Hello everyone! Thank you so much for your support!
This chapter is absolutely pivotal, folks! Settle in, relax, you're in for a ride...
Disclaimer: Anything that is canon belongs to those who carry copyright of BBC Sherlock.
22:46pm.
Smoke drifted into the air, twisting and turning on its journey into the abyss. Within a few moments, the visible particles dissolved. The human eye would never perceive them again. Mycroft studied the emission of gas from the end of his cigarette diligently.
His eyes fell closed as he inhaled one long, final drag, and stubbed the offensive object into an ash tray. The room was dark, lit by a small downlight. The rich furniture cast long shadows, looming, waiting, watching. The ticking clock giggled from its suspended spot.
Mycroft Holmes lay his elbows against the deep Parnian desk and let out a stilted breath that had begged for relief all afternoon. Deft fingertips found his temples and massaged the area. It wasn't enough to quell the headache that plagued him.
Beneath him sat a letter. Three words. A familiar hand.
How was it possible that brushes of ink against refined tree bark could spur such a commotion in the mind?
Mycroft remained still for a long while. His logic demanded an epiphany his neurosystem wouldn't provide.
The sound of a knock forcefully brought him out of his stupor. Instinctively, his large palms covered the letter in front of him.
"Sir?"
"Anthea."
The brunette offered him a half smile, as the ice man corrected his posture into one of authority. Smoothly, she stepped two steps into the room. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and she stopped. "Sir, there's been an incident."
His tone was as transparent as his features, "Where?"
"The National Gallery."
23:27pm.
Are you okay?
Molly
Pressing send, Molly sighed. Deep down, she knew she wasn't going to get a response from Sherlock anytime soon. Molly looked hopelessly at her pasta dish. Without thinking, she found herself wrapping it up and placing it in her fridge, hoping Sherlock would finish it when he came back.
If he came back.
Come on Molly, he's just at Baker Street. Don't be dramatic!
All evening, the Pathologist had considered going to him. His turn in the flat had been unnerving. But should it have been? Going from polite to irrational was typical Sherlock behaviour.
So why was she worrying over his safety? Just because they'd begun exploring a new aspect of their relationship didn't make him a changed man. Mycroft's silence spoke volumes; if Sherlock was in immediate danger, he would have been in touch.
Molly reached behind her and let her hair down. A shower and sleep would do her some good. As she paced from the kitchen to the bathroom, she ignored the words running on the television screen behind her.
'… Bonaparte stolen from the National…'
The Next Day, 7:37am.
Rosie squirmed, kicking and wailing as John hoisted her into a baby carrier. "Come on Rosie, you know I hate this as much as you do." After much trepidation, the satisfying 'clicks' met John's ears. He kissed his daughter's forehead as she objected her new position.
God, I need coffee.
After hastily checking his list of items he needed, he started making his way down the hall, child protesting the whole way. John struggled to reach over to a door on his right, his knuckle made two quick raps on the door. "Viola?"
He heard the shuffling of feet, before the door pulled open.
Viola looked down sleepily at the army doctor who looked like he would burst. Through messy dark curls, she leaned against the doorframe, quirking a bemused eyebrow. "Are you okay?"
Rosie wailed.
"Yes, ah-" A nervous laugh, "I have work. I'm just dropping Rosie off at my neighbours. I should be off by one. Will you be okay on your own?"
The corner of her mouth lifted as she translated the outline of his words. "Yes… I'm, erm, going with Molly this morning." She thought, "To the hospital? For working."
John ignored her incorrect tense and offered her a light expression. "Great. Spare key is on the rack, and, call me if you need me, okay?"
Viola nodded.
"Right, come on angel," John addressed Rosie, before bustling down the stairs, and through the door.
Viola ran a hand through her hair with a small laugh, but her fingers got caught in a knot, and she groaned. Quietly, she turned on her heel and went back into the guest bedroom. She reached down between the side of the mattress, pulled out a piece of paper, and sat on the bed.
