Stone Cold Read Free

Sherlock’s or Stone’s gaze, and Sherlock wondered if he was telling the truth. ‘But we are moving away
from the point, which is that I have already written to Mr Dodgson at his rooms in Christ Church College, and he has agreed to take you on as an extraordinary – in all senses of the word,
Sherlock – student. I am currently seeking accommodation for you in Oxford, probably at some boarding establishment close to Christ Church and beyond reproach.’
    ‘And will you have anyone following me around Oxford the way you have in London?’ Sherlock asked.
    ‘Will I need to?’ Mycroft countered.
    Before Sherlock could say anything, Rufus Stone said, ‘Almost certainly.’
    A bell rang, indicating the end of the intermission.
    ‘I shall leave now,’ Mycroft said, but he made no move away from the bay window. ‘Or perhaps I will stay for one more dry sherry. You two head back in and listen to the rest of
that infernal racket. Sherlock – I will send you a note within the next few days outlining where you will be living, when you will be moving and when your tutorials will start.’
    Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but one look at his brother’s face made him shut it again. Once Mycroft made his mind up about something, there was no changing it.
    As a second bell rang out, Sherlock and Stone headed back into the auditorium. Sherlock glanced back briefly over his shoulder. Mycroft was still there, sitting in the alcove – filling the
alcove, to be more precise – and sipping at his sherry. As Sherlock watched, a man in a faded jacket and trousers that were too short for him approached the bay window and hesitated, holding
back. Mycroft looked up and nodded to him. The man took an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. Mycroft took a small knife from his pocket and slit the envelope open. Taking out the letter
inside, he read it briefly, then sighed. Sherlock was too far away to hear any words, but he could distinctly see Mycroft’s lips forming the words ‘The Mortimer Maberley problem again
– I don’t know what he thinks I can do!’
    Even when he was supposed to be at an evening’s entertainment, Sherlock reflected, his brother still appeared to be working. Sherlock turned away, shaking his head. He loved his brother,
but he was increasingly becoming annoyed by him. Sherlock was growing up, but Mycroft still treated him like a child.
    The second half of the concert was, if anything, more technically and artistically amazing than the first, but Sherlock didn’t enjoy it as much. His thoughts kept turning to what his
brother had said, and to his own particular future. He had no great love for Farnham – it was a pleasant town, with pleasant people, but he had never considered it as anything more than a
temporary waypoint in his life, a stopping station, like those places horse-drawn carriages used to break their journeys across country so that the passengers could eat a meal and sleep before
continuing their travels. London, on the other hand, had captivated him during his short time there. The city was almost like a person – it had its own character, its own moods, and it could
change in a moment. He loved it, and he wanted to live the rest of his life there, if he could.
    But first, Oxford. There seemed to be no way to avoid it. The trouble was that it was all built up like a row of dominos in Mycroft’s mind – two years living in Oxford, being tutored
by this Charles Dodgson, leading to entrance into the University and full-time studies, leading to a degree in some useless subject, leading to a dull job in government or in a bank, leading to . .
. what? Retirement somewhere by the sea? That was not the kind of life he had planned out for himself.
    Of course, he didn’t actually have a plan for his life. At the moment he was just drifting, testing the waters, seeing where the currents would take him. Somewhere in the back of his mind
was the vague thought that he might turn