The Lazarus Machine

Chapter 3

"Mycroft, I will surely die if you leave me to rot in this hovel."

 "The Watson's estate is hardly a hovel.  And before you spout off all the signs of neglect, do remember I am not blind."  Lord Mycroft Holmes knew better than to try to curb his brother into being civil.

Sherlock huffed, but kept his observations to himself. 

The front door opened as their carriage pulled up.  Sherlock trailed his older brother up the wide steps, past shrubbery that had not yet been either pruned or covered for winter.  The steps had not been brushed of leaves this morning, and the stately butler at the door noticed, but tried hard to ignore the embarrassment that crept up in front of such distinguished visitors. 

"I will wither away from boredom here.  If you make me do this, I will never speak to you again."

"Then do begin immediately, Sherlock."

Sherlock sulked in response, following his brother into the foyer, his sharp eyes darting everywhere.  Baroque vase, dust in the crevices.  Either a lazy household or not enough maids to spare on the details.  The house was quiet, no dogs barking at the unfamiliar carriage, no maids tittering at footmen, no ground crew raking the stones in the drive.  The few paintings on the wall were amateur; talented, perhaps, but still amateur.  Either the work was hung due to sentimentality for the artist or the more expensive works usually boastfully displayed were sold and the bare spots hidden with inexpensive flotsam.  Combination?  A lack of money.  Obvious, given Mycroft's long lecture (he said discussion) on the interminable trip here, so Sherlock kept his observations blessedly to himself.

A man started down the stairs, one hand grasping a sturdy cane, the other arm resting from elbow to fingertip on the bannister.  His hair was a dark blond, his height average, boots polished.  He held his head upright despite his reliance on both cane and bannister.  He had a kind face, if stoic and serious.  His eyes took in the two gentlemen in the foyer as he descended. 

Another man, slightly older, darker haired, tired, no, hungover, entered the foyer from the left.  Study door.  They were meant to be announced, but the awkward timing of his brother on the stairs meant Sir Harold must greet them in the foyer to make proper introductions.  Formality, ridiculous.  Sherlock's lip crooked up in a mild sneer.  Appearances were worthless.

"Lord Sherrinford, we are quite honored by your visit."  Harry offered the elder of the two men in their foyer a short bow, getting little more than an imperious nod of the head in return. 

"Sir Harold Watson, my brother, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," the elder motioned behind him where Sherlock was still busy taking in every minute detail of the entryway.  Apparently he took in enough detail of the people in the room, as well, for his only words were directed at John, though they had not yet been introduced.

"Waterloo or Quatre Bras?"

The man who had finally descended to stand behind his brother started.

"Quatre Bras."

"You were ill."

"Yes, enteric fever."  The eyes had opened in wonderment.  Interesting, thought Sherlock.

"Lord Mycroft Holmes, Viscount of Sherrinford, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, my brother, Captain John Watson, late of the 52nd Northumberland Fusilers."

Sherlock stared at John, taking in every detail of the small captain as he made his bow to his brother and shifted his cane from one hand to the other.  His hand was steady when he stuck it out for Sherlock to shake.

"You left for war at least four years ago, for that is how long that particular waistcoat pattern fell out of fashion.  Clearly the money for new was not available when you returned home, and your old clothes were not worn enough to justify replacing so you continue to wear them. 

"You must have enjoyed being a soldier, for that length of service means you stayed when you could have been reassigned elsewhere.  There was nothing for you at home, or perhaps you felt needed where you were."

Sherlock had waited longer than typically polite before grasping John's outstretched hand in greeting.  John had been too surprised to pull it back when Sherlock had opened his mouth.

"Oh, a surgeon's hands.  That is the thing.  You felt you were needed out there.  Surely you were.  Steady hands, steady nerves, skill with a scalpel and saw.  Did you keep track of your success rate?  I'd be interested to know."

"No, sorry," John stuttered.  "Field hospital.  It often went too quickly to keep track."

"Pity."

Sherlock's eyes moved over Harry and he opened his mouth again.

"Brother, perhaps your observations are better left unsaid for now," Mycroft intervened.  It wouldn’t do for Sherlock to spill what was so obvious about Harry and spoil the forthcoming contract negotiations.

"Yes, yes, please come into the downstairs drawing room.  I'll ring for tea, shall I?"  Harry seemed spurred into action by Lord Sherrinford, burst out of whatever thoughts he'd been having.  He gestured the two men into their receiving room, following and leaving John to limp along behind.