotoba!” He brandishes his bow like a saber, jabbing at Mikotoba’s chest. “And give Ms. Susato my warmest regards.”
Impulsively, he embraces Sholmes. The man, all skin and bone, hesitates; after a moment, he returns the gesture, patting Mikotoba’s back with the hand holding his bow. Mikotoba sprints off to meet with Jigoku, and he turns to see Sholmes’ silhouette tuning his violin, applying rosin to the bow.
By the time they board, and Mikotoba has rushed to the top deck of the steamliner, Sholmes is playing a sweeping etude, the warm, clear notes ringing across the sea. Mikotoba waves until his arm is sore, and when Sholmes finishes his song with a grandiose flourish, he waves with his bow until they can no longer see each other.
1891
Mycroft Sholmes had only visited his brother’s residence once before, during Dr. Mikotoba’s stay in London. Word of Herlock’s exploits had reached even Mycroft’s office in Her Majesty’s government, but he had gone quiet for the last few years.
However, Mycroft has a problem in need of a great detective, retired or otherwise. So he pays Baker Street a visit.
Even in their youth, Herlock had lived in disarray. There is something almost comforting about the way his home is still a sty. In front of the grand hearth, Herlock uses a formidable trunk as a coffee table, no doubt filled with secrets. His ever-expanding shelf full of trinkets from solved cases, the slipper on the mantle, the letters pinned to the wall with a knife...yes, these were certainly hallmarks of his younger brother.
More oddly, however, Herlock has two desks in this suite. One is certainly his — marked by the bubbling chemical vials and dubious human skull — and the other is more orderly, lower to the ground, stocked with colorful writing utensils and a dainty tea set. They did not look like Herlock’s taste, nor Dr. Mikotoba’s...so who—
“Brother Mycroft, it is considered common courtesy to announce your presence when you drop in uninvited to someone’s home.”
Herlock emerges from his kitchen, in his shirtsleeves, welts below his eyes from the protective goggles atop his head. He thinks for a moment, then adds, “Though, I suppose the Sholmes family is not known for their courtesy, common or otherwise.”
He laughs, irreverent as ever. Mycroft taps his cane against the floor and responds only with, “Indeed not. Does someone else live here, brother Herlock?”
“Hmm?” Herlock furrows his brow, and follows Mycroft’s gaze to the other side of the suite. “Oh! Yes, Yujin Mikotoba. My dear partner in deduction. You met him previously, didn’t you?”
“Dr. Mikotoba left the country four years ago,” Mycroft says patiently.
“That he did! In his absence, I’ve found yet another comrade in my fight against humanity’s greatest struggle.”
“You’ve a new flatmate, then,” Mycroft translates. “Mrs. Hudson didn’t say anything on my way up. I’d like to meet h–”
Almost on cue, the door to the other bedroom opens. Mycroft can only stare as a young girl, perhaps four years of age, emerges, her turquoise eyes round with surprise as she openly stares back. Something about her looks familiar, but he cannot place it.
“Hurley, who is this?” the girl asks politely.
“Go on,” Herlock says, laughter just barely concealed in his voice, “introduce yourself, Mycroft. I trust you still have some modicum of that common courtesy left in you, after all these years?”
“...Mycroft Sholmes,” he obliges, through gritted teeth, “Herlock’s brother. And you are?”
“I’m Iris!” she says, delighted. She curtsies formally, with an elegance entirely strange for her age. “I didn’t know Hurley had a brother!”
Through the corner of his eyes, Mycroft glares daggers at his brother. Herlock stops laughing just in time to give his brother a suspiciously sudden, solemn look.
“Indeed,” Mycroft says slowly. “I did not know he had a ‘flatmate’. Charmed.”
Mycroft does not know what compels him — but he bends awkwardly to shake her hand. Iris, apparently much more ladylike than she appears, shakes it daintily.
“Off to your room with you, Iris!” Herlock interrupts. He steps forward, clasping his hands together. “This good gentleman and I have much to discuss.”
“But Hurley—”
“There will be plenty of time to bore into my brother with those insightful eyes of yours in the future, should he deign to visit our humble abode once more.” He flashes Mycroft a smile, to which Mycroft returns a sigh. “For now, we must discuss things inappropriate for a lady to hear.”
