"Musgrave." Mycroft explained grimly. "The ancestral home, where there was always honey for tea."

Marie leant forward, listening intently as Mycroft continued: "And Sherlock played among the funny gravestones."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in thought, his brows furrowing in confusion, while John questioned: "Funny how?"

"They weren't real." Mycroft explained. "The dates were all wrong. An architectural joke, which fascinated Sherlock."

"Wrong how?" Marie questioned this time, and Mycroft looked at her.

"Nemo Holmes," he replied in answer, "born 1617, died 1822… aged 32 years."

All three friends frowned, and Mycroft nodded once. John and Marie continued to look thoughtful, while Sherlock's eyes narrowed even further as he remembered faintly…

"Help succour me now..." Sherlock murmured suddenly, causing both John and Marie to look at him curiously while Mycroft simply joined his brother in murmuring to a vague sing-song tune: "…the East winds blow."

Marie looked between them, brows furrowed, as Sherlock continued to stare into space as he remembered the words to the song that a young girl had sung at some point in his past: "Sixteen by six..."

"And under we go." Mycroft finished for him, and Sherlock glanced back at Mycroft, his gaze refocusing once more.

"You're starting to remember." Mycroft noted, staring back at Sherlock intently, and Sherlock acknowledged as his eyes unfocused once more: "Fragments."

Marie glanced at him worriedly, as did John, when Sherlock abruptly said: "Redbeard."

"Redbeard?" John repeated questioningly, while Marie's brows furrowed even further as she noted: "You mentioned him before… you said he was-"

"My dog." Sherlock confirmed, and Marie said slowly: "Yes."

She turned back to Mycroft as she asked cautiously: "What does Redbeard have to do with this?"

Mycroft met her gaze evenly as he answered grimly: "Eurus took Redbeard and locked him up somewhere no-one could find him."

"What?" Marie whispered, her blood going cold, and Mycroft exhaled deeply as he added: "And she refused to say where he was."

Marie and John exchanged looks in horror as Mycroft continued heavily: "She'd only repeat that song; her little ritual. We begged and begged her to tell us where he was. But she said, 'The song is the answer'."

Sherlock was spacing out again, staring unseeingly at the flat as he recalled a dim memory from his youth of running out in a field of some sort, crying for his childhood best friend.

John and Marie were listening intently, in a mix of disturbed incredulity and sheer horror, as Mycroft finished: "But the song made no sense."

Sherlock finally snapped back to focus, turning to Mycroft as he asked intently: "What happened to Redbeard?"

"We never found him." Mycroft answered, a grim and strained smile flashing across his face momentarily before it disappeared again as he added: "But she started calling him 'Drowned Redbeard', so we made our assumptions."

Sherlock stilled, apparently going into shock, while Marie breathed: "Oh, my God."

Her hand clutched Sherlock's in both comfort and to seek comfort, while Mycroft looked at her and then John as he explained: "Sherlock was traumatised. Natural, I suppose – he was, in the early days, an emotional child; but after that he was different, so changed."

His eyes moved back to Marie as he finished: "Never spoke of it again. In time, he seemed to forget that Eurus had ever even existed."

Marie pursed her lips, while John asked incredulously: "How could he forget? She was living in the same house."

"No." Mycroft answered, another strained but this time somewhat heartbroken smile appearing on his face. "They took her away."

Sherlock's head snapped back to his brother, his jaw tight, while John said in disbelief: "Why? You don't lock up a child because a dog goes missing."

"Quite so." Mycroft agreed, but his tone made them pause and realize there was more to his story.

Sure enough, Mycroft explained dejectedly: "It was what happened… immediately afterwards."

And Marie shivered.

There was a new expression in Mycroft's eyes that she had never seen before – a look that terrified her more than anything in the world ever could. It was a look of utmost haunted fear, a look that spoke of nightmares one could only imagine.

A look she recognized too well from her own reflection back when she'd first met Jim Moriarty. And Marie realized that for Mycroft to look that way, Eurus Holmes was far worse than she had ever anticipated.

Mycroft raised his eyes to the trio as he elaborated grimly: "It was the last time we ever stayed in Musgrave…"


About thirty years ago

A young girl with short brown hair pulled into twin pigtails sat, cross-legged, on the floor as she drew yet another crayon drawing. Around her were scattered several other drawings, all with one similar theme: they were all of Sherlock, and all depicted various forms of death – Sherlock crossed out of a family drawing; Sherlock spattered with red, apparently drowning in his own blood; Sherlock with a noose around his neck; and a grave marked: 'RIP SHERLOCK'.

Currently, young Eurus was finishing her drawing of a house with Sherlock sitting unhappily at one of the windows, which she was busy crossing out with a large, blue cross to complete her picture.

In the background, she could hear her parents arguing from the room next door as her father insisted: "She knows where he is!"

"We can't make her tell us." Her mother returned impatiently and anxiously. "We can't make her do anything."

