Mycroft sat in the office quite satisfied. His daily work was done, his extra duties too, and he was ready to help his boss with the more complex cases. His first week at the chambers was pleasing; he'd done everything as asked and more: his boss amazed how skilled the eighteen years old undergraduate was. He gave Mycroft more and more difficult cases, and he solved them swiftly, and what's more: perfectly. He couldn't believe his own eyes when he saw the conclusion Mycroft gave him at the end of that day.
'Mr. Holmes, I have to admit, I've never had such a devil like you.' he said amazed.
'Thank you, sir.' the green boy aggrated without expression. It was a fact he heard lots of times along his studies, and never touched his pride. He was satisfied only when he thought he did it well – but now, he was also satisfied. The case he solved was a real one, a case of a scrounger, and he could prove his guilt from the few and at first sight useless exhibit.
'Mycroft,' the lawyer's voice went more informal 'I know you are more talented as to be at my chambers, although I don't want to send away a brain like your's. Listen. Whatever I want, you need to develop, and you will be a great man. If you let me, I'll call one of my old friend, and maybe he could give you a job which fits you more than solving odds and ends. What do you say?'
Mycroft nodded and held his hand.
'You are really kind to me, sir. Thank you.'
The lawyer accepted the reaching hand and shook it.
'It was really nice to work with you, Mr. Holmes. Maybe, if you know someone little sort of like you, send him to me. I'll be grateful to accept a long-term labour half as good as you.' he smiled and let Mycroft's hand go. 'I'll tell Mr. Raimonds to give you a call if he accepts my recommendation.'
Mycroft nodded.
'Thank you, sir.'
'You're welcome, boy. Now go home and tell your mother you'll be the first man of this bloody country by-and-by. Good-bye, and fulfil your duty.' he waved him out.
'Yes, sir. Goodbye.'
Mycroft thought about what this scene ment while he got a cab to drive home to Marsham street. What the lawyer ment about 'fulfil his duty'? Maybe he had ambition to deal with more important cases than simple criminals, something, which are important in the fortune of the country, but never thought he could achieve it by going to an other chambers. Who could that Mr. Raimonds be, that his boss was so sure his carreer could develop by his office? At home he would look up him on the internet.
* * *
Sherlock sat in his room dealing with a frog's heart. He knew this experiment for ages, but he wanted to know what chemical materials would hasten or slacken the systole, which would kill the mucle cells and which the nerve cells. His examines went quite well, he just needed an undependent eye to confirm his reasults. He went to Mycroft's room and brake in without knocking.
'My, there's an experiment I have to confirme by you.' he said once and then looked round in the room. It was empty – at least without his brother's stuffs and presence. He frowned and paced downstairs to his mother. He found her in the large sitting room.
'Mummy, where's Mycroft?' he asked suspiciously. His mother pulled her eyebrows and took down the book she was reading.
'Mycroft was gone a week ago, he's on his practice in London. You know that, you said him good-bye in the door.'
Sherlock pulled an eyebrow.
'Ah.' he slat out. 'Of course I did.' he said without certainity. 'Thank you Mummy.' he frowned and turned to pace back to his room.
'Sherlock, are you alright?' his mother called after him. He turned and glared at her.
'Yes, Mummy, of course I am.' he said with an obtuse expression on his face.
'Yes... Of course you are.' she smiled pale. Reading book, worriing for me, shaking hands, pale face and weak smile. Depression for first sight, simple sadness for her family for second. Needs conversation. Sherlock deduced it in a moment she said that silent sentence. He decided to leave his experiment for a while and paced back to his mother. He never understand why people chatted about such unimportant things, but he saw they needed that community activity. He sat down on the sofa across his mother.
'Is there any tea?' he asked forcing interest on his face.
'Yes, but it's cold already. I'll ring Mrs. Lowbrown and ask for a new kettle.' she said with a real smile now. She got his son's attention so rarely.
'Why do you seek for Mycroft?' she asked Sherlock interested.
'I've done an experiment, but I need someone to check my results.' he answered.
'Why? Your results are always correct, Mycroft always proof them.'
'Yes...' he said frowned. True; why exactly do I need Mycroft? he asked himself. His mother smiled wider.
'You miss him.' It was more a question than a fact, but a half-prooved question by her sight. Sherlock pulled his eyebrows.
'Why woould I? You said I don't need him a minuit before.'
She sighed.
'Yes, I did. But darling, you can miss him just because he's your brother, not just because you need him.' she said it with a warm smile.
