The Prodigal Son

In which Mary Russell shakes the Holmes family tree,
and Sherlock reveals a bit more of himself than he had planned.

by "My Lady's Daughter"

Part One

My ancestors were country squires, who appear to have led much the same life as is natural to their class.

Throughout my long apprenticeship with Sherlock Holmes, one of the constants in our relationship was my inability to truly know him completely. This was not from any lack of will or desire on my part, but rather reflected the complexities and depths of the man. After each discovery of a new facet of his psyche or a new chapter from his past, I would be lulled into a false sense of security, thinking that at last there could be no further depths to the man that I had left unplumbed. Until the next revelation that would prove to me that his knowledge and experiences were without end.

After our relationship had moved beyond the apprenticeship stage, I had allowed myself to believe that he had revealed himself to me completely; unfortunately, this assumption proved to be as ill founded as it was when I was younger. This final revelation was an adventure that began one warm September morning in the first year of our marriage.

I had come downstairs to breakfast, and found a table laden with food, but no husband. Not knowing how long the hives would keep him, I sat down to enjoy Mrs. Hudson's kedgeree while it was still hot.

I sifted through the post as I poured myself a cup of coffee, and noticed a package from Blackwell's. I slipped the knots and unwrapped the heavy brown paper, withdrawing a large cloth-bound volume: Dr. Grant's The People of Palestine. Torn between eating and reading, I followed my usual practice and tried to do both. It was only after relinquishing my book to butter my toast that that I paid any heed to the rest of the mail.

There was a large white envelope addressed to Holmes in a hand that I thought initially belonged to Mycroft. The postmark, however, was from Kirby-on-the-Moor. Curiosity got the better of me, and after laying down the butter knife, I turned the envelope over to see the return address. No address, only a large crest: a shield bearing eight gold and blue stripes, and a crest with a lion's head, surmounting the motto "Fide Sed Cui Vide." Well, I thought, your suspicious nature has brought you to the right detective. The envelope itself bore no other clues, aside from the fact that it was from an elderly gentleman, not frequently in the habit of corresponding, and whose local postmaster liked an afternoon tipple.

By the time Holmes had returned from his hives, my head was deeply buried in my book. He did not attempt to distract me, and only lifted the cover back to see what I was reading, and then let out a derisive snort.

"Perhaps," I said without raising my head, " you think that my time would be better spent with the copy of The Theory of Spectra and Atomic Constitution which you ordered last week?"

"Only if you wish to maintain some sense of the developments in the modern world around you, Russell."

It was my turn to snort. I made a mental note to include a copy of Colette's latest work in my next order from Blackwell's, simply for the pleasure of the seeing the reaction it would cause. I doubted that it would reflect aspects of the world around him that were much to his taste.

My concentration was broken by the sound of his cup hitting the edge, rather than the centre of his saucer. I looked up to see him completely engrossed in the crested letter, his hand still holding his cup despite the fact that it was now safely on the saucer.

"My, your noble client has certainly gripped your attention, Holmes. Are you being summoned to save the reputation of some ne'er-do-well younger son? Or are you to render your services in tracing a treasured family heirloom now sitting in a stall on Portobello Road?"

"Actually," he replied, "it isn't a client at all. And he isn't looking for my services, as you put it. He is more interested in yours." And with that, he handed me the letter with a satisfied grin.

"Surprised" does not begin to capture the emotion I experienced when I read the letter. I was correct in my view about the writer, but I should not have overlooked the clue of the handwriting, for this is what the letter said:

Mycroft
September 2, 1921

My Dear Sherlock -

Allow me to offer my heartfelt congratulations on your recent marriage. Since I received Mycroft's letter, I have checked each morning and evening to ensure that the Sun is still rising in the East and setting in the West. So far, yours is the only planet to break from its usual orbit.

Mycroft tells me that she is a unique combination of beauty and brains. Good Heavens! She must have the face of Aphrodite and the mind of Aristotle for you to have taken such notice!

This is all just idle speculation. Quell my curiosity and bring her to me, that I may bask in her loveliness (and give you the gentle ribbing you sorely deserve). In the mean time, I am pleased beyond words that you have found such happiness in your Autumn years.

Your older, but no wiser, brother,
Sherrinford

I was stupefied. I could not decide whether to hit Holmes over the head with the letter for keeping such a thing a secret or laugh at the prospect meeting another Holmes brother, so I did both.

"Why," I gasped, "did you not once tell me you had another brother? Is he the black sheep of the family? Or are you?"

"Neither, my dear Russell. It is just that unlike Mycroft, my relationship with Sherrinford is somewhat distant. He is 9 years my senior, and was not at home during my more "formative" years. He is more like an uncle than a brother to me. For most of my adult life, we have lived in different "orbits" as he put it. While he has been the genteel country squire, I have chosen to pursue my own interests. Our paths have crossed from time to time, even under rather sensational circumstances."

I heard his words, but they made no sense to me. Having lost my only brother, the idea of having a brother whom one chose to ignore seemed an act of cruelty. Sensing my discomfort, Holmes placed a reassuring hand upon my shoulder, and said softly, "I know it must be difficult for you to understand how this can be. Perhaps a visit would make things clearer. Would you like to go to Mycroft ?"

"Yes! Yes, I really would. I would love to meet this elder brother of yours. He sounds quite wonderful, and the prospect of seeing you on the receiving end of any sort of ribbing is just too good to miss!"

He paused briefly at the thought of this before responding. "I will take up my pen to reply in the affirmative while you commence packing. I believe you will find your toga hanging in the closet of the spare bedroom. It will look quite lovely with the Wellingtons you will also need."