With incredulous and assiduous eyes, she studied it carefully.
'VIOLA. Ti sono mancata?'
The letter which had been left days ago now bore worn edges. It was an enigma. It still didn't make any sense.
For days, she'd sat on the decision. Tell Sherlock or not tell Sherlock?
Matteo was in prison. The fact this had landed on John Watson's doorstep was… Incredible. Awful. Terrifying.
Every attempt to relax had been met by self-doubt and paranoia. But it was different now, Viola rationalised. Nothing had happened since. The world had been strangely quiet.
Maybe it was the last joke from my psychotic auntie, the one who forced me into Sherlock's existence. Maybe it isn't real.
Viola wanted answers. The shock had passed, but the questions remained. The solution was clear. When she saw Sherlock, she would tell him. Who would better at solving his mystery than the great Sherlock Holmes?
7:52am.
"Sherlock stop being a cock and answer your phone. It's about Viola. Just- please call, alright? Bye."
John let out a huffed sigh, dashing down the steps of the tube station. After a few minutes, the packed vehicle pulled in, squeaking against the old metal. John thanked his stars when he saw a singular free seat emerge from the camouflage of commuters. The grimy seat felt like a breath of fresh air.
Helplessly, John thought of his best friend. Sherlock had been out of contact ever since he'd yelled at everyone to leave his flat. Maria had told him that some guy- Matt? Matteo? Macheo?- Was out of prison. She instructed him to tell Sherlock straight away. John didn't understand Maria's words, but he knew Sherlock would. With a soldier's approach to duty, he needed his friend to know, and fast. However, the detective seemed to have disappeared.
His behaviour the day before had been… Strange.
But Mycroft hadn't been in touch, so surely that meant whatever was going on didn't impede on his brother's safety? John wanted to feel happy about that, but part of him hated it. Mycroft had used Mary against them all, and Sherlock deserved to know. Silently but resolutely, John made a vow:
If this isn't sorted in the next two days, I'm telling him. Sod the consequences.
Mary would have wanted him to know.
Feeling somewhat affirmed in his decision, John sat back and waited as London passed by overhead. His attention was caught on the Daily Mail that someone held open opposite.
'NAPOLEGONE! FAMOUS VERNET PORTRAIT OF NAPOLEAN BONAPARTE DISAPPEARS FROM THE NATIONAL GALLERY.'
John wondered why sounded familiar.
8:09am.
It was like art, mused Sherlock Holmes, to stand on the very point between reality and oblivion. The epicentre, where the axis could turn, and shift the foundations of knowledge beneath it.
He willed his heart to slow down, yet it drummed against his ribs.
The consulting detective closed his eyes, revelling in the silence of his heartbeat, just for a moment. When the irises reopened, a determination had settled within their core.
He held onto the violin, his only weapon, steadfast and loyal.
The divide opened.
Into battle.
To Sherrinford.
To Eurus.
To answers.
Sixteen Hours Earlier
Viola wishes to be my daughter.
Error. Focus, Sherlock!
He had to get out. He had to breathe.
"Viola, if you would just-" With a swift motion, the detective rounded around his daughter, down the corridor, into his bedroom, and shut the door.
Sherlock's back pushed against the doorframe.
Breathe.
The detective slowly slid down, until he contacted the ground. His hands laid over his knees.
You're a dad, Sherlock. Moriarty cooed, is it only hitting you now? Blimey you are a bore.
Knitting his brow, Sherlock acknowledged his tangled thoughts. Since Sherrinford, everything had shifted. He had accepted it, with as much control as any man probably could. Viola was extraordinary. Her personality spoke bounds, and he knew he didn't want her to go. Her presence was beneficial to his existence.
But only in that moment, when she had referred to him as 'Papa', had he felt it. A basal emotion. A protectiveness like no other. Viola was his daughter. She really was.
Something in his synapses begged for Molly, as shockingly had often happened the past few days. She was mere meters away, yet he didn't move. This moment… Was private. Sherlock Holmes was a father. He had never wanted children. Yet, here it was. It was… Extraordinary.