She thinks of love, thought Sherlock. He never understand that kind of feeling, not for ages. After the divorce of his parents he was able to act like he understood it, but never did truely. He sighed.
'I do not miss Mycroft's presence, Mummy, I just used to it he was here and help me with my questions. Now here's noone who would understood what I am doing and why I am doing it as I do it.' he said it very carefully, searching the change in his mother's expression. Her face went tired and a bit darker. She sighed.
'I know you would need a place where you could make whatever you want: your experiments and things which we don't understand here at home. I did think about it.' she said it in a serious voice.
Oh God, she wants to send me in a college.
'Mother, I'm good here at home.' he protested the unasked question. She frowned.
'Of course you are. But you need to develop in a direction which leads to an goal. A useful thing, which you could use in your life in the world.'
Sherlock frowned. He did not understand why his mother were telling him these things; why he should go away and live with other kids and learn stupid things like history or english. He asked carefully.
'Mummy, you want me to go in a college?'
His mother sighed.
'I never could hide anything from you.' she smiled grimacing. She sighed again. 'Yes, I thought about it. There's an expert college near London, in Wimbledon, the King's College School. I gave them a call and they would accept your aply gladly. They heard about your brother and hope you are as good student as he. I told them you are different, but no less bright. They have a really good chemistry department.'
She looked hazy and doubtful about his answer. Sherlock just sat there, looking at his shoes, wondering why he should go away from Pulborough.
'Please, Sherlock, I would like to hear your point of view.' his mother said desperately. 'I think it would make good for you, but I don't want to send you away if you don't want to go.'
The ten years ld looked up on his mother.
'Why would it be good for me? I have to go in a college, here or there, don't I?' he asked fretfully. His mother sighed.
'You are at age, darling. All eleven years old have to go to secondary school, and I don't want to send you into a school where you study random things – I want you to learn what you like.'
'Chemistry?'
'Or whatever you want.'
'I like chemistry...' he said wondering.
'I know, sweetheart.' she said warmly. Sherlock sighed and looked at his mother.
'Alright. Just let me go and check that damn school before I have to go there.' he said nervously.
'Thank you, my dear.' she reached for his son's face but he pulled himself away. She sighed and managed a fake smile.
'Can I leave, Mummy?' he asked.
'Yes, of course.' she answered quietly and leaned back in the sofa. Sherlock stood up and walked back to his room. The frog's heart was swinging in the liquid merrily. It was still pulsing.
'Damn you.' Sherlock frowned at it and paced over it. He walked to his bed and threw himself on it. He put his arm under his head and glared at the ceiling. College. Other people, children. Stupid children. How will I survive this?! he thought and sank into his thoughts rapidly.
* * *
Mycroft payed the cabbie and paced to the front door. He lived in the flat just for a week but he felt he arrived home at last. He opened the dark wooden door and walked to his own door. He bought a two-flat house on the Marsham street, but lived only in one of them, just to feel he was an average british citizen. He locked it open and stepped in.
'Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes.' said a for Mycroft unknown voice. In a second he looked around but noticed nothing special about his flat – except the man sitting at his dining table.
'Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?' he asked calmly. The man let out a small laugh.
'They told me you are cold as a fish, but I never thought you would react on an unknown person in your flat so calmly.' he shook his head. 'The question is: how can I help you?' his eyes sparkled with excite. Mycroft pulled up his eyebrows and walked to the table.
'I'm listening.' he put down his briefcase and sat down. The man's mouth went into a satisfied smile.
'Alright, Mr. Holmes. Maybe you now who I am, although you did not realize it yet.' he began. Mycroft's mind started to process rapidly.
'My name is Leonard Macfurry. I am the personal assistant of Mr. Raimonds, who you did hear about, I guess.'
Mycroft put the pieces together.
'You are here to offer me a job?' he asked frowned. The man amuzed quite well.
'Yes and no. We'll see. Let's find out.' he said misteriously. Mycroft pulled up his eyebrows and stood up.
'So, Mr. Macfurry. Can I offer you something? A tea, or something stronger?' he paced to the bar. The man smiled.
'Well, thank you for asking. A good tea with a drop of brandy would do.' he said and snugged himself. A job interview, thought Mycroft. He wants to know my weaknesses. He paced to the kitchen cupboard and pulled out a tea kettle. He filled it with water and put it on the fireplace. He made fire and went back to the bar. He pulled out a bottle and put it on the table.
'Sugar?' he blinked at the guest.
'Yes, please.' he replied with a smile. Mycroft take out the sugar keeper from the cupboard and put it on the table too.
