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He found me standing on a chair, wearing my most comfortable outfit of shirt and socks, painting the room he used as a surgery.

“What in the name of...What are you doing?” he asked; an expression of surprise and amusement across his face.

“Rowing a boat up the Thames, what does it look like I’m doing?” I replied cheekily, waving around my paint brush causing a large dollop of paint to fall down my leg.

Watson averted his eyes. “Do try to cover yourself; your dress is very immodest.”

“Don’t be such a prude. Anyway, you’re a doctor, it’s not like you haven’t seen bare legs before.”

He looked around him at the newly brilliant white walls.

“Why are you doing this?”

I jumped down from my chair and brushed a tumble of curls from my face leaving a broad white stripe across my forehead.

“I think it’s meant to go on the walls,” Watson said, smiling softly at his paint splattered house-friend.

“How on earth could you expect to attract wealthy patients when your consulting room had discoloured walls and was furnished so badly?” I asked. “Today you will go and order decent furnishings for this room and we will start to price up new equipment and pharmaceuticals. This room needs to look confidently professional so that patients think you are far more successful than you really are.”

“But I don’t treat rich people. I’ve always kept my fees as low as possible so that I can help ordinary people. I’m not the sort of doctor who just courts the wealthy. Often I have given my services for free to desperate people and I don’t think they care about the colour of my walls.”

“Well, clearly that’s where you’ve been going wrong. It’s a noble sentiment Watson but you have to make your money first before you can afford to give out favours. First the rich, then the poor. Let the rich pay for it, charge them so much that you can treat half the poor of London.”

I set up a small reception desk just outside the consulting room and we busied ourselves over the following few weeks purchasing furniture and filling shelves.

I spent hours working on his accounts and haggled endlessly with medical suppliers who all presumed that a woman was easy prey and could be duped into paying extortionate prices. I happily lulled them into a false sense of security before my quick mind blinded them with rapid calculations.

I was a tough negotiator, sitting behind my desk as a stream of sales-hungry representatives from medical supply companies crumbled under my steely gaze. I loved every minute. At last I had power again and a legitimate way of gaining respect for the first time in my life. I had found my niche and the business became my passion, a wonderful distraction from my grief.

Watson happily pottered around reading his medical books, arranging his pills and potions, deferring completely to my superior business skills and leaving the running of the practice completely in my hands.

Chapter Fifteen

One afternoon Watson burst into the surgery as I was sitting behind the desk doing figure work. He exclaimed in an agitated fashion that there was something most important that he had neglected to do and must go at once to put things right. I tried to calm him but he was most distressed.

“I can’t believe that I have been so very ill mannered, what he must think of me! Honestly Red, I cannot believe that I forgot all about him. There has been so much on my mind since our return from Switzerland but that is no excuse for my inconsideration.”

“Calm down Watson please, you’re not making any sense. Who have you forgotten about?”

“Mycroft, I forgot all about Mycroft and have not visited him to pass on my condolences.”

“Who is Mycroft?”

“You don’t know? Did he never tell you about his elder brother? You don’t know about Mycroft Holmes?”

I rose from my chair in surprise.

“Sherlock Holmes has a brother?”

“Yes, indeed, a frightfully intelligent but rather solitary individual.”

“Bloody hell! I had no idea. You must tell me everything you know of him.”

Watson poured himself a drink.

“Don’t know where to start really. He’s not keen upon physical excursion and rather gruff in manner but blessed with the same astonishing intellect as his brother. He works for the government, in a sit down sort of way, but is completely indispensable. Spends most of his time at his private gentlemen’s club, the Diogenes, where members are forbidden from talking. All very singular, but I digress. The point is; it is horribly rude of me to have not visited Mycroft and offered my condolences.”

This was a most unexpected revelation and I was unsure what was the biggest shock; learning that the man I loved had a surviving relative here in London or that this relative possessed the same peculiarities. The intellect, the inability to interact socially, the curious mix of genius and ineptitude which had just been described to me was clearly genetic.

“He’s an easy man to find, Mycroft. Has his rails and runs on them as Holmes would say of him. A creature of habit and consumed by his work. His lodgings are on Pall Mall. He has his club, his office in Whitehall, and is rarely seen anywhere else. He’ll be at one of them now, probably his club. I’ll go there at once.”