Then he saw it.
In the middle of the room, there lay a black violin case.
It wasn't his.
Against sharp features, his cheek clenched. Blue irises deepened. The swell of mystery vibrated through his body.
Old. Very old. Leather backed with wood. The handles are new. Imported from Italy. Indentations suggest it's been left by a man, of 6'1 height, medium build. The corners are scuffed, hit the door when it came in. Deliverer doesn't like their employer.
Subconsciously holding a breath, the consulting detective opened the case. The wood before him shone, casting a warm glow in icy eyes. A ray of light from the window cast a glow, illuminating the maker's mark.
His gentle gasp whispered across the room.
'Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis ~ Facibet Anno 1697'.
This was one of the most famous violins in the world. The Molitor Stradivarius. For centuries, it had been passed down across musicians, rulers, and Parisian Socialites. Sherlock knew it. Napoleon Bonaparte had once owned it.
A slim hand reached out, plucking every string as it went. It was perfectly in tune. Whoever had left it, recently, meant it to be played.
Gently, Sherlock lifted the item, as if it would break at its touch. The history fell on his form like gravity. It was hard to shift the geniuses gaze, and yet it drifted to the small note that been laid underneath it.
'Brother' was all it said.
But it wasn't Mycroft's hand. Suddenly, the ocean cleared. A lighthouse cast direction over the horizon.
This was Eurus.
This was a summons.
10:36am.
Viola watched in awe as Molly made her first incision into the corpse.
"Tieni il bisturi come un'artista." The young woman breathed, grasping a notebook to her chest.
Molly smirked, "I hope that was a compliment."
"Er, yes. Sorry."
Molly let out a giggle, and Viola matched it. For the next few minutes, Viola let Molly work in silence. She attached the terms she knew about the scientific processes to what she was seeing. She had questions, but she lacked them in English. Apparently, basic English needed for conversational purposes didn't include the biology of post-mortems.
"I didn't think I'd be allowed to let you come here," Molly started, extracting the liver carefully, "But Mycroft somehow cleared it with my boss."
Molly flicked her head towards a pair of weighing scales, and Viola picked dutifully went to carry it over. "My…" What was the word again? "Uncle? The umbrella man?"
"Mm." Molly put the organ on the scale, and Viola wrote down the figures. "He's a very powerful man. He cares about Sherlock a lot more than he lets on."
Too much more, Molly thought gravely.
Viola caught a sombre expression capture the short woman's face. "…Are you okay?"
Molly blinked, shocked. She's ridiculously perceptive. "Yes, it's just I don't know where Sherlock is, that's all."
She cursed herself at the part lie.
The curly haired girl thought for a moment, "Has he not, er, been with you in the night?"
For once, Molly was relieved she had a corpse to look on. "…No, not last night."
Viola pressed the top of her pen to her chin and fixed the pathologist with an inquisitive stare. "Are you in love?"
A cough exploded from Molly. "Sorry?"
"I er," Viola's blue eyes danced curiously, "I thought you were. Sherlock is too," She struggled to find the word, "Difensiva? Defence, ah… With you. I can see it."
Well, Molly resolved silently, it's not the first time I've been asked blunt questions over my love life by a Holmes over a corpse. "Our relationship is… Complicated."
"But you're a relationship?"
Molly shuffled awkwardly. A moment of silence passed. Where her father's exterior was harder to read, Molly's spoke a thousand words. The silence stood as testament.
A smirk pulled on her lips, that reached her blue eyes, "I won't tell anybody."
Molly stared in shock and then forced her mouth closed. She offered the slightest nod, and a mute agreement passed between them.
08:10am. Sherrinford.
It's strange how certain individuals can provoke such emotional reactions.
Viola provoked protection. John provoked companionship. Mrs Hudson provoked familial instinct. Mary provoked grief. Mycroft provoked competition. Molly provoked an entire ocean.
Eurus provoked fear. Pure, unadulterated fear.