'So, what can I do for you or your boss, if I may ask?' he turned to the man sitting on his chair.
'Well, as I said, we'll see. But for now, please, sit down and tell me about your father.' he said it with a fishy smile. Mycroft narrowed his eyes for a moment but then faked a smiled.
'Oh, my dear father. He works for the British National Bank. He works as manager.' he blinked at the man and held a tiny pause. The other used it to interrupt.
'Yes, yes, we know that. But tell me about him. What kind of man is your father, Mr. Holmes? Who's son would we employ?'
Mycroft pulled up his eyebrows and swallowed.
'Yes, of course. My father is an honorable man, in his job and his associations as well. He'd been always standing by me, helping me with my studies and carreer. He never lied or swindle.' He stopped. He didn't know what else he could say about his father. That he was cruel to his mother and brother? Or that he'd never cared about his family's interest, only pride? That he was self-centered and arrogant? No, these weren't the things wich they wanted to know...
The man pulled up his eyebrows.
'So, Mr. Holmes, as I can see, your father is a fair and mighty man. However, he divorced from your mother...' he said it with a hint of disappointment. Mycroft sighed.
'Yes, it was better for her.'
'So your mother did not think about your father as you?' he asked with theatrical confusion. Mycroft realized what the game was about. He answered calmly.
'Maybe not, although you can never understand a woman's mind about men.' he said diplomatically. The man's face milded and a light laugh came out from his troath. Mycroft smiled and paced to the fireplace and take off the tea-kettle.
'I can see now that you protect your family without expedience. That's good. That's what we are looking for.' he nodded to him. Mycroft put the kettle on the table and looked at his guest.
'Tea or brandy first?' he asked politely.
'Tea, please.' the man said more chattily. Mycroft filled his cup and then his own. He handed the bottle to him and watched him filling a small quantity in the cup. He did the same.
'Please, sit down, Mr. Holmes. You are at home, aren't you?' he smiled politely. Mycroft followed the demand.
'Now, Mr. Holmes, you may want to now what we are dealing with. First of all I should tell you, your ex-boss has a high opinion of you, what is impressing considering we are talking about Richard Alexander Lloyd. He said 'this boy is your future, Raimonds, I tell you'. That's something. However, I can't tell if he was right, till you began to work with me. Oh yes, about your task. You may want to know who you'll be working with. I and Mr. Raimonds are... well, let's say we work for the british government. I won't say whom exactly, you'll figure it out in time. You'll be my right hand. Maybe you'll be my replace once.' he winked at the boy. Mycroft looked at the man more closely this time. In his late thirties, maybe early forties, without family or wife. Living for his job. Has dark shadows round his eyes: sleeping irregularly. Ring on his left hand's little finger: primal house of England, probably form his mother's side. Just like me, Mycroft thought. He began to like this chance.
'Thank you, sir.' he answered in a second. The man nodded smiling and stood up.
'Thank you for the tea, Mr. Holmes. I'll send you a car tomorrow at 8 am. Tomorrow I'll tell you the rest of your duties. Be prepared.'
Mycroft stood and nodded to the man. He reached for his hand and Mycroft took it.
'Goodbye, Mr. Holmes. I'm glad we met.' He smiled politely.
'No less me.' he replied and the man faced to the door. Mycroft looked after him till he exited and closed the door. He sighed. What happens here?! he asked from himself with a hint of despair. He sat down opposite the fireplace and took his cup of tea. He sipped in it and sank into his thoughts about his future.
* * *
Next day Sherlock sat in the car looking out through the window, thinking about the school he was going to go. King's College, he tasted the name. What a yeasty denomination. There've been no king for ages.
The road was quite boring through the fields till they reached the London suburban. After more than one hour journey the driver exited the A3 highway and with a left curve turned to road A238. Sherlock looked up the routeway before leaving and knew exactly where they were. He sighed – plus ten minuits and they would reach the college. He saw his mother blinking at him anxiously. He did not face her till the leaving on Pulborough Residence. He did not want to see her face: her angst, her excite, her un-asked question to him. He wanted to be alone. At least alone with his thoughts. He did not think it would cause anything good to go to the college, neverteless he followed his mother where she sent him. He wouldn't appriciate anything better than being at home in his room behind closed door, but he knew he could not be there. College. The word tasted bitter, not for the first time.
'Ma'am, sir, we'd arrived.' the driver called on them when the car stopped.
