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Up till now, I found my life is composed of three essential items: a curse, a blessing, and the ability to hate.
The curse is the death of my father; the “evolutionary” teachings from my mother; and the birth of my weird brother and even weirder sister.
Father is a witty man, well respected by everyone I know. He introduced me to politics, history, and societal rules. I was his first, making me special since I am his “heir”. He would talk to me personally, walk by my side, lifting me by my arms if I trip. He would pat me on the shoulders, laugh if I did anything wrong, reading my papers with great care. Meanwhile, my mother would stand at the side, her hands around her pregnant belly, a fake smile sometimes turning true. She seems depressed, but I have not a single idea why. Father told me it’s her own problem, and we should “let her be”.
“Mycroft, emotions are far less important than making practical changes. You are a man, what do you need them for? Well, unless you see them as roadblocks, don’t spend time dealing with them.”
I respect him, therefore I never investigate what I feel. It is the practicality that matters.
My incompetent brother, Sherlock was born. He roamed free in our house, picking up dead rats, watching birds. Father was naturally disappointed, shaking his head every time my brother went by his window. Then, he would tap his finger to his temple at me.
“I guess you are the most similar in thoughts to me in this house, aye?”
Ha, Sherlock. He didn’t know. He never would. As a mature brother, or to show off, I “generously” shared with him my geometry book. Father wasn’t pleased at this movement, but he didn’t interfere.
That was when hell fell on me.
“How is the book, Sherlock?”
My father was cutting the bread, mother was sipping tea.
“Terrific. Especially Euclid’s proposal of…”
As he spoke, father gradually looked up, his knives lowering. Mother paused, her eyebrows raised. I stopped eating.
The pipsqueak memorized the entire thing. We sat around the table, with father’s eyes glued onto Sherlock, mother’s onto him as well. I was still starving, but I wanted to throw up terribly.
After the meal, my father took Sherlock to his study, a place I often frequented. Only my mother and I remained at the table. As she got up and walked past me, she paused, hesitantly reaching out to pat my head. I avoided the touch, my vision blurred with tears, and rushed back to my room.
In the middle of the night, I heard my mother and father arguing.
“...you cannot do it to him…you have raised him to be too proud.”
“It is NOT your place to judge my teaching!”
“I am his mother.”
“Then you can guide him now after! But mind you, Eudoria, he is soon a man, so don’t you ruin him.”
I heard a crash of china on the ground, shattering pieces to pieces, like my fragile ego. My mother’s voice was harsh, like a poisoned blade.
“I don’t have to: you already did.”
From then on, my father would often find various excuses to talk with Sherlock, while keeping me out of the room. My mother, probably inspired from the argument with father, decided to drown me and Sherlock of her knowledge. When father left for work, she would give us lectures of autonomy, freedom, and independence.
“You, as a Holmes, must find your own path. Not a path me or your father planned on you.”
I looked away from her gaze. I was old enough to know that I am the oldest, the one with the most responsibility in the family. To make everyone proud, to make Holmes worth something in the country, to be who I need to be, I could abandon who I want to be. Besides, I was beyond the age of self discoveries.
A week later, Sherlock infuriated my father one day, claiming he doesn’t care about “England's business”. He was hit in the head by father’s cane, running away in the end.
I had no idea how he managed to climb into my room through the window at night. I found out later though, which I have forgotten by now. I only remember his first words when he came back: "Do you have anything to eat?" The second: "By the way, I was thinking about it outside and I felt I should say something to you." The third: "My apologies."
“I don’t need your pity.”
“Okay, then do you have anything to eat or not?”
What a freak.
Speaking of freaks, a year after, my sister was born. Enola Holmes, the precious darling of my mother. Father no longer favored Sherlock, and to my surprise, tried to rebuild the bond between me and himself. When he realised that I was too old to be persuaded by pathetic excuses of pathos, he focused his attention on the baby.
I doubted that Enola would remember him anyways when she grew up. I doubted she would remember his death, nor the wandering into my room while I cried. She was half naked, dragging the “damn dog” Dash behind her. She was below my thigh, an expression of utter oblivion written across her fat baby face. The last thing I want is saliva all over my kneecap. I wiped my face and sat across from her.
“What do you want?”
“Croft.”
“It’s MY-corft.”
Her little palm landed on my salty face. She blinked, mouthing the word once before saying it. She did it perfectly.
“Mycroft.”
Fantastic. I’d rather have saliva all over my kneecap than a sister that outsmart me like Sherlock.
She wouldn’t be happy in this world like that, especially as a girl. She is too smart to be a housewife, much less be anyone’s appendage. I hesitated, before ruffling her thin hair. Poor girl. Outside, I heard Eudoria shout: “Enola? Where are you Enola?”
She giggled.
“Mycroft. Byebye.”
The acorn dog disappeared at the door. I stood up, straightened my shirt, stayed long enough to subside my reddened eyes. I knew Sherlock would notice, which he did, but thankfully did not point out.
