Sherlock Holmes♪♪

The air in Level 5 was different—colder, heavier with the scent of ozone and sterilized metal. Eurus’s voice crackled over the intercom, a sharp, melodic chirp that set Sherlock’s teeth on edge.

"You thought I was the only ghost in the attic, Sherlock? Mycroft is such a collector. He doesn't just hide secrets; he cages them."

The heavy steel door hissed, the magnetic locks disengaging with a sound like a guillotine. It didn't swing open wide; it merely invited them to look. Sherlock stepped forward first, his coat billowing slightly in the artificial draft. Behind him, John’s hand was instinctively near his side, his face pale with the exhaustion of the Governor’s "test," while Mycroft stood uncharacteristically still, his umbrella gripped so tightly his knuckles were white.

Sherlock peered through the opening.

The cell was a stark contrast to Eurus’s glass-walled stage. This was a tomb of reinforced steel. But the walls—every available inch of the matte gray surface was covered in sketches. Thousands of them. Nailed, taped, or wedged into the seams of the plating. They weren't the chaotic scribblings of a madwoman; they were precise, analytical, and hauntingly familiar.

And there, on the narrow cot, lay the girl.

"No," Sherlock whispered, the word barely a breath. He recognized the tilt of the head, the stillness that wasn't sleep, but a profound, terrifyingly deep state of observation.

John pushed forward, looking over Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock... who is that? Is that another...?" He couldn't even finish the sentence. The horror of finding one secret sister was enough; a second felt like a fracture in reality.

"The quiet one," Mycroft said, his voice brittle and devoid of its usual authority. He didn't look into the room. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor of the corridor. "She was always the quiet one. Too quiet. Even for us."

Sherlock ignored him, stepping into the cell. His eyes swept over the drawings—he saw sketches of 221B, diagrams of chemical compounds he’d worked on months ago, and even a portrait of John from a newspaper clipping, all rendered with a cold, perfect clarity.

He approached the bed. The girl—his youngest sister—didn't move. She remained gazing at the ceiling, her blue eyes reflecting the flickering fluorescent light.

"You're five years late, Sherlock," she said, her voice calm, level, and utterly devoid of the manic energy Eurus possessed. It was the voice of a Holmes who had simply waited for the inevitable. "And Mycroft, you've gained weight. The stress of the lie, I imagine."

John looked from the girl to Mycroft, his face reddening with a mix of fury and disbelief. "Mycroft, you told us Eurus was the only one. You said 'the other one' meant her! How many sisters do you have locked in holes?"

Mycroft finally looked up, his expression a mask of weary tragedy. "As many as were necessary to keep the world safe, Dr. Watson."

Sherlock reached out a hand, hovering it near his youngest sister's shoulder, but he didn't touch her. He looked at the drawings on the wall—specifically one of a small, black-haired girl sitting in the shadows of a Musgrave drawing room, unnoticed while the rest of the family argued.

"I remember you," Sherlock murmured, a flicker of genuine pain crossing his features. "The girl who didn't speak. I thought I'd imagined you. Another shadow in the palace."

She slowly turned her head, those piercing blue eyes—the Holmes eyes—locking onto his. "I didn't speak because no one was listening, Sherlock. Except Eurus. She always listens."

A low, mocking laugh echoed from the intercom. "She’s the best of us, Sherlock," Eurus’s voice sang. "She doesn't want to burn the world. She just wants to watch it turn to ash. Shall we see what happens when the observer is forced to participate?

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