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221B Baker Street, London. The living room. Sherlock is sitting at a computer at the dining table, his elbows propped on the table and his head in both hands as if it’s hurting, his eyes rapidly darting from left to right and back again as he reads what's on the screen. John is sitting in his armchair, absorbed in a newspaper – or rather pretending to be absorbed, since he keeps shooting quick, worried glances at his flatmate over the edge of the paper. When Sherlock leans back at last and looks across at him, John lets his paper sink down on his lap with a resigned expression on his face.
JOHN: Don’t tell me you don’t like it. I know you never do.
SHERLOCK: It isn’t the whole story.
JOHN: Oh, that’s a vast improvement from what I usually get to hear from you about my blog.
SHERLOCK: Why isn’t it the whole story?
JOHN (rolling his eyes): Are you really asking?
SHERLOCK: Of course. You’re cheating your readers. Again. Why post an account of a case at all, if you tell them only half the story, and then chicken out when it gets really interesting?
JOHN (his eyes already back on his newspaper): You know, there is such a thing as embarrassing people, and it being good manners not to embarrass them needlessly in public.
SHERLOCK (with a snort): You mean the fact that my brother holidays at an ashram in Cornwall isn’t embarrassing, but –
JOHN: I wasn't only talking about your brother.
SHERLOCK: Oh, that. (He narrows his eyes.) No, write it, John. They obviously want the world to know. (He grins maliciously.) Who are we to deny them their wish?
The ashram. In the small car park just inside the gates, Sherlock and John are in their car, ready to depart, and Sherlock, in the driver's seat, is just about to start the engine, when he suddenly turns it off again, looking straight ahead into empty space, clearly elsewhere in his thoughts.
JOHN: What is it?
SHERLOCK: I need to test a theory. (With a glance in the rear view mirror) And besides, some else thinks we're not finished here yet, too.
He gets out of the car. John follows. The leader of the ashram – the abbot – who showed them around the scene of the murder before comes hurrying towards them, looking apprehensive.
ABBOT: Mr Holmes, please don't leave just like that. What you've told me about the murderer -
SHERLOCK (rather impatiently): Yes?
ABBOT: - does not add up, unfortunately. None of our resident monks suffers from alopecia. And every one of them is involved in taking care of our guests, in one way or another, as counsellors, as spiritual teachers. There would be no point in giving this task to anyone who suffers from the marked social anxiety that you said you saw in the footprints in the victims' room. So I'm afraid -
SHERLOCK (abruptly): Yes, I know.
ABBOT (taken aback): Excuse me?
SHERLOCK (already walking back towards the main building): I need to talk to Mycroft Holmes again.
ABBOT (hurrying along at Sherlock's side, even more confused): There is no one of that name in this house.
SHERLOCK (in a tone of deep satisfaction): Good. Very good. Then I need to talk to the man who walked in on us when we were looking at the scene of the murder.
The abbot, still confused but resigning himself to the detective's strange whims, ushers Sherlock and John back into the building.
A moment later, they're in a magnificent room which seems to serve as a parlour. It is furnished in the most spartan Eastern way, with a small low table, barely ten inches off the floor, in the centre and four cushions placed around it as seats. One entire wall of the room is made of glass, and it offers a spectacular view of the lush green meadows surrounding the ashram, and of the sapphire blue sea in the distance.
The door opens, and the abbot enters, followed by Mycroft. Anderson is tagging along behind Mycroft as a matter of course. Sherlock, ignoring both the monk and the policeman, immediately advances on his brother with his arm stretched out, pointing an accusing finger at him. Everybody stops dead in their tracks, surprised.
SHERLOCK (in a tone that bodes no opposition): You. You are not Mycroft Holmes.
There is a stunned silence. Then the abbot, Anderson and John speak up at the same time.
ABBOT, ANDERSON and JOHN (simultaneously): What?
SHERLOCK (to the three other men, but not taking his eyes off his brother): Yes. He's been replaced, very cleverly and carefully, but not cleverly enough. This man is not Mycroft Holmes. He’s an impostor.
After another moment of silence, John begins to laugh.
JOHN: You're not serious.
SHERLOCK (to John, but with his eyes still fixed on his brother): Dead serious. Stop laughing, John. You clearly don't realise the gravity of the situation. The security of the United Kingdom is at stake.
MYCROFT (with a forced laugh): Oh, please, Sherlock. That's ridiculous.
ANDERSON (chiming in): Absolutely ridiculous.
SHERLOCK (to Anderson): And you're either in on it, or you're just being your usual idiotic self. So either way, shut up.
Anderson scowls.
JOHN (in a calm, sensible tone): Sherlock, you’ve known your brother all your life, what the hell gives you the idea that this isn’t -
SHERLOCK (sententiously): When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
He takes another step towards Mycroft, who stands his ground with a smile on his face.
