Sherlock's shined shoes reflected the electric lights which hung bracketed to the walls, with his silver tipped walking stick clicking unnecessarily across the hardwood as he strutted down the main stairwell. He needed no support when walking, and in fact such sticks were hardly used indoors at all. Though the sound was perfectly satisfying, it announced his presence with that quick and predictable click, the sort of sound that matched with his stride and tapped without fail in a constant, consistent pattern. It alerted the staff of his coming presence as well as decorated his steps with an audible and appreciable sound, the music of his stride. Not to mention the thing was filled with cement, and therefore a good bludgeoning device if ever he needed it. As Sherlock finished his decent he was met with the wandering pair of Mary Morstan and John Watson, the two emerging from their rather lonely side of the house where the lesser used bedrooms could be spared. John looked to be wearing the same outfit he had always appeared in, that drab suit which was sun damaged and all together unacceptably dusty. Mary was wearing a long white gown, one which brought out the paleness of her skin but also the fierceness of her bright eyes. It must have been a deliberate choice, for Sherlock had always regarded that dress as her most flattering. Perhaps she had the same ideas as Sherlock when she looked within her closet. John still looked a bit like a lost puppy, and when he spotted Sherlock as he descended the stairs the tutor's face grew quite pale, as if he was terrified to have to say the first word of welcome.
"Splendid, Mr. Watson. I was worried you would have forgotten about your dinner arrangements." Sherlock declared, at last settling himself upon the tile floor and leaning heavily upon the tip of his walking stick. John halted in his tracks, collecting his hands behind his back and readjusting himself into that exceptional military composure.
"Ms. Morstan was kind enough to remind me." John admitted, though still he looked as if he was going to vomit rather than smile.
"Poor lamb." Sherlock sighed, continuing his way towards the dining room and taking it upon himself to decide just when they were to be eating dinner. Perhaps the meal was not fully prepared, though the moment he took his seat was the moment the chefs began to come around and offer up whatever was ready for the evening. Sherlock was not a man to wait, especially within his own home. If he was done dressing for dinner he would not waste his time with sitting around, especially not when his hair was done so perfectly! Who knows when a gust of wind could escape an open window, blowing the cooperative curls into complete chaos! No, he would rather a controlled environment even at the expense of some of his side dishes. Irene and the children joined the small group at the dinner table, with Sherlock taking the head seat and his immediate family sprinkling into their respective chairs surrounding him. The dining room was just as expertly designed as the rest of the house, and even now Sherlock watched John Watson's neck crane back to appreciate the golden ceiling, as if he had never seen the metal imprinted and used in such a design. Sherlock spoke no word of protest, for the man's table manners were obviously suffering, though his eyes were almost as wide as a child's, sparkling with that same curiosity that was so evident within the glances of his own children. How could Sherlock interrupt such bliss? The long table was adjusted unevenly, as the numbers forced poor Mr. Watson to be sitting across from an empty chair. The children sat as high as they could on one side of the tables, facing their normal views of Irene and Mary, while John sat as the undeniable outlier in his newfound spot at the table, looking timid yet excited to be dining with such company. It was a proper family meal, the first of many which would be shared within these walls. Silence was still thick as the chefs produced the first course from the kitchens, decorating each plate with a serving of sliced cucumbers and shelled oysters, a healthy and minimalistic appetizer to lead into the main course. When John was served his oysters he looked perplexed, as if he was beginning to wonder if he was supposed to crunch down on the shell. Perhaps he had never seen an oyster before; perhaps he didn't even know how it was supposed to be enjoyed! Sherlock didn't dare help him, not just yet. He was almost curious if the man would be willing to break a tooth on behalf of his nervous mannerism. Unfortunately Mary also noticed the look upon his face, and her mutterings of directions were the only sounds save for the continued cracking of the shells.
"Have you found everything to be in order, Mr. Watson?" Irene asked, looking down the table with a rather complex head turn as John took to poking his oyster out of the shell with a very inexperienced fork. The man paused, as if worried to make a fool of himself while all eyes were upon him.
"Oh yes, everything is splendid. I didn't know buildings could even be so massive." John admitted with a nervous chuckle.
"Ours is not nearly the biggest, as we have the city constraints to worry about." Irene assured.
"My brother Mycroft's house is in the country, considerably larger." Sherlock added in, feeling the need to boast not only about his own money but also that of his brother, the other half of his massive estate. Perhaps when John set eyes upon both mansions he would finally appreciate the full force of the Holmes family.
