Madhouse

„Ingrate, he had of me/ all he could have, I made him just and right/ sufficient to have stood, though free to fall."

Paradise Lost

I inhaled sharply, and turned my head to face Sherlock. His expression was grim and determined. Next to him, Uncle John's face had been drained of colour. He and I had been utterly taken by surprise, Sherlock less so. Naturally he would know what his kin was capable of, especially his brother.

With a brusque movement, he pushed open the door and stepped into the room, ahead of us. Uncle John followed with less confidence, though he was putting on a brave face. I filed in last, not conscious of any degree of fortitude, just mimicking the demeanor of my companions like an unwitting machine.

The room we entered had a high ceiling, and was surprisingly spacious. However, the things it contained were few. Against the rear wall, within an area that was one step elevated from the rest of the room, rose a high and massive bureau. Above that, two large paintings had been hung side by side. In a far corner from the bureau, there was a tall appliance of strangely medieval aspect: A frame, filled to mid-hight with a wooden panel, from which a pair of handcuffs dangled. Due to the panel, I could not see behind the appliance; could only see the handcuffs above it, and the pair of small, brownish, withered hands locked up in them.

With a shriek, I rushed toward the corner ere Holmes or Uncle John could stop me: But someone else stepped between me and the frame, or shall I say something? I felt my head incline backwards as I stared up at the apparition, my breath pausing. Never in my life had I seen such a creature, not even in my worst nightmares.

He was a giant, an ogre. His hands, which dangled at the hight of my shoulders, were easily the size of Mrs. Hudsons largest frying pan. My awed gaze wandered further up his incredibly bulky chest, his thick neck, toward the face that was mercifully half-hidden behind his thick and tangled blond hair. Only the eyes glinted from behind strands that were so matted they gave the spectator an idea of fur. I recoiled, and, I will not deny it, gave a little whimper.

„You're wise to be afraid! Udyr ist not a gentleman to be trifled with."

The high, crystal-clear voice came from somewhere behind there frame, and my eyes reverted to it hectically.

„However, Miss Morris, you are not wise enough to have learned from the mistakes of your unfortunate Aunt, seeing how you affiliated yourself to this man - my brother. And how are you today, Sherlock?"

With slow, resounding steps, Mycroft Holmes stepped out from behind the frame. Much as I had braced myself for this moment, I could not but cower away from his appearance. Somehow, this polished man with his velvety accent and his patent leather shoes chilled my entrails more thoroughly than the uncivilized butcher he apparently had hired as a bodyguard of sorts.

I felt myself shrink again, shrink to the floor. There was nothing I could do to prevent it. The look from glacieresque eyes reduced me to immaturity, send me back into the days when I wore short frocks and pigtails. It would be so, always.

But his gaze did not linger on me. His attention had shifted swiftly to my companions, whose faces I could not see, standing in front of them. In a way, I was grateful for it, since it was bad enough to hear their dumb helplessness.

„And Dr. Watson, of course. A pleasant, though I am bound to say, not entirely unexpected call."

He stood before us, hands folded on his back, slightly swinging on the balls of his feet. „I expect you are missing one thing or another from your personal wardrobe. Very sorry to have availed myself of your momentary oblivion, but I must say I found it very convenient to abbreviate matters in this way."

He reached into the deep pocket of his jacket, extracting the sparkling, shining Orb.

Sherlock spoke for the first time since entering the room. „We have not come to retrieve it."

„Why, I am glad to hear you say so, because I intend to keep it!" With a supercilious smile, Mycroft Holmes put the gem back into his jacket. „And I must add, Sherlock, that I am very, very disappointed in you. To have drunk from the water carafe in a room so obviously overheated! A schoolboy would have exerted more caution."

„We have come to take Madame Zhao home", Sherlock replied quietly, ignoring the taunt. „She appears to be in a delicate state of health, and requires medical treatment. You can't have the least interest in having her perish here. You will have her freed of those shackles, and allow her to leave your house. In return, she will promise not to communicate with the police."

I closed my eyes as Mycroft started to laugh. The heinous sound seemed to reverberate through my body, and being able to spare myself the sight of his merriment counted as little against the sickening frisson the high peal of his laughter gave me.

