Chapter Text
It is a peculiar weakness of the human mind that it cannot long endure inactivity.
A laborer deprived of work feels a restlessness in his limbs; a scholar deprived of study, in his thoughts. In the case of my friend Sherlock Holmes, inactivity produced effects considerably less endurable for those around him.
For three days he paced the apartment in Baker Street with that characteristic irritability which invariably accompanied a lack of interesting criminal cases. London, for Holmes, had become "insultingly commonplace."
Since no one can be constantly insulted by civilization itself without becoming an exhausting companion, I retreated that evening to my desk, where I busied myself with organizing notes from an older case involving a fraudulent antiquarian and a most unfortunately misplaced Egyptian relic.
Holmes, meanwhile, sprawled upon the sofa with his fingertips pressed together and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling in deep discontent.
"This city is going to seed, Watson," he announced suddenly.
"You said the same yesterday."
"I was right then, too."
Without warning, he rose from the sofa and crossed the room in three swift strides. He seized the poker by the fireplace and, with entirely unnecessary violence, straightened a burning log.
"No ambition," he continued. "No originality. Petty thefts, domestic squabbles, forged signatures... London once bred criminals with imagination!"
"Most citizens would likely consider the decline of imaginative crime to be social progress."
Holmes waved his hand as if brushing the remark aside.
"You misunderstand me. I hold no admiration for crime as such. Only for the intellect."
"Would you prefer an intellectual murder?"
"I would prefer stimulation."
When Holmes reached such a state of mind, there was no arguing with him. His boredom was not laziness—as many who met him only briefly supposed—but rather the consequence of a mind that constantly worked beyond the demands placed upon it. Without occupation, his thoughts turned inward with dangerous intensity.
I dipped my pen once more.
"Have you ever considered," I said cautiously, "that this calm might not be permanent?"
Holmes paused before the window. The gas lamps of Baker Street cast long reflections upon the glass. Outside, the evening traffic moved through the fog in muffled shapes and shadows.
"Everything is permanent until it is interrupted," he retorted.
"That is not particularly comforting."
"Nor was it intended to be."
He stood silently for a moment longer before turning to me with sudden sharpness.
"What are you scribbling?"
"My notes."
"You mean your habit of reshaping reality into sentimental literature."
In spite of myself, I smiled. "And yet you continue to allow me to do so."
"You make me taller."
"You are quite tall already."
"I meant heroically."
I chuckled softly and returned to my pages. Holmes began to pace the room again. There are people whose silence creates peace. Holmes’s silence created anticipation. Even in his inactivity, one could feel his mind moving constantly beneath the surface, sorting through details invisible to others.
He stopped.
"Mrs. Hudson bought cheaper tobacco this morning," he remarked.
I looked up. "How on earth can you know that?"
"By the ashtray."
I looked at him helplessly.
Holmes sighed. "The ash burns unevenly. Lower quality. Too much moisture in the drying process. Really, Watson, you see, but you do not observe."
"And yet I somehow manage to survive."
"Barely."
Before I could answer, there was a knock at the front door.
Holmes froze.
The effect was instantaneous and remarkable. The languor vanished from Holmes as if he had been doused with cold water. His back straightened, and his gaze sharpened.
A visitor. This was already interesting, for few called upon us at this hour without a prior appointment. Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps crossed the hall below. A murmur of voices followed. Holmes tilted his head slightly.
"A man," he said softly.
"That narrows the field of suspects considerably."
"Middle-aged. Excellent tailoring. Known to Mrs. Hudson, though not welcome enough to inspire warmth in her."
I closed my notebook. "And how exactly did you deduce all that from footsteps?"
"The hesitation before her greeting. The weight of the tread. The absence of an apology."
"You really are impossible."
The footsteps began to ascend the stairs.
Measured.
Steady.
Slow.
Holmes’s expression changed almost imperceptibly.
"Ah," he said.
The door opened. And Mycroft Holmes entered the room.
I had met Sherlock’s elder brother several times before, and each time I was left with the same impression: that if Sherlock Holmes represented concentrated energy, Mycroft Holmes represented concentrated intellect. Where Sherlock moved restlessly through the world, Mycroft seemed to absorb it from an armchair.
"Sherlock," he said calmly.
"Mycroft."
They were very similar in the face, though the appearance seemed altered by temperament. And, above all, by the eyes. Sherlock’s eyes held the sharpness of a blade in constant motion; Mycroft’s, the stillness of a locked vault.
