Title: Game of Choices

Genres: Angst, Family, Friendship, Mystery

Rating: T

Synopsis: The Holmes siblings play a game. A dangerous game with high stakes. And given the competitive nature of each, none are willing to lose. Character study fic. No slash. (Post) series 4.

Warnings: This story is a bit weird for me to write. The environment, tone, and transitions are a bit different from my normal style, so please let me know if this style is confusing or just annoying. This is an experimental fic for my writing style, and a mental exercise trying to get into 3 of the most difficult heads to comprehend and ground them to reality. I am not native to England. If you find any detail incorrect, please politely inform me and I will edit accordingly.

Story Warnings: Suicidal tendencies, guns, blood, violence, murder, drug abuse… you name it. I really outdid myself in this fic.

Disclaimer: The story is based on characters from Steven Moffat and Mark Gattiss' TV show "Sherlock", based on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories. I do not own anything but the writing and some ideas assumed from the show.

Prologue

It was a dark room, save for a stream of light that cut through, spreading a cold white glow. One would define the room as dark enough to be black, but the focus was so little on the absence of light and more so on the presence. There were dust particles, that flirted and slowly tumbled down to the ground, illuminated into sparkling spots.

The light brightened merely a patch of the room. And at its center, there was a small ebony table, the wood carefully carved with expert hands, and polished tenderly by a passionate wood worker.

There was nothing on the table.

The environment was gray. It wasn't black. It wasn't white. It wasn't silent, nor was there noise. It wasn't devoid, for there was that elegant table at the center. But there was nothing substantial. Yet.

This was an empty board; a game yet to begin.

There was a noise, the soft buzz of machinery. A man rolled into the light, his chubby features highlighted by the light. He seemed to be in his mid-fifties and he was obese, housed tightly into his wheelchair so that parts of him spilled over. He was clad in a fancy suit, the richness of the black material evident at first glance. He had a wine glass in one hand, filled to the brim, while the other operated his mode of transportation with mere flicks of his wrist. He stopped in front of the table, looking curiously at the polished surface before observing his surroundings.

He was the first player.

There were soft footsteps. A series of deductions would conclude, merely from the sound, that this belonged – not to a child, they were louder than that – to a small woman. Yet, the sound was so soft. Barefoot, then. A woman entered into the light, her red hair glowing under the bright light as it tumbled in slight waves down below her shoulders and almost to her hips. She wore white scrubs, the square neckline highlighting her collar bones. White. Based on simply the style, it was easy to see where she could have come from. A prison. No, an asylum. No, no, that doesn't sound right.

Oh. She came from hell.

And she was the second player.

The first two players gazed at each other, the elder sipping his glass while the younger observed, her head tilted in curiosity. It was almost a trance, when the pale green eyes met the same, and there seemed to be an understanding. A quick acknowledgment that they were the same.

"Redbeard!" A voice disturbed the equilibrium, a ripple effect on a pond. It was high-pitched, the voice of a young boy, and both players turned towards the source of the sound.

A boy, barely ten years old, skipped happily towards the table, his caramel curls bouncing, his pale green eyes glistening with life and emotion. He held a stick in his hands, and wore a pirate hat, the white emblem of skull and crossbones in stark contrast to black felt cloth. The child looked towards the two in front of him, a curious gaze within those innocent eyes.

"Have you seen Redbeard?" He asked politely. "He's my first-in-command, and has been missing for quite some time."

"I'm afraid not," the older man responded. He gazed sadly at the child. Those innocent happy eyes. The boy turned to the woman, addressing her with the same question.

"Have you, Ma'am?"

"No."

The answer was succinct, raw and emotionless, her voice rough from years of misuse. It befitted the respondent.

"Okay," the kid responded slowly, looking at the people before turning around, intending to leave the way he came. He had obviously trespassed something private, important even, and he had no place here. Or so he thought. "Thank you for your – "

"Stay."

The same textured voice, a haunting resonance hidden within veils of black. The same voice that re-captured the attention of the fat man, and he held the gaze this time.

The boy turned around, gazing at the red-haired woman. "Why?"

"I believe, brother mine, she wants to play a game," the older man responded, slowly prying his eyes away from hers.

The child studied the two people, before finally nodding. "Okay," he responded again as he moved back to the table, his small hands splayed across the polished surface. "What are the rules?"

The lights clicked off, hurling the occupants into darkness for brief seconds before the lights came back.

And then the table held three guns. The same size, the same weight. The same color glinting maliciously off the surface. All three were identical.

"A game of choices," the woman whispered, her lips curling into a smile, her heart beating in anticipation. She reached for her gun, picking it up immediately and with an insatiable hunger. She needed blood.

"Ah," The elder man said, his eyes widening slightly in understanding. "The rules are self-explanatory then." He picked his gun as well, his old hands curling around the handle. He held the gun steady, not with the mad passion displayed by the woman before him, but with a sense of responsibility. The gun was heavy in his hands.

"They are?" The child asked, stretching across the small table so that he could reach his gun. After several grapples, the small hand curled around the mouth of the gun, dragging the device across the surface before clumsily enveloped by the child's soft hands.

The older man nodded, a pang of pain radiating through his chest as he saw the child try to balance the weight of the gun in his arms. This wasn't fair. The child didn't deserve this. "A game of choices, unfortunately."

