holmestice | fic for meredydd: Broken Silence

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holmestice

Title: Broken Silence
Recipient:

meredydd
Author:

graycardinal
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft Holmes, John Watson
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Summary:
I shook my head slightly, levered myself to my feet – and, for the first and only time since the founding of the Diogenes, broke the club’s most cardinal rule. “Come,” I said to Dr. Watson, “and we shall discuss the matter.”

Note: The following narrative appears to be taken from the private papers of Mycroft Holmes, but its true provenance is likely to be the subject of considerable debate among Holmesian scholars.

Also at AO3: "Broken Silence"

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Like every other room in the Diogenes Club, the dining chamber is a place of calm. It is not silent, of course, but the rattle of knife and fork, the gentle chime of polished crystal, the sizzle of hot beef against cast-iron serving platters – these are noises of comfort and solace that can only be truly appreciated when the chatter of speech has been entirely set aside in their favor.

That peace was shattered early in the summer of 1891, when Dr. John Watson stormed through the dining room’s entrance and strode to stand over my table with an expression of grim fury upon his face.

“You have not, I trust, ordered the murder of your own brother,” he said, his tone one of barely restrained thunder. “But if you do not supply me at once with the truth of the matter, that is the charge I shall levy against you in the public press. The American press,” he added, folding his arms against his chest, “beyond the reach of even your vast influence.”

Two of the club’s men-at-arms had followed Watson into the room and now stood ready behind him, awaiting only a gesture from me to escort him forcibly from the premises. Instead, I shook my head slightly, levered myself to my feet – and, for the first and only time since the founding of the Diogenes, broke the club’s most cardinal rule. “Come,” I said, “and we shall discuss the matter.”

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Such public accounts as one may find of the Diogenes Club’s inner workings – not least Dr. Watson’s own words – state that the Strangers’ Room is the only chamber on its premises wherein speech is tolerated. As a moment’s thought will surely indicate, this is not precisely accurate. Safety and efficiency preclude enforcement of such a rule amongst the chefs who prepare our members’ meals. The Diogenes’ butler-in-chief is necessarily free to give verbal orders and instructions within the walls of his own office. And the private board-room in which our executive committee gathers – albeit infrequently – to deliberate over such administrative or disciplinary matters as may arise is likewise exempt from the code of silence. It was to this last chamber that I led Dr. Watson in the wake of his outburst, having instructed the staff that we were not to be disturbed.

“I grant,” I told Watson, as we sat facing one another across the polished oaken conference table, “that I have much to answer for with regard to recent events. However, before we return to the matter of fratricide, perhaps you might summarize your own knowledge and understanding of those events. I shall then be better able to address your concerns – which are, I acknowledge, entirely warranted in the circumstances.”

Watson’s expression grew only slightly less icy. “With benefit of hindsight, three things should have been clear at once. First, that you and not Moriarty were the true ‘Napoleon of crime’ – though to what purpose, I can scarcely imagine. Second, that you planned from the first that Sherlock should seek out and bring down the organization Moriarty supposedly led. And third, that whatever else this bizarre fiction was meant to accomplish, one of its purposes was specifically to remove me from your brother’s side.”

I bowed my head. “The charges are soundly framed. Would you care to elaborate as to any of the particulars?”

“As you wish,” the doctor said coldly. “On reflection, the matter of Moriarty’s supposed intellect is obvious. Were there truly a third mind in England the equal of yours and Sherlock’s, and were its owner to adopt the career of criminal mastermind, an active conflict among the three of you should have arisen long before now – and been quickly settled to Moriarty’s detriment, for you and your brother would surely have joined forces to bring down such an opponent. Only one adversary exists against whom Sherlock could not have obtained your aid in a battle of thrust-and-parry such as he described to me, and that man is you.”

“I admit it,” I said. “Pray continue.”

Watson gave a slight nod. “The facts now give way to a degree of speculation. Whatever Moriarty may have thought, your purpose in sponsoring him cannot have been criminal in nature. Sherlock surely saw your hand behind the Professor’s well before I did, and had he believed you an evil genius, he would neither have approached you to aid his flight to the Continent nor sought my companionship without revealing the true risk. Indeed, I must conclude that our European adventure was as much your plan as his.”

“It was.”

After a brief silence, Watson spoke again. “I see. And what of the outcome of that adventure?”

I took a moment to compose myself. “You are dissatisfied with the official verdict.”

Watson bristled. “It is wholly unsupportable except as fiction. If Moriarty was your pawn, and Sherlock your willing ally, arranging a death-duel between them would be wasteful and unnecessary. Yet we are meant to believe that such a duel occurred, and that both combatants perished. If that is true, you have been unconscionably careless with your brother’s life. If it is not—”

“Then your trust has been unconscionably betrayed,” I said. “I shall not attempt to excuse my actions – but if you permit it, I shall offer such explanations as I can.”

For the first time, the doctor’s face grew visibly lighter. “If the first of those explanations is that Sherlock Holmes is alive, I am ready to listen.”

“It is,” I said at once, “although that must remain secret for some time to come.”

Watson’s eyebrows went up. “A matter of espionage, is it?”

“Several, in fact. The original Moriarty organization was indeed a criminal enterprise, but for some time now it has served chiefly to conceal the Government’s investigation of foreign agents within England’s borders. We have caught a good many such, but within the last year evidence of a leak began to emerge. I soon identified its source: Colonel Sebastian Moran, the Professor’s chief lieutenant. The only way to neutralize this threat was to shut down the Professor’s operations, and to do so in such a way that Moran would not suspect our purpose. I therefore arranged to set Sherlock on Moriarty’s track – but I could only do so indirectly, for Moran knew I was the Professor’s silent overseer. So long as he thought Sherlock to be interested only in Moriarty’s ‘criminal’ endeavors, he could consider his own treacherous dealings safe from discovery.”

“Whereas if Moran believed you and Sherlock to be working together, it could only be against him.”

“Precisely,” I said.

“And our flight to the Continent?” Watson inquired.

“With the Professor’s operations ended, Moran could not reasonably remain in England,” I explained. “Yet the needs of espionage are such that he is more useful alive than dead. The Colonel still believes himself a trusted British agent – and as such, by controlling the information he receives, we can control that which our enemies receive through him.” I paused. “And now we reach the heart of the matter.”

Slowly, the doctor nodded. “I begin to see, I think. To the Colonel, a living Sherlock Holmes would be a double threat – first as Moriarty’s one-time lieutenant, and second for what he might share with you.”

“Indeed, “ I said. “Also, there is much good Sherlock can do in the wider world, on England’s behalf and his own, under the cloak of some other identity. It is by no means a permanent exile, but at present it is necessary.”

Watson let out a sigh. “I cannot approve of the deceptions practiced upon me in the course of this affair. I would willingly have accepted—”

“Your loyalty is admirable,” I interjected, “but impractical. You cannot adopt and shed personas as easily as Sherlock does – and it would have been most unpleasant to bring news of your death, whether real or fictional, to Mrs. Watson.”

“True enough,” Watson said. “Very well, then; the game is yours.”

I could not prevent a short bark of laughter from escaping my lips. “Indeed not; the game is and will always be Sherlock’s, for it is he who both sets and breaks its rules.” Rising with some effort from my chair, I opened a cabinet and removed two glasses and a decanter. “Will you accept a touch of brandy, against the day of his return?”

He did. And as we drank together, the peaceful silence of the Diogenes Club reasserted itself around us.

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