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“Goodness me, Mycroft.” Sherlock Holmes exclaimed upon seeing the mess of his elder brother’s loft room, “Do you keep anything in here tidy?”
“Not as a rule, no.” The elder Holmes’ tone was matter of fact, “Do you?”
“No.” Sherlock shook his head, probably thinking back to his cabinets full of papers at Baker Street, “I suppose not.”
“Well,” I said, “If we are to find these records that will prove our case, we’d better start searching sooner rather than later.”
“Very right, Watson.” Sherlock nodded, and ventured into the haphazard piles of chests and trunks, all full of papers and trinkets.
Amongst the mess, I found a small, enamelled box, about six or seven inches along and across. Out of sheer curiosity, I opened it to find a pile of photographs, some better preserved than others.
The top photo was of a thin, hawkish boy of about ten and two. He looked to have that superior air characteristic to most twelve year old boys. His dark hair had been slicked and styled in the manner of a mother’s fussing.
“You can keep the box, if you like.” Came Mycroft’s voice from over my shoulder, “At the very least its contents would embarrass my brother.”
And then I saw it. The boy in the photograph was Sherlock Holmes himself!
“And what are you two up to?” The man in question, now in his thirty-ninth year, peered at us from his place poring over a stack of Mycroft’s government records, “Have you found Mr Vernon’s name mentioned anywhere?”
Luckily, we had our backs to him.
“Not yet.” Mycroft returned to his seat by the door to the attic, which was covered with a dusty linen sheet, “You continue, though. You know how I despise exertion.”
The younger Holmes huffed and the two of us continued in our search.
— — —
It was not until two weeks after Mr John D. Vernon’s arrest for counterfeiting that I dug out the small enamel box again. I realised I had only seen the first photo.
“What are you looking at, Watson?”
I jumped. Apparently the gift of sneaking a look over someone’s shoulder was genetic.
“Ah, Holmes. I was only looking at a box of pictures I found in Mycroft’s attic. He let me keep them.” I deliberately omitted Mycroft’s self-proclaimed eagerness to embarrass him.
Holmes’ face soured and he pouted. Think of it: the famous Sherlock Holmes pouting!
“Must you look at those? They are not flattering images.”
Gently, almost reverently, I removed the stack of pictures from their case. I was surprised to see that not all of them were of a young Sherlock.
He seemed as shocked as I.
In the middle of the pile was a faded daguerreotype of a young woman. There was no question of her resemblance: her thin features were beautiful, as soft in her as they were sharp in my companion.
“Mother.” Holmes breathed, his voice so soft I was unsure if I had heard right at first.
“That is… your mother?”
He did not seem to hear me at first, only reaching out and taking the photograph from me with a gentle hand.
“Yes.” He said eventually, “Viola Holmes.”
“She’s beautiful.” My observation was a touch clunky, as I was unsure what to say when faced with such a revelation about my companion,
“Yes.” He said again, “She was.”
“She has passed on?”
“When I was sixteen. My father was not… a sentimental man. I am frankly surprised that he kept these. How Mycroft managed to get his hands on them is beyond my knowledge.”
“He seemed to have forgotten he had them.”
“Oh, that is his way. Anything that does not directly relate to his current affairs is relegated to the back of his extraordinary mind.”
“I’m sorry.” I offered, "About your mother."
He looked at me for the first time since he first saw the photo, “Thank you, my friend.”