What little we know about Mycroft Holmes comes from the words of John H. Watson M.D. and Mary Russell Holmes. Those accounts always involve three or more people. Brother, Mine offers us a glimpse of Mycroft Holmes in a very private conversation with his brother Sherlock Holmes.

Brother, Mine

by Her much learning hath made her mad

We sat in the Strangers Room of the Diogenes Club having earlier feasted on the specially prepared oysters. (For a description of the Diogenes Club, read Watson's account in "The Greek Interpreter." But, rest assured it truly was a club for the most unclubable men in London. The current occupants of the room not being an exception.) My brother Mycroft reclined in an overstuffed chair at the left of the fireplace, hands resting across his girth. I lounged in chair to the right of the fireplace, pipe in one hand brandy in the other. Neither of us had spoken for some time, which was not unusual. Each of us could go for hours lost in our own thoughts only to pick up right were we had left off. Others might have assumed Mycroft to be sleeping from all appearances, but I knew he was not. To confirm this he would occasionally twirl his pince-nez that hung on a chain about his neck.

I decided the best approach was to assume his compliance. "You might be more comfortable doing this in your study rather than here," I finally offered.

Without looking at me he practically pleaded, "Really, Sherlock. Must I?"

"No. You can refuse the request."

"And the ramifications of such a course?"

I merely looked at him.

"Would she be angry?" He had seen her angry at me before, and I could tell he wondered what her anger at him might be like.

"No, but nor will she understand your refusal." After a moment of realization, I added, "she may even suspect that I did not ask."

"I could tell her that you did."

Older brother coming to the rescue again, heh, I thought. "Then you would also have to tell her why you refuse."

"Things at the home office are rather busy right now. The PM..."

I cut him off with a wave. "She will not buy that anymore than mother did when you told her your studies were consuming all of your time and you could not practice the piano."

He allowed the smallest of smiles to enter his grey eyes. "Or when grandmother refused to believe me when I said you had taken her sewing scissors to dissect a plant."

"Ha! I had forgotten that." I smiled back at my brother briefly and took a puff of my pipe.

"Hmm... that was a perfectly reasonable lie, too." Mycroft almost seemed to pout.

"My dear brother, you prevaricate quite well on paper and can deceive most people anytime you wish, but you have never been able to pull off a bold-faced lie when told to a familial woman. Not mother, not grandmother," and with a hint of satisfaction, "not even cousin Gertrude."

"Gertrude. What ever happened to her I wonder?"

Trying to drive home the point, which was never easy with Mycroft when his mind was made up against something. (Given the speed at which his mind worked; it was almost always made up.) "And I doubt you would be able to lie to Russell even if she is only related by marriage."

Mycroft closed his eyes. For once I wondered if this habitual action was out of the hope that if he could not see me, I and my request would go away. We both knew each other better than that, however. I suspect a trifle peeved, he concluded: "I am to write a letter."

"Yes." I sounded matter of fact.

"To your child." He said "child" as if it were a sticky substance.

"Yes." I didn't quite achieve the same air as before.

"You do not have a child."

"Keenly observed, brother," no longer seeing any point in hiding my growing impatience.

After another moment he opened his eyes slightly, the hoods of his lids looming under full, but greying, eyebrows now drawn closely together. "Is she with child?"

I asserted "No" quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly.

Quite curiously for him, he pondered, "Are you doing anything to have a child?"

"Mycroft!" I scolded him unbelieving that he would ask such a thing.

"I mean" he added hastily and a bit flushed, "are you planning on having a child."

To my amazement, he seemed to ask this question in a sense of wonderment rather than merely asking for information on which to base his decision. I took a moment to re-light my pipe, though it had not gone out, and rise to refill Mycroft's snifter. I suddenly realized that somewhere in our long history, my brother--my brilliant, stoic, isolated brother--had considered this possibility. What was not clear was whether he had considered this possibility for himself, for me, or for both of us. Most remarkable and more than a tad disconcerting. "To be perfectly honest, until three days ago we had only had one conversation regarding children, and a brief one at that. When we agreed to marry I told her that I would certainly welcome a child into our lives. However, in light of her career and the chance that given our age differences she might end up raising the child alone, I did not feel the need to bring progeny into this world. The choice was hers. It still is."