'Thank you, Simon.' his mother smiled on the driver. He nodded, get out from the car and opened the door to her and her son. The woman took off with an excited sigh, Sherlock with rolling his eyes. The place was nice enough: big green areas, few but huge ancient buildings – maybe from the 18th century, Sherlock thought. He made a mouth and followed his mother inside one of them. She reached for his hand but he pulled it away – he wasn't a three years old, for God's sake. She smiled sadly and sighed. A three-piece suit man came to meet them in the hall.
'Good afternoon, Mrs. and Mr. Holmes. Please follow me to the principal.'
Violet made a puffing noise at title 'Mrs. Holmes' but did not talk to the man except thanking the guide. They paced in silence on the corridors to the west wing of the building. The man stopped in front of a dark brown wooden door and waited till the two others reached him.
'The principal is glad to recieve you.' he said and with that he opened the heavy door and waved them in. The mother was the first to enter and Sherlock followed her lazily.
'Ah, Mrs. Holmes!' the princial greeted her.
'Ms. Wellington, please.' she smiled at the principal politely.
'Oh, excuse me, ma'am, I should've known.' apologized he.
'I'm glad my divorce was as quiet as possible, Mr. Reeve.' she let him kiss her hand.
'He's my younger son, Sherlock Holmes.' she waved Sherlock closer.
'Mr. Holmes, pleasure to meet you.' he reached for his hand but Sherlock gazed at him like he was a complete idiot and refused to shake it.
'Sherlock, behave.' his mother whispered between her thooth. Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook the principal's hand. His mother smiled politely.
'Thank you for recieve us.' she turned back to the man.
'You are most welcome, madam.' he said politely ignoring the kid's manner. 'Please, sit down.'
Violet accepted the offered chair and with a blink she ordered Sherlock to sit down too. He rolled his eyes and sat down obviously bored. And the conversation began. Sherlock got more and more bored listening to the details of the education and system of the school and after five minuits lost his attention on the talk. He looked out the window and saw the park, the pond, the golf course, the botanical garden. This was cought his attention.
'Do you keep medical plants in the botanical garden?' he interrupted on whatever they was talking about.
'Sherlock.' his mother looked impatient at him.
'Please, Ms. Wellington.' he smiled on her, and turned to Sherlock. 'Yes, Mr. Holmes, we do. Do you want to see them while I and your lady mother are talking about official things?' he asked politely.
'Of course.' Sherlock stood up and faced to the door.
'Mr. Garner may guard you there.' he said no less politely.
'There's no need on it, I can find the way.' Sherlock said and exited the room. He thought he might find that Mr. Garner outside the office but for his truest pleasure there was noone who wanted to stop him. He heard his mother apologizing to the principal and smiled airily. He was free.
First of all, he walked round in the building – quite a simple one, but nice enough. he tried to imagine he would spend his next eight year in that building but failed. He wasn't interested in the future till it promised long years closed in a public school. However, he was interested in the labs and brain-trust and, in the botanical garden. He found the nearest exit and left the building towards the arboretum. He was pleased to see the thematical system of it, and faced directly to the tropical garden. Judas tree (Cercis siliquastrum), oil-tree (Ricinus communis), wild sage (Lantana camara), foxglove (Digitalis purpurea), angel trumpet (Brugmansia suaveolens) and more. Maybe it will be some fun here, Sherlock thought. He walked around in the greenhouse and found the asssembly satisfying. He decided to set off back to the office.
Violet and Mr. Reeve searched Sherlock for more than an hour. They continued the conversation after his unpolite leave, but after half an hour Violet felt uncomfortabel about his son' missing. She apologized and began to search Sherlock in the school. The principal's first suggest was to search him in the botanical garden and Violet took it. But Sherlock wasn't in the garden, and Violet began to worry for him. She went back in the building and looked for him on the corridors, the auditoriums. When she did not find him, she began to dread. Sherlock, don't do this to me. If only you hurt yourself somewhere... She didn't let her thoughts dwell on this. Sherlock could look after himself.
Finally she went back to the principal's office desperated. She tried to look collected but she failed when she saw his son standing in front of the office lazily.
'Where have you been, Sherlock?!' she ran to him and hugged him tight. He prostested.
'Let me go Mummy. I told you I would go to see the arboretum.' he said fussily. He was tired about people's obtuse.
'You wasn't in the garden, I was looking for you.' she said apprehensively.
'I was. After I'd seen the building and the chemistry department.' he said scoutingly.
'Right.' his mother faked a smile. 'Let's go back to Mr. Reeve.' she said and stood up from sitting on her heels before her son. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes but followed her into the office. The headmaster was talking to the man who guarded them to him.
