Chapter Text
This is absolutely ridiculous," Mycroft thought, the silence between the three men maddening. After Sherlock's "experiment" had confirmed the existence of their sister, Mycroft had had no choice but to come to 221B Baker Street and talk to the consulting duo himself. There was just one problem, apart from his utter dismay at the situation. They wouldn't speak to him.
Sherlock had been waiting in his usual chair, hands steepled under his chin in thought. He paid his brother no mind, though that was hardly new. But instead of getting his attention, John had simply joined in the charade as though Mycroft wasn't there. The doctor was seated across from his flatmate, a notepad in his right hand as he twirled a pen in his left. As for Mycroft, he'd simply stood behind the "client chair" as they called it, only giving it a slight glare before watching the two men.
"You have to sit in the chair," Mrs. Hudson finally interrupted from her spot at the door, arms folded. "They won't talk to you unless you sit in the chair. It's the rules."
Rules. As if any such rules could apply to him. This was not a case and he was not a client. He wasn't going to sit in the stupid chair and that was final. The landlady's knowing, taunting tone seemed to grate on his raw nerves even further, causing a rather tetchy response.
"I'm not a client."
"Then get out," Sherlock answered simply, not even bothering to look at his brother as he spoke. The elder Holmes turned to look at the pair once more as John began tapping his pen against the pad. After a few moments of silence, Mycroft finally threw up his arms in surrender and took a seat in the godforsaken chair.
Gesturing at Mrs. Hudson, he grumbled, "She's not going to stay there, is she?"
Sherlock tipped his head towards the door, assuring Mrs. Hudson they'll do fine on their own. Picking up the hint, she unfolded her arms.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" the landlady offers sweetly.
"Thank you," the British Government sighed, thinking she'd finally go.
Instead, Mrs. Hudson pointed towards the kitchen with a slight smirk. "The kettle's over there," she informed him before leaving, earning a smile from both her boys.
"So what happens now?" Mycroft questioned, looking to his younger brother. "Are you going to make deductions?"
As if he needed to. "You're going to tell the truth, Mycroft. Pure and simple."
"Who was it that said The truth is rarely pure and never simple?" Mycroft hummed, as though he could change the topic.
"I don't know and I don't care," Sherlock huffed, turning slightly towards his brother. He wasn't getting out of this so easily. "So there were three of us. I know that now. You, me, and.... Eurus."
He waited for his brother's nod to confirm before continuing.
"A sister I can't remember," the detective mused. "Interesting name, Eurus. It's Greek, isn't it?"
"Hm, yeah, literally 'the god of the East Wind'," John interrupted, clearly checking notes he'd made prior to their meeting.
"The East Wind is coming, Sherlock," the detective recalled once his brother confirmed John's comment. "You used that to scare me."
"No," Mycroft insisted at the accusation.
"You turned my sister into a ghost story," Sherlock continued.
"Of course I didn't," Mycroft tried to explain. "I monitored you."
"You what?" John interjected.
"Memories can resurface," Mycroft added, looking to John. "Wounds can reopen. The roads we walk have demons beneath..." Turning his attention to Sherlock once more, he finished, "...and yours have been waiting a very long time. I never bullied you. I used-at discrete intervals-potential trigger words to update myself as to your mental condition. I was looking after you."
There was a slight pause before anyone spoke again. This time it was Sherlock, his tone soft but stern.
"Why can't I remember her?"
This was clearly a difficult subject for Sherlock. He prided himself on his memory, his Mind Palace. He remembered everything of any importance to him. So why couldn't he remember his own sister? Why didn't he have any memories of her? Not a single one. It wounded what he held dearest, what he used to identify himself.
"This is a private matter," Mycroft insisted, doing his best to avoid looking to John. He wouldn't say it out loud. That was just poor decorum. But Sherlock understood what he meant.
"John stays," Sherlock answered firmly, no trace of hesitation in his voice.
"This is family," Mycroft hissed, clearly frustrated with his little brother.
"That's why he stays!" Sherlock snapped, causing John to hesitate as he'd started getting up to leave. Instead, the doctor lowered himself back into his chair with a small smile as the Holmes brothers locked eyes.
"So," John began, interrupting their staring match as he prepared to take notes. "There were three Holmes kids. What was the age gap?"
"Seven years between myself and Sherlock," Mycroft answered, resigning himself to the fact that the doctor would be staying. "One year between Sherlock and Eurus."
"Middle child," John realized, pointing his pen towards Sherlock. "Explains a lot."
Sherlock shot him a look, but didn't interrupt.
"So did she have it too?" the blond continued, turning his attention back to Mycroft.
"Have what?" the elder Holmes questioned.
"The deduction thing," john clarified, unsure what to call it.
Mycroft echoed him mockingly, a rather childish move, before answering. "More than you can know. You realize I'm the smart one?"