“But, I must come with you. A living relative, I simply have to see him. Do they look alike? Are their mannerisms similar? I’m so curious.”

“They have very similar minds, but have chosen to apply them to very different fields. Such brains as theirs could not idle or fit in with any existing profession. As Holmes invented a niche for himself as the world’s first consulting detective, Mycroft’s position is also unique. He has a meticulous, orderly brain, an incredible memory for facts. He can store in his head the conclusions of every government department then should a minister require information, he can go to Mycroft as his single point of reference. I can’t pretend to fully comprehend his work but Holmes had great respect for his abilities.”

“Were they close?”

“Not at all. Their paths didn’t cross unless they could be of use to each other. Mycroft has never married either, how strange to find two brothers so consumed by their own intellects that their minds always took precedence over sentiment.”

“Not always,” I added quietly.

“I’m so sorry, that was an insensitive comment.”

Watson took a deep breath, “Yes, of course you should meet him, I completely understand. We must leave at once.”

Within the hour, we entered the reception of the Diogenes club.

Watson offered his card and it was put onto a small silver tray. He was then given a list of member’s names and pointed to Mycroft Holmes. The name was written down and placed alongside Watson’s card, then handed to a smartly-dressed young man who carried it into an adjoining room. The commissionaire gave Watson a leaflet which looked like a set of rules and pointed to me. Cleary women were not allowed at the Diogenes. In an angry outburst I told the commissionaire:

“I can probably shoot, play cards, drink and smoke better than any man here and if you try to remove me you’ll be the worse for it.”

Then, a giant man came walking towards us dwarfing the young man with the silver tray who followed in his wake. He was tall and portly with thick curly grey hair and a most fearsome expression. He stared at me stonily with twinkling deep-set eyes and, though physically unlike his younger brother, those eyes provoked a flood of memories which left me breathless.

Mycroft grabbed Watson by the arm and pulled him towards a door with a sign above it which read ‘Stranger’s Room’. I followed, disappointed. I had hoped that Mycroft would be a breathing reminder of the man I loved not an arrogant, lazy walking brain without the depth and emotion I had unlocked in his brother.

“How dare you bring this inappropriate, crude wastrel into this establishment? What has possessed you doctor?” exclaimed Mycroft as we entered the room and he shut the door behind us. “Never has a woman entered this establishment, this club is a sanctuary for the men who attend it, a place of quiet and like-mindedness.”

Mycroft turned his huge bulk and stern, heavy brow to face me. “You must leave at once, get out immediately. Whatever witchcraft you have used to possess Watson will not work on me!”

I just stared at him, speechless and overwhelmed by the resemblance which even his great bulk could not disguise. The brow, the eyes, the thin lips, it was all there. The only thing now left of Sherlock Holmes was this pompous old dragon and the ring around my neck. How tragic it felt, what a monumental loss. I was angry at Mycroft for not being what I had hoped he would be. I just stared as he tried to read my expression, obviously not used to having to deal with women in his controlled, routine life.

“Now steady on old man, I don’t think that is appropriate language or tone to use in front of a lady,” said Watson.

“Bring me a lady and I will treat her as such. Bring me a crass, arrogant guttersnipe and I will treat it as I please! What is the meaning of this, doctor? Why have you brought this woman to me?”

The spell was broken; the familiar features sank back into a haze of jowls, ruddy cheeks and fat. I was just about to angrily interject when Watson placed his hand on my arm to stop me.

“I had come here in good faith and politeness to pass on my condolences and apologise for not doing so sooner. But I will not stand here and let you insult my friend in this way. Let me ask you Mycroft, where were you when your brother was chasing across Europe risking his life? This lady was right by his side and risked her own life on occasions to save his.

“This brave, devoted woman came here in the hope of finding kindred in Holmes’ only surviving relative and instead has been offered only rudeness and judgement. We were both with Holmes. We followed him despite great personal cost and would have done anything to save him. I didn’t see you on our journey. My condolences to you. Good day!”

Upon which Watson took my arm and marched us out of the room. I was quite speechless until we got out onto the street.

