Chapter 16: The Flame of Memory

John stirred awake, his head heavy and pounding like a drum. The room around him was dim and cold, a dingy space with stained walls and a faint musty smell. He tried to stand but found himself restrained, his wrists and ankles bound tightly to the arms and legs of a rickety wooden chair. Panic bubbled up inside him as he twisted and pulled, but the ropes only bit deeper into his skin, sending sharp jolts of pain through his hands.

"Sherlock," John rasped, his voice dry and cracking. He turned his head, straining to look behind him. There was Sherlock, slumped in another chair, head lolling to one side, eyes closed. John's heart sank at the sight. He had hoped Sherlock had come to, that he might have snapped out of his trance and started plotting their escape, but Sherlock remained unmoving, as still and lifeless as a statue.

"Sherlock, wake up," John urged, his voice thick with desperation. "We need to get out of here." He glanced around the room, searching for anything he could use to cut through the ropes—anything at all. The room was bare, save for the chairs they were tied to and a flickering light bulb hanging overhead, casting long, unsteady shadows against the walls. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the distant hum of machinery, a low and unsettling sound that set John's nerves on edge.

"Think, John," he muttered to himself, fingers working uselessly against the tight knots. "Think. What would Sherlock do?"

But Sherlock was still deep within his mind palace, lost in the labyrinth of his own memories. He was standing in Mycroft's office, staring at the piles of newspaper clippings scattered across the desk. The headlines blurred together: reports of fires, missing children, dark secrets that lingered like ghosts. Sherlock sifted through them, his mind racing, trying to piece together the fragmented story that was slowly unfolding before him.

His eyes caught on a photograph high up on the shelf—the same one he had seen before. A young boy and girl, the girl wearing a hat, except now she was staring back at him, with wide expectant eyes. Sherlock reached for the photograph, pulling it down and setting it carefully on the desk. It wasn't Hermione, though for a moment he had thought it might be. No, this girl was different—something about her gaze was eerily familiar yet foreign.

Sherlock moved to the oak desk, rifling through drawer after drawer. Each one revealed more of Mycroft's secrets, but nothing that quite fit. Frustration gnawed at him, and he was about to give up when he noticed a small, almost imperceptible bump inside the left drawer. He dropped to his knees, angling his head to get a better look. The bump was small, barely there, with a tiny groove down the centre. Sherlock grabbed the letter opener from the top of the desk and crawled back underneath, fitting the tip into the groove and twisting it counterclockwise.

There was a faint click, and Sherlock stood up, eyes scanning the desk until he saw a new latch had popped open. He pulled it, revealing a hidden drawer with a roll of parchment. Sherlock unfurled the parchment and out fell a wand. His breath caught in his throat. The wand was intricate, its handle curved and adorned with carvings that resembled flames licking upwards. It was unmistakable—similar to Hermione's but distinctly different, more dangerous, more fierce.

Sherlock disgarded the parchment, the wand held gingerly between his fingers. A brief warmth emanated from it, followed by a chill that seeped into his bones. He stared at the wand, turning it over in his hands, trying to decipher its meaning. His eyes flickered back to the parchment—a letter stamped with the Hogwarts crest.

It was addressed to Eurus. "Who is Eurus?" Sherlock murmured, his mind whirring. He picked up the photograph of the boy and girl once more, his gaze lingering on the girl's face. A set of drawers appeared in the back corner of the office, ones that Sherlock was certain hadn't been there before.

Sherlock rushed over, pulling open the top drawer with a sudden urgency. Inside lay a single binder. He lifted the binder and opened it. As he did, the world around him shifted.

Sherlock's vision blurred, the walls of the office fading as the memories came crashing down like a tidal wave. He was no longer in Mycroft's office but standing in a sun-dappled garden, a small boy with curly dark hair playing beside him. The boy was laughing, carefree, a friend Sherlock had known since they were little. Nearby, a young girl with piercing eyes watched them, clutching a feather that floated and danced in the air. Sherlock knew her—Eurus, his sister. She was a mystery even then, with a fierce intelligence that often turned volatile. She would smile and then cry, play and then rage, her moods like the flicker of a flame.