'Send a group through the park and check the CCTVs. He couldn't...' the door opened. 'Ah, Ms Wellington! Mr. Holmes!' he said surprised. 'Thank you, Mr. Garner, I think there's no further need of your men.' he said to the servant and he nodded. He blinked at the boy with gimlet eyes.
'Ma'am.' he bobbed to his mother and left. Sherlock knew his newest enemy.
When he left, the mother turned to the headmaster.
'I'm terribly sorry for my son's behave, Mr. Reeve. He's a bit...' she formed the words cautiously.
'... special. The headmaster smiled. 'Yes, Ms. Wellington, we did meet children like your son. And I am glad to say, each of them survived the school years by us. You shouldn't be worried about him.'
Violet had a sigh of relief and returned his smiled. Sherlock cleaned his troath. His mother smoothed his arm and took a deep breath.
'Thank you for everything, Mr. Reeve. I am glad I chose your establishment for my son. I know you'll take care of him better than anywhere else.'
'We'll do our best, madam.' he said and accepted Violet's reaching hand and touched it with the lips. She smiled politely. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
On the journey home his mother tried to ask Sherlock about his opinion about the college but he was silent as ever. He ignored her every question or answered just with a bob. She did not know what to do with him. One month and school would began, and her son behaved like a sulking four years old toddler. Was Mycroft so difficoult to deal with at his age?... She couldn't remember. Somehow it was hard to imagine her other son was anything like Sherlock. He was so different, so damned special... How could he go on with a secondary school?... One month and it would turn out rapidly.
* * *
Mycroft sat opposite the fireplace at seven fifty, exactly the same place as the evening before. He tried to sleep, but his thoughts did not allowed him to do so. He sighed and stood up. He paced to the kitchen cupboard and lifted the coffee maker from the shelf. One more, and I'm done for today, he thought. It was his third coffee in the morning.
Just in the minuit he finished his mug a single ring of the doorbell called. He cleaned his troath and lifted his briefcase. He paced to the door, opened it, and locked it after himself. He surmounted his nervosity and opened the front door too. A man in an expensive suit greeted him formally.
'Good morning, Mr Holmes. Please board your car.' the man said and escorted him to a black Bentley and opened its door. He sat in and waited till the officer seated himself on the passenger's seat. He nodded to the driver and the car gently hit the road. Mycroft wondered where they were going till he realized they were following the river to east. The Tower, he realized. We are going to the Tower. He run trough all the possible causes why they drove to the British Parliament, although he could not say which one was truth. He said he worked for the british government. But which?... he thought.
The traffic was gentle and they reached their goal in fifteen minuits. The car stopped and the well-suited man got out of the vehicle. He opened the door for Mycroft and lent him to a door he never knew was there in the Tower's wall. The man opened it, and he stepped in.He found himself on a corridor which lent left and right towards stairs. The man stepped behind him, and called out in a low voice.
'Please follow me, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Raimonds and Mr. Macfurry are await for you.' he said and started to pace rights. Mycroft followed. He tried to grab every information he could from the dim light, the doors, the walls, the rare furniture – and he gave up after a minuit. It was too hard to concentrate on what was before his eyes. It was hard to concentrate on puzzling out what he should count with. He followed the man in silence.
After a couple of minuits wandering in the building his leader stopped before a massive wooden door. They weren't on the ground floor anymore, and the corridors became more wider, more brighter.
'The two gentlemen are waiting for only you, sir.'
Mycroft nodded, and the man opened the heavy door. He stepped in, and the door closed behind him. First he thought he was alone, but in a moment he realized the exist of two other men: one he met before, and a older man, sitting next to the window, in large chairs, on the other side of a huge desk.
'Ah, Mr Holmes!' the one he knew greeted him. 'Please be welcomed! Come, my chief is curious about you.' he waved him closer and he paced to the two man.
'Thank you, Mr. Macfurry.' he said politely but he watched the other man from the corner of his eye.
'Mr. Holmes, this is Mr. Raimonds, my boss and chief master.' he reached to the old man smiling.
'Mr. Raimonds.' Mycroft nodded.
'Mr. Holmes, it is good to get to know you.' the man reached for his hand. Mycroft gave him his and shook it. The other smiled fishy.
'I heard about you, my son. Sit, I have to ask some questions from you.'
Mycroft obeyed and sit down on the free place.
