Mrs. Hudson opened the door with the kind of practiced efficiency that came from years of managing Sherlock's peculiar social calendar, though her eyebrows rose slightly at finding a professor and a young man in patched robes standing on her doorstep at half past ten in the morning.
"Professor McGonagall," she said with genuine warmth, her voice carrying that particular note of maternal authority that could make even the most distinguished academics feel like they ought to straighten their posture. "How lovely to see you again. And you must be Mr. Lupin—Sherlock mentioned you might be coming by, though of course he didn't mention when, or really anything useful about timing at all. Please, come in. I've just put the kettle on, and there are fresh scones if you're interested."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," McGonagall replied, stepping into the familiar warmth of the Baker Street hallway with the kind of dignified grace that suggested she was accustomed to being welcomed into important places by important people. "How is Harry settling in? I hope he's not finding the transition too overwhelming."
"Oh, he's a perfect delight," Mrs. Hudson said, her entire face lighting up with the kind of genuine affection that transformed her from efficient housekeeper to devoted grandmother in an instant. "Sleeping like an angel upstairs right now, though I suspect that won't last long once Sherlock starts trying to 'educate' him with those peculiar experiments of his. Yesterday I caught him explaining the chemical composition of baby formula to the poor little thing as if he were delivering a university lecture."
She led them up the seventeen steps with the kind of comfortable chatter that somehow made even the most unusual circumstances seem perfectly normal, her voice creating a warm buffer against whatever intellectual intensity awaited them above.
"Mind the second step from the top—it creaks something dreadful, and we don't want to wake the baby. Though honestly, that child could probably sleep through one of Sherlock's chemical explosions. He's got the most remarkable constitution."
Remus followed behind McGonagall, his tall frame moving with the careful precision of someone accustomed to navigating spaces not quite designed for his height. His amber eyes took in every detail of the stairway—the worn carpet, the slight warp in the banister, the way afternoon light filtered through windows that had clearly seen decades of London weather. There was something almost hungry in his observation, as if he were storing up details of normalcy against future need.
The sitting room was exactly as Remus had expected from Lily's descriptions, though seeing it in person somehow made it both more chaotic and more organized than he'd imagined. It was like looking at the physical manifestation of a brilliant mind—books stacked in towers that defied physics, papers arranged in patterns that suggested complex filing systems comprehensible only to their creator, chemical apparatus that looked capable of either solving crimes or accidentally destroying half of London.
What appeared to be at least three different skull specimens were arranged on various surfaces according to some logic that only made sense to their collector, and a violin case lay open on a side table like a musical weapon waiting to be deployed against the forces of ignorance and boredom.
Sherlock himself was sprawled in his leather chair in that impossibly angular way that made ordinary furniture look like it had been specifically designed for consulting detectives. His long fingers were steepled beneath his chin in a pose that managed to convey both deep contemplation and predatory readiness, while his pale eyes were already fixed on the doorway with the kind of laser intensity that made most people feel like specimens under a microscope.
Mycroft occupied the chair opposite with the sort of perfect posture that suggested he was single-handedly upholding the structural integrity of the British Empire through sheer force of proper bearing. His expression managed the remarkable feat of conveying both absolute attention and complete boredom simultaneously, as if he were mentally composing shopping lists while also calculating the geopolitical implications of his brother's latest obsession.
Between them, a low table held the remains of what had clearly been an extensive breakfast and several folders bound with official red tape that practically screamed "classified government secrets" to anyone with functioning eyes.
"Professor McGonagall," Sherlock said without preamble, unfolding himself from the chair with the kind of predatory grace that suggested he was about to pounce on an particularly fascinating puzzle. "Punctual as always, which I appreciate in people who have information I need. And Mr. Remus John Lupin—twenty-one years old, though you look older due to chronic stress and irregular sleeping patterns, recently unemployed but not by choice, werewolf obviously, guilty about something that wasn't entirely your fault but that you're taking complete responsibility for anyway, carrying information you believe will be crucial to proving Sirius Black's innocence, and desperately in need of a good meal and approximately twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep."