SHERLOCK (to Mycroft): You’re on holiday. (He makes the word sound like an accusation.)
MYCROFT (calmly): Yes.
SHERLOCK: To the best of my knowledge, the last time my brother took a holiday was back in sixth form when he got sent home from school for Easter against his will, on the grounds that they really needed to renovate the school library and that he was constantly in the way.
MYCROFT (with a shrug): Then you would do well to acknowledge that the best of your knowledge may not always be the best to be had. I keep telling you so.
SHERLOCK (not listening, jabbing his index finger in the direction of Mycroft’s forehead): Traces of a tilak, hastily removed.
MYCROFT: Yes.
SHERLOCK: Commonly made of ash from a sacrificial fire, sandalwood paste, turmeric and red clay or red lead.
MYCROFT: Just so.
SHERLOCK: Mycroft Holmes is allergic to both sandalwood and turmeric.
MYCROFT: And I’m not the only one. Our hosts take that into consideration, and provide suitable alternatives.
SHERLOCK (unfazed, his eyes travelling down Mycroft’s person to his waistline): Five pounds less than when I last saw my brother, barely twelve days ago. That is physically impossible for a man of his build.
MYCROFT (nonchalantly): Oh, they have an excellent fasting regime here for those that feel it helps them rebalance. Really does the trick.
SHERLOCK (as if forcing himself to utter an obscenity): “Rebalance”.
MYCROFT (sounding suddenly rather annoyed): Look, Sherlock, if you’re really not tired of this game yet, I can tell you all sorts of things that only the real Mycroft would know.
SHERLOCK (utterly unconvinced): Go ahead.
MYCROFT: I can tell you where our mother used to put the biscuit tin when we were boys, so we wouldn’t just help ourselves.
SHERLOCK (unshaken): So you wouldn’t just help yourself. And ninety-nine percent of all mothers put it in the back corner of the topmost shelf of the pantry anyway, so what’s distinctive about this?
MYCROFT: I can tell you that there is a Y-shaped crease in the card depicting Miss Scarlett in the Cluedo set that our parents still keep in one of the cupboards in their living room. Which originated when you angrily wrenched it out of my hand when you were five years old, in response to my explanation that there was no room in the rules of the game for a theory involving Miss Scarlett’s lost twin sister switching identities with -
SHERLOCK (still completely ununshaken): Four and a half. If you really want to impress me, get your facts right.
MYCROFT (in a suddenly very different, calculating tone): I can tell you the name of your beloved childhood pet.
SHERLOCK (immediately): Don’t you dare.
Mycroft merely smiles a glaringly insincere smile. Sherlock looks daggers at his brother – or supposed brother – for a moment. Then his eyes narrow.
SHERLOCK: Right, speaking of Miss Scarlett, and switching identities – (He takes a few quick steps that place him firmly between Mycroft and the door, and takes out his phone.) Keep him covered, John. I need to make a call.
JOHN (amused): Covered? He’s not that indecently dressed, Sherlock.
SHERLOCK (impatiently): With your gun, John!
The abbot, who has followed the whole exchange until now with round-eyed, open-mouthed astonishment, gives a little squeal of mixed indignation and fear, and exits the room as fast as the dignity of his office and his tightly-wound yellow robe allow.
JOHN: I didn’t bring my gun.
SHERLOCK: What?
JOHN (slightly irked): I thought this was a place of peace?
SHERLOCK: And the scene of a very peaceful double murder.
He rolls his eyes at his friend, then hits a speed dial on his phone.
ANDERSON (to Sherlock, in a superior tone): I suppose you’re aware that guests in this house hand in their phones on arrival, to keep themselves spiritually pure for the –
MYCROFT (to Anderson, in an appeasing voice): I don’t think he’s expecting it to ring in my pocket, you know. And at any rate, I would of course have appropriated the real Mycroft's phone as well.
SHERLOCK (not deigning to even look at either man, into the phone): Anthea? I need you to tell me when exactly you last saw my brother in person, and whether and when you’ve been in touch with him since. (There is a short silence while he listens to the reply. His eyes grow wide in alarm at what he hears.) A whole week? Has he taken leave of his senses? (Another pause.) What do you mean, every summer? (Another pause, longer than the last one. When he continues, his voice is dripping with sarcasm) Oh, that’s touching. Yes, I understand, of course. No, don’t worry, I won’t bother him, I was just wondering. Thanks anyway. Bye.
He ends the call and pockets his phone again.
MYCROFT (sensibly): Sherlock –
SHERLOCK (darkly): So Anthea’s in on this, too, is she?
MYCROFT (drily): At least you’re not suggesting that she's been eliminated and replaced, too.
SHERLOCK (deadpan): Has she?