Years later, I was the main income source for the Holmes family. I became important in politics, influencing England with my precious votes. Sherlock was famous as well, a great detective, solving mysteries after mysteries. Mostly every newspaper I read has his big face printed onto it. He was smarter than me, I can finally say that without cussing after years of practice, but far less powerful. He might be more welcomed, but that is only blunt fame. He wasn’t dedicating the benefit to the Holmes family, if not bringing trouble.
I have not thought about home, but rather of my sister, for the times I was at work. She amused me in her behaviors at a young age, doing what she is forbidden to. Yet, her flame would be squashed by now. She is smart enough to understand her role, as our mother did. That, my father would be in agreement with me.
Perhaps she will be engaged two years later?
Like a freak myself, I began to pay attention to Lords that have thirteen-year-old boys. As hard as I imagined, I was always unable to picture any of them standing beside Enola.
That was when mother began requesting money. I wasn’t sure why she needed such an alarming number, but miraculously, the kind portion of me would always send back more than required. However, I never wrote. Why would I? As far as I know, Sherlock never wrote, mother never wrote, nor did Enola. We were in different worlds: me with politics, Sherlock with crimes, and Eudoria with Enola. If you asked me then, I was ready to live my life that way.
***
When my career was reaching its greatest, Eudoria disappeared. Dear mother, dear mother, do you have to do it to me? Why do you have to do it to Enola?
More importantly, why do you have to do it to the Holmes family?
Another matter that quickly strangled me at the train station is my sister. She has become quite charming, but her lack of common sense was unbelievable. Mud was in her hair, along with dead branches. No gloves, no hat, and no carriage.
The Holmes’ house, or my house, was in a mess. The trouble herself was completely innocent, just like when she was three.
I didn’t care how many books she has read; I didn’t care if she got proficient in tennis; I didn’t care if she has a governess for goodness sake. The one thing I cared, is how she was utterly stubborn in realization and unprepared for everything society expects of her.
Her flames have become a bonfire, of which was unexpectedly warm, but threatens to burn down everything I built.
Therefore, of course, I tried to quench it. I inherited the sharp tongue of both my parents, especially my father’s dry tone of authority. Those won me great respect, yet they didn’t work out for Enola. The bonfire burnt my hand, toasted my eyebrows.
Surprisingly, or more annoyingly, she seemed to endear Sherlock more than she does me. While weighing the pros and cons might mean putting her at a disadvantage, this is ultimately the most appropriate method. I tried my best. That lazy brother or ours, he did nothing yet managed to create a bond with her?
Incredulous! No, I definitely did NOT see them sit together under a tree, talking like siblings. I am, and will always be, a busy man, focusing entirely on laws.
***
Like mother like daughter, or rather “like brother like sister”, she ran. Sherlock was treating this as a game, again. I have not a single clue of where she journeyed, even with the help of Lestrade.
Finally, one cozy afternoon, he proved himself useful to me at a barber.
“Her name?”
“May Beatrice Posy.”
I wanted to shoo him away at that moment. Yet, regarding his effort, I continued asking.
“She looked?”
“Small. Dark. Young.”
Now, I’m interested.
“How young?”
“Barely past twenty.”
I looked sideways. Hmm. What are Enola's eninent characteristics?
“Her mind?”
“Sharp as a tack. More she knew about Sherlock…”
I found you, Enola Holmes.
“Oh she knew a great deal?”
“As much as I.”
“Another sycophant. How very exciting.”
She definitely admired Sherlock: one of his sets of clothes were missing the day she ran. I believe it didn’t work out well as a lucky charm.
“You tell me who she is?”
“Any sense of where she might have gone?”
“Oh, you’d track her down?”
“I’ve been engaged to do so for a number of many days.”
That was true.
“Of course, she’s your sister.”
Lestrade just has to say it out loud. I regretted that I didn't shoo him away previously.
“Shhh! Keep your mouth shut!”
I realised I overreacted. Gaining my posture back, I paused before confirming his guess.
“Yes.”
“I believe I have told you explicitly to look for her.”
“Wh—- you explicitly told me to look for a strappy girl with no poise…”
Enola Holmes is a girl, no one can deny that. As of the rest, he should’ve decided these were misleading information spoken out in a state of rage.
“...This was a woman, with extreme poise.”
In order to prevent the testimonies from contradicting each other, I countered: “Oh, there’s a wild thing underneath, I’ll show you.”
That was true. Enola Holmes has a great ambition of what-not burning herself inside. As Lestrade left, I unhid the smirk. A “poised woman”? Apparently Enola seemed to be living quite up to the expectations others have of her. Good. At least she wasn’t dead yet. Now, it would be better to get her to Ms.Harrison’s school and exceed.
Lestrade told me about the missing Viscount, unbelievably, in her house, but Enola was too much of a handful for me to spare time and deal with him.
Anyhow, in my opinion, it was fairly suitable to bring her back on a rainy night. We were silent for the first half of the trip, until I decided to break the silence.
“You may not like me. You may not think what I’m doing is right. But even your blessed mother made a match; even your blessed mother is a bride.”
That sounded awkward. However, how would I say “follow what others are doing” without being blunt?