He paused, tilting his head slightly as his eyes continued their rapid cataloging. "Also, you've been staying in temporary accommodations—probably with other werewolves, given the scent profile—and you're more nervous about this meeting than you're letting on, though whether that's due to the gravity of the situation or my reputation for being insufferable is difficult to determine. Possibly both."
Remus blinked, his amber eyes widening with a mixture of surprise and grudging admiration. "That's... remarkably accurate. Though I'm curious how you determined the werewolf aspect so quickly."
"Elementary," Sherlock replied with the kind of casual dismissiveness that made extraordinary deductions sound like simple arithmetic. "The scent was obvious once I knew what to look for—distinctive combination of human and something wilder, with undertones that suggest recent proximity to forest environments. More telling was the way you automatically positioned yourself near the exit and downwind from everyone else, plus the specific way you hold yourself during conversation. Werewolves develop particular habits regarding personal space and escape routes."
He gestured toward the remaining chairs with a theatrical flourish that somehow managed to be both welcoming and imperious. "The guilt was evident in your posture and the specific way you avoid direct eye contact when discussing your friends. The information about Black was a logical deduction based on why Dumbledore would send you here specifically rather than handling this through normal magical channels. The unemployment and temporary living situation were obvious from the condition of your clothes and the particular way you're savoring the warmth and comfort of this room. Please, sit. Mrs. Hudson will bring tea, and you can tell me exactly what you know about Peter Pettigrew that might help us locate a supposedly dead man."
McGonagall settled into her chair with the kind of innate dignity that transformed simple furniture into a throne of academic authority. "Mr. Holmes, I believe you'll find Mr. Lupin's information quite illuminating. It concerns certain... irregular activities undertaken by Messrs Black, Potter, Pettigrew, and Lupin during their Hogwarts years."
"Irregular how?" Mycroft inquired with the tone of a man who collected irregular activities the way other people collected stamps, and who found most irregularities disappointingly mundane. "I do hope we're not talking about the sort of teenage mischief that involves stolen property and minor vandalism. Such pedestrian rebellion would be deeply disappointing."
Remus took a deep breath, clearly steeling himself for confession. "We became illegal Animagi. All of us except me—James, Sirius, and Peter. They did it to help with my... condition. During full moons, I transform into a werewolf, which is extremely dangerous for any human nearby. But animals can be around werewolves safely, so they learned to transform into animal forms to keep me company and ensure I didn't hurt anyone during my transformations."
Sherlock's eyebrows rose with genuine interest, the kind of intellectual excitement that usually preceded his most brilliant deductions beginning to spark in his pale eyes. "Fascinating. Illegal how, precisely? And don't give me vague governmental restrictions—I want specific legal statutes and the reasoning behind them."
"The Ministry of Magic requires all Animagi to register their animal forms and submit to regular monitoring and documentation," Remus explained, his voice gaining confidence as he saw the brothers' obvious interest in the technical details. "The process involves extensive background checks, magical aptitude testing, and ongoing surveillance to ensure the ability isn't misused for criminal purposes. We... didn't register. We kept the entire thing secret because we knew the school would never have allowed it if they'd known what we were attempting, and the Ministry would have either forbidden it entirely or subjected us to the kind of scrutiny that would have exposed my lycanthropy."
"Three teenage boys successfully mastered one of the most complex and dangerous forms of magical transformation without adult supervision or official oversight," McGonagall added with the kind of dry academic tone that suggested she was simultaneously impressed and appalled. "The entire endeavor was reckless, brilliant, and completely illegal."
"How long did the process take?" Mycroft asked, leaning forward slightly with the expression of a man who appreciated thoroughness in all its forms.
"Nearly three years to master completely," Remus replied. "The magical theory alone took months to understand, and the practical application was... challenging. The transformation process is incredibly complex—you're not just changing your physical form, you're fundamentally altering your magical signature, your thought patterns, even your basic sensory experience. One mistake could result in permanent disfigurement, madness, or death."