'Let see.' the old one opened a file. 'Mr. Mycroft Holmes, born Mycroft George William Richard Holmes, son of George Charles Holmes and lady Violet Susan Amelia Wellington, viscountess of Pulboroughshire. Has a brother called Sherlock Matthew Thomas Lionel Holmes, aged eleven. Went to Eton Public School at age twelve, graduated with summa cum laude in almost every subject, specially good skills in political sciences and law. Got to practice by Mr. Richard Alexander Lloyd, best lawyer in Westminster. Glimmerish.' he said in a common voice. Mycroft listened very carefully. 'I think this young man has got some talent we could use.' he finished.
'I agree, that's why I got him here.' Macfurry said.
'But what is he use for?' the old man pulled up his eyebrow. 'A green boy with good references, I can't see more. Let's see what he can do.' he pointed at Mycroft. Macfurry grimaced but then smiled. Mycroft breathed slowly.
'What can I do for you, sir?' he asked from Raimonds.
'What can you do for me?' he pulled his eyebrows. 'For me, nothing. The question is, what can you do for yourself.' he leaned back in his chair. 'Mr. Holmes, I tell you a story. If you can end it other way than it happened, I accept you for the job. If not, you'll never see me again. Understood?'
Mycroft nodded.
'Yes, sir.'
'Alright. Let's began.
'There was a man, code name Francis. He was nobody, till he got aquainted with one of the British ministers. The Minister was a good man, full of kindness – and money. Francis liked the old fellow, and thought he could help him a bit with the difficult official language the Minister had to read all day to lead the country. The Minister trusted Francis and gave him a pack of minor cases papers, to read trough and tell him the important pieces. Francis did it, and saved the Minister a lot of time. He enjoyed his money as well: till he was in his house, Francis could get anything he wanted. Food, drink, cloths, everything. Once the Minister did not pay attention, and gave him a case which conclude a national safety problem in itself, and Francis read trough it. The case was the follow: a British agent was examining on American fields and got to an information which was top secret for the Americans but important for the British Country. The information was described in the file. Francis read it but did not tell the Minister about it. He left home and thought about how he could use the information for his use. After a few weeks he figured it out and went to the Minister and told him he knew about the information and wanted some million pounds for his silence.
'Here comes you. Finish the story.' he nodded to Mycroft. He frowned and looked into the man's eyes.
'Criminals does not keep quiet when they get what they want. If the Minister gives him the money, he'll go to the Americans and still telling them the British know about their secret, just to get more money and protection from his own. If the Minister doesn't give him the money, he'll go to the Americans and tell them about the information nevertheless. If the Minister puts him in prison to keep his silence, he'll play together a guard, an other prisoner, or anyone else and he'll give the information to the Americans. There's no good way out from this situation.' he concluded. The old man's face went dark and he put his hands together.
'You couldn't save the problem better than the Minister did.' he said in common voice.
'The Minister payed him.' Mycroft said.
'Yes.' the old one replied.
'That's the logical treat.' Mycroft agreed. The man stood up and sighed.
'Mr. Macfurry, take him back where you found him. He's no more use than anyone else.' he turned to the window. The younger man stood up and reached a hand to Mycroft. He stood up.
'Goodbye, Mr. Holmes. Make a successful life.'
'Thank you, sir.' Mycroft said calmly. The younger man lent him towards the door. On the doorstep Mycroft turned back.
'He should've order his life's end, sir.' he told the old one. That turned around.
'Whom?' he frowned.
'The Minister. He should've killed Francis.'
'He was his friend.' the man said.
'He was potential danger on the country, sir.' Mycroft answered. The man's mouth pulled into a small smile.
'Mr. Macfurry,' he told the assistant, but looked at Mycroft 'I accept Mr. Holmes's apply for the job. Please tell him about the rest.' he said calmly but smiling. Macfurry nodded and lent Mycroft out of the room. The man standing outside closed it behind them.
'Congratulation, Mr. Holmes. Welcome to the Minor Office. We help the British Government in their decisions, whoever holds the might. We serve the country, not the parliament. We are officers, not soldiers, but we do everything to keep our beloved homeland safe. From this day you belong to the Office, you know about the government's cases, you help the kingdom and you keep silence. For the Queen and the Country. Accepted?'
Mycroft looked at him childish, but when he realized he said it seriously, the blood ran out of his face. And then slowly, he nodded.
'For the Queen and Country, sir.'
'Good.' the other said and lent him trough the corridor where he came from.
* * *
Sherlock sat in the garden reading Darwin's The Origin of Species and humming to himself, when he heard someone cleaning his troath behind him. He caught his head up and turned to see the one who stood behind him.
'Mycroft!' he jumped up.
