Was listening to Eurus' theme 'I had no one' the whole time I wrote this- it's so sad it broke my heart enough that I wrote more angst.
Tell me what you think (if you want) because I'm quite unsure of it as a piece.
The room is cold.
This room had held her in life. The incandescent burning flame of their sister had been tied to this room since childhood.
She lays on the bed. A body now. Nothing.
Mycroft turns away- even now he cannot break the facade of heartlessness. His brother knows he is crying nonetheless.
Sherlock steps through where there used to be glass. He walks towards her.
She lays still. So still he almost expects she is still alive.
Eurus.
The word is so filled with pain.
She had worsened here. Twisted her mind into fragments of herself and torn it to shreds.
It didn't hurt her. Eurus didn't feel pain.
Her body is arranged peacefully on the bed. He looks at it now and can see nothing but how very pale she is. Her hair seems to swallow her. It has not been cut since he saw her.
No one knows why she died.
Nobody.
She has no one who knows her secrets.
She never had anyone.
She was always so small. He thinks.
It had only been a month.
A single month with his long lost sister.
She is dead now.
The east wind has died.
Sherlock kneels at her bedside.
He takes her wrist into his hand, fingers gentle against the inside.
There's nothing.
'Come play with me Sherlock. Play with me.'
I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry Eurus. He speaks to her memory.
Sherlock cries, pressing his lips against her hand.
Her skin is cold. He remembers when he had last held her hand. It had been feverishly warm- a scalding heat.
Sherlock cries, head dipping to her hand. He holds it tightly, eyes closed as he chokes on his sorrow.
Eurus.
The detective sobs, laying her hand down by her side and kissing her face.
He wishes he could have taken her place. His little sister.
Sherlock holds her close, cradles her limp form to his chest.
Eurus.
He rocks, her head heavy against his shoulder.
"I'm so sorry Eurus." His voice catches.
Mycroft is opposite him. Across the bed. His eyes are dry but he is crying.
Gently they settle her down again. Together they rest her against the wall.
Mycroft holds her hand like he wishes he had while she lived.
He whispers something and Sherlock has the decency to pretend he doesn't hear.
His brother looks up at him, crouched beside their luminescent sister.
"Won't you play for her Sherlock? Eurus... She always loved to play with you." Sherlock closes his eyes. He breathes out, tears flowing down his cheeks and nods, lips thinning.
The violin is next to the bed.
Sherlock reverently picks it up. His hands shake.
He licks his lips and stands, eyes closed.
He knows that Mycroft is watching him. Waiting.
He plays her song. The song of being completely and utterly alone. The song of longing. The song of falling and no one being there to catch you ever- no one knowing that you existed to fall in the first place.
I had no one.
The song screams.
I had no one.
It screams, intensely beautiful and burning.
I had no one.
Eurus Holmes screams to her brothers and they weep.
I had no one.
She screams in their minds, a mere child trapped in a burning wreckage. She is alone.
I had no one.
Says the violin, placed upon a dead woman-child's lap in the most secure prison on Earth.
To her brothers this room was a mausoleum holding their sister who had burned like the sun. Life had been unjustly cruel.
To Eurus Holmes it was a room containing a violin. A violin.
Sherlock Holmes alone knows that Eurus died of pain.
Because Eurus Holmes can feel pain. Eurus Holmes only ever knew pain.
But what is darkness to the blind?