you’re hurting their feelings,’ I said and put the house back. ‘No tricks.’
‘Boring.’
‘That’s what I thought, too. But they grow on you.’
‘They do? How?’
‘They’re fun little critters. Cute, too. They’re easy pets to have.
You don’t have to walk them and there’s no furballs.’
‘Mhm.’ He didn’t look convinced.
‘Don’t worry, they’re my responsibility. You won’t have to look after them.’
I rose and winced when my leg protested. Hauling furniture and boxes, running up and down the stairs and spending too much time in a crouching position were not among the recommended activities for artificial knees and semi-reconstructed shinbones.
Sherlock, on the other hand, rose from his crouch with an ease I envied.
‘Can I teach them tricks?’
‘You can try,’ I said, a little dubiously. ‘But give them time to get to know you, okay?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m hungry. How about you? Have you eaten?’
‘I haven’t, but I’m not hungry. I need to get some work done.’
‘All right. I think I saw a Thai takeaway around the corner. Want me to get you something for later?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll be upstairs.’
I looked after him as he vanished through the door and up to his bedroom, then reached for my wallet and my jacket with a sigh. Guess I was going to have my first dinner at 221B Baker Street all by myself.
CHAPTER FIVE
About two weeks after we had moved into our new flat, I met Sherlock’s brother Mycroft who dropped by for a courtesy call. Or to inspect the premises. Probably the latter.
When I unlocked the door to our flat, I saw the lights in the living room were on, and the smell of Sherlock’s favourite tea greeted me.
‘Sherlock, do you think – oh.’ I stopped. ‘I had no idea you had a visitor. I’m sorry for barging in like that.’
A tall, portly man in an impeccable charcoal three-piece suit stood next to one of the armchairs, looking like he was about to leave.
‘You must be Dr Watson,’ he greeted me and extended his hand. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Mycroft Holmes. How do you do.’
‘How do you do,’ I shook his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, too.’
So this was Sherlock’s brother. At first glance, he looked nothing like lanky Sherlock and not only because of the extra weight he carried. Mycroft’s hair was a rich, almost-honey blond and impeccably cut, as opposed to Sherlock’s unruly shock of light brown hair. His nose was long and slightly convex whereas Sherlock’s was short and perfectly straight. But if you squinted a little, you could spot a certain resemblance, in the way they carried themselves and how their blue- and-grey eyes zoomed in on you. Mycroft’s gaze was a bit cooler than Sherlock’s but his lips quivered the same way when he found something amusing.
They quivered now and I wondered what amused him.
‘How do you find life with my brother, Dr Watson?’
‘We are still getting to know each other.’
‘I see.’ A smile flickered across his face. ‘I like what you’ve done to the place. Only two weeks and already it looks like you’ve been here forever.’ He cast a meaningful look to the sideboard where Sherlock had pinned his unopened letters down with a jack-knife.
‘I’m glad you approve, Mycroft,’ said Sherlock cheerfully. ‘John’s the domesticated one, and it’s his doing that this place looks like home and not like a storage room.’
‘You don’t say,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘Please do refrain from stabbing a knife through the papers I just gave you.’
‘I shall do my very best not to forget.’
They tossed a few more good-natured verbal darts back and forth, and I quickly came to realise there was genuine affection between the brothers, hidden between layers and layers of well-practised patronising and equally well-practiced banter. I guessed Mycroft to be maybe 10 years older than Sherlock, and the taking care of things aspect didn’t strike me as all that overbearing anymore when seen from up close. I guessed it was only natural for an older sibling to want to watch over a younger one. It was something that didn’t stop just because you grew older. In most cases, anyway.
When Mycroft left, he presented me with his business card.
‘Please do call me if anything happens, Dr Watson,’ he said. ‘Your call will be patched through to my direct line, no matter the time.’
‘Thank you, Mr Holmes. Let’s hope I will not have to take you up on your offer and ring you up at an ungodly time of day.’ I pocketed his card and fished for one of mine but didn’t find any. ‘I’m sorry but I must have forgotten my cards at the surgery.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’ He paused, his hand on the door handle. ‘One more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Please make sure he eats.’
‘Working on it.’
He gave me one last scrutinising stare, nodded and let himself out.
I looked at Mycroft’s card. Only his name and a mobile number were printed on it. I turned it around. No business address, no title. Was he a mystery consultant, too?
I walked back into the living room where Sherlock was tuning his violin.
‘What did Mycroft mean by telling me I should make sure you eat?’
He shrugged one shoulder.
‘Sherlock, is there something I should know?’
‘John, I’m not suffering from an eating disorder, if that’s what the doctor inside you is worried about. Mycroft has to sustain the equivalent of a small country. I do not.’
And with that, he launched into one of his warm-up routines. Conversation time was over.
Ah, the violin. the first time I heard him play in the middle of the night I all but shot up from my bed, startled and confused and unable to place the sounds I was hearing. Then, as my hearing booted up and connected with my brain, I recognised the caterwauling for what it was and yanked my bedroom door open.
And there he stood with his back to me, my flatmate, dressed in a ratty t-shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms that sat dangerously low on his slim hips, gently swaying with the horrible piece he was playing. For a moment I was