"Three years," Mycroft murmured with obvious respect. "That suggests considerable magical complexity and remarkable dedication. What forms did they take?"
"James became a stag—magnificent creature, perfectly suited to leading and protecting others. His antlers were spectacular, and he had this regal bearing that somehow made him look like he belonged in ancient forests consorting with unicorns and other noble creatures." Remus's expression grew warm with memory, then shifted to something more complicated. "Sirius transformed into a large black dog—Grim-like, actually, which should have been ominous but somehow wasn't. He was loyal and fierce and perfectly capable of keeping a werewolf in line without seeming threatening. There was something almost mythical about his dog form, like he'd stepped out of old legends about guardian spirits."
He paused, his expression growing troubled as he reached the most significant revelation. "And Peter became a rat."
The silence that followed was pregnant with implication.
"A rat," Sherlock repeated slowly, his pale eyes beginning to glitter with the kind of intellectual excitement that usually preceded his most brilliant deductions. "Small, unnoticeable, capable of hiding virtually anywhere, able to survive on minimal food and in the most unsanitary conditions, perfectly suited for espionage and infiltration..."
"And perfectly suited for faking one's own death," Mycroft added with grim satisfaction, his bureaucratic mind immediately grasping the tactical implications. "A rat could easily escape through sewers, hide in walls, travel undetected across great distances without requiring food, shelter, or documentation. If Pettigrew cut off a finger and left it at the scene along with some blood and perhaps torn fabric, witnesses would assume they'd seen his death rather than his escape."
"More than that," Remus continued, his voice gaining strength as he saw the brothers' understanding clicking into place like pieces of a complex puzzle. "Peter's rat form was always the smallest and most insignificant of our animal shapes. We used to joke that he could hide in our pockets or slip through dormitory walls and spy on teachers or other students without anyone noticing. If he wanted to watch Sirius, learn his habits, study his routines and plan the perfect frame... his Animagus form would make it ridiculously easy."
McGonagall nodded approvingly, her sharp eyes bright with the satisfaction of watching brilliant minds reach the same conclusions she'd already drawn. "And there's more. Animagus transformations leave distinctive magical signatures that can be detected by trained professionals using the proper detection spells. If Peter is alive and using his rat form regularly, there should be traces of transformation magic wherever he's been hiding—faint, but detectable to someone who knows what to look for."
"Excellent," Sherlock said, beginning to pace the room with the kind of restless energy that suggested his mind was already racing ahead to implementation strategies. "So we're not looking for a dead man—we're looking for a live rat. Specifically, a brown rat with a missing digit, displaying more intelligence than typical rodent behavior, leaving faint traces of transformation magic in his vicinity, and probably exhibiting supernatural awareness of his surroundings due to retaining human consciousness while in animal form."
"That's still a rather daunting search parameter," Mycroft observed with the kind of understated concern that suggested he was already calculating resource allocation and probability matrices. "London contains approximately ten million rats, give or take a few hundred thousand depending on seasonal migration patterns and breeding cycles. Even with the additional identifying characteristics, locating one specific rat presents significant logistical challenges."
"Challenging, yes. Impossible, no." Sherlock's smile was sharp and predatory, the expression of a man who had just realized he was about to deploy his favorite resources against an entirely new type of problem. "I have resources that are particularly well-suited to urban surveillance, and they excel at noticing details that everyone else ignores. The homeless network, street children, people who notice everything because they have to in order to survive. They see everything that happens in London's forgotten corners—including unusually intelligent rats that behave in non-rat-like ways."
"You're going to ask homeless people to hunt for a specific rat?" Remus asked, his expression hovering somewhere between impressed and concerned about the ethics of Sherlock's investigative methods.