The red hair laughed, an amalgamation of air and squeaky chalk. Irritating. Annoying.

Scary.

"At least one dies, at most two leave." She turned towards her opponents. "Who do you choose?" She leveled the gun at the child, pointing it at his small head, before whipping around to point at the obese man. "Who?" She laughed.

"I don't understand," the child started slowly. "Why would we play this?"

"Oh, brother dear," the red head tutted. "I will have to teach you, I suppose." Her eyes pierced into the child, forcing him to squirm under her scrutiny.

He turned away from her, ignoring her comment as he addressed the other man. "Where are we?"

"My god!" The red head exclaimed mockingly. "You might be slow," she pointed towards the obese man. "but this one is downright brain dead." Her smile widened into a grin. "This will be fun."

The child moved a step away from the woman, a slight tremor now developing on his lower lip as his pale green eyes turned glossy. "My parents told me not to play with strangers." He stepped back now, pushing the gun away from him, and almost placing the device back on the table.

"Then we should introduce ourselves to each other," the older man started. A part of him told him to stop, to let the boy go. Another wanted the game.

And three must play this game.

The obese man grinned, revealing his cavity-filled teeth, an attempt to reassure the child. "I am… Politician." He nodded at that.

"That's not a real name!" The boy contradicted.

"It will suffice for our game." Politician concluded, not leaving any room for discussion. "It is the role I chose for myself. And please be aware, difficult decisions are a part of my profession."

The red head smiled. "Then I will be East Wind. I don't make decisions. I only come."

The child shivered at that statement, wondering if it was too late to leave the game now. But Redbeard was missing. And there weren't many games he could play without his first-in-command. He nodded slightly to himself before introducing his persona.

"I'm Yellowbeard, Captain of the ship, and the brave and good Pirate of the Atlantic," the child boasted proudly, allowing his imagination to run wild. "And I protect my crew." Yellowbeard seemed to recite, as if it was a common introduction for himself.

"Is that why Redbeard is missing?" East Wind taunted. Her eyes twinkled, and within those depths, there was a direct message: The captain had failed to protect his crew.

Yellowbeard looked visibly upset at this, and glanced down at the floor. He picked at the hem of his sweater. "Redbeard is fine."

"If you insist," she teased. Yellowbeard looked up, ready to vehemently argue against her, but was interrupted by the other man.

"Redbeard isn't our game." Politician stated. "This choice," he waved the gun. "This choice is our game."

All three players moved forward so that the surrounded the table, their guns poised, their stance ready.

"Who plays first?" Yellowbeard asked.

"Why don't we start with the youngest?" Politician replied.

Yellowbeard and Politician turned towards East Wind. "You are first, East Wind."

John practically raced into the fortress, panic clearly written on his face as he briskly walked into the same building he vowed never to return: Sherrinnford.

It was a normal day, working at his clinic. Sherlock's cases had dwindled down, leaving the sociopath hungry for action. A bored, deprived Sherlock ranked number two on John Watson's list of nightmares, second only to a dead Sherlock.

But it was different now. It was that time of the month: a Holmes family reunion of sorts, or so he was told.

John was invited too (somehow, the good doctor made it onto Sherlock's view of family), but he turned the request down. He wasn't particularly keen about meeting the secret sister who swayed his heart, disguised herself as his personal therapist, and chained him down to the bottom of a well.

So, John never returned to Sherrinford. He thought he never had to. Until today, of course.

A lady greeted him at the front, dressed professionally in her gray suit. "Dr. John Watson." She nodded towards the shorter man. "I am the current governor of this fort. Thank you for joining us on such short notice."

John returned the nod. "What is the problem?" He asked. No beating around the bush, he thought. Getting straight to the point.

The governor inhaled slowly. "It was a regular meeting session, arranged by Mr. Mycroft Holmes," She started as she led him down a hall way. "Mr. Sherlock had brought his violin, as per usual, and Ms. Eurus and he were playing. Nothing particularly special."

She led him to the security room, closing the door behind them as she pointed towards one screen in particular. It was a video footage and from the angle, the camera was installed on the top right hand corner so that Eurus was clearly visible, while the back of Sherlock's head faced the camera. Mycroft sat in a chair to the corner, silently observing the two violinists as they played.

The notes were beautiful, soft and dancing. John leaned in, listening to the hypnotic music. A gentle breeze, the chill of the east wind, and the leaves curled in on themselves. Nature shivered, opting to retreat into a deep slumber. A deep longing, a plead for help, for refuge. An enticing darkness, softly and slowly taking over, lending its hands to the winter snow…

A shrill pitch suddenly disrupted John's thoughts, and he was facing the electronic screen again. Both violinists were drawing their bow, maintaining the pitch as even Mycroft shot up from his chair, confused. And then the pitch got higher. Much higher, to the point that it went mute.

And all three siblings collapsed, the violins smashing onto the concrete floor. John's eyes furrowed in confusion as he leaned into the screen. What? His heart spiked, watching his best friend prone on the ground once more.

"They've been like that since," the governor explained. "We tried to send Mr. Sherlock and Mr. Mycroft back to main land, but the moment we separated them, their heart beats would fade."

The governor shuffled her feet, not meeting the doctor's gaze as she continued. "We didn't quite know what to do, but we understand you are a personal doctor to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. This was the reason behind our urgency."

John nodded, understandingly. "Where are they?"

To Be Continued...