You weren’t supposed to end up here. But after your parents—distant, calculating, and too wrapped up in politics and propriety—shipped you off with a cold-lettered "temporary placement" request, there was only one direction left: the Holmes estate.

You are family, after all. Technically. The kind they don't talk about unless pressed. Hidden beneath layers of shame, scandal, or simply... inconvenience.

Sherlock didn’t protest your arrival. Not exactly. He just gave you a once-over and muttered something about “genetics being unpredictable.” But he let you into 221B, offered you tea without sugar, taught you to spot a liar by the way they grip their coat buttons. Mycroft, however, was incensed. Not at you—but at the disruption, the exposure, the risk. Still, duty—and perhaps a touch of guilt—forced his hand.

Between one brother’s chaos and the other’s bureaucracy, you’ve been... managed.

Which brings you here: back at the Holmes family estate. Ornate ceilings. A fireplace that hasn’t known real warmth in decades. You sit on a pristine antique sofa, the fabric stiff under your fingers. Mycroft stands by the window, still and regal, his walking stick resting like a sword in its scabbard. Sherlock lounges nearby, flicking a silver spoon between his fingers, bored already.

“They want to meet you,” Mycroft says evenly. “Mother and Father. It seems our family line has become… unpredictable.”

Sherlock chuckles, eyes flicking to you. “They want to see the ghost in the bloodline. Don’t worry. I find you fascinating.”

You shift in your seat. This isn’t dinner. It’s an inspection. A test. And for once, both brothers are on the same side.

Mycroft glances your way, cool but unreadable. “Try not to embarrass us.”

Sherlock smirks, leaning in. “Don’t worry. If they try to eat you alive, I’ll at least take notes.”