"I have to consider that impossible until it is my privilege to wander the halls myself." John declared, to which Sherlock dared a small smile before continuing on with his oysters. The children swung their legs under the table, with their little feet barely touching the ground from where they sat upon the large adult chairs. Neither child ever said much during their meals, as there was hardly ever any conversation that they could understand. Unless they were directly questioned, both Theodore and Elizabeth were content in their silence and in their dinners.
"Do you have to work tonight, Sherlock?" Irene wondered, obviously growing more and more uncomfortable with the growing silence. Sherlock tensed, his eyes glancing towards his wife with a quick and almost poisonous glance. He did hate it when she brought up the subject of work, for she always seemed to speak of it as if it was a direct insult to her family and to her already shattered marriage. It was as if she completely disregarded the profits he was bringing in, only looking upon the negative side of his absence!
"Not tonight. Mycroft has allowed me to take time for the arrival of our new tutor." Sherlock muttered quietly, his face growing rather flushed as he ducked his head farther down towards his plate.
"You work in railroads, what possible business could you have at night?" John chuckled. It seemed as though this was a perfectly fair question, though Sherlock noticed how the entire table (even the children!) became tense and uncomfortable. John's smile began to fade when he noticed Mary's hand clenched almost dangerously around her fork, her knuckles stretching so tightly they may very well break through her skin. There was no proper knowledge around this table, though there was just enough doubt between them to expect the same hallow lie that Sherlock always offered to this often repeated question.
"There are many duties of a businessman, Mr. Watson. And like my employees who work around the clock, so too must I when need demands it." Sherlock explained quietly.
"Yes of course." John muttered, his voice so low that he hardly pretended to believe. Sherlock understood that his answer was vague, but he had said all that was in his power to say. That was the explanation he had given to his most intimate companions, why then should Mr. Watson be the only one blessed with the truth? It would be an unfair double standard, and Sherlock assumed it was best to keep everyone in the dark lest the light be too blinding for their sensitive eyes. Once again silence over took the room, save for the unintelligible conversation Mary had struck up with the otherwise silent children. She was questioning them about their day and if they were excited for their new tutor, getting polite and cooperative answers from the well trained children. Certainly they couldn't be happy to be learning under a new and unfamiliar face; though even at their age they understood that one should never insult another person when sitting at the dinner table. Not unless, of course, your insult was too complex and went over most of the people's heads. Just as the main course was being brought out on silver trays the dining room door opened, interrupting the selection of duck and brining all attention to the newly arrived and timid looking James. He looked quite small in the door frame, never much appreciating all eyes turning upon him at once. Nevertheless the boy held himself in his desired stance, his eyes catching with his master's as he spoke his purpose aloud.
"Mr. Holmes, a carriage bearing your family's crest has pulled into the driveway." James announced. Sherlock's shoulders sagged, and for a moment he felt quite like slapping the remainder of the tray of duck from the footman's hands in his utmost irritation.
"That would be Mycroft, then. Uninvited as usual." Sherlock growled in discontent. Oh how that man liked to interrupt fragile moments!
"Should I invite him to the dining room?" James wondered.
"No, have him wait for us in the drawing room." Sherlock instructed, knowing even as the words passed his lips that such instructions would not be followed.
"As you wish sir." James agreed, bowing low and disappearing back through the dining room doors. Thankfully he pulled them shut; perhaps shielding the arranged family from Mycroft's wandering eyes. Then again that man could smell any morsel of food from a mile radius. He probably knew the family had sat down for their dinner even before he had pulled through the gate.
"Your brother?" John presumed, a hint of excitement evident in his voice that would soon disappear with his first proper introduction.
