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My name is Mycroft Holmes. My younger brother is Sherlock Holmes, “the world’s only consulting detective.” Recently, he jumped from a building to his death. I feel there are some things that need to be known about him.
We grew up well-off: happy family, large home, parents who pushed us to succeed. When we were both in our teens, our father died. Was murdered, in fact. Even at that age, Sherlock was already assisting the police in their investigation and correcting their mistakes. Ultimately, it was he who solved the case.
After that, our mother became depressed. She spent much of her time drinking or in London shopping. At any rate, she did not parent. Sherlock was still young and needed supervision. It was clear he had a very strong mind and would go to any length to learn something. More than once I had to do whatever I could-sometimes calling in favors-to stop him before he got hurt or killed. Once, I even had to use my influence as a then low-level government official to keep him out of prison.
Sherlock was never grateful. He would always scoff and scold me for ruining his experiments. He never understood why his life and safety were so important. He would always resent my watching out for him, but deep down, he knew that he owed me his life.
Then, Sherlock disappeared. This was years later, after university, after we’d both moved to London, after Mother’s death. It wasn’t for long. Eventually, I was able to pull some strings and found him in a run-down flat on the East End. He was high, the needle still sitting next to him on the floor, and he hardly recognized me. I yelled. I asked him what the hell he could possibly be thinking. Didn’t he know how dangerous it was? Didn’t he know he could die? He stared at me for a long time. I wasn’t even sure he heard me. After what felt like years, Sherlock simply shrugged, pointed to his head and muttered “it’s quiet.” Two simple words, and I understood completely.
From that day on, I left him alone, physically anyway. I always knew where he was and what he was doing, and was able to be there if he was in real trouble. I watched as he fell deep into addiction, selling his skills of deduction on the street for money to buy more. I watched as he was arrested, eventually befriending the same officers who took him and consulting on their cases.
I watched as John Watson came into his life. I was wary at first, of course, but thought I could use it to my advantage. When he refused to work for me, I left Mr. Watson alone as well. I then watched as John essentially stabilized my brother, helping to be a steadying force in Sherlock’s life. I then watched as John lost my brother. I watched him fall from that building, and I watched how it affected John.
My brother did what he did, not because he was guilty, but to save those he loved, including myself. I will fight for this point as long as I live while continuously keeping an eye on those that Sherlock cared enough for that he was willing to give his life for them.