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Sir Bucephalus Hodge was not someone who participated in taking care of pets. He was involved in investing. He did political stuff behind closed doors. He was also busy making a lot of money from mineral extraction in the Far East, and this sometimes made the Foreign Secretary quite pleased to keep him close. Collecting stray animals from the streets around Oxford was something he definitely never did.
Although, just a week ago during intense rainfall, he met a creature he could not ignore and simply pass by.
This dog, a terrier mix, was sitting beneath an awning, staring hard at the rain like it had caused an unfortunate political mistake. The mood of the animal was not the reason Hodge stopped his carriage. The fur on the dog's face made Hodge stop. It was a dirty dog with a unique white and brown design on its nose area, forming what looked like a perfect, self-important mustache.
It looked so much like Mycroft Holmes it was unsettling and strange.
Hodge stared at the terrier. The dog stared back, having the same expression of cold confidence that a civil servant from the Foreign Office would use on useless noblemen. That moment gave Hodge a terrible inspiration.
Hodge decided his name would be Bancroft.
A week later, Mycroft Holmes found himself in the entryway of Hodge’s townhouse in Mayfair; he was holding a red leather dossier.
“I will need your signature, sir,” he spoke up, directing his comments to the staircase. “The directive on the Shanghai shipping routes should not wait any longer.”
“Holmes, please wait,” Hodge’s voice echoed in the room. “We are handling something quite sensitive right now.”
Hodge came down the stairs—he looked every bit the head of the establishment, dressed in a custom three-piece suit, and he happened to have a terrier resting on his left arm.
Mycroft set his gaze on the dog.
The terrier had a small tweed cape and a bowler hat, both miniature. The terrier eyed Mycroft, not panting—not wagging its tail. It simply judged him and then seemed to let out a deep sigh that suggested irritation.
“Sir,” Mycroft said, with a voice that had little emotion. “Could you explain what that is?”
“This is Bancroft,” said Hodge, moving past him toward the front door. “He needs his daily walk. Holmes, you may come with us. If you stick close, I might look at your papers.”
Mycroft inhaled, and the breath felt tinged with a sense of an imminent headache, then followed.
Their visit started at a tobacco shop in St. James’s. Mycroft was standing rather stiffly near the entrance while Hodge was busy checking on the foreign cigars.
“What is your opinion, Bancroft?” Hodge said, presenting a cigar toward the terrier’s nose. The dog sneezed a bit and moved its head to the side. “I suppose you are correct. It is overly dry. Holmes, this shop does not look after its humidor.”
“I am someone who works for Her Majesty’s Government and not working as a secretary for you, sir.”
“You respond defensively. Bancroft does not care for your defensiveness.”
Mycroft glanced toward the dog. Bancroft was sitting on the dark mahogany counter with his front feet crossed. A chilly sensation moved at the back of Mycroft’s neck as he noticed his own ankles were in the same crossed position. He immediately changed his legs’ position. Bancroft blinked and then copied Mycroft’s change.
Mycroft suspected that Hodge had trained the animal to tease him, even though Hodge still did not look at the dog.
By the middle of the day, both of them sat together in the private dining section inside the Diogenes Club. Hodge ordered a roasted quail but did not care for his own meal; instead, he began to slice his food into smaller pieces and handed them to the terrier, who was sitting on his own velvet chair.
“Sir, about the Shanghai directive.” Mycroft passed the document folder across the table to Hodge. “If the Chinese authorities get the shipment, the pieces of nerve gas—”
“Quiet. The dog is not interested in this subject.”
“The dog is not aware of world political issues—”
Bancroft gave a loud breath, dropped his head on his paw, and gave Mycroft a long staring contest.
“He does not agree with your explanation,” said Hodge. “You talk too much about diplomats. Not enough use of hard cash influence.”
“But this is only a dog.”
“He keeps his mustache nicer than you.”
Mycroft grabbed his knees and did not speak. He was a professional. He dealt successfully with leaders and killers. He was not going to become angry only because of a random dog stranger in a hat.
Hodge flicked his wrist a little bit, and Bancroft jumped down from his chair, walked with purpose to the center of the table, and then sat exactly on top of the red leather file.
Mycroft got very tense. “Take the dog away from the top secret dossier, please.”
“I cannot. Bancroft is now checking the instructions. His agreement is the most important.”
Mycroft now looked at the terrier. Bancroft returned the gaze. Mycroft, whose mind managed the core structure of the British Empire, focused everything on a look to control the situation.
Bancroft made his own eyes smaller. He also yawned in a small way that seemed mocking, then sat with more weight over the intelligence document.
Mycroft sat with his back completely straight, and his mouth was very thin and pale. He crossed his arms, went lower in his seat, and looked outside the window.
Hodge looked at him, actually with a small smile. Mycroft, who always held himself together, was now quiet and angry because of a dog. Hodge liked to bother Mycroft, as Mycroft never really gave up, never really left.
“Stop acting like a child, Holmes,” Hodge said, softer and warmer. “It is not good for your complexion.”
Mycroft did not pay attention.
“Alright.” Hodge reached out, picked up Bancroft, took the top off his pen, and wrote his name on the directive. He passed it back. “Everything is safe. You may stop now.”
“I do not sulk,” Mycroft said and pulled the file away.
“Yes, you do. You only do it with more world politics behind it,” he said, caressing the dog’s head.
It was after eight when they at last used the carriage again. The rain was making noise against the roof. Hodge was sitting opposite, watching how the gaslamps showed the sharp, mad jawline of Mycroft. Mycroft did not open his mouth after leaving the club. He just kept looking at the London darkness through the window.
“Are you still angry, Holmes?”
“I am thinking about how much of my time was lost, sir.”
Hodge closed his eyes with a gruffly sound.
Soon, Mycroft turned his eyes to the right side. Bancroft was already beside him on the bench. He had taken off his bowler hat for the ride and set it on the velvet between himself and Mycroft.
The dog looked very tired. Bancroft had a brown and white mustache and sad-looking eyes; he had the look of an animal that must suffer every day through the special seriousness of Sir Bucephalus Hodge.
Mycroft let out a slow breath. Bancroft did the same thing with his breath.
Next, not looking up, the little dog placed a paw on Mycroft's shiny shoe. Mycroft kept looking at it, not moving away. He looked to Hodge, who was sleeping now, his face for once at rest. Mycroft leaned his head back and tried to hear the rain.