Chapter Text
The heavy iron gates of the Constantinople mansion slowly opened inward with a melancholy groan, and nineteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes could not shake the feeling that he was not entering a residence but a prison.
The salty wind from the Bosphorus drifted through the courtyard, carrying the distant sound of ships and gulls. To Sherlock, it sounded like freedom.
Yet the armed guards which surrounded the party gave little encouragement to such notions.
Sherlock stepped through the opened gate and cast a swift glance about the estate. A marble fountain stood at the center of a tiled courtyard framed by slender arches and pale stone columns. The walls were dressed in intricate blue and gold azulejo titles that gleamed in the sunlight. The mansion, composed of warm stone and stucco, rose two stories high, its façade lined with tall rectangular windows. Above, intricate stone-carved balconies and shaded galleries overlooked the courtyard below, where Sherlock noticed several guards leaning over the railings to observe the new houseguests with open curiosity.
“Three more in the right window,” came a whispered voice beside him.
It was his older brother, Mycroft Holmes.
Mycroft stood tall beside him, immaculate even after a horrible shoot-out. His mustache was trimmed and his hair carefully combed, and his posture rigid with confidence of a man accustomed to authority. Nothing like Sherlock’s, whose brown hair refused all discipline and remained windswept beneath his cap.
“And ten in the second courtyard,” Sherlock murmured in reply. “A most enthusiastic reception for our arrival.”
Mycroft gave a faint roll of his eyes before resuming his careful survey of the grounds.
On Sherlock’s other side stood their mother—the lovely Cordelia Holmes. A once respectable, elegant lady now worn thin by grief and betrayal. Her grey eyes flickered nervously between one armed guard to another.
Sherlock gently patted her hand. “It’ll be alright,” he reassured her, though he himself felt far from it.
She exhaled shakily and gripped his hand tighter.
Courage, Sherlock told himself. Courage and strength were required not for himself, but for hers as well. They needed them to keep up with the whiplash of lies and truths.
Only one member of their party appeared to find the circumstances distinctly amusing.
James Moriarty stared openly at the estate, eyes bright with fascination as they swept across the balconies, gardens and carved stonework. Removing his hat, he revealed a head of brown curls already rebelling against the humid air.
“What a charming little home,” he observed cheerfully. “And so thoughtfully decorated with firearms.”
Sherlock shot him a look of mild reproach. Moriarty responded with a raise of his brows in theatrical innocence.
At that moment, the carriage door opened and Sherlock’s father stepped out.
Silas Holmes.
The gentleman scientist. The adventurer. And now criminal mastermind.
He stood nearly as tall as Sherlock, his dark hair slightly discolored from age, and a trace of stubble upon his jaw. Dust from the recent shoot-out still clung to his coat and waistcoat, yet his expression was composed. Satisfied.
His eyes, so similar to Sherlock’s own, were bright with victory as he looked at the small group of hostages before him.
Sherlock still struggled to reconcile this man with the father he loved. All those fond childhood memories had splintered apart in the weeks leading to this moment—until the final gunshot shattered what little remained.
The shoot-out was short. The princess lay dead with a bullet lodged in her back. Guards surrounded the Holmes family. And Moriarty had been wrestled into submission.
And then the big reveal. The ultimate betrayal by Silas.
The carriage door opened once more and out stepped the real Beatrice Holmes.
Sherlock couldn’t look away. He had seen and spoken to her many times, but as Edie and not Beatrice. His sister. His supposedly dead sister.
In Sherlock’s memories, Beatrice was a cheerful child with round cheeks, a single dimple, and a smile she offered the world without hesitation.
The woman before him was different.
Her face had sharpened with age, her eyes grown cold and watchful. The innocence had vanished. Only the small dimple remained, the only relic of another life.
Behind him, guards urged the group forward.
Sherlock walked beside his mother, his eyes scanning everything. Rifles. Exits. Guards. Blind spots.
