The Progress of Sherlock Holmes

The Conductor

Mycroft, my bow in his hand, his fingers loosely grasping the frog. Knuckle perilously close to the hair. Hate that. Bounces it about like a baton to a beat in his head (slow 6/8, like a bloody-minded German), throwing ictuses everywhere. With Mycroft, music starts and finishes with conducting. All that matters to him is what’s in his head; he doesn’t need to pick up his viola and actual play. Lazy bastard. (Does he even still have a viola? Did he lock it away with the rest of the family treasures when Mummy died?) My icy glare is pointless; he’s not looking at me. He’s reading from a notebook he’s holding aloft as though he’s Lord bloody Byron. Trying to get my attention. He always has it. It’s infuriating.

Pluck at the strings of my violin, the dull sound of it hums through my chest. (A little Tchaikovsky, only every other note of the melody. Mycroft doesn’t need to know how I soothe my little hurts.) Want to snatch my bow from his fingers so I can play, loudly, and drown out whatever drivel he’s trying to read, but he wouldn’t let go if I did. He’d much rather let me break it in half. He’ll smirk and just keep reading at me.

“Trust issues.” I’ve heard this before, why is he reading this to me? He hits the the high ictus and swings a long preparation down to the next beat. My bow hisses through the air. Can almost hear the strains of the Wagneresque march he’s conducting and it’s putting me off. “Intimacy issues. There’s a whole section on that here, you’ll want to know more about that, won’t you.”

John does not have intimacy issues. Well, he doesn’t have intimacy issues as a general rule. Intimacy with me, however: a frightening prospect. Others: no. If Mary is anything to go by. He is prepared to share an intimacy with any woman who shows the slightest inclination. And a few who don’t. Heterosexual panic? (Or is it just me, causing panic? It’s probably just me.)

“Not interested in the slightest.” Not looking at him now. Look instead at the smooth body of my violin, my own fingerprints on it, visible only at a certain angle (this one). Fingers shift on the fingerboard in pure muscle memory. Swan Lake. (Vulgar. But comforting.) Pluck the strings gently. Still see the ivory tip of my bow bobbing about out of the corner of my eye. He always manages to keep my attention, no matter how I try to fight it. Intensely frustrating.

“Prone,” Mycroft says, pausing for effect, “to bouts of infidelity. But you already knew that, didn’t you.”

I look up. He’s got a wicked half-smile on his face. He’s enjoying this.

Mary. Didn’t think she had a therapist.

“These notes are several years old.” Flourishes them at me. “Think much has changed?” My bow is still slicing through the air: ictus, ictus, ictus, preparation swing. “Cold distant father, hints of covert incest.” Puts the notebook down on his lap, lets me see the tiny print. Densely packed. Pages of it. Mountains of information on Mary. “You know that covert incest isn’t actual--”

“I know.” I spit it out. I’m impatient. Anxious. What does he want? Why is he telling me all this?

“She’s been married three times. That can’t be news to you. She was engaged a fourth time, but she sabotaged that one quicker than the ones before. It says here,” lifts up the notebook again, “fear of intimacy coupled with low self-esteem and desire for approval from men results in her aggressive sexuality and serial infidelities.” Flips a page. “This therapist recommended regression therapy. Incompetent.”

“Do I need to remind you,” I pluck one of the strings on my violin particularly hard, “That I am not the one marrying her?”

“She showed remorse.” He goes on as if I said nothing. Makes my blood boil. “She doesn’t do it deliberately. It’s compulsive. Her therapist felt sorry for her. Did you know, she ended up sleeping with him? He lost his license. Not her fault, of course. She’s a powerful narcissist, this one.”