“You really are full of surprises John. There is fire in that belly. Thank you for what you said, I didn’t need you to defend me but I was touched all the same.”

“Well really! What an attitude? I was outraged. I’m sorry I subjected you to that. I knew he would be a little unsure of you but thought that he would at least trust my judgement.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. What a pompous, bloated old bore.”

There was a silent pause and I wondered if perhaps I had said too much. Then my friend’s entire face erupted into a huge smile, followed by a hearty laugh.

“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but, bravo! Sadly, that seems to be a perfect description. However, didn’t you describe me in similar terms once?”

“Me?” I asked cheekily, “No, surely not?” and then I laughed and gave his arm a squeeze. “Come on John, let’s go home.”

The dishevelled young urchin with his dirty face and street clothes reminded me so much of myself at that age that I couldn’t resist offering him a little more money than the job warranted.

“There you go,” I said, bending down and placing the money in his hand, “and the rest when the job is done.”

His face lit up at the sight of such wealth but then the steely pride of the street took over and he shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

I smiled to myself and continued, “Good, well, look to it because she’s almost in position. Wait until I’m just about to walk past,” I instructed.

I stepped out from the shadows at the end of the road and began to walk along the busy pavement. I had gained help from an old underworld friend, the celebrated gossip Mr Langdale Pike, to procure as much information as possible about the local Kensington elite and had one of them in my sights right now.

Walking towards me was a bustling, elegantly-dressed middle-aged lady with a flamboyant hat fastened in place with an elaborate pin. She was Mrs Eleanor Reece-Hampton, wife of a wealthy merchant and banking heir. The Reece-Hamptons were well known for their fabulous parties and connections, the perfect client for our new business.

Just as she was about to walk past me, the grubby little street boy ran at great speed knocking her and causing her to lose her balance. Her arms flailed wildly and, unable to keep her balance on high-heeled boots she stumbled and fell at my feet.

“How terrible, please let me assist you,” I said as I bent towards her.

She was a bulky woman, clearly most embarrassed by her fall in full view of the whole street. She grabbed my arm and almost pulled me over as she found her feet.

“Are you hurt?” I asked in my most sincere voice.

“A few grazes perhaps but, oh, the shock of it all!”

I lightly brushed dust from her coat.

“Well, I must insist that you let me help you to a doctor. You look most pale and a simple graze can become very ugly if not treated.”

“No, no I don’t want fuss. I do not have the time.”

“But fortune has smiled upon you madam because you have fallen in the very street where the celebrated Doctor John Watson has his practice. I shall take you at once; it is only a few doors away. I work for the doctor myself.”

“Who? No, it’s not necessary to trouble him over such a trifle.”

“Oh it’s no trouble I’m sure. He’s had Lady Calthorpe in the surgery over an hour so I’m sure she will be gone by now. I know she is always reluctant to leave but, come on,” I took her by the arm, “let’s see what we can do.”

She looked at me with raised eyebrows and I knew from the expression on her face that my name-dropping had achieved the desired effect.

“Lady Calthorpe?” she asked. “Well, I suppose it is as you say, the smallest of grazes can become quite ugly if not seen to.”

My prey took the bait and I steered her gently towards the surgery. Though its outward appearance was rather humble, the newly-painted hallway with a reception desk and a vase of fresh flowers was a vast improvement on its previous state.

“Do take a seat,” I said, indicating a fine plush settee beside the desk. “I will tell the doctor you are here.”

John was in the surgery reading the paper. I burst in excitedly to tell him the news.

“Quick! Go and put on that new Savile Row suit, you have a patient, a rich one!”

I returned to the reception while a rather startled Doctor Watson went off to change his clothes and smarten his wayward hair. I distracted Mrs Reece-Hampton with tales of Lady Calthorpe using the gossip I had gained from Pike.

Then, I led my catch proudly into the smart surgery where an immaculate Doctor John H Watson eagerly awaited his first wealthy patient.

John rushed to take her hand and practise his charming new persona. He stammered slightly and I pointed behind her back at her hat. Slowly John came to understand what I was suggesting and a pink blush teased his cheek.

“I am indeed honoured that you have chosen to consult me Mrs Reece-Hampton, and, may I be so bold as to mention what a splendid hat you are wearing? Most stylish.”