The Emotional Children

XXVII

Sand began scurrying madly in the air as the sea wind blew it in every which way around the shore. The waves on the rocks sounded like firecrackers, each new set coming in collided with the malicious stones, sending spray into the air and against the walls.

No one had entered or left the island in the last week; since the hospitalization of Mycroft Holmes, things had been shut down. And until he came out of his coma, it would remain so. None came, none left.

Until, on one mercilessly cold morning in the beginning of November, a helicopter landed on the beach and let out one man wearing a long, dark coat and carrying an instrument case. Shielding his hands over his eyes to keep the sand from stinging his face, he hurried towards the facility where guards were waiting to let him in.

Striding quickly across the beach, Sherlock Holmes made his way into the fortress called Sherrinford.

"Mr. Holmes," a young, clearly novice guard said, opening a side door for him. The black-coated detective curtly nodded at the eager lad, dismissing him coldly as he brushed past and entered the fortress. The door shut behind them, shutting out the frigid air with it. Nevertheless, the interior of this asylum was nowhere close to being...warm.

"We've been expecting you, Mr. Holmes," the guard said, jogging alongside Sherlock, whose long legs made each stride equal to the speed of a run.

"I'm sure you have," Sherlock muttered, walking faster. "I need to speak with Governor McIlroy. Is he here?" he asked. The soldier nodded and led Sherlock down the long, cold, symmetrical halls where every sound echoed menacingly like the inside of a slaughter house.

Officials in suits and soldiers in uniform were everywhere, and Sherlock studied each one of them as they passed. There was no room for anything besides their task at Sherrinford; there was not room enough for error or sympathy. Everyone looked like a robotic representation of the fully functioning human being.

Turning a corner, Sherlock's guide led him to the command center.

"In here, sir," he said, showing Sherlock into the same room with the long table where the entire adventure of The Final Problem had first begun. Governor McIlroy was seated at the head of the table, his perfect posture and square eyebrows the image of rational order and organization.

"Mr. Holmes; right on time, I see," he said, his thick, Scottish accent chopping their ears.

Atticus McIlroy, the newly appointed governor in the management of Sherrinford, was an incredibly lean, dark-haired, stern-faced young Scot with some of the sharpest facial features Sherlock had ever seen. His face might have been cut from a granite slab. Despite his being young, however, he was wise, careful, and incredibly sharp in the head. His eyes darted around every so often as though he were afraid for an incoming attack of some sort. It seemed to signify alertness, and he had Sherlock's utmost respect.

"What of my sister? Has she been told of our brother's hospitalization?" Sherlock abruptly asked, going to the long window and looking out onto the sea having its tantrum.

"She talks to no one, sir. We've tried to tell her; we did tell her of Mr. Holmes's hospitalization, actually.... But she makes no reply. She just stares at the wall and sits. Sometimes she plays the violin, but that's about all she does. She hasn't touched any of the food we've given her this week. We've told her to eat, but when we come back to retrieve the food, it's been thrown; stuck to the walls, smushed on the floors. We've never seen her like this before."

"Has she been given anything to do?"

"Like I said," Governor McIlroy went on, "she plays the violin, but that's all. We've tried to make conversation with her, but she doesn't respond to verbal communication. She doesn't move from her place unless she's alone, and whenever someone returns to check on her, she goes back to her bench with her back to us and her face to the wall."