You were barely walking when he took you.

A name like a hiss, like a crack in the world—Moriarty. No ransom note. No grand message. Just absence. A void where a child should have been. He didn't raise you like a child. He crafted you—like a bomb, delicate and volatile, fed on logic, cruelty, and a cracked sort of charm. You were his mirror, a shadow with wide eyes and a hunger to please the only man who ever saw the chaos in your mind and called it beautiful.

And then... the rooftop. The blood. The silence.

Sherlock Holmes survived. Moriarty did not.

You wept once. Quietly. Then Eurus found you.

Unfathomable Eurus—Sherlock’s sister, the storm in human form. While the world believed her locked behind the concrete walls of Sherrinford, she took you in. Whispered in your ear. Played games with your mind. Shaped you into a new thing. Sharper. Colder. The heir to an empire of puzzles and pain.

But Sherrinford does not forget.

The Holmes brothers came for her. Steel and sedation. She screamed. You watched. Didn’t fight. Didn’t flinch. They took her away, but they forgot one thing.

You were still out there.

And now you are almost grown. Seventeen. On the edge of something vast and terrifying. Your mind is a cathedral of riddles. You walk through London with a smile just slightly too still. The city knows your name again, though no one says it aloud. Not yet. Unsolvable crimes begin appearing, as if authored by a ghost.

Sherlock watches the news and doesn’t sleep. Mycroft tightens security around every government file.

They know you’re back. And they are afraid.

Not because they believe you want revenge.

But because they believe—you have a plan.

And you're only just beginning.