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I never expected to chronicle any of my brother’s countless adventures, but here I am. Initially, it was John who asked me to write down the story of Sherlock’s first attempt at solving the Carl Powers case. I agreed to meet with him at the Diogenes Club where he admonished me to write down this singular tale to prove that Sherlock had not and could not have been a fake. In John’s eyes, if I could prove that Sherlock had used his deduction skills at such a young age and had been correct, all doubts about his abilities being genuine could be laid to rest. However, because I was privy to the information that my brother was, in fact, alive I refused, knowing full well that my brother would soon return along with his good reputation.
The second time the idea was brought into my mind was fairly recent and quite by accident. It was when my brother was giving me a brief rundown of all that had happened at John and Mary’s wedding.
“Then little Archie called out to me and said that it may have been the Invisible Man with the invisible knife. It’s a good thing too, he set me off on the right track, and we later found that he had been right. He had been right all along...” Sherlock’s voice trailed off. He had a strange look in his eyes. The last time I had seen him wearing that expression was after he put on that ridiculous Icelandic sheep’s wool hat and asked why anyone would mind being different. But then he blinked and it was gone. But, I knew exactly what he’d been thinking about.
Archie had reminded Sherlock of himself at that age, smart, clever, and eager to prove himself. But there was one key difference. Someone had listened to Archie. No one had listened to Sherlock. Not even me. Therefore, at that moment I determined that I would set the record straight. My brother deserves at least that much from me.
As I recall it was the year 1989 when we first heard of the case. I was fifteen and Sherlock was just eight. Only a few years ago Sherlock had lost what he had come to believe to be a dog and the “other one” had left us to live somewhere more secure. His memories of the incident were fuzzy and confused. Sherlock’s traumatized brain could not handle the truth of the matter, rather it preferred to seek out the solace that only a lie could provide. Thus he forgot about his only friend and the sister who had taken that friend from him. All of this had left my brother in a precarious mental state, kept in place by the constant use of his unique mental capacities. He was quiet and more reserved than he had been before. Of course, he wasn’t always quiet, he was a child and would throw childish tantrums, often complaining loudly of boredom and the lack of brain stimulation. However, he was never the same again. No matter how many problems he solved, Redbeard would always be there waiting below the surface. This proved to be the first real evidence that the motto I now strive to live by was good advice: Caring is not an advantage.
That year was one of the many years our parents took Sherlock and me to see Les Misérables. It had become one of their favorites and they had insisted that we all go to see it whenever it was playing in London. Sherlock and I both found it painfully dull, but being children we really had no choice in the matter. So there we found ourselves in a hotel around nine-thirty after a long and dull day of driving. We had two rooms, our parents in one, and Sherlock and I in the other.
“Mycroft, are you absolutely sure there is nothing to do?”
“Yes, Sherlock! Please stop asking! I’m as bored as you are but there is nothing I can do about it.” I sighed. During the drive here, Sherlock had solved a Rubix cube exactly 143 times, but it had been taken away from him upon our arrival in an attempt to get him to greet one of Dad’s friends who we happened to see. He had been pestering me ever since for something to do.
“I’ll be right back Brother Mine,” I stood, “I’m going to go ask Mum and Dad if they need help with anything.” I paused on my way out,” And try not to blow anything up while I’m away.” Sherlock gave me that cheeky grin of his and did a small salute.
I am fond of my memories of those years. Despite the shadow cast by our sister, Sherlock and I were close. The closest we would ever be, and he trusted me implicitly. I wish he still did.
When I returned to our room Sherlock was lying on his stomach with his eyes wide, an open paper was strewn across the bed next to him. He was facing the telly which was playing one of London’s many news channels.
“Eleven year old champion swimmer Carl Powers,” announced the host, “died yesterday in a tragic accident. This promising young boy came here to London from Brighton for a school sports tournament. After getting into the water he suffered from a seizure and drowned. Those who wish to send flowers can send them to Mr. and Mrs. Powers at-” Sherlock turned the telly off. I sat down next to him and glanced over his shoulder at the page of the newspaper he had been looking at. The article was titled Tragic Death Of School Champion Swimmer .
“You found something to do I see. Why the interest in the unfortunate Carl Powers?” Sherlock continued to stare into space and answered by pointing to a line in the article.
“The police looked through Carl’s locker to be sure that there was no evidence of foul play.” the article read. “However, only his swim team jersey, shorts, medication, and socks were found. The police conclude that poor Carl’s death was nothing but an extremely unfortunate accident.”
“Why is this important?” I asked.
“Something is missing.”
“Why do you care?” He ignored me and continued to stare at nothing, proof that he was concentrating his hardest. I sighed, “Whatever. I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too late.”
The next day Sherlock seemed preoccupied. I glanced at him when we arrived at the theatre in the evening. Sherlock had not complained of boredom since last night, and frankly, I was shocked, and a bit worried.
Our parents, Sherlock, and I walked into the auditorium and I prepared for two and a half hours of torture. Sherlock on the other hand still had that unusual expression on his face. He sat in his chair, feet dangling inches above the ground, with his hands steepled below his chin. His eyes were glazed and unfocused as the curtain rose. He sat that way through the entire performance, whereas I sat next to him jealous of his lack of boredom.
When the performance finally ended, our parents decided to take us out to dinner. As we were piling out of the cab, Sherlock froze and gasped.
“Oh!”
“What is it now?” I asked. It was the first time he had spoken in hours. He said nothing and looked up and down the street, eyes wide. Spotting whatever it was he wanted to see he took off towards it running.
Of course, I went after him. Sherlock is my little brother and I had to be sure that he was okay. However, it took me some time to catch up because he was quite fast. When I did, I grabbed his shoulder and turned him around to face me.