"And she accepted that?"

That was asked with genuine curiosity and feeling for Russell rather than out of doubt of my word. "Yes, she did. I suspect that given the uncertainty of her ability to conceive as a result of the accident, her career aspirations, and her youth she felt no need to more fully consider the matter." One does not normally use the word "maternal" to describe Russ I thought, but I did not say so.

"Yet three days ago, " he puckered his entire face (a sign of immense concentration) and then took a sip of his brandy, "she announces to you that she wants me to write a letter to my non-existent niece or nephew?"

"That is the size of it," I sighed. "In case there ever is one."

"Sounds like she is expecting to me." He was trying to sound nonchalant, but he did not quite manage to pull it off and sounded rather amused, a slight twinkle in his eyes.

With a calculated tone I argued, "Oh and you are such the expert."

"Well what the devil am I to say in this letter, Sherlock?" He was as closed to confused and exasperated as I had ever recalled seeing him. Now I was amused and easily told him, "Whatever you like. It is an introduction to and by Uncle Mycroft."

He grinned and then quickly wiped it away. "Does that sound as strange to you as it does to me?"

At one point, this whole conversation would have seemed like something out of an H.G. Wells novel, but now, much to my extreme surprise, it did not, and I told him as much. (At least it did not sound any stranger than my being married to a Jewish, feminist, theologian thirty plus years my junior.) However I did dare to note that Uncle Sherlock gives me pause."

"Not nearly so much as it does me, brother." That was more like it. Mycroft self-assured, no-nonsense, unromantic; wearing his bachelorhood like a suit of armour. (Had not I done that?)

When he sensed I was not likely to drop the subject, he began shifting in the chair. To ease him back to the topic I took a side entrance. "What did ever happen to cousin Gertrude?"

"What does that have to do with this?" he asked incredulously.

"I just thought she might know what happened to Alice Dimwidde." This I said while trying to remember what I must have looked and sounded like as his innocent younger brother forced to go along on a mutually undesired picnic a lifetime ago.

"Sherlock." He raised one disapproving and suspicious eyebrow as if searching for my motive. He would not have to search long, of that I was sure.

I casually raised both raised eyebrows in response.

Resolving himself to this thread of conversation he announced, "Alice Dimwidde married a minister from Boston and had eleven children."

"Eleven?" I asked not just a bit horrified.

"And I certainly hope none of them look like their Grandfather Dimwidde," he offered as a toast raising his glass toward me.

"If there is a God in heaven," I concurred. "Thankfully the Dimwidde children took after their mother."

"Horace Dimwidde had to be the homeliest man to ever live in England, " he groaned. I nodded my unfortunate agreement to this and he added more kindly, "quite a horseman, though. Alice had a fine seat."

I could not tell if the nuance of that line was lost to him or not. While I had him on memory lane, albeit begrudgingly going down it, I attempted to gather more information for my own curiosity. "I know your usual regard for women, but Alice--" I got no further when he snapped his attention.

"As I have told you many times, Sherlock, women are not to be trusted."

He had slammed one door in my face but unwittingly opened the one I had truly hoped he would. A rare event, indeed, and one to relish. Very quietly, as though I were again a young boy asking his blessing or seeking his approval, "Not even Russell?"

He knew what he had done immediately. And I saw both displeasure at himself and regard for me at the same time. He had hit on the only theme he could never win. But he tried nonetheless.

Carefully, he began. "Mary is not a woman in--"

"Then I am much deceived," I pounced.

Ignoring my sarcasm, he began again. "Mary is not a woman in the typical sense. She has a mind more akin to a man's mind than to most other women."

"Please, old fellow, do not ever repeat that in her presence." I think I may have actually shuddered at the thought.

"Mary is the exception that proves the rule. A most remarkable woman whom I am pleased to call sister-in-law."

"Then -- write -- the -- letter."

He nodded his agreement. After a moment a thought occurred to him. "Will she ask anyone else to write a letter?"

"Yes. Watson, of course, and Mrs. Hudson. Trixie, too, I think."