At this moment, the abbot comes walking back into the room, carrying a tray in his hands, on which he has placed a steaming teapot and four small bowls to drink from. He places it on the low table in the middle of the room.
ABBOT (in an entreating tone): Gentlemen. Dear guests. Please take a seat, and let me help you put this terrible misunderstanding right again. (To Mycroft) You have been an honoured and esteemed guest in our house for years now – long enough for me to know you for a man of incorruptible integrity.
Sherlock snorts, half amused, half irritated. The abbot turns to him.
ABBOT (to Sherlock, still in the same soft-spoken manner): You were called here to help us find the murderer who has so shockingly disrupted the sense of peace and calm that reigns in this community. Please do not endanger this mission now, by allowing doubts and suspicion to distract you from your course. Please, take some tea together now, all of you, to renew your friendship.
There is another snort, this time from Anderson. The abbot ignores it. When he addresses Sherlock again, his voice is heavy with significance.
ABBOT: The future of this house rests on your shoulders.
Sherlock inclines his head politely in reply, but there’s a secret little smile, not a very pleasant one, tugging at one corner of his mouth. The abbot bows diffidently to them all in turn, then walks backwards to the door, exits the room again and closes the door softly behind him. When he has left, Mycroft sits down on one of the cushions, assuming a cross-legged yoga position with practised, almost provocative ease. Anderson follows his example.
MYCROFT (to Sherlock and John, expectantly): Well?
Sherlock, who has remained standing, scowls.
SHERLOCK: Do we have time for that?
MYCROFT: Of course. He won’t get far, I’ve seen to that. What did you think? Take a seat.
Anderson reaches for his tea bowl, but before he can put it to his lips, Mycroft throws out an arm to stop him.
MYCROFT: Don’t drink that.
ANDERSON: What? Why not?
Mycroft takes the bowl from him and hands it up to Sherlock, who receives it, sniffs it suspiciously and even dips the tip of a finger into it to taste a drop. He pulls a face.
MYCROFT (to Sherlock): Rohypnol?
SHERLOCK: Almost certainly. (To John, who looks utterly shocked at this) So don’t drink it either, obviously.
There is no immediate response from John, who still seems too busy trying to work out what the hell is going on.
SHERLOCK (with a shrug): Rule number one, you said, no drugging John Watson, not even for the case. (To Mycroft and Anderson) I’ll call you as witnesses that if he does drink this, it really wasn’t my fault this time.
MYCROFT (amused): Happy to oblige.
SHERLOCK (to Anderson, in an insultingly generous tone): You can, though, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not sure you’ll have anything useful to contribute anyway.
Anderson scowls.
JOHN (confused): No, no, wait. Are you telling me this monk has just served us poisoned tea?
SHERLOCK: Drugged tea, John. He’s not after headlines this time, he’s just trying to put us out of action long enough to make his escape.
JOHN (recovering from the shock, and, being the man of action that he is, rallying very quickly): And we just sit here and let him?
MYCROFT: I told you, John, he won’t get far. We’ll be better advised to make use of the short period of peace and quiet that remains to tie up the loose ends, before this whole place is turned upside down in an entirely uncharacteristic uproar. (With true regret) It will never be the same again.
Anderson shakes his head sadly in agreement. Sherlock pulls a face.
JOHN: Right, loose ends. So, what’s all this about? Are you saying that the abbot is the murderer? (Sherlock and Mycroft nod in unison.) And what was that about headlines?
SHERLOCK: His motive. He was after bad press for this place. As bad as it could possibly get. Ruinous, at best. I’m not sure whether he tried anything less drastic before he resorted to murder, but the murder did the trick very nicely.
JOHN: Bad press for his own monastery?
SHERLOCK (with a sweeping gesture at the breathtakingly beautiful scenery outside the large windows): Look at that. All land belonging to the ashram. And now think of all those property sharks out there, all hoping to get their teeth into the last bit of undeveloped territory on this stretch of the coast. Remember all those building sites we passed on the way here? The best thing that could happen to them would be this place being shut down amid an outcry of scandal, and the organisation that runs it left with no option but to sell it to the highest bidder.
JOHN: But the abbot –
SHERLOCK: Is on their payroll, of course. (With a deprecatory glance at Mycroft) Hardly the first self-proclaimed ascetic to succumb to worldly temptations.
Anderson opens his mouth to protest, but closes it again at a surprisingly serious warning glance from Mycroft. At this moment, outside, in the distance, a number of uniformed officers of the Devon and Cornwall Police appear seemingly out of nowhere and can be seen running across the green meadows, all converging purposefully on some point just outside the field of vision of the men within the room. A moment later, a phone in the pocket of Mycroft’s linen trousers rings. He takes the call, listens intently for a few short moments, then ends the call with a “thank you” and turns back to his companions.