Mycroft followed with measured composure, though Sherlock noticed the vein pulsing up his neck. Cordelia’s hands trembled around Sherlock’s arm, though whether for balance or restraint was unclear. Moriarty himself looked almost entertained, as if the entire ordeal were merely an unusually elaborate stage play.
Inside the mansion’s great hall, Silas removed his dirty coat and draped it over a chair.
“It is finished,” he said, smiling. “The threat has been eliminated.”
Beatrice passed her brothers with a faint smirk, coming up to their father to peck a kiss on his cheek. “You have triumphed, Father,” she praised him. “As expected.”
“All elementary, my dear Bea,” Silas replied. “Would you not agree, Sherly?”
Sherlock said nothing. Not even a wince at the old childhood nickname.
Silas moved to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of amber liquor. “The nerve agent is secured, and the recent demonstration appears to have been… persuasive,” he continued. “Governments are so… persuadable when faced with inevitability.”
Sherlock’s jaw tightened.
Silas raised a glass and regarded his captured family. “Which now brings us to our small family matter.”
He gestured toward the doors. Several guards stepped out, leaving only a handful behind to monitor.
Silas took a slow sip of the drink. “Mycroft,” he said. “You may leave.”
The room went still.
Sherlock glanced at Mycroft. His brother tilted his head, brows tightening in confusion.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me,” Silas replied. “You have a talent for diplomacy, and the British government is terribly fond of you. After all, you helped capture the princess assassin who terrorized Oxford.” He finished his drink and poured another glass. “And I require someone capable within the government. The Foreign Office is run by prideful pigs, wouldn’t you agree? So, you will travel to London and negotiate the terms of their… cooperation.”
Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “You expect me to assist you.”
“I expect you to prevent panic,” Silas corrected. “Should the British public discover what their government is capable and willing to do for power, chaos follows. I’m sure the royals would hate to have another revolution, especially in their own backyard.”
Mycroft said nothing for a long moment. Sherlock may not always agree with his brother’s life choices of order and institution, but he was certain Mycroft was not a man easily controlled. Just like himself.
After that long moment, Mycroft straightened. “Very well.”
Sherlock spun toward him. “Mycroft!”
Mycroft ignored him. “I’ll speak to the Foreign Office with your… proposal,” he said, never once looking at Sherlock’s horrified expression or Cordelia’s saddened face. “And the others? Will they be joining me?”
Silas waved a hand. “Cordelia and the charming young Moriarty may return to Oxford.”
“How generous,” muttered Moriarty, sarcastically.
Silas’s gaze then settled on Sherlock. “But Sherlock stays.”
Cordelia gasped softly, her grip painfully tight on his arm, but Sherlock didn’t feel it. He stared at Silas. Perplexed by the change. For most of his life, Silas had shown little care of his whereabouts, trading him from one boarding school to the next. Silas had no qualms gaslighting him about his own sister’s death, trying to keep him from digging into their past, their truths. He didn’t even care that Sherlock got shot, running away while his life faded in and out of existence.
Out of sight. Out of mind.
But now he wanted Sherlock here when Sherlock desired nothing so much as to be far, far away from him.
“No,” Mycroft said immediately. “Not possible.”
Silas regarded his eldest son with mild curiosity.
Mycroft stepped forward, somewhat blocking Sherlock and their mother from Silas. “Father—whatever you may believe, Sherlock has no place in this affair of yours,” he said calmly, but firm. “You see his potential. I do as well. But he will uncover everything you’re hiding. And when he does,” He paused deliberately, eyes on Silas to ensure he was listening, “he will destroy it all.”
Sherlock was affronted by the tone but agreed with Mycroft’s sentiment. He would destroy everything Silas built.
Silas smiled fondly. “Which is precisely why he stays,” he said. “It is best I keep him close.”
“You mean control me,” gritted Sherlock.
“Semantics.”
Moriarty stepped forward with a theatrical sigh. “Well, this is all terribly dramatic,” he said, “but I must protest as well.”
Silas cocked an eyebrow at the Irishman.