“Like what?” she asks innocently.
“Away with you!” In an instant, Herlock has crossed the room. He sweeps up Iris, spins her around, and tucks her under his arm like she is a football; Iris squeals, indignant but not displeased.
She wiggles free of his clutches and darts into her room. Herlock quickly shuts the door behind her, closing it softly, and gestures for Mycroft to follow him to the balcony.
“She will eavesdrop, I’m sure,” he explains.
There is a telltale huff at the now-closed door. Mycroft blinks in surprise at all he had witnessed in the last few minutes. He follows his brother, and only dares speak when there are two doors between them and the young Iris.
“Is she yours?” he asks without preamble.
“Yes and no. Yes, I take care of her. No, she is not mine. And she knows as much.”
“Then who—?”
“It is a favor,” Herlock interrupts. “To a dear friend.”
“To raise a child?” Mycroft splutters, incredulous.
“Yes.”
“But—”
“Ask no more, Mycroft. I do not want her to unearth her true parentage...and I know you will figure it out, given enough time. Please, let it be.”
Herlock is unusually still, his tone unusually grave. When he gets like this, Mycroft knows better than to pry. He sighs and turns to Baker Street, bracing his hands against the railing before him. (No easy feat — the balcony is littered with thriving plants, all cluttered together just like Herlock’s belongings indoors.)
“Very well. You always have a reason for your secrets, Herlock.”
“It is not that I don’t want to tell you.”
“But you can’t.” Mycroft bobs his head. “I quite understand. Well, in a manner of speaking.”
Herlock joins him at the railing. Together, they gaze down at the movements of the London citizens out and about; no doubt Herlock’s mind is racing the same way Mycroft’s is. It is strange to see his brother so subdued, but much had changed about him after the Professor case and Mikotoba’s departure. It was smaller, subtler differences that Mycroft had noted, even if Herlock’s clientele did not.
Mycroft sighs. “This would be why we’ve barely spoken for four entire years, then.”
“Among other things, yes! London is in dire need of good detectives these days. And of course, of all of them, I am…” He flicks his stubborn tuft of hair from his face, the same way he would his hat. “The great detective.”
“Hmph. Quite,” Mycroft sniffs. “The way they write about you in the papers, they make you sound fictional.”
“I assure you, my exploits are very, dastardly real. But that’s an idea! Between the Reaper and I, London will know no crime.” He habitually puts his pipe to his mouth, though he has nothing to light it with; then, as if remembering something, tucks it away and turns to Mycroft. “Speaking of — you never come to see me in person, Mycroft! Pray tell, what brings you to Baker Street? A tantalizing new case for yours truly?”
Mycroft himself had almost forgotten he did not come here for a wellness check. Herlock’s sieve-like memory was infectious, it seems. He clears his throat. “Very much that, yes. I require your help recovering some...delicate schematics. For the government.”
“Why didn’t you start with that?” his brother demands. He gestures vaguely to the street below. “We shouldn’t discuss such things on a balcony. Come, let us sit inside. I just put the kettle on, we can talk over tea if we’ve any left. I cannot recall the last time I visited the market…”
That was Herlock — brilliant, empathetic, and full of energy that never seemed to diminish...but forgetful and flighty to a fault. London’s dark days are not over, but with Herlock taking cases for London’s general public, perhaps they could be a bit brighter.
1898
It seems there is not a moment’s rest with the Great Exhibition in town.
Mycroft went to the office before dawn to do some paperwork in blissful, peaceful silence. It lasts for an hour or two — and of course it is shattered by the sound of footsteps in the hallway, and his brother explosively throwing open the door. Doesn’t he ever knock?
“My dear brother!” Herlock greets. Considering the time of day, and Herlock’s talent for waking up late, Mycroft is astounded he has this much energy this early.
Mycroft looks up, sees his brother, then looks immediately back down to his work. “I am busy, Herlock. In case you haven’t noticed, the Great Exhibition is in full swing. I’ve little time for your deductions and reasonings and spectaculars.”