Sherlock swallowed down the incessant gnawing of panic, forcing his heart to slow down. Eurus wished for music. She was his teacher. He would perform.
Quietly, he crouched and removed the instrument from its casing. The antique felt unfamiliar in his grasp. Eurus didn't move. For some reason, a pressure of failure gripped him as he stood poised. Truthfully, Sherlock didn't understand why he was here. But instinct had protested, somewhere, that answers laid with his sister.
Answers to what, he didn't know.
Grateful there was no tremor in his hands, the detective began to play. Melancholy notes filled the air, seemingly fitting for a prison. Fitting for freedom that would never be granted.
Eurus didn't move.
But then eventually, she did. With such grace, she was practically ethereal.
The fear that spiked in the nervous system was strong he stopped. Eurus's jaw parted, just a fraction, her interest cutting through their divide like acid. She wanted him to play.
Silently acknowledging her decision, he carried on.
Eventually, they played together. Detective and psychopath. Brother and sister. Images span in his peripheral, of his family, of Molly. Times past and present. It was a seemingly beautiful communication. Sherlock wondered what his sister perceived.
When the music finally cascaded into a finish, he waited.
Releasing the chin rest from his jaw, but brandishing it close, he spoke flatly. "I have responded to your summons, what is it you require?"
No reaction.
"…This is an extremely antiquated instrument, to get hold of such an item one must have spent week procuring it. My conclusion is that this was planned before I arrived at Sherrinford. You wished your test subject to return after the initial experiment. Is this a progress report?"
Nothing.
Sherlock swallowed, his mouth felt thick. "I presume there is a purpose for this invitation."
Eurus struck three notes on her violin. A cadence. A perfect progression.
Interesting.
"Eurus… My existence has altered substantially since our encounter. How much of this have your orchestrated?"
Two notes, a perfect octave. The whole scale. …It meant everything.
Her blue eyes seemed to dance as she studied Sherlock, who suddenly felt like a puppet. Anger fizzled in the pit of his gut. His independent realisations were not of his own volition.
"Has your game ceased? Is this the end of my requirement to you?"
Eurus braced her instrument, and the imperfect sequence of three notes rang.
A suggestion of a continuation.
"I refuse to be a pawn in your games."
She placated him with a single look. Then why are you here? Eurus' face commanded, knowing, horrifying.
Sherlock's cheek clenched. He considered emotional context and her theory that it would destroy him. It had done no such thing. It had brought Molly to his heart. Viola to his home-
Eurus played, a bewitching orb cast her brother's way constantly. A small theme generated from the instrument, light and based with longing, attached with the phrasing of a classic Italian opera. Eurus played the song of Viola Seraphina Esposito. Sherlock was transfixed. The melody danced, exploring the curious fascinations of the world, but then it transformed, jarring, romantic, ugly… Dangerous.
For a moment, the detective forgot how to breathe. When his baritone penetrated the space, it shook, "Viola's in danger."
Four notes echoed a reply, a major ascending pattern. Sherlock concluded this was a yes.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Eurus's struck the instrument again. This time, a nursery rhyme.
Sherlock was struck with horror as suddenly he saw them as children, singing this. Short hair and plaits. It was fun. …She was telling him, for fun.
He bristled, "Viola has a whole family to protect her. Mycroft, as repugnant as he may be, would start wars to protect her. John would kill. Molly would change her identity. There would be no secrets, because that's what families do, Eurus."
A silence followed. A long, doubtful silence.
The psychopath raised her bow towards the heavens and struck down. The sound cut-throat. Loud. Angry. A diminished fourth.
The devil's interval.
Sherlock's eyes widened, his mind suddenly awash with deductions. Words swam in his peripheral. Screaming the obvious.
"…They're lying to me."
The sound of confirmation emitted in response.
Anger burnt his throat like acid. His palms gripped the violin so tight the strings left indentations across his palm
"Why," He snarled, "Should I trust you?"