“I want you to be happy.”
I really do. Enola Holmes. I knew you won’t be if you are still who you are now. You will face adversities; you will be abandoned by society like how I was being left out in the family.
“No. You want you to be happy.”
I grinded my teeth. Was I happy at any point of my life? Yes, shortly, but definitely not now.
“You want me controlled.”
Otherwise you could burn down everything I have been constructing: all the power and status the name “Holmes” have, ruined.
“Because otherwise you think I will affect your standing.”
And the rest of Holmes’ generation, yes.
“You have already done immense damage…as our daringed brother of ours.”
“Let me out of this carriage. I will deny I’m your sister to whoever asks, and I will do it with pleasure.”
Again, the bonfire bit me in my nose: I lost it.
“YOU ARE MY WARD! AND YOU WILL DO AS YOU WERE TOLD!”
Before I could say anything, she bursted into tears, again. I shut my mouth shortly, then suddenly considered the possibility of her escaping again.
With cash on her, it would be easy.
“Now, handed over.”
Enola looked at me. I turned. Sherlock said I was terrible at lying, yet with years of practice on the political field, I believe I have mastered it.
“It is my money after all.”
It is. They are the extras I sent. I snatched the pile away from her, taking the hope of fleeing.
A few days after, Ms.Harrison invited me to visit Enola, to “examine” her growth. I declined, handing the letter to Sherlock.
“And why is that?”
“Don’t be a fool, Sherlock.”
“I think there are some misconceptions between…”
I snapped at him.
“She is smart enough to know everything I meant.”
He looked at me skeptically, but didn’t say anything else. He came back an hour later, none of us talked about the “progress” Enola made. Several hours after, Ms. Harrison arrived in a carriage.
“Good evening, my dear. What has happened?”
“Mr. Holmes, I am sorry to say that your sister has run away with a boy in my automobile.”
I was tired of being angry. Sherlock was having fun, laughing brisk short puffs behind me. With the promise to pay her later, I sent her off. To be honest, I tried my best. But the fire just wouldn't die, especially when I tried to put it out. Sherlock put down his newspaper and smiled at me.
“Now what do you do?”
I sat across from him, picking up the thin leaves he put down.
“Go to London for tomorrow’s vote…who do you think the boy is?”
“So you do care about her.”
“What do you know about Viscount Tewksbury?”
“Not a lot. One person in his family wants him dead.”
“Like how his father died.”
Sherlock leaned forward.
“Why do you know that?”
I started into the Viscount printed on the headline. I did my own research of plenty young Lords two years ago, but why would I tell Sherlock that?
“Why would you care?”
The conversation dropped off at that point, since we decided it wasn’t going anywhere. If Tewksbury made the vote, he better be in favor of it.
With that thought, I walked the streets of London. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Eudoria and coughed two meters behind her. That made her spin slowly backwards. When she saw my face, she sized me for a second.
Her gaze wasn't particularly enjoyable, but I was slightly glad to have seen her.
“Aren’t you on your way to vote?”
I hated to reply mother's question with a question, which was somewhat rude. Nevertheless, perhaps it was the winds that was blowing, tilting my ideas, flipping my temper, I replied her with an equally important query.
“Why did you leave Enola without a message?”
Mother paused, as if caught off guard. During which, I carefully phrased my sentence.
“You raised Enola well.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“In your standards or in mine?”
I sighed.
“Yours, since I have been ruined by my father already.”
She didn’t recall where that came from and I didn’t have time to remind her.
***
The vote was successful, which left me in a good mood. Sherlock found me, telling me that he left an imposter message for Enola to meet him.
“Mind to stay?”
“No.”
We waited.
“Anything?”
“Nothing at all.”
“She beats you once before, little brother. And now she may have done so again.”
“Oh I do believe she soughted me. But I also believed that she’d be too intrigued not to be here all the same.”
“Unfortunately, you’re wrong.”
"Nevertheless, if we do find her again, I’d like her to be my ward. I’ll take care of her.”
I pondered. That will make Sherlock more responsible, Enola happier. Fair. I accepted it.
As we left, I discovered that Sherlock wasn’t wrong. As I saw the news-“boy”, I noticed the box in front of him was empty, yet the stack of newspapers was loose. I dropped a shilling or two inside it. Consider that my cover-up for you, little sister.
My blessing is much simpler than the curse: I was born in the Holmes family. That’s it.
Last, my ability to hate. It allowed me to reflect on myself. I thought I was a bitter person my entire life and was meant to be bitter.
I hated the weird family I have, yet which identity I took advantage of.
I hated my father for neglecting me.
I hated Sherlock for being irresponsible.
I hated Enola for being herself.
I hated my mother for not being who she was.
I hated myself for being too influenced by the environment and people and too hypocritical to speak fairly.
All that hatred, in the end, was just regret.
If my father never got ill; if Sherlock wasn’t always in danger; if Enola was invincible; if mother followed her heart all along.
If I was not a Holmes.
Would life have been easier?
No.
I hate this answer, but I have to thank it for existing.