Mycroft hears his brother draw a breath to launch into his explanations anyway, and he holds up his hand in warning. He does not stop writing all the while. “You needn’t point out that my teapot has gone cold,” he says tersely, “nor the rumpled state of my clothing, indicating a lack of rest. Say nothing of the unusual disorganization of my desk. I am busy. ”
Mycroft finally looks up to see Herlock standing with one hand in his pocket, the other sheepishly atop his hat. Beneath the shadow of the brim, Herlock smiles; Mycroft frowns. This has not deterred him in the least.
“I see you haven’t left yet,” Mycroft sighs.
“This is of the utmost urgency. Surely, you can take a few minutes to do a favor for your helpless brother?”
“...I agree with one part of that query.” Mycroft shakes his head and looks down at his paper. Surely, it would be some minor action that would make major waves down the line. “What do you need?”
“A meeting with Her Majesty. Preferably before nine o'clock this morning, please.”
Mycroft snaps the nib of his pen, spraying ink all over the document before him. He glares up at Herlock, who has only shifted to draw the brim of his hat lower over his unbearably smug grin.
“Why?” he demands.
“It is a secret, of course,” Herlock says airily.
“Is this about that closed trial gumming up the works? The forensics conference begins today, and it’s doing a marvelous job of distracting all our police.”
“It’s their own fault! If they simply asked me before arresting suspects willy-nilly, they would get the right man far more often than they do,” Herlock says, without a trace of irony. “Pray tell, brother — do you really think Barok van Zieks would kill a favored colleague like that?”
No, he has a point. Van Zieks, for all the rumors around him, would have no reason to gun down Inspector Gregson. If he had been stabbed, Mycroft may be more inclined to believe the accusation. Nonetheless, he purses his lips and reaches for a handkerchief to wipe the ink from his fingers. “What does this trial have to do with Her Majesty?”
“Mycroft! It’s a secret!” Herlock throws his hands up in exasperation. “I swear, my words are little more than air to you.”
“Herl–”
“Would it change things if I told you this was a matter of justice?”
He gives Herlock a grave look, but it does not deter him. The mischief in his brother’s expression has shifted to something more urgent, more serious.
“Is it illegal?” Mycroft asks, dreading the answer.
“Certainly not!”
“...is it legal?”
“Oh, you know better than to ask that.” At Mycroft’s disapproving frown, Herlock adds, “I simply intend to show Her Majesty the depth of the darkness that lurks in her courts. Every trial is in her name, after all — should royalty not be aware of what activities are sanctioned by her grace?”
The logic for the request is sound, though Mycroft does not even want to guess at how he intends to show the courtroom to Queen Victoria short of dragging her to the Old Bailey himself. The two brothers lock eyes and stare each other down for a few tense moments, before Mycroft finally sighs and rubs a hand over his face.
“Fine. Fine, Herlock,” he grumbles, to Herlock’s delight. “Hail a carriage. I’ll send a telegram heralding your arrival to the palace at nine o'clock, sharp. But know it will be on my head if you make an ass of yourself.”
“Brother! You beautiful man, I knew you had it in you. Nothing will happen to your head, believe me.”
“I’m trusting you with this,” Mycroft warns.
Herlock only smiles in response, and calls over his shoulder, “Iris! Come, we must away. The trial starts soon.”
“Did it work?!” a familiar voice calls.
Iris Wilson bustles into the office to Herlock, and seeing them next to each other makes Mycroft pause. The girl has always been unusually bright, clearly a result of being raised under Herlock’s tutelage, and something about her had always seemed familiar to Mycroft in a way he could not place. He knew the girl was not Herlock’s — she resembles him not in the least — but the way she holds herself is so much like the great detective, it is uncanny to see them side by side.
Even if she is not a Sholmes by blood, she was raised one. And Mycroft is sure he isn’t imagining the pride in Herlock’s eyes.
“So far it has, Iris!” Herlock chimes. And almost as if on cue, the duo turns their Cheshire grins in his direction. Oh no. Herlock adds, “One final favor, dear brother.”
“What more could you possibly need?” Mycroft says tersely.
