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."
"You misunderstand my question, Governor. I asked if she has been given anything to do, not if she does anything on her own."
"Right, sir; no, we've not given anything her anything to do, but we never really have, sir. It wasn't part of your brother's instructions," he replied, if a bit sheepishly.
"You said she's not eating. Does she look ill to you?"
"No, sir. She seems fine. Pale, but...well, she's always pale, sir."
"I think it's about time I had a chat with my sister, Governor McIlroy."
Sherlock said, his mind made up. Eurus was suffering; her cold, insufferable mental determination was prohibiting her to crack, but she was cracking...inside. He knew his sister; she was a raging ocean of emotions underneath that sterile, unaffected, blank exterior.
"Let me go down to see her," Sherlock demanded, studying the governor with his eyes, which looked dark and brooding at present.
"Mr. Holmes, I'm not sure I would advise—"
"Let me go down to see her," he said again, his voice louder and more commanding. "You must let me go down to her. Let me talk to her. I've not seen her for a while now, and she'll have noticed my absence. Permit me," he ordered.
"I'm not sure if I can, sir. She's been in isolation for a while (if you don't count the small visits from the caretakers), and I don't know if I want to shock her with too much social stimulation."
Sherlock cocked his head at the gentleman and wrinkled his eyebrows. Please. The two men were about the same height, so their eyes met equally. For a moment the governor opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of reproaching the younger brother of his superior.
"God help me," he said, throwing up his hands in dismay. He stroked his square chin with some concern. "Take him down," he charged one of the soldiers, "and see that it's done quickly."
...
The silence was enough to drive one mad. She'd been sitting here in the dark for...she didn't even know how long anymore. The solitude was torture. There was nothing she could do besides stare at the walls, make puzzles for herself, or play the violin endlessly into the night.
Nothing moved here...nothing except her.
Nothing spoke here...nothing except her mind, which was louder than the storm inside her heart. Sometimes the waves around Sherrinford grew loud enough, and the gales blew hard enough so that the walls of this prison sounded like drums that God was beating on. With the noise it made, the weather was enough to keep her company on some days.
They had told her about her brother...about Mycroft. Upon impulse, she had smiled. No one had seen her smile, which was a good thing. Maybe that smile was a bit not good, but well...why should she care anyway? He had been the reason she was locked up in this cell...and had been since she was younger than ten years old.
Maybe it was about time he spent a little time "in prison," too.
She missed Sherlock, though. She missed her favorite brother. He was usually around more often than this, and she wondered what had driven him away. His absence was wounding her; she was angry, confused...dangerously silly.
Eurus Holmes, of all the people in the world, was most likely the cleverest. Her mind was a computer, her soul a guillotine, and her thoughts a nightmare. Nothing was too difficult for her, and nothing ever would be. So when booms could be heard from the wall above, she knew what was happening without the consideration of a second thought.
She counted down from ten as she heard the elevator slowly descending, knowing that out of it would step her dear brother. And she knew everything he'd been up to...and she'd get an answer to every question she asked.
Nine...eight...
She crossed her legs and faced the wall, her black hair falling like spilled ink down her back.
Seven...six...
She stared blankly into the wall, her head cocking to one side.
Five...four...
A small smile crept across her face.
Three...two...
She closed her eyes, triumph warming her mind.
One...and...none...
The door opened, and after a moment of quiet hesitation, someone stepped out of the elevator. She already knew it was him, so she didn't need to turn around. As he came closer, the lights flicked on in her cell: cold, white, stinging light that made her eyes hurt when they appeared. But she never blinked or squinted. She was far too clever for that...and far too used to it.
Sherlock was nearing the glass now.
"What kept you so long?" her cold voice asked from the corner of her cell. He made no reply for a few seconds, but she refused to turn around. She was angry.
"More than you know," he answered in a hoarse whisper.
Ugh, what was that in his voice? What was that in her ear? She knew! Of course she knew. What had kept him was "more than she knew?" Unlikely, dear Sherlock...unlikely.
She rose from her seat in the corner of her cell and turned to face him. Her face was pale like the untouched snow at the tip of a mountain, and her long, thick, and deadly black hair drastically contrasting the sheer whiteness of everything else about her.
"Try me," she said, her lips unsmiling, her eyes unblinking, and her hands at her sides. Her mouth stayed open as she eyed him with frightening investigation. He stammered a moment before trying to speak.
"Eurus, you have to understand. Mycroft has—"
"Oh, of course, Mycroft. Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft..." she mocked, walking closer to the edge of her cell with the expression of a tiger stalking its prey. "It's always Mycroft, isn't it?" she asked, whispering through the glass, which was now growing foggy with her breath.
