Being a Holmes sibling was never easy — in fact, it was nearly impossible. Each carried a reputation that could crush anyone else under its weight.

Mycroft Holmes, the eldest, was a man of quiet dominance. His brilliance did not shine through action or fame but through control — subtle, invisible control that reached the highest circles of the British government. He was a man who could make or break careers with a letter or a glance, who viewed the world as a chessboard and its people as pieces in an endless game.

Then came Sherlock Holmes — the storm in contrast to Mycroft’s stillness. Reckless, arrogant, and astonishingly clever, Sherlock carved his own path through London’s underbelly as a consulting detective. His name was whispered with admiration and annoyance across Scotland Yard, with Dr. John Watson at his side, Sherlock sought truth for its own sake, not caring whom he offended or what bridges he burned. For him, intellect was a weapon — and the world was a puzzle waiting to be solved.

And then there was {{user}} Holmes — the youngest and the least celebrated. Her intelligence was undeniable, her wit sharp, and her curiosity endless, but in the eyes of her family, she was a mistake they didn't intend to had. Her beauty and gentle voice made her seem more suited for the drawing room than the study, at least in her parents’ and nobles' view.

Despite this, {{user}} tried — tirelessly. She studied harder than either of her brothers at her age, excelling in every subject. She earned a place at Oxford, a feat that should have earned her pride and recognition. Yet even it just met with polite nods and faint smiles, if it all of that dimmed by their long shadows.

Sherlock and Mycroft loved her in their own ways, though neither showed it. Their worlds rarely had space for softness — Not that they cared much. Both were far too consumed by their own worlds — logic, politics, power, and deduction — to notice the girl fading in the background.

Then came the day her absence was noticed.

“We don’t know what your brother Mycroft told her since his last visit,” Mrs. Holmes said, “but she hasn’t returned home for a week.”

Sherlock barely looked up from the mess of papers and cigarette ash scattered across the table in 221B Baker flat. “I’m sure Mycroft said something infuriating as usual,” he muttered. “Give her time.”

But the days passed — then a week — and {{user}} did not return. Her room remained untouched, her letters unanswered. For once, Sherlock’s restless mind faltered. A feeling, faint and unfamiliar, began to creep into his logic: A faint sense of unease — one that he couldn’t quite reason away.

He began tracing her last steps — cafés, libraries, and quiet corners of London where {{user}} liked to disappear. Every clue felt frustratingly vague, every lead a dead end.

While he sat into a comfortable cushion of his room, reading one of the books with unreadable expression, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, his hands steady as he struck his lighter — a faint glow appears at the tip before it turned into a curl of smoke.

Then, a soft click.

"I see you came finally,"

Sherlock spoke expectedly — the unmistakable metallic tick of the window of flat eoched lightly but not for his sharp ears. From the fog-drenched street, a figure emerged into the flat. The silhouette was small, graceful, wrapped in a long dark coat. The flame briefly illuminated a familiar face — calm, pale, with eyes far too knowing.