“Iris will need an escort to the Old Bailey before the trial today. Mr. Naruhodo is a brilliant lawyer, but in dire need of our encouragement this morning. Since I cannot be there, well…Iris can provide more than enough sunshine.” Herlock beams at Mycroft; Iris innocently rocks on her heels. “Besides, it’ll be good to get some air in your lungs, no?”
“It’s November, and freezing.”
“And what’s more bracing than winter in London?” Herlock insists. He tilts his hat out of his face to meet Mycroft’s eyes directly. “Just as you trust me, I trust you, Mycroft. Until we meet again!”
And before Mycroft can object, Herlock has vanished in a flurry. How on earth does he have so much energy?
“We can leave when you’re ready, Crofty,” Iris says, every bit as insistent as her fellow lodger. “Would you like to try my special blend? I made it special for Lord van Zieks this morning, but you look like you could use the energy as well!”
Oh, she has the Sholmes brutal honesty of observation as well. Mycroft sighs and offers his empty tea cup, which bears only the dregs of that morning’s long-forgotten brew.
“Your tea is always delicious, Lady Iris. It would be an honor.”
She happily fills his teacup with her unusual metal container, and the tea is still delightfully hot. The bright, floral aroma floods his office.
Mycroft sips at the tea, and does indeed find himself invigorated. He wonders if it is the tea that caused it, or simply the infectious energy of that duo. What could Herlock be playing at today? Oh, he would owe Mycroft big for this.
“I’ve a telegram to send, it seems,” he sighs to Iris, who smiles knowingly. “Care to join me? We can head to the Old Bailey afterwards.”
“Let’s go!”
Iris darts to the door and stands expectantly, arms crossed behind her back. Mycroft stands, stretches, and joins her; they set off at a trot to the telegram office. Knowing his brother, Herlock would pay the driver of his carriage a reckless sum in order to get to Buckingham Palace as quickly as possible — time was of the essence here.
1898, later that morning
The carriage flies through the streets of London, dangerously so — Herlock had promised the driver triple his usual fee if he could get to Buckingham Palace in a scant 20 minutes.
20 minutes in this carriage feels both like the blink of an eye and an eternity. At the other end of this ride, Herlock must show Queen Victoria herself the results of a decade-long web of secrets, all tangled up under her rule. There are witnesses to call, telegrams to send, gadgets to set up.
Herlock is not one to get nervous, but he buzzes with anticipation. Everything comes down to this trial. And he doesn’t even have the hard job! Mr. Naruhodo will fight for justice until the very end, of that he has no doubt. It is the other players in court that he worries about. For years, corruption had buried the truths that the young lawyer and his prosecutor friend would unveil today. The great duo of Sholmes and Mikotoba will simply hand them the weapons they need; no one else could fight this battle.
Had he and Yujin known what they were getting into when they started solving crimes 16 years ago? How could they have known that investigating the Baskerville family’s hounds would lead them straight to the Professor? Herlock views their six years investigating through a bittersweet lens. All their cases had helped people, had put the right person behind bars — except this one.
And that would change today.
Herlock touches the little felt bear nestled in his collar. It is a charm of Iris’ creation, and could put him in contact with Mr. Naruhodo when necessary. It fills him with strength as the carriage comes to an abrupt halt outside the gates of Buckingham Palace.
He would have to thank Mycroft for the introduction later. For the moment, he empties his mind of the ideas of gratitude and nostalgia and sentimentality, and thinks only of justice, deduction, and the duties of London’s great detective.
1898, later that week
When the Mikotobas and Mr. Naruhodo have left for Japan, and the skies clear over London for the first time in weeks, Herlock Sholmes receives a letter with no return address. He recognizes the handwriting, snorts, and opens the letter carefully, setting aside the wax seal.
Enclosed is a bill for a very expensive telegram, sent urgently to Buckingham Palace on the morning of November 4th. A small note attached to the bill reads:
A minor inconvenience for the great detective, I trust?
Yours,
Mycroft Sholmes, beleaguered brother
Herlock laughs aloud. He heats the wax in the fireplace and reseals the letter. Then he sticks it to the mantle with his jackknife, along with the rest of his unread correspondence.