„She will promise that, indeed? How refreshingly naive! Haven't you guessed that the local police received instructions from the capital that positioned me off limits, brother mine? Why, this isn't your merry old England with a dutiful Bobby on the next corner! You have entered a realm where it is for me to give orders, and for you to abide by them. The police!"

He chuckled once more, as if at a particularly successful joke. Then, he became serious. „However, you are making one strong point, Sherlock. The woman has served her function. I have no further use for her; there is not even much more entertainment to be had out of her."

I closed my hands to fists, glaring at the monster that was speaking to us in his repellent voice. And he was Sherlock's closest relative! It seemed incredible, and yet it was so. Every look and every movement attested to the kinship. It was odious.

Mycroft shrugged his shoulder. „Why should I insist on disposing of my own waste, when others are so eager to do it for me? Go ahead, you may have her."

Simultaneously, we took a step toward the frame, but a raised palm, extended against us, made us halt. „Not so fast. There is one condition."

„Of course", Sherlock returned, without surprise. „I will stay. You may exchange her for me, and profit from the bargain."

„No, no, it is not enough." Mycroft put his palms together, eying us thoroughly. I felt cold. All of a sudden, even the gigantic guardian, looming behind his master by the frame, seemed to feel cold. Something awful was going to happen.

And so it did. Mycroft raised his index, and, lowering it deliberately, pointed it at me. „She will remain, too."

I could hear both men inhale quickly behind my back.

„No." It was Uncle John who said that. „No, Holmes, I can't allow that. This its insane!"

My mind reeled. Dimly, I wondered at whom his protest was directed - at Sherlock, or at Mycroft? It didn't matter. I could not turn my back on the horrible castle anyway, not in the knowledge of having left Sherlock behind. I was prepared to stay if I could safe Madame Zhao, though I was aware that the only reason for Mycroft to exact my staying would be to torture and humiliate me, or Sherlock, or both of us.

I folded my arms in front of my chest, and nodded grimly. „Agreed. If ya'll let Dr. Watson taike Madame Zhao to th' village, I'll stay."

„Fanny, no!" Uncle John grasped my shoulder, and I half turned to look into his face. It was ashen, eyes pleading for me to waken to reason.

„How extraordinarily amusing. I don't trust I had been addressing either of you. Sherlock, will you at least try to control your minions? There, that is better. Come, Dr. Watson. Come here, but don't talk, I beg of you, I abhor triviality. The same goes for you, Miss Morris. That unfortunate accent used to mangle my nerves already from the lips of your predecessor."

With a malign smile, Mycroft motioned Uncle John to step closer. His ogre busied himself at the frame, and as he stepped aside, I could see the cuffs dangling loosely, with no hands shackled by them. Uncle John, meanwhile, advanced hesitantly toward the frame. I took a step back so as to stand next to Sherlock. If Mycroft had been able to divine what had taken place between us, there was no good now in trying to conceal our connection, however elusive.

Uncle John had now taken one last step, which enabled him to peer behind the strange contraption. A pitiable sound emerged from his throat, an arid yelp. He bent down so as to lift something up, and as he came back and made for the door behind us, Holmes caught me by the shoulders, turned me around and pressed my face to his chest, so that I should not see what he carried. I heard the door open in the distressing silence, and heard it close, with Uncle John's steps fading out in the passage.

The enduring silence was broken only by the sound of Mycroft's steps on the stone-flagged floor. I breathed intensely, trying to prevent the flow of tears. Against his chest, I could hear Sherlock's heart beat swiftly, like an engine that was made to work with maximum efficiency. I briefly wondered what it would be like if his brain were producing sounds as well. It would probably be bedlam.

„Well, well, Miss Morris. Very unwise to get involved with my brother, isn't it? Oh, take comfort. I should doubt whether you'll live long enough to regret it."

A temporary inadvertency on Sherlock's part left me free to move, and I whirled around to look at Mycroft, alarmed by his words. What in blazes could he mean? Had he just advertised his attention to kill me - us?

He must have realized my defensive bearing, for he gave a brief laugh. „Oh, no. No, I don't usually get my hands dirty in this way. My dear, what I meant was this striking feature all the women in Sherlock's life have in common. You don't know what that is, do you?"