Eurus lowered the violin and tilted her head. Then, she did the most terrifying thing Sherlock had seen. She laughed. A forced, antagonising sound.
A week ago, Sherlock had seen his sister reduced to tears, and he assured he would help her land. He promised her support. Now, he questioned everything. Was it all part of a grand scheme? Eurus wasn't changed. Thunder stormed in her icy gaze.
Eurus could manipulate people. She was turning him away from the people who mattered most. Because she enjoyed seeing him suffer.
Sherlock's jaw locked in anger for fear he would explode with rage.
"Our communication has come to an end."
Sherlock dropped to his knees, to put the violin away. Calm down.
BANG
Sherlock jolted. Eurus seethed at him, hands against the glass. Her hot breath expelling air onto it. Her violin lay, thrown against the floor. Madness wore her proudly.
It was like a caged lion, eyeing the prey roaming free.
Case sealed, Sherlock took his chances. Stealthily, he marched towards her. Achingly close. The partition a shield. With venomous darkness, he spoke. "Farewell… Sister mine."
He turned on his heel. Eurus pounded on the glass. His heart pounded in his ears.
"Moriarty said you'd do this-"
Sherlock froze. The exit within arms grasp.
"-Choosing sentiment over logic clouds your judgement. You know it's true… They've lied. They're going to destroy you… Brother mine."
Those were the last words he'd ever hear his sister speak.
22:32pm
For the sixth time, Mycroft's number rang to end and cut off. The politician didn't allow for voicemails. Anxiousness pricked Molly's stomach, in all her years dealing with Mycroft Holmes, he was never out of contact. Not for long.
It had been over twenty-four hours since she'd seen Sherlock or heard from Mycroft.
John hadn't heard anything either.
Molly's flat felt colder than usual, and she hastily gripped a powder pink throw closer to her chest. Don't be anxious, he'll be fine. Mycroft is probably on the last stages of fixing everything. This will all be over. Your life will carry on.
Tiredly, she reached out for the remote and switched her television on. BBC'S News at Ten met her attention.
"...22:12pm last night a famous Vernet portrait of Napoleon Bonaparte was stolen from London's National Gallery. The portrait, worth millions has vanished without a singular piece of evidence. Security of the building was terminated ten minutes before the burglary and resumed five minutes afterwards. The Metropolitan Police are yet to make a statement regarding-"
Knock knock –
Molly Hooper was up in an instant. Please be Sherlock, please be okay-
She fumbled with the locks, and albeit too dramatically, pulled the door open. Her whole body sagged with relief.
The consulting detective stood before her. He looked as if he'd seen a ghost.
Molly took a moment to catch her breath, taking in his haggard appearance, a violin case in his hand. "Sherlock- Where have you, I mean- What's happened?"
Suddenly, he stepped past her, removing his coat and scarf as he did. He abandoned the violin case quickly.
Something's wrong. Does he know?
Shakily relocking the door, she spoke, afraid of deductions. There was something in his expression that terrified her. It was so weighted, it felt like a broken heart. "Where have you been?"
"I don't wish to speak."
Molly stared at him then. His words fell unnaturally slowly, pitches uneven. God, it's like the night before he fell from St Bart's. …Something had scared him. Forcing resolve upon herself, she moved. She stepped close to him, and he towered over her small frame. "It's okay," She managed, holding her breath as she took one of his hands, it was ice cold, "What do you want me to do?"
Sherlock arched his brow moved with perplexion.
Eurus had taken humanity from him, made his decisions not his own, and insinuated his loved ones would hurt him. Sherlock wanted- No, he needed the white noise.
He wanted to feel… Human.
Sherlock stood still, just for a moment, and Molly understood.
Together, they moved, and lips made the gentlest of caresses.
Sherlock's eyes fell closed. The tension melted away in a single touch. An unsteady emotion lulled in his chest. But it wasn't uncomfortable. Molly reached her small arms around him. He's here. He's safe. Everything is okay.