Sherlock felt the sharp sting of her cries, saw her hurling peas across the kitchen, and watched as she made objects float without understanding how. His parents never spoke of it, and Sherlock thought she might be like a superhero from one of his stories, a child with extraordinary gifts. But the magic grew wilder, more dangerous. He remembered the tree in the woods catching fire, the flames roaring higher and higher. Eurus had watched, horrified, as Sherlock lied to protect her, telling their parents it was an experiment gone wrong.

The memories surged faster now. A letter arriving on their shared eleventh birthday—one for Eurus - nothing for Sherlock. Mycroft is taking Eurus to Diagon Alley, buying books, robes, and a wand. Eurus expressing fear of being sent away to some far-off boarding school that sounded magical but terrifying. Sherlock pulled away from her, spending more time with his friend, distancing himself from the strange, powerful force his sister seemed to wield.

Then, the terrible day when everything changed. Eurus, in a fit of uncontrolled magic, had lashed out. Sherlock's best friend, the boy who laughed and played with him every day, was dead—his body crumpled on the ground, eyes staring vacantly at the sky. Eurus was crying, shaking, her hands clenched into fists. Sherlock didn't understand what had happened, didn't understand that his sister's outburst had killed his friend. His world spun, grief and anger warring inside him, unable to reconcile the sister he loved with the terrible power she wielded.

The aurors arrived, their stern faces and dark robes casting long shadows in the daylight. They spoke in hushed tones, their wands held tight as they discussed what was to be done with the child. Sherlock remembered the searing heat of the fire that followed, flames licking at the walls, smoke choking the air. He searched desperately for Eurus, calling her name, his voice breaking as the heat closed in around him. He hated her for what she had done, but he loved her. She was his sister. He was screaming her name, stumbling through the smoke, but she was gone.

Mycroft dragged him from the burning house, coughing and covered in soot. Sherlock could still feel the heat on his skin, the sting of smoke in his eyes. He watched as the aurors extinguished the flames, the house reduced to a smoldering ruin. Eurus was presumed dead, her body never found, and the memories of her existence wiped clean by the aurors' wands. Sherlock remembered the flash of green light, the feeling of his mind being pulled apart and stitched back together. He had seen Hermione perform similar spells but never imagined it had been done to him, erasing his sister from his mind as though she had never been.

Sherlock staggered, the memories vivid and raw, not just seen but felt. He was living through them, the past rushing in with an intensity that left him breathless. He grasped at the edges of his mind palace, trying to hold onto the flood of information that had been locked away for so long.

--

Back in the darkened room, John thrashed against his restraints, his wrists raw and bleeding. He panted, his breath ragged as he tried to free himself. Footsteps echoed outside, and John stilled, straining to hear. The door creaked open, and the two henchmen from earlier stepped in, their faces obscured by shadows. They flanked the entrance, allowing another figure to step through—a woman with sharp features, flowing brown hair, and a black cloak that swept around her ankles. She moved with purpose, her expression cold and calculating.

John's heart raced as he watched her circle the room, her eyes fixed on Sherlock. He could see the glint of something dangerous in her gaze, a flicker of power that made his stomach churn. She didn't spare John a glance, her focus entirely on Sherlock.

"Stay away from him!" John shouted, his voice breaking. "Don't touch him! I swear, if you hurt him—"

The woman ignored him, stepping closer to Sherlock. She raised her hands, her fingers hovering either side of his head. John struggled, his chair scraping against the floor as he tried to pull free, but it was no use. He could only watch, helpless, as she leaned in and whispered a single word: "Enervate."

Sherlock's eyes flew open, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. He blinked, disoriented, his mind still reeling from the memories that had crashed through him. The room came into focus, the dingy walls and flickering light, John's panicked shouts, ropes biting into his wrists. And, standing before him, a woman.

"Hello brother."