"As you never cease to announce," Sherlock grumbled.
"But Eurus, she was incandescent even then. Our abilities were professionally assessed more than once. I was remarkable, but Eurus was described as an era-defining genius, beyond Newton."
"Then why don't I remember her?" Sherlock struggled, clearly growing more frustrated with himself. If he'd truly erased all memories of his own sister, what did that mean for the rest of him? Were the rest of his memories lies? Had Mycroft filtered them all for his own benefit? What about his memories that he'd applied to cases? What if he'd adjusted those on his own without ever realizing? Was he even nearly as remarkable as he'd thought?
"You do remember her, in a way," Mycroft corrected. "Every choice you ever made; every path you've ever taken; the man you are today....is your memory of Eurus."
Sherlock looked away as he thought to himself, but Mycroft didn't stop. He told them about Eurus as a child, how different she had been. The things she never should have known and did. He stared at the floor as he spoke, clearly reliving each memory in his mind. In one particular memory though, his young sister turned and looked directly at him.
"You look funny grown up," the girl commented, never taking her eyes off of him.
Mycroft jumped back to reality, clearly startled.
"What's wrong?" John questioned, brow furrowed as he tried to determined what the threat was.
"Sorry," Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. He took a moment to ground himself, reminding his active mind that it was only a memory. But still..... "The memories are disturbing."
"What do you mean? Examples," Sherlock demanded. He needed to remember her, no matter how bad the memories were.
Mycroft sighed, but told them about the day they'd found Eurus cutting open layers of skin with a knife. "I asked her if she felt pain," he explained, "and she said Which one's pain?."
"What happened?" Sherlock insisted, needing to know the rest of the story.
Mycroft stood with a deep breath, delving into another memory in his own Mind Palace again. This time, it was their childhood home.
"Musgrave," he answered. "The ancestral home where there was always honey for tea and Sherlock played among the funny gravestones."
"Funny how?" John questioned, brow furrowed.
"They weren't real. The dates were all wrong," Mycroft clarified. "An architectural joke that fascinated Sherlock."
That's when the singing started. A young girl sitting across from her brother sang her taunting song. Soon, Sherlock picked up a line, then both Holmes brothers finished the next line.
"You're starting to remember," Mycroft muttered.
"Fragments," Sherlock confirmed.
Deep in the memory seemingly shared between the two Holmes brothers, a young Sherlock cried out for Redbeard. Lost in the memory, Sherlock did it out loud in person as well.
"Redbeard?" John asked, needing context.
"He was my dog," Sherlock explained.
"Eurus took Redbeard," Mycroft filled in. "She locked him up somewhere no one could find him and she refused to say where he was. We begged and begged her to tell us where he was, but she said the song was the answer. But the song made no sense."
"What happened to Redbeard?" Sherlock pressed. It had always driven him mad that he couldn't find his dog, his best friend. He'd never known what happened and never truly got closure for it.
"We never found him. But she started calling him 'Drowned Redbeard', so we made our assumptions," Mycroft sighed, then turned to John. "Sherlock was traumatized. Natural, I suppose. He was, in the early days, an emotional child. But after that, he was different, so changed. Never spoke of it again. In time, he seemed to forget that Eurus had ever existed."
"How could he forget?" John scoffed in disbelief. "She was living in the same house."
"No," Mycroft corrected, shaking his head. "They took her away."
That got the attention of both men. John was the one to speak though, asking what was clearly on both their minds.
"Why? You don't lock a child up because a dog goes missing."
"Quite so," the ginger man confirmed. "It was what happened immediately afterwards."
He told them another story of the little girl drawing in her room. Perfectly normal, right? Except when you stopped to look at each drawing. While any picture of Mummy and Dad were normal, as were those of Eurus or Mycroft, the same couldn't be said of the drawings she'd done of Sherlock. In each one, he seemed to be bloody. All except one, in which he was dead. Her parents argued in the hall close by, unaware as Eurus switched her crayons for a matchbox. The girl struck a match and suddenly Musgrave was ablaze.
"After that, our sister had to be taken away," Mycroft finished.
"Where?" asked Sherlock.
"Oh, some suitable place. Or so everyone thought," Mycroft answered with a sigh. "Not suitable enough, however. She died there. She started another fire, one she did not survive."
"This is a lie," Sherlock corrected firmly. John looked to Mycroft, clearly waiting for the truth.
"Yes. It is also a kindness. This is the story I told our parents to spare them further pain, and to account for the absence of an identifiable body."
"And no doubt to prevent their further interference," Sherlock huffed.
"Well that too, of course," Mycroft conceded. "The depths of Eurus' psychosis and the extent of her abilities couldn't hope to be contained in any ordinary institution. Uncle Rudy took care of things."
"Where is she, Mycroft?" Sherlock muttered as he tried to keep his composure. "Where is our sister?"