He sniggered, delighted at my wide-eyed cluelessness. Behind me, I felt Sherlock tense, and I imagined I could hear his heart beat even then, fast and fierce. When we forbore to speak, Mycroft raised his hands in frustration, as though we were a pair of exceptionally unteachable children.

„My dear! They invariably die! Our mother…"

„Silence!"

Sherlock's voice cracked through the room like a whip, but Mycroft blithely ignored him.

„She was so young, you know, Miss Morris, so young to die. So unhappy. Who can blame her for inducing her own death? I was a brilliant son, promising in every way, but she had lost me to my father, and so she clung to what was left to her - the younger one. Unfortunately, he proved to be a disappointment to her.…with his foibles…his softness…and his violin." Mycroft rolled his eyes significantly. „He had to be removed by our grandmother after our mother had died. And he was removed, even to another country, at the family's request."

„I don't wanna 'ear that." With resolution, I crossed my arms. „It hain't no bearing on the present, and certainly none on the future."

„Oh, but you are mistaken, Miss Morris! Because as you can see, my brother's envy has effected a reversal of fortunes - he is the pet of the entire nation, a public favourite, her Majesty's lap-dog! And I am the prodigal son, cast out and banned to spend the rest of my life in this exile!"

For the first time, Mycroft seemed to show some emotion, other than sinister merriment. His lips pressed together tightly, and a spasm went through his cheek: mannerisms familiar to me, but uncanny in a person who had heretofore seemed to utterly lack human sentiment. However, it was but a fleeting moment, and it passed as abruptly as it had come.

When Sherlock spoke next, his voice had calmed. He seemed more or less unaffected by the dreadful accusation his brother had laid at his door: that he was in some way responsible for the death of their parent.

„You have brought this exile upon yourself, Mycroft. It has been ordained by her Majesty as a just penalty for your crimes, your treachery. There are those who think you may consider yourself very leniently dealt with."

„Spare your breath, brother mine", Mycroft jeered. „I have no use for your petty-minded smugness. Why won't you sweep your own hallway first? Your young friend and I were talking about grandmother, the grandmother you requisitioned in retaliation for my being father's favourite. And then what happened to her?"

„Well, I suppose she died", I spat. My fear had wholly dissolved, and there was nothing left but wreath and hatred. This psychopath had reduced my best friend to something an elderly man could just pick up and carry away, simply to take his mind off his own twisted issues. He would not do the same thing to us! „Come now, it is not so surprising. People do die. And partic'larly grandparents `ave a marked tendency to't."

He eyed me with surprise at my harsh words, and I could see it dawned upon him we were no longer under his spell, and he had lost the power to frighten us. „You seem quite determined to believe so! I suppose it is beside the point then, that her house was broken into by a band of ruffians who from mere clumsiness killed her, while her grandson was rather cosy at Cambridge!"

„And where was `er other grandson?" I exclaimed. „Was `e there to save the day? Or `as he ever been there for anyone?"

Mycroft stood quite still. Sherlock gently put his hand on my shoulder. He was asking me, non-verbally, to practice reticence. In contrast to me, he had not forgotten the presence of the ogre, and our complete lack of means for self-preservation. I looked at him, and saw his eyes dashing around the room restlessly, and again thought I could hear his brain at work, thinking, thinking.

Our foe, meanwhile, had recovered his composure. „Very well." He turned on his heel, and walked up to the far end of the room, stepping up to the massive bureau. „But what about her?"

He raised one arm up to the two large paintings that hung on the wall above, and at the same moment, I could hear the sound of an electric light-switch being turned from where the ogre lingered in the shadow. Suddenly, the dimness of dawn was replaced by full brilliant daylight. The change was so overwhelming that our eyes needed a second to adapt to it.

Next thing, both of us gave a start. Sherlock's hand, still on my shoulder, shoved me aside as he stepped past me, and toward his brother.

„Where the deuce did you get those?"

Hullo!

Now it is official: Mycroft ought to be in the loony bin! His competitiveness toward his sibling and his thirst for vengeance are clearly anormal. I hesitate to think what went wrong with him, but here we are.

Having done their utmost to save Madame Zhao, how are Sherlock and Fanny to get out of his fortress? That's the question…

Love, Mrs.F