"Trixie!? She knows about Trixie?"

"Of course she does. Why shouldn't she? Trixie has written me every two or three months since she was 12 years old. She now writes Russell and me."

"She does not write me that much."

"I write back." (Mycroft and Trixie were sometimes oil and water, sometimes oil and vinegar, and sometimes gasoline and matches. That is a story for another time, however.) He was wavering again. I saw the opening and went for it. "Russell even briefly considered asking her aunt to write a letter about her mother as a young girl." I lied, but it was a well-intentioned lie. Lying has come in handy in both our professions, but I am the better actor.

"It is that important to her, then?"

"It seems to be."

"All this sentiment. It does not seem like Mary." He rose out of his chair.

"I do not think it is just sentiment, Mycroft. There is more to it than that."

"And pray what leads you to that conclusion?"

"Evidence, man, evidence." That he of all people should ask. "Baring-Gould's death. Her brother's birthday within the same month." Mycroft had begun to pace. Most amazing. "Then her parents anniversary earlier this month. Last week she had to review the estate account--all possessions left to her by her dead parents."

He stopped by the window and looked out, his back to me. In an unusually gentle manner, he reached the conclusion himself. "She has memories of a family, but no family."

"None other than those she has permitted to be her family. This is neither whim nor folly on her part. If we are not around she wants to be able to give our memories in our own words to any future heir. She studies theology; she studies ancient texts. History is more important to her than it is to us. It makes sense in light of who and what she is."

"Rather elementary. Not all of our memories are pleasant ones, but we have far more of them than she does I dare say."

"You will write the letter?"

"I said I will."

I knew he would, but his tone told me that even though he understood, and even though he highly regarded Russell, he still disliked the task at hand. Mycroft revered his privacy as one of his prized possessions. The surroundings and silence of the Diogenese only added to his reticence. I did not want to give him a chance to think it over too long as he might just come up with a strong defense against completing the task. "Before I return to the Downs?"

He looked at his watch, though we both knew what time it was. He crossed to the bell pull and rang for our coats. I waited for an answer. After a few minutes the butler brought our coats; we put them on and reached the front step before he finally spoke. "I'll start it tonight and finish it tomorrow evening." And then, looking at a passing cab, asked: "You will help?

"If you wish." How rare. My brother asking for personal help, not something for the monarch or for the home office. I would remember this evening. We walked the short distance back to Mycroft's flat. We were greeted by the distinct sound of a dog's yapping.

"What is that?" I asked in disbelief.

He confirmed my suspicions by rolling his eyes heavenward. "A dog."

My brother was not one to entertain human company very often as he hated what was to him an invasion of his domicile. Animals of any kind were seen as a greater invasion. "Since when do you have a dog?"

"Since the attache of the Chinese government gave it to me as a gift. Why he could not just have offered something useful like jade, or silk, or even rice wine I do not know."

Mycroft opened his door and I saw a reddish ball of fur about the size of a deflated rugby ball. It was on a leash, and at the other end of it was Mycroft's butler.

"Excuse me, sir, I was just preparing to walk the dog." He sounded even less pleased than Mycroft had.

Mycroft actually deemed to introduce me to the dog as I knelt down to pet it. "Sherlock, meet four-month-old, Madeira. Pekingese by pedigree, royal pain by nature." The dog sniffed my hand (with what little nose it had), decided I was friendly (or at least uninteresting), and headed for the door. "You would not want it I suppose? A present for Russell, perhaps?"

"No, thank you. But why on earth did you keep her" I asked removing my coat.

He sighed. "It is difficult to refuse a gift from the Emperor, at least while his emissaries are still in England."

"Well, at least that explains the long hair I spotted on your coat. I was beginning to wonder about the membership of the Diogenes."

We eventually got around to settling ourselves in his study. Somehow I ended up as his secretary sitting as his desk with him in his chair staring into space. "I am ready, Mycroft."

"This non-existent child might be a non-existent daughter. 'Mycroft' is a decidedly awful name for a female, even a non-existent one."

"Point taken... How about Mycroft if it is a male and... Mya... if it is a female? Mya?" he tasted the name again. "Myra would be acceptable, too, I suppose."