"There's a place called Sherrinford," he admitted. "An island. It's a secure and very secretive installation whose sole purpose is to contain what we call 'the uncontainables'. The demons beneath the road-this is where we trap them. Sherrinford is more than any prison or asylum. It is a fortress built to keep the rest of the world safe from what is inside it. That's where our sister has been since early childhood. She hasn't left-not for a single day. Whoever you both met, it can't have been her."
Before either of the duo could answer, a large crash was heard. Shortly after, a woman's voice was heard through a speaker singing a nonsensical song. Mycroft's face filled with dread as he recognized both the song and the voice. A drone flew through the broken window, heading through the kitchen and towards the three men in the living room.
"Keep back! Keep as still as you can!" Mycroft commanded as the drone grew closer.
"What is it?" John asked, backing towards the dining table.
"It's a drone," Sherlock told him, as though it wasn't obvious.
"Yeah, I can see that," John huffed, glancing to Mycroft. "What's it carrying?"
"What's that silver thing on top of it?" Sherlock questioned from the fire place.
"It's a DX-707," Mycroft explained. "I've authorized the purchase of quite a number of these. Colloquially, it's known as 'the patience grenade'."
The drone landed between the three men quietly.
"Patience?" John echoed as a red light on the grenade lit up and a quiet beeping could be heard.
"The motion sensor has activated. If any of us move, the grenade will detonate," Mycroft warned.
"How powerful?" asked the detective.
"It will certainly destroy this flat and kill anyone in it. Assuming the wall's of reasonable strength, your neighbors should be safe. But as it's landed on the floor, I am moved to wonder if the café below is open," Mycroft thought aloud.
"It's Sunday morning, so it's closed," Sherlock assured. No one would be there, so at least they could be sure civilians wouldn't be harmed. The grenade was clearly for the three of them, after all.
"What about Mrs. Hudson?" John worried.
"Going by her usual cleaning routine, I estimate she has another two minutes left," Sherlock told him.
"She keeps the vacuum cleaner at the back of the flat."
"So?" Mycroft grumbled. What did it matter where she kept her vacuum? They were in a rather dire situation at the moment and they were discussing the landlady's cleaning routine.
"So, safer there when she's putting it away?" John clarified, hoping he was right. "Look, we have to move eventually. We should do it when she's safest."
"When the vacuum stops, we give her eight seconds to get to the back of the flat. She's fast when she's cleaning. Then we move" Sherlock instructed before looking towards his brother. "What's the trigger response time?"
When Mycroft merely stared blankly at him, the detective sighed and rephrased his question.
"Once we're mobile, how long before detonation?"
"We have a maximum of three seconds to vacate the blast radius," Mycroft informed.
John sagged visibly, wishing they had more time. How far could they possibly get in three seconds? Not far enough to live, he was sure.
"John and I will take the windows. You take the stairs. Help get Mrs. Hudson out too," Sherlock decided.
"Me?" Mycroft gaped.
"You're closer."
"You're faster."
"Speed differential won't be as critical as distance," Sherlock pointed out.
"Yes, agreed," Mycroft answered begrudgingly.
The sound of the vacuum moved throughout the flat, slowly growing quieter as Mrs. Hudson moved further back in the flat.
"Is there time for a phone call?" Sherlock asked. "John has a daughter. He may wish to say goodbye."
"I'm sorry, Doctor Watson. Any movement will set off the grenade," Mycroft informed him.
John clenched his jaw and sighed silently, clearly upset. Of course he wanted to say goodbye. And if Sherlock thought he should, they must be in more trouble than ever.
"I hope you understand," Mycroft added.
"Oscar Wilde," John muttered. "He said 'The truth is rarely pure and never simple'. It's from The Importance of Being Earnest. We did it in school."
"So did we. Now I recall," Mycroft mused. "I was Lady Bracknell."
John smiled a bit.
"Yeah, you were great," Sherlock admitted.
"You really think so?"
"Yes, I really do."
"Well, that's good to know. I've always wondered."
If the Holmes brothers were getting sentimental and admitting these sorts of things, they clearly weren't planning on escaping this with their lives. They were all going to try though. If they were lucky, they'd end up with terrible injuries but still alive. The sound of the vacuum faded completely then and all three men clearly counted in their heads.
"Good luck, boys," Sherlock told them as they reached the final three seconds.
And just like that, they all moved as planned. The grenade released a monstrous blaze, destroying everything in its reach. Flames quickly engulfed the flat, licking at the brick outside as well. Black smoke plumed into the foggy London sky as the spectacle grabbed the attention of everyone who saw. There was no doubt that the flat itself would be destroyed. But the things could be replaced. The jump was a considerable height, though not lethal. The grenade claimed no lives, despite the destruction it brought. All three men and their landlady escaped. But things would only get worse from here.