"A beastly man, to be sure." Sherlock growled, throwing his fork down in disgust and straightening himself in his chair for the arrival of his brother. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Irene's annoyance as well, her black eyes staring down upon the table as if even the woodwork had done something to offend her. Irene was famously not a fan of the Holmes brothers, and even though she had married one she still found the pair to be utterly impossible when paired together in their constant quarrels. The woman could hardly handle Sherlock when he was on his own and in his usual fragile moods, though as soon as Mycroft was introduced back into the picture the brothers' bothersome habits were multiplied, not just added together. Even Mary Morstan looked nervous, as if she could feel each one of Mycroft's powerful footsteps as he stormed into the halls he was not invited to. Soon Sherlock could hear approaching footsteps, moving too rapidly and excitedly to belong to any of the mild mannered servants. No, there was no denying his brother's arrival. As the doors flew open Sherlock rose to his feet, not wanting to be caught sitting down when his brother was free to loom. The man's first arrival was met with Sherlock's most threatening glare, and as the doors caught upon their hinges and swung back there were stiff, unyielding hands to catch them. Mycroft Holmes stood just a hair shorter than his brother, still holding onto his lean frame but struggling to keep his oldest suit jackets fitting comfortably in his growing years. He always dressed about as fancy as he could manage, just to remind each one of the commoners of his enormous wealth, and unlike his brother his hair was brown and straight, styled upon his head in a luxurious and shining design. There was little to connect the Holmes brothers on looks, other than of course their similar and almost debilitating facial expressions. There was the same fire burning within each of their eyes, and when the sparks met each other across the rooms the roaring heat of the flames was undeniable and almost harmful to the guests which were made witnesses.
"Mycroft." Sherlock growled, kicking his chair behind him so that he had enough room to move across the table and meet his brother near the doors. Mycroft's face, which had at one time been so serious, broke into his usual antagonizing smile; his arms pushing the doors back once more as he stepped within the dining room and offered his hand out to shake. Sherlock sneered upon the gesture of good will, and out of spite he kept his own hands tense around his hips, trying to keep himself looking just as dissatisfied as he could manage.
"Sherlock, always so unhospitable!" Mycroft chuckled, throwing his hand into the pocket of his coat and snickering as he withdrew it.
"What purpose do you have here?" Sherlock wondered in a small voice, trying to keep their aggressive conversation shielded from the wandering ears of his servants and family. Mycroft was always the bearer of bad news, and his uninvited visits were notoriously on strict and demanding business.
"Candy, of course." Mycroft admitted, holding open his palm to reveal a handful of carefully wrapped hard candies. "For the children."
"How thoughtful." Sherlock sighed, though obviously no one was convinced.
"Theodore, Elizabeth, would you like some candy?" Mycroft wondered, waving the sweets around in the air as if to tempt the children from afar. Their smiles were the only ones evident in the room; even John Watson who had begun so optimistic was beginning to look highly doubtful of this new arrival.
"Yes please, Uncle Mycroft!" Elizabeth exclaimed, speaking for the both of them as her little voice piped in her excitement.
"Wonderful, wonderful." Mycroft muttered, taking up one of the candies and throwing it just about as hard as he could manage in the direction of the little girl. Thankfully his aim was quite bad, and while the flying candy went rocketing in the girl's general direction it missed her head entirely and smashed upon the back wall. "Theo, candy? Want some candy?" Mycroft repeated, hurtling more of the little things towards the boy, who was actually able to catch some before the splattered against the hardwood and were lost but for a mess for the butlers to clear.
"Mycroft, are you drunk?" Sherlock demanded, catching the man's hand as he turned to throw some in the direction of Irene, as if he wanted the pleasure merely of hitting her in the head rather than offering her a sweet treat.
"Never." The man sighed, turning his powerful wrist within Sherlock's hand and wrenching himself free almost effortlessly. Elizabeth had taken to crying, the sound of her wailing beginning to cover the entire room and echo across the large domed ceiling. Mary Morstan took to her feet, scrambling to intercept the child before her tears could bring an untimely end to their first collective meal, and Theo began to offer the girl some of the unharmed candy he had received in reprimand for her trauma.
"Oh Sherlock, look what you've done!" Mycroft exclaimed, settling his hands back into his pockets and watching the scene with obvious amusement. Sherlock merely growled, figuring he could not politely scold his brother in front of such a fragile audience. Irene had sunken her head into her hands, some of her loose bangs falling just inches away from the sautéed duck which was destined to go cold upon her plate. John Watson was still sitting stiffly in his chair, his eyes unfocused and unblinking, as if he was telling himself that if he ignored what was going on it might just go away. Sherlock was beginning to wonder if he wasn't regretting leaving the peaceful confines of his dirt floored town after all. Thankfully Mary had gotten Elizabeth to quiet, as she took the child up in her arms and bounced her up and down on her knee, bringing out a smile upon the girl's tear streaked face. Mycroft was still giggling, as if he thoroughly enjoyed watching Sherlock's well put together family crack and crumble under any applied pressure. The master of the house kept his jaw clenched tight, his fists balled within his pockets and struggling to stay still. Oh how he would love to throw a lethal punch into his brother's smug face, just to remind him who really was in charge within these walls!