"If you do not start this soon, both Russell and I will be too old to name anything but a stray cat after you."

"A non-existent stray cat, of course," he answered with a sardonic smile.

"But of course." Though it does not surface often, my brother possesses a pawky sense of humor.

"Very well; begin the letter 'My dear child.'"

I was beginning to think that that was all he was going to dictate for the evening as several minutes passed. If I have failed to mention it before, now is as good a time as any to mention that Mycroft is a creature of habit. He has his rails and runs on them: his flat, his office, the club, back to his flat. He runs on them carefully and meticulously. This request did not derail him, but the tracks were unfamiliar.

Then I heard a soft snore and turned to find my brother, my dear brother, asleep in his chair. I was struck for an instant by how much he reminded me of my father at that moment. On the occasions where my father would fall asleep in a chair, usually long after dinner and while reading, my mother would come in, remove the book from my father's lap, carefully replace the bookmark, and wave me to bed. Once he was reading something she wanted to read. He fell asleep and she moved the bookmark three chapters ahead so he would finish it sooner. When he finished it, she read it. Then one morning over breakfast they had a lively discussion about the book's content. My mother was forced to submit to my father's interpretation lest she be found out. Both Mycroft and I avoided her for two days afterward. "Mycroft" I called softly. Then more loudly, "Mycroft."

"Hmmm. Oh yes, where were we?"

"My dear child."

"Really? Oh well, then. 'My dear child. I do not make it a habit to put my thoughts and history to paper.[pause] I hold your mother in highest regard, [pause] and with the possible exception of having agreed to marry your father--my brother--[pause] I have never known her to act unwisely.' Did you write that ?"

"Yes, Mycroft, I wrote it." I remembered the telegrams:

Mycroft,
Russell and I married yesterday stop
S.

Sherlock,
Congratulations stop Was the day as cold as you predicted query
M.

"'I write this letter at her request so that you may have some record of me in my own words. [pause] The words of Dr. John Watson and his accounts of me in "The Greek Interpreter" and "The Bruce Partington Plans" are fairly accurate [pause] in terms of description. I am roughly the same height as Sherlock, [pause] and family resemblance can be seen through the eyes.'"

"Well of course family resemblance can be seen through the eyes, Mycroft. How else would one see family resemblance." Pawkiness, along with height, runs in the family.

With that he got up out of chair and motioned for me to move away from the desk. I did so, and he sat down to write the letter himself. Relieved, of duty and in mind, I poured us both a cup of coffee and reclined on his sofa. He scribbled a line or two, no doubt explaining his position as a government "accountant," then spoke.

"Sherlock, I'm limited by my position as to what I can discuss; would it be all right if I recounted something from my years at university?"

"I fail to see why not."

"Or" he added with a sideways glance, "I could describe Christmas-- ."

"1863." Remembering that infamous family gathering I began to chuckle. Then another thought struck me and I grew cautious. "Mycroft, it would not be wise to recount --" I didn't get to finish the thought as he interrupted.

"Heavens, Sherlock. I would not tell that story on us even if I knew the child were to be a male and would not be twenty-one before he read the letter." Then after a moment he added, "Though I could do as Dr. Watson does and change the names."

"And the dates."

He went back to writing, stopping only once or twice more to drink from his cup or re-read what he wrote. I left him, still writing, well after midnight. With my hand to his shoulder I bid him "thank you, Brother. Good night." I was well down the hall, peering in through his open bedroom door at curled clump of fur resting on his pillow, before he thought to offer his "good night" in return.

And this, dear child (if ever you are and whomever you are), fulfills one of your beloved mother's requests to me: to write a letter to you (and I suspect to her) about a memory of my brother, my elder and wiser brother, Mycroft. He actually wrote you a couple of letters, as did I, your mother, and all the rest. I hope you enjoy and learn from them all, including one which recounts an adventure of two brothers who took one, and only one, holiday together as adults. The names and dates, and I seem to recall places too, have been changed. To protect us, not the others involved. Discretion is the better part of valour.

You will have to find all of these letters, though. I promised Russell they would be written, but I did not say they would be easy to read.

Very truly yours,
Sherlock Holmes