Moriarty placed a hand over his heart. “You see, Sherlock simply cannot function without me. His mind requires… stimulation. Without my brilliant presence, he would grow dreadfully dull. And dull little boys cause a great mass of trouble.”
Sherlock shot him a warning glance at the accusation, to which Moriarty winked. His friend didn’t want to leave. Not with him. Sherlock’s heart fluttered in gratitude for his friendship.
But Silas chuckled. It was the first genuine laugh anyone had heard from him all day.
“How charming,” he said, amused. “But unnecessary.” He tilted his head at Sherlock. “Sherlock is brilliant on his own.”
Moriarty’s grin faltered and Sherlock’s jaw hardened.
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Sherlock replied flatly.
It was all too much because Cordelia stepped forward to her estranged husband, her composure broken, cheeks red from not the heat, but from the flush of fear and desperation.
“Silas… please.” Her voice cracked. “Don’t do this.”
Silas watched her without expression.
“You already took my children from me once before,” she whispered. “You took this family apart piece by piece, ruining us all.” Tears filled her eyes. “Please don’t take another child from me.”
For a moment, the room was silent except for the wind stirring the curtains and his mother’s soft whimpers of despair.
Silas slowly turned thoughtfully to Beatrice, who stood not too far from Silas, haughtily observing her family being subjugated by a madman. She shared a look with him, one elegant brow arched in a mocking manner. The same look she gave them when she held them by gunpoint earlier.
“Another child,” Silas mused before he sighed decisively. “Very well.”
Hope flickered briefly across Cordelia’s face. Sherlock did too, as he didn’t think, for a single moment, Silas would show any compassion to the family that once adored him.
Silas flicked his free hand toward Beatrice.
“You may have her.”
The words struck the room like a gunshot.
Beatrice went pale. Her whole body stiffened in disbelief. All the pride and arrogance fell from her face, and Sherlock thought he had almost seen the little girl he remembered. He felt something twist painfully in his chest.
Cordelia blinked, looking between Silas and Beatrice with uncertainty. “What—?”
Silas shrugged. “You said to not take another child away from you, so I am trading one. You are now reunited with Beatrice and I’ll have Sherlock.”
Beatrice’s face, once white as porcelain, burned. “Father—”
But Silas had already moved behind her, gently pushing her toward Cordelia’s outreached arms. She pulled Beatrice in, but the girl yanked herself away, stepping away from both them and Silas.
“Father!” she shouted. “You said—”
“You were wonderful Bea,” Silas assured her with a smile that one may mistake as parental. But Sherlock saw the serpent. “But your mother wishes to have you now.”
There was fury in her eyes now. Not merely anger, but for the humiliation of being easily discarded.
Cordelia, while relieved to have Beatrice, still gave Silas a frosty glare. “I wish to have all my children,” she snapped. “We all leave together.”
Silas gave Cordelia a condescending look, as if tired of her hysterics. “My poor, dear wife,” he said. “You may have two, but not three. And besides, you are used to only having two and a young man needs a father more so than a mother.”
Sherlock’s rage burst out of the restraints, nearly lunging at his father if it wasn’t for Mycroft grabbing his jacket to hold him back. “I don’t need you!” he shouted. “I never needed you!”
“Said the boy who always wanted to grow up like me,” Silas volleyed back and Sherlock felt the comment strike him in the face.
Silas set the glass aside.
“Arrangements have been for your departure in the morning,” he said to others. “Rooms are available for your leisure, but you are to stay in there unless called upon. Cannot have visitors wondering into unauthorized areas.”
The guards began to move, ready to shuffle them all out of the hall. Sherlock shrugged off one guard’s hand, and he stepped forward to his father.
“I won’t help you.”
Silas looked at him in a patronizing manner.
Sherlock had to drill it in his head. He advanced toward Silas, jaw set. “I won’t assist with your plans or solve your problems. I won’t do anything for you.” His voice hardened. “Not now. Not ever.”
Silas studied him for a long moment and then smiled. “My dear boy,” he said, softly. “That is exactly what makes you so interesting.”