Eurus placed down her crayon, her drawing finished, and she glanced up at the windows at the dark night outside her room while her hand reached across to pick up a small box sitting beside her leg. The little girl stared absently out at the darkening clouds in the distance, harbingers of a thunderstorm, as she shook the matchbox in her hand before she looked back down at the box.

Taking a match carefully from the box, Eurus lit it casually, examining the small flame intently… and watching as it grew bigger and bigger after she dropped it on her drawings.


Present day

221B Baker Street

There was a long moment of silence following Mycroft's story, the trio sitting in stunned silence while Mycroft sat with his eyes closed and an almost pained expression on his face. It was something they'd never really seen before, and it perturbed Sherlock more than anything else to see his brother – his brother - so clearly distraught over what had happened.

Finally Mycroft took a deep breath and finished flatly: "After that, our sister had to be taken away."

"Where?" John questioned, while Sherlock asked: "Sherrinford?"

Mycroft shot Marie another betrayed look – which she ignored – before nodding at Sherlock as he answered briefly: "Yes."

"How come your parents don't mention her?" John asked, puzzled, while Marie added slowly: "They don't even go visit her?"

Mycroft bowed his head, and Sherlock noted shrewdly: "You lied to them."

"Yes." Mycroft answered shortly but honestly as he looked back at his younger brother. "I told them she was taken to a suitable place, where she died after she started another fire, one which she did not survive."

"What?" John gaped, but Mycroft explained in a low voice: "It is a kindness; I told our parents this story to spare them further pain, and to account for the absence of an identifiable body."

"And no doubt to prevent their further interference." Sherlock shot back, a mirthless smile appearing on his otherwise cold face as he stared at his brother.

Marie's lips were folded tightly as Mycroft answered truthfully: "Well, that too, of course. The depth of Eurus' psychosis and the extent of her abilities couldn't hope to be contained in any ordinary institution. Uncle Rudi took care of things."

"And what is Sherrinford?" Sherlock asked in a low voice, his gaze piercing his brother's.

"An island." Mycroft replied with a deep sigh. "It's a secure and very secretive installation whose sole purpose is to contain what we call 'the uncontainables'."

Marie, Sherlock, and John all straightened slightly, listening intently as Mycroft continued flatly: "The demons beneath the road; this is where we trap them. Sherrinford is more than a prison or an asylum; it is a fortress built to keep the rest of the world safe from what is inside it."

He paused before adding darkly: "Heaven may be a fantasy for the credulous and the afraid, but I can give you a map reference for Hell."

Sherlock looked at him sharply, while Mycroft took another deep breath before finishing brusquely: "That's where our sister has been since early childhood. She hasn't left – not for a single day."

Sherlock glanced up at Marie and then at John as the three exchanged looks, while Mycroft insisted resignedly: "Whoever you three met, it can't have been her."

Of course, it was at that moment that there was the sound of breaking glass accompanied by a small thump akin to the sound of something hitting wood.

Marie and Sherlock's heads snapped over to the kitchen instantly, while John turned in his chair to also search for the source of the shattered glass.

All four of the room's occupants then instantly got to their feet as they saw the broken kitchen window, while a haunting, recorded female voice sang from somewhere beneath the kitchen table: "I that am lost, oh who will find me."

Mycroft's face filled with absolute horror while both Sherlock and Marie's eyes flickered over to glance at him. They then exchange quick looks before looking back to the kitchen as the voice continued to sing: "Deep down below, the old beech tree."

Marie's eyes widened as a small drone rose up from behind the kitchen table and started to hover towards them as Eurus's voice continued to sing through its small speakers: "Help succour me now, the East Wind's blowing. Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go."

Sherlock took a step forward, staring at the drone as he tried to make it out more clearly. Marie grabbed his arm instantly, pulling him back as she backed across the living room while Mycroft warned urgently: "Keep back! Keep as still as you can!"

"What is it?" John asked, as Eurus's voice continued to sing: "My soul seeks, the shade of my willow's bloom."

"It's a drone." Sherlock replied as the drone flew into the living room, and John retorted as he, too, slowly backed away from the drone: "Yeah, I can see that."

Marie backed up to the fireplace, reaching up swiftly and grabbing the gun she'd hidden behind the mantle, while Sherlock pressed close to her and John backed to the other sitting room window as Mycroft backed away to the corner by the flat door.

They kept their eyes fixed on the drone, and both Sherlock and John frowned as they saw a silver, grenade-shaped object sitting atop the drone.

"What's it carrying?" John asked slowly, and Sherlock murmured softly: "Marie, what's that silver thing on top of it?"

"It's a DX-707." Marie replied quietly as the drone hovered in the middle of the sitting room, and Mycroft added grimly: "I've authorised the purchase of quite a number of these."

The drone began to lower itself towards the ground as Mycroft continued: "Colloquially it is known as 'the patience grenade'."

The drone landed at last, and Marie tensed as its rotors shut down while John repeated questioningly: "'Patience'?"

