Read Online Mycroft Holmes by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kareem Abdul-Jabbar
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say you are going where?”
“Trinidad,” Holmes replied. “Port of Spain.”
The physician leaned closer, holding up the stethoscope next to Holmes’s lips. “Once again!”
“Trinidad!” Holmes said into the stethoscope.
The physician recoiled as if he had been struck.
“Nonsense!” he cried. “That will not do at all. You must avoid uncivilized places as if your very life depended on it.
“For it does!” he added.
Yet Holmes would not give in. He promised to take every precaution, and accepted Dr. Clark’s quinine compound as a prophylaxis—if not Dr. Clark’s offer to inject it right then and there, for the physician’s hands were trembling so that he could have been put to work churning butter. Then he bid the good doctor a hasty adieu, sprinted back outside into the sunshine with an overly dramatic sigh, and rode on to Westminster to say hello and goodbye to his brother Sherlock.
9
HOLMES TIED ABIE ALONGSIDE OTHER HORSES LINED UP IN THE shadow of Westminster Abbey. From there, he crossed the lawn toward the Royal College of St. Peter, where Sherlock was to graduate in a year or so—at least, that was the hope. He was an indifferent student, which aggrieved his brother no end.
It was stunning how dissimilar two brothers could be.
Holmes resembled their mother, with her strange grey eyes and spun gold hair, whereas Sherlock took after their father, all dark lines and angles, as if he were a Gothic building that, while handsome enough, had a few joints out of alignment.
Holmes had embarked upon a civil career because he wanted to be of service to Queen and country, whereas Sherlock had no such notions. He was, Holmes thought with aggrieved affection, one of the most singularly self-centered individuals anyone could ever meet. And while Holmes had been a Queen’s Scholar and was popular with fellow students, Sherlock had few friends—perhaps none at all.
The sole advantage of this last was that Sherlock could always be reliably located in one of three places: the dormitory, for no other boy would be caught dead in such a dank and humid place unless a blizzard threatened; the theater, where Sherlock was sure to be positioned at the back of the auditorium, carefully observing the activities upon stage; or the library, his nose pressed into a book that never had anything to do with his studies.
Holmes settled upon the library, and was successful upon his first try.
* * *
There he was, his long, angular face obscured by James Cowles Prichard’s
Researches into the Physical History of Man
. His spider-like fingers were turning the pages gently but swiftly, as if he were absorbing the information, and not merely reading it. Holmes knew that the click of his steps across the marble floor would make no difference to Sherlock—and indeed, he didn’t even glance up.
“Sherlock,” Holmes said when he finally stood just inches away from his brother.
He looked up with an expression as casual as if they’d only seen each other minutes before, rather than weeks.
“It’s fascinating,” Sherlock said, nodding to the book in his hand.
“Yes,” Holmes responded. “I read it years ago.” For that was how the brothers greeted each other, eschewing hellos.
“
Naturally
you did,” Sherlock countered. “When one has a seven years’ advantage from birth, it is not a fair fight now, is it? You will therefore recall Prichard’s theory of moral insanity. He posits that there are some human beings devoid of the common thread of human decency. I posit that our mother might be one of them.”
“And I posit that you might be another,” Holmes replied, taking a seat across from him. “The question remains as to why you are reading Prichard. Something propelled you to investigate moral insanity. What was it?”
“William Sheward is
torturing
me,” his brother exclaimed dramatically. “That fifty-seven-year-old tailor who sliced his wife’s throat with a straight razor, cut her up into
“Trinidad,” Holmes replied. “Port of Spain.”
The physician leaned closer, holding up the stethoscope next to Holmes’s lips. “Once again!”
“Trinidad!” Holmes said into the stethoscope.
The physician recoiled as if he had been struck.
“Nonsense!” he cried. “That will not do at all. You must avoid uncivilized places as if your very life depended on it.
“For it does!” he added.
Yet Holmes would not give in. He promised to take every precaution, and accepted Dr. Clark’s quinine compound as a prophylaxis—if not Dr. Clark’s offer to inject it right then and there, for the physician’s hands were trembling so that he could have been put to work churning butter. Then he bid the good doctor a hasty adieu, sprinted back outside into the sunshine with an overly dramatic sigh, and rode on to Westminster to say hello and goodbye to his brother Sherlock.
9
HOLMES TIED ABIE ALONGSIDE OTHER HORSES LINED UP IN THE shadow of Westminster Abbey. From there, he crossed the lawn toward the Royal College of St. Peter, where Sherlock was to graduate in a year or so—at least, that was the hope. He was an indifferent student, which aggrieved his brother no end.
It was stunning how dissimilar two brothers could be.
Holmes resembled their mother, with her strange grey eyes and spun gold hair, whereas Sherlock took after their father, all dark lines and angles, as if he were a Gothic building that, while handsome enough, had a few joints out of alignment.
Holmes had embarked upon a civil career because he wanted to be of service to Queen and country, whereas Sherlock had no such notions. He was, Holmes thought with aggrieved affection, one of the most singularly self-centered individuals anyone could ever meet. And while Holmes had been a Queen’s Scholar and was popular with fellow students, Sherlock had few friends—perhaps none at all.
The sole advantage of this last was that Sherlock could always be reliably located in one of three places: the dormitory, for no other boy would be caught dead in such a dank and humid place unless a blizzard threatened; the theater, where Sherlock was sure to be positioned at the back of the auditorium, carefully observing the activities upon stage; or the library, his nose pressed into a book that never had anything to do with his studies.
Holmes settled upon the library, and was successful upon his first try.
* * *
There he was, his long, angular face obscured by James Cowles Prichard’s
Researches into the Physical History of Man
. His spider-like fingers were turning the pages gently but swiftly, as if he were absorbing the information, and not merely reading it. Holmes knew that the click of his steps across the marble floor would make no difference to Sherlock—and indeed, he didn’t even glance up.
“Sherlock,” Holmes said when he finally stood just inches away from his brother.
He looked up with an expression as casual as if they’d only seen each other minutes before, rather than weeks.
“It’s fascinating,” Sherlock said, nodding to the book in his hand.
“Yes,” Holmes responded. “I read it years ago.” For that was how the brothers greeted each other, eschewing hellos.
“
Naturally
you did,” Sherlock countered. “When one has a seven years’ advantage from birth, it is not a fair fight now, is it? You will therefore recall Prichard’s theory of moral insanity. He posits that there are some human beings devoid of the common thread of human decency. I posit that our mother might be one of them.”
“And I posit that you might be another,” Holmes replied, taking a seat across from him. “The question remains as to why you are reading Prichard. Something propelled you to investigate moral insanity. What was it?”
“William Sheward is
torturing
me,” his brother exclaimed dramatically. “That fifty-seven-year-old tailor who sliced his wife’s throat with a straight razor, cut her up into
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