She's hiding something, Sherlock, Eurus hummed in his mind palace, Her and John and Mycroft, and you're too stupid to see it.
Sherlock suddenly gripped Molly's waist, tight. She jolted and pulled away. Molly saw his eyes clamped shut. It was if he was battling an inner demon she didn't understand-
A deep noise emitted from the back of his throat, and suddenly his lips found hers again. Demanding. Passionate. Confusion dissolved. Molly' hands found his hair, his the small of her back, pressing her closer. Logic fell into oblivion. Before they even had a chance to process it, they were in Molly's bedroom, on the bed, hands wandering, grasping, feeling.
Molly was warm. She felt like home. Her kisses signposts to hormones in his body that were forcefully waking. Sherlock wanted her body. Her heart. Her loyalty.
Small hands against his bare chest alerted him to the fact his shirt was elsewhere. When had that happened? Molly left his lips and started kissing along his jaw, his neck, years of unrequited love spilling over the reins. Sherlock swore his heart skipped a beat, as her lips ghosted the very top of his gunshot wound. He stilled momentarily. A foreign feeling gripped him tightly. He watched in awe as Molly's head raised and offered him a quirky smile.
Cheeks flushed, lips full, eyes dilated. A woman in love with Sherlock Holmes.
Say it like you mean it.
Molly accepted his shortfalls, his history, his struggles. She understood the complexity of his mind.
Go on, say it.
Molly considered him human. She'd saved his life, in so many ways, more than he'd ever comprehended.
With her word, he would have made her his, right there and then.
…She's beautiful.
Molly bit her lip, questioning, as he stared at her with intensity. Chest rising and falling, she leant forward, kissed his nose, the corner of his mouth, and waited.
If she is beautiful, Sherlock, you may be in love.
Molly brushed a loose curl away from his brow and rested a hand on his chest. He'd gone still. "Sherlock are you alright?"
The consulting detective shook his head before he could stop himself. Molly quickly rolled off him, laying at his side. Her expression open, wishing only to understand.
But she couldn't perceive the cacophony of colours exploding through his head. She couldn't perceive the music that played. She couldn't see, that when he looked at her, he only saw one thing. Beauty.
…Oh my God, I love her.
"Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, we need you to come with us." An American twang called from her living room.
"Wait what-" Molly jolted like ice had been dropped down her back, her expression alarmed. "Sherlock what the hell is-"
"Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper-"
"Stay here." Sherlock instructed, hand on her leg. He knew the voice. Topless, he went around the door.
Molly's stomach churned with fear. Someone has just entered my flat. Someone has broken in. What if it's the same person that left the note on the body. What if-
Sherlock reappeared and studied her for a moment. "Molly, it's Mycroft's team. We've been asked to go with them."
"Why?" The pathologist suddenly felt more afraid, and Sherlock saw.
"They won't say."
Molly offered a numb nod, trying to ignore the lump that was forming in her throat. Quickly, they got ready and left. As they travelled through London, Sherlock's head swam relentlessly with the sheer knowledge that he was in love. Eurus had been wrong. So wrong.
Yet, he worried. You trust her… You love her, he told himself, repetitively. But something was amiss. She is too afraid.
Meanwhile, Molly felt like a lamb heading to the slaughter. Somehow, she knew Sherlock was about to find out everything.
23:02pm.
Mycroft's base of operation was an underground bunker. A cave for the Ice Man. Sherlock's first intuition concluded that Mycroft had a case for him, this wasn't the first time a collection by his people had occurred. The last time he had been here, he had confronted his parents about Viola's existence. This, he predicted, would be a much more routine visit.
Or, perhaps, Mycroft had found out about his little trip to Sherrinford. In which case the communication was certainly going to be of a more volatile nature.
Molly thumbed the end of her jumper nervously, eyes fixed on the floor ahead.
It was… busier, than usual. Sherlock's hard eyes deduced members of Mycroft's teams mulling around. They were worried, frustrated, angry? It appeared most of Mycroft's security detail were spread out across the building.
