The Great Western Railway train from London Paddington Station pulled into Oxford on a January afternoon in the year 1890. It was a coal-powered steam locomotive, with a black iron hull streaked with soot. Behind it, it pulled a series of squeaking carriages with oil lamps swaying slightly as it came to a halt. The air was damp; a steady drizzle clung to the windows, greying the silhouettes of people walking by. By the time the train crossed the last bridge into Oxfordshire, the sun had already begun to set.
When Mycroft Holmes, fifteen years of age, stepped down onto the platform at Oxford Station, he did so with interest. He carried a single trunk, containing most of his essentials he would need here and a battered leather satchel containing marked newspapers, a fountain pen, and a small set of notes he had made. He paused briefly, taking in every single detail and committing it to memory.
The bells from Christ Church chimed four times, a chime that floated through the air, calling the city's dons and students back to their books, their benches, and their unending debates. Here he was, Oxford, the next step in his path to becoming the greatest detective the world had ever seen and maybe something more.
Balliol was old, older than reason. Its stone walls were weather-beaten by centuries of sermons, speeches, and muttered complaints about wine. In many Oxford colleges of the 19th century, wine was served regularly at High Table, the formal dinners for fellows and senior scholars, and it was a source of both pride and complaint among the dons. Mycroft had been assigned a shared lodging in a modest but elegant room on the second floor of the south building, overlooking the inner courtyard. His roommate was already there when he arrived.
.
William Archibald Winterbourne, the third son of a Gloucestershire baronet, stood by the hearth, smoking a smelly pipe and reading a volume of Lord Byron, one of the major Romantic poets of early 19th-century England. He was tall, with a trained aristocrat's ease and the lean, slightly stooped frame of someone accustomed to spending hours hunched over mathematical equations. One brow raised as Mycroft entered.
"Holmes, I take it," Winterbourne asked.
Mycroft looked at the young man and took everything in. His accent was a clipped and lazy drawl. His words were spoken precisely and briefly, not wasting effort on syllables, but also relaxed and slow. He was not affected by the meeting and careless in the way of the upper class, as though words were something to be toyed with but never hurried.
Mycroft deduced the man's upbringing before he even said a second sentence. Born into comfort, educated privately, likely sent to Eton or Harrow, and now drifting through academia not out of hunger for knowledge but because there was no pressing reason to do anything else. His posture, his choice of poetry, even the faint smirk behind his greeting confirmed it: William Winterbourne was not a mind sharpened by adversity, but one insulated by lineage, curious only when it suited him.
"You are correct," Mycroft answered.
"I assumed you'd be taller."
"I assumed you'd be reading something less vapid," Mycroft shot back.
Winterbourne blinked once and then gave a thin smile.
"Excellent. This should be either very easy or a disaster. Tea?"
"Please," Mycroft replied calmly, his tone smooth and neutral, lacking either invitation or dismissal. He removed his gloves and set his umbrella down where it belonged.
Winterbourne moved to pour two cups from a porcelain pot on the windowsill, the gesture more polite than warm.
"You've the voice of someone who already has me sorted into a tidy drawer," he said with a smirk, handing Mycroft his cup.
"Not quite a drawer. More a labelled shelf," Mycroft returned, accepting the tea without meeting his eyes.
"And what does it say on the label, if I may?"
"'Third son. Baronet blood, I presume. Eton or Harrow. Indulges in vice only in moderation, and only when it's fashionable. Affectionate toward disinterest. Loathes effort that yields no praise.'"
"Ha!"
Winterbourne barked a laugh, then took a thoughtful sip.
"You forgot: 'Terribly charming when I wish to be.'"
"Not forgotten. Simply omitted for brevity."
"Why third son?" Winterbourne asked, leaning forward slightly, his curiosity piqued.
"The eldest must display gravitas, he is expected to inherit, and to lead. Every motion would be a demonstration. Too practised, too polished. The second son is often rebellious; statistically speaking, he is more likely to pursue art, religion, or scandal. He tries to differentiate. Too vivid. But the third? He moves quietly. He is neither burdened by expectation nor compelled to perform. He drifts. Watches. Smokes Byron by the hearth and reads early 19th-century romantic poetry."
Winterbourne gave a single amused huff.
"You make me sound dreadfully predictable."
"On the contrary, I prefer the third son," Mycroft replied, calmly sipping his tea.
He settled onto the bench beneath the window, back straight, eyes already surveying the shelves of books on the opposite wall. He never kept a shelf of books, since simply touching them was enough to know what was written inside, but something was calming about it.
"And you?" Winterbourne asked. "Where does a Holmes hail from?"
"London by necessity. Rye by circumstance."
"How very cryptic."
"I find explanations often take more time than they save."
"Well," Winterbourne said, stretching out on the chaise, "if we are to share a room, we might as well establish the rules of detente."
"Certainly. I require silence as much as possible, but at least after seven, and light extinguished whenever you please, unless you are studying for something important or it's interesting."
"And if I snore?"
"I will let you live. But I may take notes."
They formed an immediate and curious understanding, not quite of friendship, but of cohabitation. Mycroft had no immediate desire for companionship, but wasn't against it either, and Winterbourne had little use for competition, but he enjoyed Mycroft's character. They tolerated each other precisely because they demanded nothing of one another.
.
Mycroft formally studied the Literae Humaniores, encompassing classics, philosophy, and ancient history. But he had filed petitions with three separate colleges to be granted "audit" rights for additional lectures. He succeeded in enrolling in three, as it were: Jurisprudence lectures at Magdalen Hall, early economic theory at Exeter, and Cryptographic structure and classical logic at Merton.