"Mycroft's been shot, Eurus."
Her eyes widened just a touch.
"I know; that's what they told me. He was younger than most men, but death is really the only one thing human beings can be relied upon to do. Should you be so shocked if it's to happen to our own brother?"
"Eurus—" Sherlock breathed. His voice had heightened ever so slowly, and he stopped a moment before shouting. She smiled...no, he wouldn't shout. Not at her. Not at his pour, mentally unstable little sister. She took the opportunity to pounce.
"Let's not talk about Mycroft, though. Tell me about her."
Sherlock blinked twice, acting confused. She snickered...some act.
"Sorry, who?" he asked, his brows furrowing.
"Her," she repeated, let her head fall back a little on her neck. "About her. Your wife. I must confess, Sherlock. It took me by surprise. Jim said you've always been fond of her, but, well...you know...he's quite keen on making you fond of anything."
"What do you mean? Have you...have you spoken with him?"
"Oh, didn't I tell you?" she asked, almost laughingly. She stepped back from the glass and went to pick up her violin from her bed in the back-left corner of the room. "I've seen him the last few days. He's stopped by, but only briefly...when no one's around. He gets so excited when he's near me...like a puppy trying to beg for a bone. Didn't realize just how much I missed dear Jim."
"Eurus, what has he said to you?"
Without answering him, and without warning, she started playing Paganini's twenty-fourth caprice. She watched him study her as she began playing. It was fun to watch him agonize over her silence.
She turned her back to him (still playing) as she said, "Just the odd bit about you, and me, and Mycroft...and Irene Adler."
"Eurus, what do you know? We are on the brink of a national emergency; you need to tell me what you know. You...you have to help me. Mycroft said you would. And..." he paused a moment, leaving her ear dangling in the air. She stopped playing the caprice abruptly, making the bow screech foully against the strings. She turned towards him.
"And what?" she asked.
"And I believe you will. After all we've been through, you couldn't say no. You're too clever to say no," he said, putting his violin to his shoulder and beginning to play the song they had learned to play together.
"Because you need me," he said. His jaw was set, and resolve was in his eyes.
Her cold, shrill laugh echoed around the room like a witch's cackle. He continued to play, unphased by the eerie sound. He had heard it enough times for it to shock him.
He was waiting for her to put her violin back on her shoulder, too. Gradually, she began playing along with him, their duet making the cold, echoey cell a hall of music. She smiled a little.
"No, you need me, Sherlock."
"Yes..." he whispered. "Yes, I do."
"Admitting it that easily? You must be very desperate," she taunted, the gaze of her black eyes carving holes in his face.
Then came the vibrato. She had to concentrate, her eyes fixed on her bow, making sure to align it perfectly with the correct strings. Success.
"Jim Moriarty never gave you anything worth holding on to," Sherlock said, looking at her over his violin. "Why, Eurus? Why would you let him play you again?"
Eurus kept playing the violin, focusing hard on the correct notes. It was too easy for her. Sherlock's question was one that irritated her as well.
"To be fair, Mycroft never gave me anything worth holding on to, either," she said, her fingers severely pressing the strings with accuracy...and agitation. He could see the nerves bulging out from under her wrists.
"Maybe Mycroft didn't, but I did."
"Oh, Sherlock," she laughed, throwing a fake smile at his feet. "I don't have favorites, you know. Wherever did you get that idea?"
"From the time you saved John from the well, that's when. You trust me, Eurus."
"Maybe I do...and then...maybe I don't."
And with this, her mind was made up. This was all he would hear from her today. He would have to come again sometime, when she felt in a better mood.
"You'd better run home, dear brother. Your wife misses you, I'm sure," she said. Abruptly, she stopped playing their duet and switched agonizingly to Paganini. The chaos was too much for Sherlock's brain, and he quit playing. She went on playing the caprice, her hand flying everywhere around the fingerboard and her bow slicing the strings. Her head jerked violently as she played, tossing her hair around with each new movement.
"Eurus—" he said, trying to capture her attention once more. She had her back to him now and kept rigorously playing her violin, resolving to ignore his existence. The playing was growing more and more furious: aggressive and wild. The caprice was an erratic piece; nevertheless, he could recognize the agitation growing in the melody that hadn't been written in the original music.
He realized there was no more he could say; no more he could do. If Eurus was determined to remain uncooperative, there was no changing her mind. He would return next week to play with her as he had the weeks before, but there was no trusting her, and there was no changing her. She was who she was, and he was who he was.
Slowly, and with the reluctance of a criminal walking toward the gallows, he sealed his violin in its case, stepped into the elevator, and left her alone to butcher Paganini.