Free Mycroft Holmes by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar Page A

Holmes tapped Sherlock a little harder than necessary on his jutting chin, and Sherlock once again lowered it.
    “Let us not forget that I am not, like you, ambidextrous,” Sherlock said.
    “Not naturally, no,” Holmes said. “But you can practice to become so.”
    “If that is an attempt to sidetrack me, it will not work. Summer is a slow season for the War Office, as even subversives need a respite now and again. Odds are, you won’t be ‘frightfully busy’ at all. So why say it, other than to excuse a long absence? Or to draw attention to it.”
    “Nicely done,” Holmes admitted, though he sighed to himself. Why had he always been so keen on helping his brother develop his observational skills when he wasn’t at all certain that Sherlock would use them wisely?
    Because his mind is a Stradivarius
, he quietly reminded himself.
He simply needs to pick it up and learn how to play it
.
    “Now, think of everything,” Holmes said. “Odors, clothing, carriage… good God, why are your eyes darting about? I meant
my
carriage, Sherlock, how I comport myself. For pity’s sakes, keep focused!”
    “Odors, yes,” Sherlock mused, sniffing the air. “Formaldehyde. Either you’ve been pickling mice, dear brother, or you’ve had a visit with a physician. You are hale, I take it?”
    “Never better,” Holmes responded tightly. “What else?”
    “Your hair smells faintly of tobacco. Or, rather tobaccos—surely more than can be smoked by one man, even you. Most likely that means long hours at the tobacconist, scheming something up. With your friend Douglas, or someone else?”
    “I shall concede Douglas,” Holmes admitted. “Now put it together.”
    Sherlock frowned, a movement that caused his nose to drop down toward his lips so that he looked like a perturbed hawk. “It’s not very sportsmanlike, this game you have played with me since I was a child,” he protested, “as you already know the answer.”
    When Holmes did not reply, Sherlock’s frown deepened.
    “Mycroft, can you not simply
tell
me?”
    “Oh, for the love of heaven, don’t stand around
waiting
for me to hit you. Throw something, even if it does not land. And no, I will not ‘simply tell you.’ You need to work it out.”
    Sherlock began to flail about, with little conviction.
    “Very well,” he said. “In truth, you seem out of sorts. Sad, as if you’ve lost your wallet. No, not your wallet, something closer to your heart, although I strain to imagine what that could be, if not your wallet. And that new traveling coat,” he added, pointing his very vulnerable chin in the direction of the hook on which the coat now hung. “Dull but practical—bargain-priced, no doubt, light enough for the tropics.
    “The tropics… Wait.
There
is something! The tropics, and Douglas, whose origins are in Trinidad. And… given Georgiana’s family background—yes! Something’s afoot in Trinidad, and that is precisely where you are heading. Mycroft, you have come to say goodbye!”
    Just as Holmes swung, Sherlock lowered his guard. Holmes tried, but could not pull his punch in time. He hit his brother squarely in the nose. Sherlock buckled to his knees, and though he arose quickly enough, he was bleeding profusely.
    This was not the impact I had in mind
, thought Holmes. He quickly unwrapped his hands, then reached into his pocket for a kerchief, which he proffered.
    “Chin up,” Holmes instructed. “Chin up!”
    “Chin down, chin up… kindly make a decision,” Sherlock snuffled crossly as he held the kerchief to his nose.
    * * *
    The boxing lesson thus terminated, the brothers walked across the main square to a cavernous dormitory that held 150 beds. Holmes could tell immediately which was his brother’s by the mess around it, as if someone had tidied the entire quarters to a fare-thee-well, but had forgotten one small spot for a decade… or perhaps three.
    “The headmaster makes no mention of this?” Holmes asked, staring askance at the