Fragmentary My dear Watson.

[wytchcroft]

The Adventure of the Holy Terrors:

 

Over the years some few cases brought to conclusion by Mr Sherlock Holmes whilst still in the callow blush of his early manhood have become a matter of public record, both through my efforts as biographer and by various journalists and members of the literary press; such cases as the Gloria Scott and The Musgrave Ritual.

 

However, such scattered anecdotes aside, the background and personal history of my esteemed companion have remained as much a mystery, as abstruse a puzzle, as any of his famous cases. It was indeed fortunate therefore that having been driven into the attic by a mixture of boredom and the frustrations of the early March gales, I once again obtained some insight into the early career and personality of my friend.

I had found, after a half hour of digging through the numerous boxes and tins we had deposited there, a photograph. Professionally taken, if primitive, and of two smartly attired young gentlemen stood by the wall of a church or college building; The faces and expressions of the two youths being similar in almost all respects which was to me more than a curiosity since the faces and expressions resembled Holmes equally.

“Holmes?” I wondered aloud as the two pairs of indolent eyes gazed out at me from the sepia. “I seem to recognise you in both of these lads… which…”

Holmes threw me a dark look and sighed theatrically, nevertheless the corner of his mouth betrayed his quixotic humour. “Ah Watson, Watson – you have me, caught and charged and no deduction necessary. Well, I know of at least three professional blackmailers and two foreign powers that would shoot you on site for the chance at possessing that maudlin souvenir.”

So saying he bent as if to pluck the photograph from me but then changed his mind, placing his hands behind his back and turning away.

I was, naturally enough, aflame with curiosity – and it took a heavy effort of will not to let my imagination race immediately across the hinterland and into the thickets of that rude territory known and hated by Holmes as ‘speculation’. 

I told him as much. “Some facts Holmes – you cannot deny me. How often have you bewailed my habit of broaching assumption borne of murky imagining, especially in relation to yourself? Now if you wish my thinking in this instance to be pellucid then it would be seriously remiss of you not acquaint me with the facts. This evidence -”

Holmes snorted. “Evidence? Watson you do yourself little credit to run on in so yellow a fashion.”

He turned to face me from the attic doorway. “Nevertheless, the details are straight forward enough and may present features of some interest to you.”  He waved a long finger at me, poking from the fringing of his nightgown. “However, I caution you Watson, and in the strongest terms, that as you see yourself in some fashion a chronicler of my activities,” I was, I must confess, a little hurt by his use of the singular, “do not allow your case histories to become over burdened or distorted by undue emphasis on the happenstance of my youth. I am what I am friend Watson - and my cases likewise. I urge you to keep the two objects separate in your mind.”

 

My thoughts by now were whirling – what grave secret, what personal confession was I about to be privy too?

 

“Do not imagine yourself Watson as my first and only Boswell,” I raised an eyebrow, “no indeed – I have had companions before you keen to collect the datum of my experiments, my experiences.”

This was astounding news to me. “You mean -?”

“Oh yes. Indeed.” Holmes smiled languidly, his mood as it was wont to do changing on an instant. Grabbing a cushion from by the door he threw it up against one of the large trunks and set himself down in a peculiar eaglet fashion, drawing a cigarette from the pocket of his out-splayed housecoat as he did so. After carefully lighting the thing he blew a ruminative stream of smoke towards the ceiling before leaning back and looking at me directly. “So.” he said. “Sebastian Mulvery.” He stretched out his hand at last and I passed the photograph to him, he studied it intently. “Sebastian Mulvery and Sherlock Holmes,” he said slowly. “It was fair to say that we were, in the parlance of the times, holy terrors.”

       
                   “Your observation,” said Sherlock Holmes after awhile in which he considered the image before him, “that the photograph shows the wall of a church or college building is not so wide of the mark. Indeed, it is the south wall of the chapel of the estate of Lord Cyril Mulvery, known as Blackshears and located near Downe in Kent. An area not so foreign to the fantastic and outré as its rolling green may suggest – being home also to the residence of Sir Charles Darwin. You needn’t bristle Watson.”

“On the contrary Holmes I was simply…”

“Of course, of course – and I am already falling into the bad habit of emphasising the story in history.” Holmes chuckled, threw his cigarette into the grate and lit another.

“Suffice then to say, that my friend Sebastian was of ‘good stock’ and his Father’s pile was a grand one.”

I shook my head in mock dismay before prompting him on again. “But – your friend, this Sebastian, how..?”

“Through my brother Mycroft, Sebastian was somewhat older than me. Yes, Watson I daresay you have been studying the wrong face again. The younger of the two men in this photograph is Master Sherlock Holmes.”

He drew his coat about him.

 
another Holmes fragment: http://wytchcroft.livejournal.com/5151.html#cutid1