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Connor tossed the bags and boxes onto the back of the lorry with a barely contained rage. The Ladies' Auxiliary from St. Bridget's was taking the rest of Ma's stuff that the family hadn't, and Connor was in a white heat to be rid of it all.
In the wake of his grief had come such a wave of fury at his mother that it had even frightened Murphy. Worse than anything was the fact that Connor could not tell him why. Would not. Ever. Some things were better left buried. He'd seen enough horror movies to learn the consequences of digging up things that were better left alone.
"Connor!" Murphy's frantic voice cut through the white noise of his thoughts. "Not that one!"
"What?" Connor stopped and stared at Murphy, who had jumped into the back of the lorry to retrieve a box. "What is it?"
"It" was a much-taped Nestlé's chocolate bar box with childish writing on the top in big letters that spelled out "H and W."
Upon noticing it, a warm flood of memories suddenly soothed Connor's mind, and he grinned at this brother for the first time in days.
~*~
From the moment Connor and Murphy laid hands on their first Sherlock Holmes book at the age of ten, they were hooked like proverbial fish.
The natural course of events in a child's life dictated that they emulate their heroes in every way possible, although, at first, there was much argument as to who would be Holmes and who would be Watson. A couple fistfights later determined that they would trade off, but Connor thought Murphy could never pull off Holmes' calm and collected persona and was more suited to Watson's brave and florid personality. Murphy begged to differ and told him he was full of shite.
Next on the agenda was finding the proper costumes, but unfortunately, no one owned, nor knew of anyone who owned a tweed deerstalker hat. Connor had optimistically asked Ma if she would buy them one, but received only a jaded stare before she continued with the ironing. So they made do with one of Uncle Cillian's old, threadbare herringbone caps. Connor begged Mrs. O'Reilly next door (who owned the bloody Hound of the Baskervilles that wanted to eat small children through the fencing) for one of Mr. O'Reilly's (God rest him) old pipes. It wasn't a proper Sherlock Holmes Meerschaum pipe, but better than nothing. Ma conceded with a dusty old bowler that Da had left behind, and Murphy scrounged a broken umbrella from a rubbish tip.
They spent that entire summer terrorizing their neighborhood with their questions and note-taking. Although opinions changed when they found Mrs. Dennehy's diamond chip earring she thought she'd lost forever, and Darla McMann's charm bracelet that had fallen off during one of her skip-rope sessions.
But their crowning glory was their discovery of Old Mrs. Brody's cat Missy's hiding place. Missy had taken off in disgust at the invasion of her home by Old Mrs. Brody's horrid grandchildren, who liked to yank on her tail and poke her in the face with their fingers. Old Mrs. Brody was properly grateful, feeding the heroes biscuits and tea cakes, while Missy glowered at them from her lap.
All in all, the Macmanus boys were quite successful as a sleuthing team, although Murphy never developed the proper deferential attitude Watson had for Holmes. Connor didn't think that Dr. Watson ever whacked Sherlock Holmes on the head with his umbrella and called him a fucken retard.
~*~
Murphy poured the tea as Connor sat at the kitchen table and carefully sliced the tape on the box. Before opening the flaps, he looked up at his brother's face and felt a rush of love, and saw the answering call in Murphy's sapphire eyes.
He traced Murphy's face with his eyes: the dark auburn hair, the hooded eyes that pierced his heart, the soft lips more often than not stretched in a Mona Lisa smile, that mole that drove him mad with lust…
He knew at that moment, with Sherlock Holmes' clarity and confidence, that Murphy was more than a brother; he was his other half, most-times his better half. No matter who was who's father, he knew who their mother was. He knew they shared an intimacy that few could comprehend.
He pulled Uncle Cillian's herringbone cap out of the box and handed it to Murphy. He took out the bowler and popped it on his head.
"I say, Holmes," Connor said in an exaggerated upper-crust English accent. "What do you say we delve into the deep mysteries of your arse?"
Murphy wheezed with laughter. "Only if you wear that fucken hat, ya fucken pervert."
~Fin~