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"Your brother sends his regards," I say.
We're at the breakfast table, Holmes pouring ungodly amounts of sugar into the mug in front of him. His eyes are open just enough for him to navigate his immediate environment, but it's obvious that he is not fully awake yet and likely won't be until he's consumed at least a gallon of coffee. In the soft rays of early noon light filtered through the halfway closed curtains, he looks almost angelic, an angel that happens to need a few cups of coffee before peforming any divine duty.
He does look up at the mention of Mycroft, eyes opening a little further, darting down to the letters in front of me, then immediately up to my face, homing in on every single detail of it. Even in his barely lucid state, I'm certain of his ability to describe my current state of mind with frightening accuracy. Of course, living with Sherlock Holmes, getting to see him in different shades of light, tempers, circumstances, has given me the opportunity to gain on him.
It does fill me with... pride, perhaps, although pride is a word too rough, too simple, too tainted by societal normativity to truly describe the emotions this man instills within me. Being an author makes me acutely aware of how incapable I am of describing this man. Holmes is a man whose mind wanders and wonders and watches and wraps around the lives of those around him to dissect but never partake. Holmes is a man who is never fully tangible, never fully comprehensible, but I like to think that I am one of the very few who may be close.
With his slight change of angle, attention on me, the sugar is now pouring out all over the kitchen table, but neither of us bother with mentioning it. There is little use to point out such a trivial detail to a man who is so aware of everything around him – aware, the same way a bystander would be.
I clear my throat, glancing down on the letter, "Feel free to relay my regards to my brother, as well as inform him that he is expected at the next Holmes family dinner, as I refuse to answer any further inquiries about his relationship status for a second time."
Despite the soft lightning flooding the room and bathing my companion in a benevolent glow, I can't help but notice the change in atmosphere, the tension building up in the space my words leave behind as they slowly fade from the air around us.
Then...
"My brother does not write letters to people," Holmes declares, and for a second I see something vulnerable in his eyes that his trademark morning attitude can't quite mask.
"In his defense, I approached him first," I say. "He had some book recommendations for me that he did not get to share when we met in person, on account of the murder we had to prevent."
Holmes makes a sudden movement with his hand, tilting back the container with sugar and causing the steady assault of condiment on our table to stop.
"And he responded to you," he says, less of a question and more of a statement neither of us can deny at this point.
"Yes," I confirm.
"And you continued the correspondence after that."
"Yes."
"Why."
"I suppose because you don't read your mail, Holmes," I say in my most patient tone that still has a certain edge to it – he's still half asleep which can excuse some of his behavior but not all of it. Truth to be told, I like the ruthlessness far more than his indifference, considering that it gives me access to his mind, even if it's not always pleasant.
"What would you two even talk about?"
I'm not sure what to focus on first. The slight, trembling hint of jealousy, or the fact that it seems like there is a topic my friend clearly would not want us to broach.
"Alright." I cover the letter with both of my hands, causing my friend's eyebrow to twitch in irritation, as he can no longer catch a glimpse at his brother's writing. "What is upsetting you?"
"I'm not upset."
"Just tired, then? We can have this conversation after your coffee, if you prefer."
Holmes' jaw tenses but he nods, grabbing the mug in front of him and taking a sip. I watch him, his fingers brushing the ceramic material, moving towards the bread basket, wrapping around a knife to spread butter on a bread roll. It's only when I can be sure that he doesn't need any further input or help from my side that I return to my letters.
"... what were they about?" he asks after a few minutes. I look up, finding his mug empty and the bread roll reduced to a handful of crumbs on the tabletop, mixing with the sugar still spread all over it.
"The books?" I ask back.
"Yes."
"Linguistics, mostly. But there was a rather fascinating article a man in his club wrote about rules in detective fiction. An early draft for now but I am featured in it."
Holmes nods, more to himself.
"Oh and he did attach some old photographs..." I start, snorting with laughter when Holmes' eyes snap back up to my face with nothing but sheer, intense panic in them. "Is that what you are afraid of?"
I am met with icy, terrified silence.
"He didn't," I clarify. "But I am not above asking if you do anything as stupid as faking your death again."
"Noted," Holmes whispers.
"I am, of course, willing to compensate you with old photographs of myself, to make it fair."
His lips twitch, then drag up into a full smile.
"I shall keep that in mind. Did he mention the date of that family dinner, by any chance?"
I lift an eyebrow. "Holmes, I refuse to enable your habit of ignoring your mail–"
"You don't have to tell me. But you will have to join us."
"Last time I checked, I was not part of the family," I say.
"Ah, that's where you're wrong." Holmes uses his hand to gather at least some of the spilled sugar in the center of the table. The sunlight has lost its edge, gathering around his silhouette again, a gentle spotlight reserved for me to witness.
"It seems that my dear brother has adopted you, Watson. Congratulations."
"What's my prize?" I ask, more intended as a joke, and he takes it with a faux seriousness that makes it clear that he is aware of it. Less of a bystander now, or perhaps we're simply occupying that isolated space on the sidelines together now.
"I can offer you a spot in the family graveyard," Holmes responds.
"A tempting offer, certainly an improvement from the military graveyard I expected to end up in up until very recently."
"You will be, of course, expected to visit on major holidays and birthdays. But, in turn, they will gift you wine you don't like and a book you've already read."
Following an instinct, I reach out, grabbing his hands, rough from far too many failed experiments and sticky from the sugar he spilled. I can't say that I mind, it's not the worst thing I've touched this week, not by a long shot.
"All because your brother adopted me?" I ask. "Am I visiting your family as his charge?"
It's bold, and I am usually not very bold when it comes to this man. I am content with watching, limiting myself to the same position life so often puts him in.
Holmes' eyes soften. He allows for our fingers to interlace, his jaw working like there is something he wants to say but finds no words for, and while I have yet to find words worthy of this man, I get the sense that, for once, just for a moment, he's fully, achingly visible to me, no, not just visible but comprehensible.
I am an author, and a part of me loathes the idea of there being anything I cannot describe. But I am also his friend, and part of spending my life at the side of this man is discovering and accepting what I had previously deemed impossible.
"With any luck, Watson," Holmes says after a few seconds of stunned, soft, satisfied silence, "My brother was already forced to answer that question for us."