Читать книгу The Case of the Misplaced Models - Tessa Barding - Страница 9

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 distracted by the outline of what looked like a very firm arse but then the bow started jumping across the strings, creating sounds I was not going to allow at – I glanced over at the clock above the fireplace – 2.35am.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ I snapped, loud enough to be heard over the fiddling.

With a calm that could have tested a saint’s patience, Sherlock finished the sequence of notes bouncing about, lowered the bow and turned to look at me, violin still tucked under his chin.

‘I’m playing the violin.’

‘No shit.’

‘You said some violin play wouldn’t wake you up.’

‘That was before you started playing bloody Beethoven.’

‘John, please.’ He lowered the violin, too. ‘That wasn’t Beethoven. I was playing the capriccio from Stravinsky’s violin concer–’

‘I honestly don’t care, Sherlock. Play the fiddle at night if it makes you happy, but please play something that will not raise the dead. Or me, for that matter.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. You’re the musician. Play something pretty.’

‘Pretty.’ He made a face. ‘Pretty is boring.’

‘Soothing, then. Play me a lullaby. Think of something to serenade me back to sleep.’

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but I turned and padded back to my bedroom, unwilling to start an argument about music in the middle of the night. I crawled back into bed and pulled the blanket up.

It was silent for a couple of minutes and I was beginning to doze off when Sherlock started playing again.

I groaned and was just about to get up when – wait, I knew that piece. It was an old Welsh lullaby my Gran used to sing to me when I was a little boy. How could Sherlock possibly–? Nonsense. It had to be coincidence. No way Sherlock could know about Gran. I’d never spoken about her to him. Or had I?

Whatever. The song was lovely, Sherlock played it well, and the old magic worked as it had all these years ago. I was asleep within moments.