"Dr. Watson."
"Mr. Holmes."
Mycroft removed his gloves with deliberate precision and, without waiting for an invitation, took the chair nearest the fire. Holmes remained standing.
"You are not here professionally," he remarked immediately.
Mycroft looked up. "Am I not?"
"No rush. No government messenger. No visible irritation. Therefore, no crisis."
"Surely that is a disappointment to you."
"A profound one."
Mycroft rested his umbrella beside the chair. "I regret that my arrival involves neither high treason nor murder."
"Then why make the journey?"
Mycroft did not answer at once. That alone caused Holmes to narrow his eyes.
To those who do not know the Holmes brothers, it is difficult to explain how unusual hesitation was for either of them. Sherlock often spoke quickly because his thoughts moved too precipitously for patience; Mycroft spoke slowly because his thoughts arrived complete and perfectly precise. Neither of them usually fumbled for words.
Yet Mycroft, to my growing astonishment, seemed to be doing exactly that.
Holmes noticed it too. His irritation evaporated, replaced by keen interest.
"Well?" he prompted.
Mycroft clasped his hands over the head of his cane.
"I find," he began cautiously, "that I require advice."
Holmes stared at him. I admit I did the same.
"Advice," Sherlock repeated after a moment.
"Yes."
"How deeply unsettling."
Mycroft gave a faint sigh. "Must you make this so difficult?"
"My dear Mycroft, you have come to Baker Street to ask for personal advice. Difficulty was inevitable."
"Personal advice?" I repeated.
Mycroft’s gaze shifted briefly to me.
"Yes."
Holmes raised an eyebrow.
"Extraordinary," he murmured. "Go on."
Mycroft now looked distinctly uncomfortable, though another man might never have noticed. His collar sat perfectly. His expression remained controlled. Yet there was a slight rigidity in his posture that gave him away.
"It concerns," he said slowly, "a woman."
Holmes blinked.
"A woman," he repeated blankly.
"Yes."
For the first time since his arrival, Mycroft looked vaguely dissatisfied with reality itself.
"She was recently assigned to one of my departments."
Holmes leaned against the mantelpiece.
"And?"
"And I find," Mycroft said with visible self-constraint, "that I am unsure of how best to proceed."
I could hardly believe my ears. Sherlock, however, had become entirely still.
"Proceed," he said. "In what sense?"
Mycroft adjusted his cuff carefully.
"She is intelligent," he replied. "Capable. Efficient. We have spoken on several occasions."
Holmes’s expression became increasingly unreadable.
"And does this constitute a crisis?"
"No."
"A scandal?"
"No."
"A security risk?"
"Certainly not."
"Then in what exactly does the difficulty lie?"
For perhaps the first time since I had known him, Mycroft Holmes looked genuinely uncertain.
"That," he admitted quietly, "is precisely the difficulty."
Silence fell over the room. Holmes studied his brother with extraordinary concentration.
"Remarkable," he murmured at last.
"I don't see why."
"You, Mycroft Holmes, the master of the government apparatus, are paralyzed by an inability to act because of a single conversation."
"It was more than one conversation."
"Forgive me. Because of a series of conversations."
Mycroft’s gaze hardened dangerously.
"I came for assistance, not for mockery."
"Indeed?" Holmes said lightly. "That was boorish of me."
I intervened quickly.
"Surely," I said, "it cannot be entirely unsolvable."
Mycroft turned to me with something that could almost be called relief.
"Thank you, Doctor."
Holmes ignored us both.
"A woman," he said musingly. "Interesting."
"You sound as if you are examining a rare species of insect."
"In many ways, human courtship is less rational."
"I am not courting anyone," Mycroft snapped stiffly.
"No? Then why are you here?"
Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again. Holmes smiled faintly.
There are few things more dangerous than Sherlock Holmes encountering a riddle after a long period of boredom. His eyes took on that bright, terrible focus I knew so well.
"What is her name?" he asked.
A pause.
"Rose."
The name sounded strange in the room. Holmes repeated it once under his breath, as if testing its structure and looking for hidden meaning.
"And you wish for my advice regarding Miss Rose."
"Yes."
Holmes considered this. Finally, he turned away and automatically reached for his pipe.
"How tedious," he declared.
Yet there was no conviction in his voice. And although he spoke with irritation, I noticed he had stopped pacing the room.