A small red light popped up from the top of the grenade as the drone fixed itself to the floor, accompanied by a rhythmic beeping noise.

Marie's shoulders were drawn tight as she stared at the grenade tightly while Mycroft murmured softly: "The motion sensor has activated. If any of us move, the grenade will detonate."

"How powerful?" Sherlock asked, barely moving his lips, and Mycroft answered in a low voice: "It will certainly destroy this flat and kill anyone in it. Assuming walls of reasonable strength, your neighbours should be safe, but as it's landed on the floor, I am moved to wonder if the café below is open."

"It's Sunday morning; it's closed." Marie answered shortly, but John chimed in worriedly: "What about Mrs. Hudson?"

They all went quiet for a beat, allowing them to hear the faint sound of a vacuum cleaner coming from downstairs.

Marie thinned her lips thoughtfully, while Sherlock murmured: "Going by her usual routine, I estimate she has another two minutes left."

"She keeps the vacuum cleaner at the back of the flat." John added, and Mycroft asked with a slightly raised brow: "So?"

"So, safer there, when she's putting it away?" John answered with a slightly raised brow of his own, while Marie agreed firmly: "She'll be safest then."

Mycroft gave them looks, to which John replied pointedly: "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." Sherlock ordered. "She's fast when she's cleaning. Then we move."

He glanced at Marie and Mycroft as he asked: "What's the trigger response time?"

Mycroft gave him a blank look, not understanding the question, but Marie answered immediately: "Once we're moving, we'll have a maximum of three seconds to get out of the blast radius, before that thing detonates."

John closed his eyes, grimacing slightly at the low odds against them.

Sherlock however, replied swiftly: "You, John and I will take the windows; Mycroft, you take the stairs. Help get Mrs. Hudson out too."

"Me?" Mycroft asked, furrowing his brows in confusion, and Marie explained: "You're closer."

"Sherlock's faster; and so are you, if you think about it." Mycroft countered, but Sherlock pointed out: "Speed differential won't be as critical as the distance."

Mycroft raised his brows, reluctantly acknowledging their point. "Yes, agreed."

They listened for another beat, and as the hum vacuum cleaner started to become fainter, John noted: "She's further away. She's moving to the back."

"I estimate we have a minute left." Sherlock muttered, before asking abruptly. "Is a phone call possible?"

"Phone call?" Mycroft repeated incredulously while Marie cringed, and Sherlock looked at his brother as he reminded: "We have children; and John may wish, as I do, to say goodbye."

Sherlock's voice was tight while Marie's face was drawn with pain. Mycroft, belatedly realizing the sensitivity of Sherlock's question, answered with actual sincerity: "I'm sorry, Sherlock; Dr. Watson. Marie."

He acknowledged his sister-in-law with a slight eye movement, while he explained apologetically: "Any movement will set off the grenade. I hope you understand."

He directed the end of his sentence to John, and Sherlock thinned his lips while John's shoulders were bunched tightly with tension and Marie whispered: "At least they're safe away from here."

Sherlock swallowed, as a moment's silence fell, before John said abruptly: "Oscar Wilde."

The other three almost turned their heads to look at him in confusion; instead, Sherlock and Marie made do with shooting him questioning looks while Mycroft asked blankly: "What?"

"He said, 'The truth is rarely pure, and never simple'." John explained in a low voice. "It's from, 'The Importance of Being Earnest'."

Sherlock's lips twitched, pulling up on one corner into a lopsided grin while Marie murmured: "I never read it."

"Heh, what do you know." John joked softly. "I finally know something you don't, Marie. Though I can't take all the credit – we did it in school."

Marie's lips quirked into a smile as well, while Mycroft mused softly: "So did we; now I recall. I was Lady Bracknell."

John also smiled slightly, while Sherlock murmured: "Yeah. You were great."

"You really think so?" Mycroft asked, looking at his brother, who looked back at him as he answered sincerely: "Yes, I really do."

"Well, that's good to know." Mycroft replied as he smiled back briefly. "I've always wondered."

Sherlock and Mycroft stared at each other while John and Marie exchanged encouraging looks.

The vacuum cleaner shut down at that moment, and the tension in the flat returned as they all mentally counted. They'd reached the count of three when Sherlock murmured: "Good luck, boys."

He paused for another second as they all tensed in anticipation, and then Sherlock counted down aloud: "Three, two, one, go!"

Instantly, Mycroft turned for the flat door, heading towards the stairs, while John turned and ran for the corner window closest to him. Sherlock meanwhile wrapped an arm around Marie's waist at the same time she wrapped her arm around his while she fired at their window, shattering it just as the grenade exploded behind them.

The three friends jumped, leaping for the windows, and using the force of the grenade blast to aid in launching through the windows. Sherlock covered Marie as they crashed through the windows, shielding her as best as he could from the broken glass and the flames that licked the entire flat behind them as they all fell down towards the street below.