Anjelica Huston by Annie Leibovitz, 1985

John expected, he must admit, a mixture of Sherlock and Mycroft. Someone impeccably clad and irrepressibly superior, with enough facets in her face to blind a diamond.

But no. She doesn’t have Sherlock’s swagger, grandiloquence, isolation; nor Mycroft’s unending series of unnecessary and undiscarded crutches. She is purer than they, and higher. The Holmes boys might be gods among men. But their mother is the miracle that made them and the food they don’t know sustains them. She was there before they wrought the new world, and she will be there still when all that’s left from their warring is an uncertain future and so many words on the wind. A mistake to think that she would reflect the relations John knows. She eclipses them altogether.


Excuse me while I go DIE OF PERFECTION.

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