Out of Memory:

Sibling Rivalry

by Copper Beech

I did not know my brother for long, but our relationship was not so very different from any older and younger sibling. My husband, Sherlock Holmes, has had a much longer relationship with his brother. They are seven years apart, but close enough at times to be opposite sides of the same coin.

I came to know Mycroft first as Holmes' brother, then my brother-in-law, but I wanted to know him better. And in the course of that discovery, to come to understand my husband that much more.

It was summer. The bees were at their most active, but Holmes and I were taking some time away from work. Or more accurately, we were waiting for work to find us. We had just completed a simple case and I had little doubt that one more challenging would come our way before long. But until then, we decided to spend time together. And the place in which we decided to do that was Wales.

One of our earliest cases involved travel into Wales. And while we were successful in rescuing young Jessica Simpson from a lonely house there, I did not have fond memories of the place. I sought now to remedy that.

The train ride would afford ample time to talk. And our talk turned to childhood. We began with the Jessica Simpson's, moved on to mine, and finally to Holmes'. When we reach that telling of tales of the young Sherlock Holmes, I had an opportunity to ask about brother Mycroft.

In response to my query, Holmes said, "Being older, Mycroft blazed trails for me, but where he was content to ponder life, I was eager to embrace it. It was as if he created the trail and then sat in wonder, while I ran as fast as I could to catch up. So fast, at times, that I fairly ran him over."

I laughed at the image of that irresistible force running into that immovable object.

"Did you get along well? I asked.

"For the most part, yes. But there were times when my older brother became impatient with my inability to match wits with him."

I found it hard to believe that my brilliant husband would have trouble keeping up with anyone and said so.

"Remember Russ, in those ages that can be counted on the fingers of both hands, seven years might as well be seventy."

I nodded. I knew that. There were fewer years between my brother and me, but for us it was also true.

"We got along much better when we had both gone to university. We came to appreciate each other's approach to problems and to rely on each other for help when needed."

"Did you ever play games?" I asked in what must have seemed like a non sequitur, but I was reminded of the times my brother and I would create codes for each other and that we had very different approaches to solving them.

"Yes, of course, but intellectual ones," came the reply. "Mycroft, as you know, is not one for moving, when sitting is an option."

"Which games were your favorites?"

"The ones I could win," he said flatly. He paused long enough to make me think he was not going to fully answer my question, then added, "The ones that challenged me to think in new ways were my favorites. There was one that Mycroft devised that linked everyday objects with history or the languages we were learning, or the books we were reading. It was up to me to find the connection. When I did, I don't know which one of us was more pleased."

I thought about the broken connection between my brother and me and wondered what it would have been like to have someone with which to share my childhood. Then I thought for a moment and realized I had had someone to share it with - Holmes.

We weren't exactly children together, but there was an element of play to our relationship. We tried out roles in and out of our cases and we came to know and rely on each other as if we had grown up together. In some ways we did. We both left worlds where we were the most important member to one we could share. Oh, there were moments when we slipped back into that time before we met, but there was always the other one to draw us back and seldom was the connection broken for long.

Holmes touched my hand and said, "What are you thinking, wife?"

"About connections, Holmes," I answered turning to look into my husband's grey eyes.

"That is good, he said, " because if we are to make ours, we need to hurry."

I gathered up my things as Holmes left the compartment. I found him on the platform waiting for me. He was several steps ahead of me, not unlike a brother I know.