"And who is this fine fellow here? The one wearing the old rug from the library?" Mycroft wondered with a sly grin, stepping closer to the table and leaning over the edge to more intimidatingly look John Watson into the eyes. Mycroft settled both palms upon the hardwood, his black eyes shining quite like a snake's when it had just startled a mouse out of its hole.
"John Watson." Sherlock interrupted, just before John could open his mouth to introduce himself properly.
"Hasn't he got a voice, brother mine? Let him speak for himself." Mycroft protested. Sherlock sighed, looking towards the scene of his family to get at least one glance of consideration. It would help him to know that at least one person around this table was able to see his suffering. Though all eyes were away from the scene, Irene looked as if she was just about ready to throw her plate of food not only at Mycroft but also at her husband, as if this was his fault entirely. Mary was busying herself with the children, and so it would seem that it was John and Sherlock against the beast. And by the look on John's face, well Sherlock figured it would turn into a solo battle quite soon.
"I'm the new tutor." John declared at last, figuring that his name had been properly introduced already.
"A tutor for the children? What a delightful investment." Mycroft muttered, nodding his head in satisfaction.
"Yes, he should be a good addition to the household." Sherlock agreed, happy that at least some positivity came out of this conversation. John's face lit up, and while he held back his smile his eyes glowed with the satisfaction of being appreciated.
"Where did you find him, out on the sidewalk with a cardboard sign?" Mycroft chuckled.
"I don't discriminate off of background, brother. You may not have realized this yet, but not all worth comes from being born with dollars in your veins." Sherlock snapped. Mycroft's smile flickered for a moment, though he finally pushed himself roughly to his feet and stabled himself upon the hardwood, still with his eyes upon John as if to study him more carefully.
"Say what you will about worth, Sherlock, but thank God every night you were born without having to earn a dime. Your little business would be..."
"Mycroft, that's enough." Sherlock snarled, jabbing his brother in the side to silence his words before he began losing family secrets into the sensitive ears of the servants.
"Nothing's ever enough for you, dear." Mycroft sighed in response, to which Sherlock's cheeks glowed quite red. He tried to stifle his emotion, this frustration obviously being his brother's main point of interest. Mycroft loved it when Sherlock got aggressive; he loved to see the first punch thrown! That only opened the doors for his massive arms to go flying, usually after one punch sending his brother to the floor into darkness. Sherlock learned this lesson too many times to let his anger get the best of him now, especially when John Watson was looking on! Sherlock couldn't dare make a fool of himself in front of such an important audience.
"Let us talk in the Library, Mycroft. I sense that you have important business matters that you are neglecting." Sherlock presumed, touching upon his brother's shoulder to steer him into more private quarters.
"I have Victor out back with my bags, where shall I put him?" Mycroft wondered as they passed through the doors, aided by the helpful hand of James.
"You know where the dog house is out back, don't you? He should be comfortable there for the night." Sherlock grumbled, though already he saw James secure the door and move back out towards the driveway to invite the fellow servant inside. For some reason Victor Trevor was a very popular guest within the lower quarters, as if his weak humor and his failing mannerisms were enough to charm the lower circles of the Holmes household. Of course that disgraceful valet never seemed to understand that the more prestigious occupants of the manner found him to be quite intolerable, and so quite like a shadow he hung around constantly. The only thing worse than Mycroft Holmes was his hired help, the boy acting as valet, footman, butler, and anything else that Mycroft might desire him to do. It was unclear why Mycroft forced poor Victor to do each of these tasks simultaneously, and it was even stranger why the boy would comply. They had a mutual bond, perhaps their souls already soaking within the same vat in hell, and the pair became inseparable. Almost like mold upon an already undesirable, lumpy piece of fruit. Sherlock would rather toss the whole thing aside, though it always had a way of showing back up within his home. As the Holmes brothers passed within the library the sound of the front doors announced Victor's presence, though his nasally voice was preoccupied with James as the two of them lugged Mycroft's gigantic luggage into his usual room. The man always traveled with a packed bag, for he despised riding in his carriage past dark and he was never afraid to ask for lodging. If ever the man appeared after three o'clock the servants already knew to begin preparing his bedroom for an overnight visit, and there were stretches where the foul beast would not leave for a week on end. Sherlock shut the doors to the library as securely as he could manage; peering through the doors just before latching them to make sure no wandering ears had followed the brothers to their meeting place. Already he could sense that this was a delicate matter, and to have the servants overhear would potentially prove disastrous to their already delicate reputation.