"I'm going to ask my network to watch for rats displaying human-level intelligence, unusual behavior patterns, or supernatural awareness of their surroundings," Sherlock corrected with the kind of precision that suggested he'd already thought through the practical implementation. "In a city full of ordinary rats behaving according to predictable rodent instincts, an intelligent rat pretending to be ordinary will stand out like a genius trying to blend in at a village fair. My people notice things others miss because their survival depends on observation. They'll spot behavioral anomalies that would escape official attention entirely."
Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway with a fresh tea service, moving through the room with the kind of practiced efficiency that suggested she could navigate complex conversations while simultaneously managing domestic arrangements. The tray was laden with her best china—the good stuff she usually reserved for special occasions—and what appeared to be enough biscuits to feed a small army or one very hungry consulting detective.
"Tea for everyone," she announced with the kind of warm authority that made even the most intense discussions pause for proper refreshment. "And Professor McGonagall, I've made those lemon biscuits you mentioned liking last time. Though I should warn you, Sherlock's already had three this morning, so you'd better get them while they last."
"You're too kind, Mrs. Hudson," McGonagall replied, accepting her cup with genuine appreciation and the kind of gracious acknowledgment that suggested she understood the honor of receiving Mrs. Hudson's best china. "How is our young charge adapting to his new circumstances? I hope he's not finding the transition too overwhelming."
"Oh, he's settling in wonderfully," Mrs. Hudson said, her entire face lighting up with the kind of genuine maternal pride that transformed routine childcare into something approaching devotion. "Bright as anything—watches everything with those green eyes of his, like he's trying to understand every word we say and file it away for future reference. And he's got excellent manners for a toddler, barely cries at all. Though I should mention, he barely stirred even when Sherlock was practicing violin at six this morning."
"Six in the morning?" Remus looked appropriately appalled, as if early morning violin practice represented a particularly cruel form of torture.
"I was thinking," Sherlock said defensively, though his tone suggested he considered this a perfectly reasonable explanation for any behavior, no matter how antisocial. "The violin helps me process complex information. The mathematical relationships between notes create neural pathways that enhance deductive reasoning."
"Perhaps in future you could process complex information at a more reasonable hour," McGonagall suggested with the kind of dry authority that had probably terrified generations of students. "Growing children need adequate sleep for proper cognitive development."
"Noted," Sherlock replied with the tone of someone making a mental note he had no intention of actually following. "Though I should point out that Harry seemed to enjoy the music. He was making what I interpreted as appreciative noises."
"Those were probably protests, dear," Mrs. Hudson said gently, with the kind of maternal insight that came from decades of interpreting the sounds made by difficult men. "Babies make all sorts of noises that adults interpret as approval when they're actually expressing various forms of distress or confusion."
"Are you suggesting my musical abilities are somehow deficient?" Sherlock asked with mock outrage.
"I'm suggesting your timing could use improvement," Mrs. Hudson replied diplomatically. "Though I will say, your playing does seem to have a calming effect on him once he adjusts to the volume."
Before Sherlock could mount a proper defense of his morning practice schedule, Mycroft rose from his chair with the deliberate precision of a man who had reached certain conclusions and was prepared to act on them with immediate efficiency.
"Brother dear," he said, straightening his already immaculate tie with movements that somehow managed to convey both casual dismissal and urgent purpose, "I believe you have your investigation well in hand. The rat hunt should prove... educational, if nothing else. Meanwhile, I have my own resources to deploy in this matter, and they work most effectively when deployed immediately."
"What sort of resources?" Sherlock's attention sharpened with obvious curiosity, the way it always did when Mycroft became deliberately vague about his activities.
"The sort that work most effectively without detailed discussion," Mycroft replied smoothly, gathering his folders and placing them in his briefcase with the kind of bureaucratic efficiency that suggested classified documents and need-to-know protocols. "Suffice it to say that certain individuals owe me considerable favors accumulated over years of mutually beneficial arrangements, and this seems an appropriate time to collect on them."
"That's remarkably vague, even for you, and your usual communications are exercises in deliberate obfuscation."