A diminished fourth, that had echoed from Eurus' violin, played in the back of his mind.
Eventually, they reached the bunker. Agent Jamal opened the heavy door and gestured them inside the steel encasement.
Viola and John, who was holding Rosie, sat opposite Mycroft's desk.
Through tired eyes, John looked over at his friend, who for once looked shocked. "Sherlock, any idea why we're here?"
Deductions tried to form, but a coherent resolution was reached. "No." Why are they here?
Viola offered him a nervous smile. Sherlock tried to force one onto his features, but it didn't reach, for in his peripheral, he saw it.
John and Molly, sharing a look of pure fear.
His hands clasped into fists.
The detective swept on his heel, and glared at a sophisticated redhead who stood near the door, "Where is my brother?" He bit, "I sincerely hope there is a good explanation for this."
The woman stared at him, hard, offering no clarification.
Panic started to crawl up his spine. Something's wrong.
A familiar gait was heard approaching the door, flitting in and out between others. For a moment, Sherlock was relieved. "Ah," He announced starkly, "Here he comes."
The door opened.
And Sherlock was floored. For it wasn't his brother... It was his father.
Sigur Horace Holmes, accompanied by Violet Holmes were brought in, accompanied by Lady Smallwood.
Sherlock physically took a step back; his hand flew to his temples. Something's wrong something's wrong-
"Sherlock," Horace addressed his son stiffly, "Why has your Mycroft brought us here?"
He didn't have an answer.
Viola stared at the two-elder people like a deer in the headlights. Suddenly, she turned away. "Santo cazzo Madre di Cristo", she hissed under her breath. Heat blossomed over her. Her hands fell into her hair. Those were her grandparents.
John caught her stress and laid a hand on her shoulder. Christ, he thought, this is the least of our worries.
Violet frowned at her son, "Sherlock we know what this is about-"
"You do?"
"Haven't you seen the news?" Violet furthered, "Our Vernet's portrait of Napoleon was stolen last night."
"What?"
"From the National Gallery. Taken, without a trace. If you'd only answer your phone-"
"No!" Sherlock snapped, the room quietened, Molly stared worriedly, "Mycroft wouldn't bring us all here over a family painting. Christ, how idiotic can you be!"
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, that's quite enough!" Ordered Horace.
Now, the room fell silent. Sherlock seethed. Wrong wrong wrong-
A tall Asian man- the one who had been at St Bart's- entered, gracing a tailored suit. As he made his way through this strange family set up, all eyes followed.
It was in that moment, that Violet saw her granddaughter for the first time, and the colour drained from her face.
The agent sat down in Mycroft's chair.
Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin.
Something is wrong.
"Good evening, everyone. I'm Specialist Agent Chen. We have brought you here tonight under Mycroft Holmes' wishes, as stated under Code Redbeard-"
Sherlock and John winced.
"Each of you are the people Mycroft Holmes has designated on paper as his official family."
Molly's face contorted in confusion. She remembered the night Viola had came into their lives, and Mycroft had said she wasn't family. Sherlock had corrected her. John sat stiffly, bouncing Rosie on his knee, considering a similar conundrum.
"We have followed our employers detailing of this operation very carefully. However, we have surpassed the gestation period, and our findings have been unsuccessful. I will-"
"Get to the point, boy." Violet bit.
The Agent flinched, but continued, "At 15:21 hours today, Mycroft Holmes turned off the surveillance system that protects himself. He stationed his guards at mixed hours. He didn't have anyone watching him, or any system to track him." The tension thickened drastically, "It appears he left his property, walked for half a mile, took a taxi… And now his whereabouts are unknown."
Silence.
Agent Chen swallowed thickly, "However, forty minutes ago we received intelligence. A posting on the dark web. It appears Mycroft Holmes is being held hostage, we can only assume by the splinter group that is trying to replicate the movements of Jim Moriarty."
Around Sherlock Holmes, the walls caved in. He could hear Eurus' laugh, rattling his bones.
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