'Good afternoon, Sherlock.' his brother smiled at him.
'What are you doing here?' the younger frowned.
'Came to see you little brother.' Mycroft smiled noncommittally. Sherlock looked at him mistrustfully.
'You did not.'
'Of course I did not.' Mycroft's face went cool.
'Why are you here, My?' Sherlock searched his face. The elder's eyebrows went up.
'Urm...' he hesitated.
'Right just shut up and leave.' the little boy sat down to his book. Mycroft looked at him and sighed.
'How's school, Sherlock?' he asked with insincere enquiry.
'Shit.' he answered. Mycroft's face flinched at the rude expression but said nothing.
'When does it start?' he inquired on.
'On Monday.'
'So soon?'
'Like you wouldn't know.' Mycroft rolled his eyes.
'Alright, Sherlock.' he hesitated again. He did not know it would be a good idea to tell him what chance he got last week. What job he got. But he trusted his little brother more than anybody else. And he knew it was a mistake.
'Look, I'll tell you something you shall never pass on. Do you promise me you won't?' he asked seriously. Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his eyes and frowned.
'You want me to keep a secret of yours?' he asked cautiously.
'Yes.' his brother nodded.
'A secret is not a secret when more than a man knows it.' he shrugged.
'Right.' sighed Mycroft annoyed. 'Then I tell you something which isn't a secret but wants responsibility who you tell it.' he gave the thing another screw. Sherlock rolled his eyes annoyed.
'Then tell it just try not to be boring.'
'Do you know the system of the British Parliament?' began Mycroft statefully. Sherlock sighed.
'How do you define not to be boring?!' Mycroft pulled up his eyebrows.
'You have to learn to be more patient.'
Sherlock made puffing noise and turned back to his book.
'Alright, Sherlock. Then I say just one thing: anyone bullies youin the college, just say him your brother is a minor officer in the british government.'
'Yeah...' Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft sighed and stepped back one.
'Call me if anything happens in the college.'
Sherlock nodded airily.
'Thank you, brother.' he said annoyed.
Mycroft turned and paced back towards the house. Sherlock blinked after him and then turned back to his book. Anything happens at college... What could happen there?! Boring.
And it seemed it would be so boring as Sherlock imagined. On Sunday his mother came into his room and checked if he was packing properly. She stood in the doorway and crossed her arms and smiled down at him. Next time I'll see him I won't look down at him. My little Sherlock. Almost a man grown, she thought. And she was right: Sherlock was almost as tall as her, however, she wasn't a very long woman either. She watched him packing his things in his suitcase and sighed.
'I won't be far, Mummy, you can come and see me if you want.' said Sherlock in a cool voice not looking up from the packing. His mother smiled weakly and stepped to him and touched his arm. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. She knew what it ment: she let his shoulder go and stepped back. His son was nervous, and the last thing was he wanted his mother getting emotional by him, she knew.
'Are you ready?' she asked in a foggy voice.
'Almost.' Sherlock said and went on with the packing. She watched him for a minuit or more and then sighed.
'You can come back home whenever you want, doesn't matter what the rules say in the college. I spoke to the principal and he gave his word on it.' she said with a sad smile. She knew Sherlock wouldn't come home, notever if he was bullied or the (tananyag) was boring. She knew him enough to know this, and she knew the answer he gave.
'I will, Mummy.' he said cool.
'Yeah.' she said, although she knew he didn't mean it. She knew he wouldn't go home till the christmas break. And he would be taller than me, she thought with a sigh.
'Alright, I leave you now to finish your task. I'll be back with the driver in half an hour.' she said and left the room. Sherlock murred annoyed and shrugged. It didn't matter if half an hour or half a day, he would be ready. He would be, 'cause he supposed to be. So he did.
Half an hour thereafter, his mother knocked at his door silently. When she did not get any answer, she opened the door and let herself in. Sherlock was laying at his back, his eyes closed, his hands clutched together at his belly.
'Sherlock, dear.' she called gently. THe boy opened his eyes and sat up.
'It's time to go.' she remembered him and stepped in. 'Are you ready?' she asked apprehensively.
'I told you I'll be.' the boy said coldly and reached for his bag.
'Leave it, Mr. Rooseberg would carry it down to the car.' she said and the driver stepped into the room.
'I can carry it, Mummy.' he protested and picked up the baggage lightly.
'Sherlock!' his mother went pale. 'What did you pack in?!' she stepped to her son and took the bag down from his shoulder. It wasn't so light as she thought, but it wasn't very heavy either. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes while his mother opened the case. She searched it.