MYCROFT: All sorted. They’ve got him.
JOHN (to Sherlock, under his breath): So that is Mycroft, right?
SHERLOCK (drily): Obviously. (Clapping his hands together, in a business-line tone) Right, John, don’t you think we should now leave my brother and his friend here to –
JOHN: No, hang on. I still don’t get it. When we were in that room, you said that the murderer had to be –
MYCROFT (chuckling): - alopecic, yes. Oh dear, what a deduction, in a house full of men who voluntarily shave their heads every morning before dawn. Almost as good as taking close-spaced steps for a sign of social anxiety, in a house full of –
JOHN (cottoning on): - men who walk around clad in tightly wound yellow sheets?
MYCROFT: Exactly.
SHERLOCK (with barely suppressed anger): Shut up, Mycroft. I knew what had happened after no more than twenty seconds in that room.
JOHN: But how did you know it was the abbot, and not one of the other monks?
SHERLOCK: I didn’t know that. But I thought that me going off on an entirely different tangent would lull him into a false sense of security, and give him the time he needed to prepare his flight as carefully and deviously as he did, revealing his guilt as prettily as one could wish. (To Mycroft) Admit it, that was rather elegant.
MYCROFT (unimpressed): Textbook.
JOHN (to Sherlock, flabbergasted): You mean you never thought that Mycroft wasn’t Mycroft after all? Never for a moment?
Now Mycroft laughs outright, and even Sherlock grins.
SHERLOCK and MYCROFT (simultaneously): Of course not.
John shakes his head in resigned disbelief. Mycroft rises to his feet in one smooth motion.
MYCROFT (to Sherlock, in a falsely jovial tone): Well, dear brother, thank you for destroying the one place in this country where I could truly be content and at rest for a few hours on end, once a year. It’ll be a while until I’ll find a replacement, I’m sure. In the meantime, be glad that I won’t make you and John personally test all the potential alternatives for me. But be assured that I only refrain from this out of consideration for the hosts and fellow guests, not out of generosity towards you.
SHERLOCK (unfazed): Which reminds me to ask why on earth I got called into this anyway. You were here when it happened, don’t tell me you didn’t figure it out on your own long before I arrived.
MYCROFT (in a mock-rueful tone): Yes, I admit I succumbed to a most irrational illusion there. I thought that I should preserve my incognito as long as I could, in order to be able to come back here next summer. (Sadly) It never entered my mind, I assure you, that once this case was cleared up, there would be no next summer in this place for anyone any more.
SHERLOCK: Liar.
MYCROFT: Spoilsport.
The two brothers glare at each other for a moment. Or maybe they’re each of them just daring the other to give in and crack up laughing first. It’s hard to tell.
SHERLOCK (after a moment): Well, we’ll leave you to your chanting of mindless gibberish and your spiritually disguised dieting attempts then. I believe John and I have better things to do with our time than watching you at it. Oh, but before we go, Mycroft, convince me that I really don’t need to worry about your true identity, not to mention your sanity.
MYCROFT (urbanely): With the greatest pleasure. How?
SHERLOCK (with a sideways look at Anderson): Promise me that I’ll never hear a sentence from you again that starts with the words “Philip and I”. And while we’re at it, do confirm that I’m right in assuming that you’ve never holidayed here together before, and that you only met here this year by complete coincidence.
MYCROFT (generously): I’ll be happy to conform with your first request, and I’ll even admit that you’re right in your second assumption, but as for complete coincidences, as far as they even exist, I’m afraid this isn’t one of them. Philip heard this place mentioned by a common acquaintance of ours, and decided to give it a try. Or Mr Anderson did, rather. (To Anderson) I hope you don’t mind me reverting to a proper form of address, now that the masquerade is no longer necessary?
JOHN (innocently): A “common acquaintance”?
MYCROFT: Oh yes. (Nonchalantly) Greg insists that this (waving a hand at their surroundings) “isn’t his cup of tea”, as he likes to call it, even though this little whim of mine regrettably reduces our precious, rare private time together even further. (With a small sigh of regret) He may not be susceptible to the spiritual benefits that a stay at this place offers, but of course he respects how important it is to me.
He smiles. Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it again. His face is completely blank, but for his rapidly blinking eyes. John and Mycroft exchange a look, now both of them shamelessly relishing that very rare but oh so delightful sight, for the second time on one and the same day: Sherlock Holmes, stunned into speechlessness.
221B Baker Street, London. The living room . John can be seen sitting at his computer, typing in his usual laborious two-fingered manner. Then he hits a single key with a final flourish, leans back and nods in satisfaction. A close-up of the screen – showing the type of box where you enter a new blog post – reveals that he’s just typed the line:
“We drove all the way back to London without a word, and we never spoke of what we saw at the ashram in Cornwall.”
THE END