Free Mycroft Holmes by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar Page B

piles of papers, books, and curios jumbled there.
    “Well, naturally he does,” Sherlock said. “Westminster holds thrice-weekly inspections—has done so for some centuries now, I believe.”
    “Well then…?”
    “This is all new, d’you see. I have added to it only since last night.”
    “Cleanliness is next to godliness…” Holmes began, but Sherlock wasn’t paying him any mind. He had somehow located his tin of shag tobacco, and was rolling himself a cigarette.
    “You did well, by the way,” Holmes said. “Not with the boxing, perhaps, but with the deductions. I must admit I was impressed.”
    Sherlock lit the cigarette and exhaled a cloud of acrid smoke. “And what, in your estimation, am I to accomplish with such gifts? Eh? Become a detective? An Inspector Bucket? Is that how you perceive me, dear brother?”
    “If you refuse to take a compliment—” Holmes began, but Sherlock interrupted.
    “I have no qualms with compliments, when I hear them. That was not one.”
    Cigarette in hand, he dove into various piles of detritus, avidly searching for who-knew-what.
    Glancing about, Holmes spotted a document that stood out from the rest, and lifted it up. The pages were so yellowed and stained, the text so faded, that the only thing he could even make out was the Latin phrase,
nullius in verba
. Roughly translated, it meant “Take no one’s word for it.”
    He was about to dispose of it in a proper trash bin when Sherlock prevented him.
    “Halt!” he cried. “I might need that.”
    “Need it? You can’t even
read
it!”
    “Precisely,” Sherlock said. “I thought I might experiment with different ointments and tinctures to see if I could bring up the ink again… aha!” This last came as Sherlock dug into a mound with intent, and pulled out a fine old walking stick.
    Holmes stared at it. “Father’s walking stick!” he said, trying to keep the accusation from his voice.
    “Correct,” Sherlock said. “Mother is ill again—‘medicated’ is the genteel term, I believe—and Father is avidly ignoring it. This,” he said, indicating the walking stick, “is his appeasement, for want of a proper wife.”
    “Be quiet,” Holmes countered quietly. “She
is
our mother.”
    “On occasion, yes,” he shrugged. “Then there are the more frequent occasions when she is nothing of the kind. Though she
has
taken to heating the mixture herself—I am told that cooking reveals a maternal instinct, of sorts.”
    With that, Sherlock tossed the stick to his brother, who caught it on the fly.
    “Bon voyage, brother!”
    Holmes shook his head no. “Father gave it to you. Taking it is the last thing I would want.”
    “Nonsense. The last thing you would want is to lose a limb, or to perish in some freakish manner in a foreign land where hospitals are appallingly ill-equipped.”
    Holmes sighed, silently conceding the point. In truth, he didn’t want the blasted thing at all. He considered it cumbersome, if not downright pretentious. On the other hand, it was a touching gesture by a younger brother from whom touching gestures were all but unheard of. And so he accepted it graciously.
    “Thank you,” he said with a slight bow.
    “In exchange,” Sherlock continued, “you shall endeavor to keep a mental record of your adventures. Mind, however, that it slant toward individual peccadilloes, and not some larger ‘view of humanity.’ Or, God help us, political intrigue, governments falling—that sort of thing.
    “As to my walking stick,” he added as his brother made ready to depart, “it is to be returned to me in one piece. As are you yourself, of course,” he added.
    Well
, mused Holmes, as he shut the door behind him.
Though my well-being was most definitely an afterthought, he spoke of it, nonetheless. It is progress!
    It seemed a most agreeable start to his journey.

10

    WAITING AT THE LIVERPOOL DOCKS WAS THE
SULTANA
. THE 3,500-ton steamer boasted three masts and an iron hull, and could