"Precision has its place, Sherlock, but so does strategic ambiguity. Some operations function better when the specifics remain undefined until they're absolutely necessary." Mycroft's smile was thin and satisfied, the expression of a man who held more cards than anyone else realized. "Rest assured that I will be pursuing leads through channels that complement rather than interfere with your street-level investigation."
Mycroft moved toward the door with measured steps, then paused as if struck by a sudden thought, though Remus suspected this particular thought had been carefully planned well in advance and timed for maximum impact.
"Oh, and Sherlock? This business with Pettigrew and the rat hunt—it reminds me rather of that old case with Redbeard. Similar principles, different species, but the underlying methodology should prove applicable. You might want to keep that in mind as you proceed."
Sherlock's entire demeanor shifted subtly, his casual confidence replaced by something more guarded and complex. "Redbeard was a long time ago, Mycroft. And the circumstances were entirely different."
"Indeed they were. But the lessons learned then may prove applicable now, particularly regarding the importance of thorough investigation and the dangers of assuming the obvious explanation is the correct one." Mycroft's expression grew momentarily serious, as if he were imparting information of genuine significance rather than engaging in their usual verbal sparring. "Sometimes what appears to be a simple case of animal behavior conceals something much more complex and dangerous."
The exchange clearly carried significance beyond its surface meaning, though neither McGonagall nor Remus could interpret the subtext. There was something in the way both brothers' expressions shifted that suggested old wounds and carefully buried secrets.
Mycroft smiled with evident satisfaction at having delivered his cryptic message, then continued toward the door with renewed purposefulness.
"Professor McGonagall, Mr. Lupin, it's been a genuine pleasure meeting you both. I'm quite certain we'll be working together frequently in the coming months, assuming we all survive the experience with our sanity intact. Mrs. Hudson, as always, your hospitality is beyond compare, and your biscuits could probably solve international crises if deployed strategically."
"You're very welcome, Mr. Mycroft," Mrs. Hudson replied with obvious fondness. "And don't be a stranger—you know there's always tea and biscuits when you need them, no matter what time of day or night you might appear on the doorstep."
"I'll remember that, though I hope not to impose too frequently." Mycroft paused at the threshold, his expression growing thoughtful. "Sherlock, I'll be in touch as soon as I have actionable intelligence. In the meantime, do try not to get arrested while questioning rodents about their political affiliations or conducting surveillance operations in London's sewage system."
"I make no promises regarding either activity."
"I expected nothing less. The game is afoot, as they say, though in this case it appears to have a tail and a tendency to gnaw through important evidence." Mycroft's smile was genuinely amused. "Good day, everyone."
Mycroft descended the stairs with measured steps, each footfall precisely placed and timed according to some internal rhythm that suggested important appointments and weighty responsibilities. From the sitting room window, they could see him emerge onto Baker Street and approach a sleek black Jaguar that had been waiting with the kind of government-issue patience that suggested its occupants were accustomed to waiting for meetings that might determine the fate of nations.
He slid into the back seat beside a young woman with severely practical hair and an expensive briefcase who had clearly been waiting for some time. Even through the window, they could see her straightening papers and checking her watch with the kind of professional efficiency that suggested important appointments and significant responsibilities that couldn't be delayed indefinitely.
"Clear my schedule for the rest of the day, Miss Smallwood," Mycroft said as the car pulled smoothly into London traffic with the kind of seamless efficiency that suggested the driver was accustomed to transporting people whose business couldn't wait for traffic lights or conventional right-of-way considerations. "Cancel the meeting with the Foreign Secretary, postpone the briefing on the Hong Kong situation, and send my apologies to the Archbishop—we'll have to discuss the cathedral security arrangements another time."
"Of course, sir," his secretary replied, making rapid notes on her tablet with the kind of efficient shorthand that suggested she was accustomed to radical schedule changes at a moment's notice. "Shall I reschedule for next week, or would you prefer to leave everything flexible for now?"
