Sherlock shook his head. “Impossible. Watch how the trial unfolds, and you will admit that Moriarty would have been convicted.”
“We are of different minds. But no matter. You will have your way.”
Mycroft’s comment stuck in Sherlock’s throat. He rounded on his brother sarcastically. “Indeed, eminent older brother, how very wise you are to see your younger brother’s mistakes and yet cede the point! You were always patronizing when we were children, and I see you are still.”
“Come now, Sherlock. Let’s not be cross over something so minor. We do not know the truth yet, that is all.”
“Minor? Indeed, the subject at hand is only my very fate. But I see you care only for appearances.”
“I?”
“Yes. You are eager to see me gone from the shores of England. If your brother, a murder suspect who has faked his own death, were to be arrested in country, who knows what consequences it might have for your auditing position.”
“Don’t be unpleasant. It is for your sake that I have taken such extreme measures.”
“No. I am sure what steps you have taken, you have taken for yourself.”
The ensuing silence was accompanied by the incessant rain. The draft that came in through the cracks in the walls made the candle flame flutter, and the light of the cabin flickered.
Sherlock stared at his feet. Where else could he look? As an adult, he was proud of how he’d learned to respect his brother’s intellect. He had believed he could face his brother as one adult to another. But perhaps this had only been true so long as he still felt an advantage in some area other than sheer intellect, to even the ground between them: Sherlock prided himself on being a man of action, whereas Mycroft detested social interaction and preferred the comforts of home. He was even a member of the Diogenes Club, which was frequented by the most solitary of men. Sherlock, on the other hand, was ceaselessly on the move. He prided himself on being the more active one, at any rate.
But recently Mycroft had changed; now he seemed to have more of a sense of the pleasures of being of use to others. Perhaps it had been after coming to the aid of the Greek interpreter. And only a few days earlier, when Sherlock had asked for Mycroft to arrange for a carriage, he had been astonished to find Mycroft had driven the carriage himself—sallying forth to meet Watson in person. It was a level of activity from his brother that would have been previously unimaginable. And now here he was, having come all the way to Italy with only a moment’s notice.
Without his worldly advantages, Sherlock would once again be forced to compete with his brother on intellectual grounds. Mycroft for his own part might not have had any intention of competition, but for Sherlock this was a matter of gravest import.
To begin with, Sherlock was not particularly fond of his brother. Mycroft was seven years older and possessed a wealth of experience that Sherlock lacked. As the older brother, his parents had expected him to be the one to carry on the household. As a child, Sherlock’s clothing and personal articles had of course been hand-me-downs. Since there were no two people more alike in person and in temperament than the two brothers were, it was impossible for their egos not to clash. And they were far too similar to become playmates or confidantes.
Mycroft tossed the leather case to Sherlock. “I am returning the money you put in my care. Mostly the payments you received from the King of Scandinavia and the French government. It should be more than enough, however, for you to live in seclusion.”
Sherlock placed the case into his trunk with a certain morose air. “Enough, at least, for whatever meager life I may find in the Far East.”
“Be rational, Sherlock, and try to think more positively. When Lord Ito was forming his cabinet, he welcomed Piggott, the son-in-law of our own MP Jasper Wilson Johns, as a legal advisor. They may have adopted a German constitution, but there is also a degree of respect and understanding for the English style of governance there. You may rely on Lord Ito.”
“Am I to spend the rest of my days as a nameless Englishman in Japan, polishing Lord Ito’s boots?”
“If I am correct in my assessment, which I think I am, the trial in London shall not go as well as you plan. Of Moriarty’s remaining men, I expect that two of the major players, at the very least, shall go free.”
“You still insist the evidence I prepared is incomplete.”
“I do. Either way, England will have need of you again. The fieldwork may prove difficult for me, but as you said, we won’t know unless I try. I will contact you when things look favorable for your return.”
“How long will that take?”
“Ten years? Twelve? More? Let us say, around the time when the statute of limitations should expire on those suspicions that should fall upon your head when it becomes apparent that you are still alive. That would be the most pragmatic view.”
Sherlock pursed his lips. His brother’s reasoning was more than valid. Though he didn’t want to accept his prognostications regarding the trial, Mycroft otherwise had a point. Few figures of state other than Hirobumi Ito would likely be willing to sympathize with, much less shelter, a wanted dead man such as himself.
“The younger Moriarty deserves credit for his brotherly devotion and loyalty,” muttered Sherlock, unable to stop himself. “It is certainly more than I should aspire to.”
“Oh? And what of ‘brotherly resemblances’?”
“In our case there is no resemblance,” Sherlock returned quickly and indignantly.
“You are, as ever, thankless. If you do not agree to this plan, then you are at your liberty to tear up the letter of introduction I have provided.”
A childish provocation! Sherlock seethed. Mycroft only said such things because he knew that Sherlock had no choice.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft added quietly. “Thankfully you had not enrolled in a life insurance plan. Had you listed Watson or I as the beneficiary, we would have surely been charged with fraud.”
“As parting words go, those were abominable.”
“I thought you would prefer it to trite condolences.” Mycroft withdrew his pocket watch and glanced at its face. “The boat will be leaving shortly. It is a small cargo vessel, docked at wharf number 17. Do not be late. Farewell, Sherlock. It is better if we do not write.”
Sherlock was startled to sense a hint of affection behind those ironic words. It was too late now, though, to confirm that. Their conversation was over. Mycroft turned his back to Sherlock, opened his umbrella, and stepped outside.
The younger Holmes remained rooted. The claps of lightning that pierced the window were diminishing. Distant thunder reached his ears. He could see the puffs of his own breath. Finally the weight of realization fell upon him. He and his brother, too, were now separated. It was lonely being a ghost with no place left in the world.
7
During the interminable days of the hellish sea voyage, the same thought occupied Sherlock’s mind: He should have just fallen from that cliff.
His circumstances onboard were far from dignified. He had no cabin, only a corner of the decrepit cargo ship’s hold by the sails and steam engine. Rather than there being a proper partition, his space was corralled off on four sides by barrels. He shared the hold with a throng of Asian passengers, all of who were likely stowaways. Sherlock suspected they were Chinese rather than Japanese, but as he did not speak their language there was no avenue for communication. He was laid up for days on end in a stupor of seasickness. The most he could stomach was a few crumbs of bread and a bit of soup.