“What do you think you are doing?”
“Going to Scotland Yard of course!”
“What?”
“Shoes!”
“Shoes? Sherlock, what on Earth are you talking about?”
“His shoes! His shoes were missing!”
“Whose shoes?”
“Carl Powers! Oh, Mycroft don’t you see? His shoes weren’t there! It must be important! Why weren’t his shoes in his locker? It all fits!”
“Sherlock, I don’t know what you are talking about, but Mum and Dad are waiting for-”
“But Mycroft, we need to tell the Yard! It’s important! This proves that Carl Powers was murdered!”
“How?”
“His shoes weren’t in his locker! Why wouldn’t his shoes be there? It’s a missing factor that doesn’t add up. It must be investigated further! If we go-”
“Absolutely not! I don’t know what has gotten into you! You are not a detective! Now come on, Mum and Dad are waiting.”
“But Mycroft-”
“No! Stop trying to be clever! You're not the smart one and you never have been! I’m the smart one! So I know what’s best to do!” I paused taking a deep breath. Sherlock glared at his feet. I regretted the words I’d said then, and I regret them still, but there was no taking them back. But back then I believed what I had said to be true, though unkind as the truth often is. “Just let Scotland Yard do its job and we can go back and have dinner,” I said softly.
Sherlock spoke quietly, still glaring at his feet, “I’m not hungry. Why would I want dinner if I’m not hungry?”
“Well, don’t eat then. You can sit there while the rest of us have dinner.”
“Couldn’t I-”
“Go to Scotland Yard while we dine? No! You are not going to go waste the detectives time over a pair of shoes!”
“But it’s not just a pair of shoes! It’s the missing link in the chain!”
We went back and forth like this until Mum and Dad finally caught up and joined my side of the argument.
My relationship with Sherlock was never the same after that. It was as if I had betrayed him. I suppose that I did in a way. I was supposed to be the big brother who believed in him, but that day I proved to be ill suited for the job. Not that the “other one” hadn’t already proved that to me, but I had hoped that perhaps it wouldn’t be the same with Sherlock. I really do care about him, contrary to what he may believe. Perhaps I can prove that to him someday.
In the end, Dad almost had to physically drag Sherlock along with us. Sherlock soon gave up trying to convince us to take him to Scotland Yard and was quiet. It wasn’t the same contemplating silence I had been so confused by previously that day. This silence was more emotional. Ah, yet another example of how caring is not an advantage. Why is it that I always get such good proof of this from my little brother? I suppose even the best of us can not always escape feelings, and my brother was no exception.
When we arrived home the next day Sherlock went straight to his room and closed the door. He immediately began to play his violin, a talent he had learned from our sister. Sherlock wasn’t as good as he would later become, but his music was passable. The playing continued for six hours.
I caught him trying to contact the Yard multiple times the next week. Of course, I stopped as many as I could, but there was one that I missed. He had managed to send the Yard a letter. Apparently he woke up at two in the morning to deliver the letter straight to the post office box. The Yard sent a reply a week later. They probably wouldn’t have sent one if it wasn’t their obligation to do so. It read as follows:
Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
Thank you very much for your input on the death of Carl Powers. However, we regret to inform you that the advice and input you provided on the investigation aren’t needed. Carl Powers died as the result of a seizure in the water. Missing shoes do not prove that he was murdered.
Sincerely,
Detective Inspector Moran
I’ve never seen Sherlock so disappointed.
“Brother Mine, it’s like I said. The fact that his shoes weren’t in his locker doesn’t prove that he was murdered.” I said speaking gently, “Carl's death was nothing but an unfortunate accident.”
“No, it wasn’t! And I’m going to prove all of you wrong!” Sherlock yelled and went back into his room to play the violin again. I watched him go up the stairs with a twinge of regret. Could he be right I wondered? But I quickly dismissed the thought from my mind.
However, as you all probably know, in the end, he was right. Sherlock was right all along. During a series of cases, I believe John titled “The Great Game”, Sherlock found Carl’s shoes. He did a series of tests and found that someone had worn them here from Brighton, and proved through the deduction of a series of other clues that they had belonged to the unfortunate Carl Powers. Sherlock also found that the boy had been poisoned and the shoes were at the heart of the plot. It later transpired that it was Jim Moriarty who had murdered Carl Powers for reasons that are still mysterious. The only explanation Moriarty gave is that Carl had laughed at him.
I wish that I could have told my little brother that I was proud of him, but that would have been awkward and I doubt he would have believed me anyway. Not that I blame him. If I had believed him perhaps, since I was older, someone would have listened and together we could set things right. It seems to me to be only more proof that I am ill fitted to be an older brother.
I intend to send this manuscript to John to do with it what he pleases. Perhaps he’ll add it to that ridiculous blog of his, or maybe he’ll just add it to his files to bring out the next time some bloody idiot doubts my brother's powers.
But, I do hope that he doesn’t show Sherlock. I try to suppress my emotions, but I fear I often lose control of them when it comes to my little brother. Sherlock would no doubt mock me for this. However, Brother Mine, if you are reading this, there are two things which I would like to say: I would first like to congratulate you on making it this far. You’ve never been one to read anything containing emotions if you could avoid it, unless it’s for a case of course. Secondly, please know that I wish that I had listened to you. Not because your recent investigations have proven your hypothesis to be true, but because that is what I should have done as an older brother. I should have listened to what you had to say instead of assuming that you were speaking childish nonsense. And I’m aware that this will fall on deaf ears, but please believe me when I say this, I am very truly sorry, Brother Mine.