Each morning, Mycroft began with reading. The Times, the Telegraph, and the Pall Mall Gazette, clipped and arranged across his and Winterbourne's shared desk. Mycroft read them all in silence while eating a simple breakfast of boiled egg and dry toast, only occasionally murmuring strange phrases to himself: "North Sea Fleet increase — defensive or political?" Double resignations in Ireland. Curious. "German tariffs are shifting—likely agricultural pressure."
He didn't need to read it. Simply touching anything containing information already appeared inside his mind and would never be forgotten, but he enjoyed the time he spent reading. He took his time precisely not to get too bored. Strictly speaking, the time he spent here was not necessary for him. And as soon as he had had enough, he would most likely leave.
Mycroft had no friends, not in the traditional sense. But he had correspondents.
.
It was on a rainy Thursday that Mycroft attended his first informal seminar with Professor Elizabeth Caversham, of Lady Margaret Hall - a woman who should not have been permitted to teach in the eyes of many, but who had far more mind than her critics had teeth.
She taught an uncredited course in comparative law and continental political structures, and Mycroft had shown up without being invited. Why not? He was interested in the course and the woman teaching it, as he saw it as very important during these times.
Caversham raised her eyes from her notes and peered at him.
"You are not on my list," she said.
"I've found that lists are often wrong."
"Your name?"
"Mycroft Holmes."
She waited, expecting him to continue. Usually, the men jumped at the awkwardness and the way she looked at them, but not Mycroft. So after a long 30 seconds, she continued.
"Age?"
"Fifteen."
"Department?"
"Balliol, Greats — with some side arrangements."
She smiled faintly.
"And why are you here, Mr. Holmes?"
"To see whether this lecture lives up to the reputation it possesses among the smarter dons."
"Ah. You're one of those," Caversham sighed, already placing Mycroft inside a box.
"I hope not."
Professor Caversham leaned back in her chair, crossed one leg over the other, and stared him down for a full ten seconds before gesturing to an empty seat at the front.
"You may stay. But if you're wrong about yourself, I will assign you something impossibly tedious as punishment."
"I shall take the risk," Mycroft replied and sat down.
.
The topic that day was "Legal Power vs. Actual Authority in 19th-Century France." Professor Caversham wrote on the board in a careful, twisted hand:
De Facto vs. De Jure
Consent of the Governed
Administrative Violence
Mycroft did not take notes; it was useless for him. Once he saw it, it was inside his mind, and once something was in there, it would never leave. That might be seen as a great gift, but he knew that it might as well be a curse. He listened.
After twenty-five minutes, the Professor turned toward him, seeing that he wasn't taking any notes like all the other students.
"Mr. Holmes, seeing that you're not taking any notes, you have time to answer one of my questions. If one were to murder a peer of the realm in Marseilles and then flee to London, what political arguments could prevent extradition?"
Mycroft blinked once. He went over what he had heard in the near-half an hour and then answered.
"Assuming the peer was not in direct diplomatic service and no treaty compels us, the Home Office could block extradition if they could argue that the crime was political — say, if the peer had been lobbying for colonial measures that caused popular unrest. Then the crime could be reinterpreted as an act of rebellion."
"And you find that just?"
"Justice is an ornament. I'm more interested in systems of permission."
"You're cynical."
"I'm structural."
She studied him.
"Suppose it were not murder, but theft."
"Then the argument fails. Political motive is no longer persuasive unless the item stolen is symbolic, like the tricolour flag or a regimental standard."
"And if the French press begin calling it 'a nationalist liberation of imperial property'?"
Mycroft nodded.
"Then you are no longer speaking to the courts. You are speaking to Parliament, and the case has become theatre."
She smiled tightly.
"You're too young to be this correct."
"No one seems to object when I'm wrong."
And she laughed.
.
What just happened in the dialogue between Professor Caversham and Mycroft was a sort of intellectual sparring match that revolved around how laws were applied, not in theory, but in real-world politics. Caversham tested Mycroft with a challenging legal scenario: if someone committed a politically motivated crime in France and then fled to England, how might the person in question avoid being deported?
Mycroft's response was calm and brilliant. He demonstrated that legal systems were not just about what's right or wrong, so not always about justice, but about who had the power to permit or prevent action, so the systems of permission. He argued that the British government may claim that the crime was of a political nature and, therefore, not have the criminal be deported. He then went on and showed how the media and public perception could shift the conversation from what was the law, and just, into the a political theatre. He was far ahead of his time with this statement.
This wasn't just about France or crime; it was essentially about power, storytelling, and the machinery of nations and those of higher political power. Mycroft displayed a deep understanding of legal philosophy, geopolitics, and realpolitik already. Naturally, he had a lot of time to think about everything he saw and all the information he gained and remembered from his past life. So he was not strictly speaking only 15 years old.
.
As Hilary's term wore on, Mycroft continued to dissect world events from his paper clippings, which he had as a hobby. He noted the travel routes of a Russian diplomat, decoded a peculiar series of editorials in the French Le Figaro, and traced a series of arsons in London to a political manoeuvre intended to push a security bill.
He sent one unsigned letter to Scotland Yard, using his contact with Chief Inspector Abberline as a crutch in the matter. It was miraculously acted upon. But he didn't know how it turned out.
Winterbourne found this all "splendidly unnerving,"
"You'll either be assassinated or employed by the government within a year. Possibly both," he said as he took a sip of his tea.
"I've taken precautions against the first," Mycroft replied, "and the second is inevitable."
"Haha, you're peculiar, Homes."
____________________
This was very hard to write. I know nothing about what was discussed, and also not about the curriculum of Oxford University. If there are either grammatical or continuity errors, please let me know.
I am trying to slowly set the stage for future plot points and events on the world stage. Also, don't look too far into his 'deductions' as I am more or less pulling them out of nowhere. They should somewhat make sense, though.