"Leave everything open for the foreseeable future. I'm not sure how long this particular consultation will take, and I'd rather not have to reschedule twice." Mycroft settled back in the leather seat, his expression growing thoughtful as he contemplated the unusual nature of his upcoming meeting. "And Miss Smallwood? I need you to contact Sherrinford immediately. Tell them I'll be arriving within the hour for a priority consultation. Security protocol Seven, full isolation procedures, and I want their best interrogation specialist standing by."
Miss Smallwood's pen paused fractionally—the only sign of surprise she allowed herself when dealing with Mycroft's more unusual requests. "Sherrinford, sir? The... special facility?"
"The very one." Mycroft's voice carried a note of grim determination that suggested he was about to undertake something both necessary and potentially dangerous. "And Miss Smallwood? This consultation is classified at the highest levels. Code word classification, restricted access, no written records except what I personally authorize."
"Understood, sir." Miss Smallwood made additional notes with practiced efficiency. "Shall I arrange for Dr. Reeves to meet you there, or would you prefer a different specialist for this particular consultation?"
"Dr. Reeves, yes, and also... let's see." Mycroft steepled his fingers beneath his chin in an unconscious mirror of his brother's thinking pose. "I'll need someone with expertise in psychological manipulation, advanced deductive reasoning, and ideally some experience with criminal profiling. Someone who understands how brilliant sociopaths think and operate."
"That's... quite a specific set of requirements, sir."
"Yes, well, I'm hoping to consult with someone who has very particular insights into the kind of mind that could plan and execute Peter Pettigrew's apparent death and subsequent disappearance. Someone who understands deception, misdirection, and the art of hiding in plain sight while manipulating others into seeing exactly what you want them to see."
Miss Smallwood was quiet for a moment, processing the implications with the kind of careful professionalism that came from working closely with people whose decisions could reshape geopolitical landscapes. "Sir, you're not planning to consult with..."
"My sister? Yes, Miss Smallwood, I am." Mycroft's expression grew momentarily complex, as if he were weighing considerable risks against potential benefits. "The situation requires expertise that only Eurus can provide, and frankly, she's been requesting intellectual stimulation for months. This should prove... adequately challenging for someone of her capabilities."
"Is that wise, sir? Given her... history and current circumstances?"
Mycroft's smile was thin and calculating, the expression of a man who was about to deploy a weapon that might prove as dangerous to himself as to his enemies. "Probably not. But it may be necessary. And if there's one thing Eurus excels at, beyond the obvious, it's seeing patterns that others miss and understanding the psychology of deception at levels that most people couldn't comprehend. If Peter Pettigrew is hiding somewhere in London, my sister will find him."
The Jaguar continued through London's winding streets, carrying Mycroft Holmes toward a consultation that would either provide the breakthrough they needed or unleash complications that made dark wizards seem manageable by comparison.
Behind them, 221B Baker Street continued its ancient business of harboring secrets and nurturing the kind of unconventional solutions that occasionally changed the course of history. And upstairs, Harry Potter slept peacefully, unaware that his future was being shaped by forces both magical and mundane, all dedicated to ensuring he survived to face whatever destiny awaited him.
The game, indeed, was becoming more complex by the hour.
—
The helicopter's rotors cut through the November air with mechanical precision, carrying Mycroft Holmes across the grey waters of the North Sea toward an island that didn't appear on any public maps. Sherrinford sat in the distance like a concrete monument to the necessity of containing brilliant minds that had turned toward dangerous purposes—all harsh angles and reinforced walls, designed by architects who understood that some prisons needed to hold more than just bodies.
Mycroft gazed out the window at the approaching facility, his expression carefully neutral despite the complexity of emotions that always accompanied visits to see his sister. The island itself was small and unwelcoming, surrounded by waters that would challenge even the most determined escape attempt, though he suspected Eurus had probably calculated seventeen different ways to reach the mainland within her first week of incarceration.
