Holmes Revisited

Disclaimer: This work is based upon the Evelyn Waugh novel, Brideshead Revisited. Whilst any wording lifted directly has been rephrased, please note this is essentially a parody, I am not trying to pass it off as my own.

Characters property of Mr Mark Gatiss, Mr Steven Moffat and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Enjoy!

The Holmes Estate was not entirely new to me. I had been there before; first with Mycroft more than twenty-five years ago on a cloudless day in June, when the air was heavy with all the scents of summer. It was a strange day, and whilst by now I have visited often, under more extraordinary circumstances, it is that first visit which remains imprinted upon my memory. The year was 1923.

As was so often the case with Mycroft, I had at first been unaware of my destination. I merely followed at his request (as I often did); compelled by a growing awe for the enigmatic man who was so charmingly determined to keep my acquaintance.

It was a less than peaceful morning that day. The halls beyond my room were buzzing with activity; the college was, rather distressingly, hosting a ball that evening. The echoing fuss was inescapable, and so I remained swathed in my towelled dressing gown, resigned to a day of interrupted study.

Mycroft entered unexpected, resplendent in dove-grey flannel, a white silk shirt and a royal blue tie. My own as it happened. I had not noticed its disappearance but I'm afraid it set off the azure of his eyes with a finesse which rendered me quite incapable of complaint.

He raised a slender eyebrow in greeting, as was his habit. 'Gregory- what in the world is that you're wearing? You're to change and come away at once…' he cast an inquisitive eye over the contents of my bookshelf. 'I've procured a motor car, a basket of strawberries and a bottle of Chateau Peyraguey- which isn't a wine you've ever tasted, so don't pretend.'

'Where are we going?'I ignored the casual slight. Resigned to and, I'll admit, not displeased by my fate.

'To see a friend…' he flicked through the contents of my wardrobe. 'Indulge me,' he had paused, 'and wear the apple-green shirt.'

And that was all I could get from him.

Beyond the college gates rested the motor car, as promised; an open, two-seater, shining gloriously in the mid-morning sun.

Mycroft slid, with his customary grace, into the passenger seat. If I'd had to pinpoint a character fault in my friend- and I was more than a little blind to any such flaws at the time- it would have been a slight inclination towards laziness. On this occasion, however, I had no intention of complaining.

The soft, rumbling power of the engine and the feel of the wheel beneath my hands was a welcome delight. At my side Mycroft reclined in his seat, eyes closed, basking in the golden light.

The cathedral bells were striking ten as we left the city, narrowly escaping collision with a group of well-dressed young ladies, an elderly fellow on a bicycle, and a couple of minutes later, a fat tom cat. Mycroft's right eye opened a slither as we swerved for the third time.

'Do mind the car, Gregory. It is the property of an appallingly esteemed gentleman. I should not like to have to return it in bits, should we survive the crash.'

Before long the hustle and bustle of the town disappeared behind us, and we were soon speeding into open country, down the quiet stretch of Otleby Road.

'I could sing,' I laughed, as the green fields raced by.

Mycroft sniffed. 'Please, spare me.' But the corners of his mouth were tugged involuntarily upwards; his smile golden in the quiet glow of the day.

We sought out shade in the midday heat, stopping to rest under a clumsy group of elms, on a green velvet knoll. We ate the strawberries and drank the wine, and then lay down side by side on our backs. Mycroft lit two cigarettes, passing one from his mouth to my own, pale fingers painted pink with berry juice. I closed my eyes and imagined licking them clean, as the sweet scent of tobacco smoke furled around us, and then rose gently into the green lace of the foliage above.

'I should like to stay here forever,' he said. Our fingers brushed together gently amidst the lush flow of the grass.

This was my third term at Oxford, but I date my time there from my first meeting with Mycroft, which had occurred, quite spontaneously, at the end of the term before. We were in different colleges, and I could quite easily have spent my years there without ever meeting him. As it happened, I remain greatly indebted to the man's poor tolerance of liquor for bringing us so swiftly into acquaintance.

My room in the front quadrangle of the college was one of the worst. It was situated on the ground floor, and in the summer months became unpleasantly stuffy. Unfortunately, amongst my fellow students an open door was often shamelessly interpreted as an invitation, and my room soon became a haunt for a selection of unsavoury characters. One fellow by the name of Anderson was as unshakeable as he was unbearable.

I was reading Law, much to my mother's delight, although I'll admit the course tired and bored me. I spent my first term, and the majority of my second, fervently wishing I were elsewhere. My immediate family had no particular wealth to speak of, and I owed my time at college to a distant uncle whose untimely death had resulted in unexpected funds.

Of course, for the opportunity, I was deeply grateful. For the atmosphere, I cared distinctly less. Oxford in those days was infested with the most unbearable of the upper classes, whose hauteur at first left me reeling. I later learnt my too casual attire (rolled up shirt sleeves, and an open collar) was causing something of an upset. It was apparently accepted that students should dress in a manner befitting to a country house.

I bought an old tweed coat, and a pair of grey flannel trousers, and hoped for the best. Having my own chequebook was a source of some significant excitement.

Retrospectively, it is easy to say, I was not a typical Oxford student. My room was poorly and sparsely decorated, my bookshelf cramped with the commonplace. My tastes in literature tended towards adventure stories, crime novels or science-fiction tales. Although my F. Scott Fitzgerald short story collections stole pride of place, alongside a much loved copy of The Beautiful and Damned.

In those early days I found myself cheerfully adopted by a small circle of acquaintances whose company I enjoyed and who, thankfully, did much to ease the transition into the whole business of living at the University.

I think, however, I knew even then, that this was not all Oxford had to offer.

I knew Mycroft Holmes by sight long before I met him. He was not the most conspicuous man and, whilst attractive in his slim build and smooth features, of no arresting beauty. He merely possessed a certain cool presence which had earned him great regard and set him apart from the affected conceit of our peers. My first real view of him was in the door of a bookshop I frequented but could rarely afford. He left as I was entering, swinging a black umbrella in his hand. He was rarely seen without it. All this, combined with a seemingly endless selection of rather dapper suits, meant he cut quite a handsome figure.

From all I have said so far I am sure you will understand that, when on a smooth spring evening the man's face (slightly flushed) appeared outside my window, it was by no means an unwelcome surprise.