'How many clothes did you pack in?'
'Enough for a week.'
'You'll stay for five month, boy!' she cried out and broke into a heavy sobbing. Sherlock sighed and stepped to her to hug her. She grabbed his shoulders and cried in his arms.
'I thought it will be easier.' she sobbed. '... to let you go... But it isn't.' she lifted her eyes at her son. 'You'll be alright, I know. But will I?...' she added whispering. Sherlock looked at her confused. He did not see his mother so broken till Mycroft went to college. He was only five years old then, but he could remember it quite well. She cried for a couple of days, any kept him by herself. He hated it. He did not have the place to examin anything, because she was always by him. He promised himself he wouldn't let her cry anymore. And yet, here she went, crying again about her sons. He sighed and cleaned his troath and searched for the gentle words Mycroft taught him to calm her when he went away.
'Mummy, everything will be alright. I'll be in the college, and you'll have time to spend with your friends.' he spelled that word like he did not know its meaning. However, he never really knew it.
His mother calmed and looked at him once again.
'Yes. You're right. Everything will be fine.' she sniffed and wiped her face with her hand. 'Fine...' she whispered and zipped Sherlock's bag back. 'I'll send your other things after you.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes but did not protested. Not with his mother. There wouldn't be any point in it.
He put his baggage in the car and sat next to it.
'We can leave now.' he ordered the driver and he drove on. Sherlock saw his mother waving after the car but decided not to wave back. She won't ever know if I did it or not, he thought, as they drove on. He knew exactly the way they followed, from the maps and his last trip to King's College. The name is still yeasty. He could only hope he would survive the eight years in that institute, surrended by idiots. Children who wants to play and chat and bully... He could not imagine why these things could be interesting to anyone. Yes, the terapist in his former school said something about it, but he was so bored he couldn't grab anything about her gibberish. His thoughts went on with his ex-school-experiences, and he began to hate this new situation even more. He was to say it aloud, when the driver called out loudly his name.
'Mr Holmes, we arrived.' he said, and Sherlock dropped back to the present.
'Where?' he asked confused for first.
'King's College, sir.' the driver got off and opened the door of his. Sherlock roused and nodded to him.
'f''course. Thank you.' He grabbed his bag and paced forward. He looked around and saw all the other boys to spread out of the elegant cars. My new mates, he sighed and began to pace towards the building. His mother explained him exactly (and for three times at least) where he supposed to go – so he found the state-hall rapidly. He sat down on a chair and crossed his arms. The room way full with children, and the principal stepped for, when the bluster faded.
'Dear old and new students, dear parents and relatives, whoever appeared on this beautiful Sunday...' Sherlock rolled his eyes and decided not to listen anymore. He closed his eyes and sank into his mind palace to recall every useful information he collected from his new school. He thought about its history, its former and present principals, its famous pupils and its buildings, and at last its botanical curiousities. There he stopped and did not leave till he heard his name read.
'Mr Sherlock Holmes with Mr George Everett and Mr Timothy Roch, North wing first floor room seven. Mr Charles Goldwin with Mr Sandor Leam and Mr Andrew Roberts North wing...' he listened till this point. He got the information he came for: his room number. But who the hell was that two other guys? Well, in time it will clear itself, he thought. And he waited till the end of the brief and then got his bag and went for search of his room. If the building's layout is a bit logical – and it is, as I can recall –, then the room would be in this way, he thought and began to step in one direction. He climbed up the stairs and found himself on the right corridor. He paced to the door 7 and opened the door. It obeyed and opened without a scrape. He found noone in the room and decided he liked that.
The room was quite simple, but comfortable enough for his taste. The three beds were separated widely and the desks with their backs to each other. Sherlock realized how much he would miss his own room, his own privacy, when the two boys entered the room noisily.
'Oh...' the first one nearly bopped into Sherlock. 'You might be Holmes.' Sherlock nodded. 'I'm Everett and this is Roch. Nice to meet you.' Sherlock shook his reaching hand and searched then cautiously. Living with their both parents; the first one's father is banker judging by his shoes. The other's only a middle-class boy, his clothes are cleaned but not new and certainly not expensive. Parents maybe doctors, or professors? Maybe, he ran the first diagnostic in his head.
'Hi there.' the second boy waved at him and then lumped down on one of the beds. Sherlock nodded to him and put down his bag on the nearest bed.
'That will be a good time, won't it?' the middle-class boy said and laughed loudly.
Good time. Definitely, Sherlock thought sarcastically and made a mouth at the boy. Hate school already.