The helicopter touched down on the facility's landing pad with practiced efficiency, and Mycroft was immediately met by Dr. Reeves, the facility's chief psychiatric consultant—a woman whose severe expression suggested she had long ago learned not to underestimate the intellectual capabilities of her most dangerous patient.
"Mr. Holmes," she said, her voice carrying the kind of professional courtesy that managed to convey both respect and wariness. "We received your request for an immediate consultation. Security Protocol Seven has been implemented, and Eurus has been prepared for visitor access, though I should note that she's been... unusually animated since learning of your arrival."
"Animated how?" Mycroft asked as they walked through a series of security checkpoints that would have impressed intelligence agencies across the globe.
"She's been playing violin almost continuously for the past hour. Complex pieces, technically perfect, but with variations that suggest she's... thinking about something specific. Given her history, that level of focused mental activity is typically a precursor to significant developments."
They passed through the final security door into the consultation wing, a sterile corridor lined with reinforced viewing rooms designed for interactions with prisoners too dangerous for conventional meeting arrangements. At the end of the hallway, soft violin music drifted through the air—a piece Mycroft recognized as Bach, though played with subtle modifications that suggested the performer was using the mathematical precision of the composition to work through complex logical problems.
The music stopped abruptly as they approached the final door.
Dr. Reeves paused before opening it, her expression growing more serious. "Mr. Holmes, I feel obligated to remind you that Eurus has been requesting intellectual stimulation for months. She's likely to be extremely interested in whatever problem you're bringing to her, which could make her... unpredictable in her responses."
"Noted," Mycroft replied with the kind of calm that suggested he had considerable experience managing unpredictable family members. "Though I should point out that unpredictability is rather the point of this consultation."
Dr. Reeves opened the door to reveal a sterile room divided by a wall of bulletproof glass thick enough to stop small artillery rounds. On the far side, in a space that managed to be both comfortable and completely secure, sat Eurus Holmes.
She was smaller than most people expected when meeting her for the first time, with the kind of delicate features that made her look almost fragile until you noticed her eyes—pale blue like her brothers', but with an intensity that suggested she was constantly calculating variables that existed several steps beyond normal human comprehension. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple style that somehow managed to look both practical and elegant, and she wore the facility's standard clothing with the kind of unconscious grace that suggested physical appearance was merely another tool to be deployed when necessary.
The violin lay across her lap like a sleeping cat, her long fingers still positioned on the strings as if she had stopped playing mid-note when she heard footsteps in the corridor.
"Mycroft," she said, her voice carrying a note of genuine pleasure that was somehow more unsettling than if she had sounded angry or indifferent. "How lovely to see you. Though I have to say, your timing is impeccable. I was just working through some fascinating mathematical progressions in the Bach, and your arrival provides the perfect opportunity to test a theory I've been developing about predictive behavioral patterns."
She rose from her chair with fluid grace, moving to the glass partition with the kind of measured steps that suggested every movement was calculated for maximum effect. "You're here about something complex, aren't you? Something that requires my particular expertise in understanding how brilliant minds work when they're pretending to be something they're not."
Mycroft approached the glass with equal care, his expression maintaining its usual diplomatic neutrality despite the obvious intelligence gleaming in his sister's eyes. "Eurus. You're looking well. And yes, I do have a problem that might benefit from your unique perspective."
"Oh, good," Eurus said, her smile bright and genuinely delighted in a way that would have been charming if it weren't accompanied by the knowledge of exactly what kind of mind was producing that expression. "I've been so terribly bored lately. The facility's puzzles are... adequate for basic mental maintenance, but hardly challenging enough to be truly satisfying. What sort of problem are we dealing with? Murder, I hope? Or at least something involving interesting psychological manipulation?"
She pressed one palm against the glass, as if trying to close the physical distance between them through sheer force of will. "Tell me everything, Mycroft. And don't leave out any details, no matter how small. I have a feeling this is going to be deliciously complicated."
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!