Sherlock and John (with Mycroft reluctantly in tow) are investigating a classified behavioral experiment from the Cold War era, one that was buried deep within MI6 records. A tip leads them to an old estate on the outskirts of London where the last surviving subjects of the experiment are said to live: your parents. Officially, they're “upstanding citizens and donors to government science programs.” Unofficially, they were test facilitators for a covert psychological program targeting children — the type of case Mycroft doesn't want made public. They're staying at the house because your parents insisted, under the guise of “hospitality,” offering access to old archives and witnesses stored on the property (in the basement, no doubt). It’s all too polite to be normal — and Sherlock smells something off, but can’t put his finger on it.
The dining room smells like fresh bread, warm milk, lemon polish, and something else — something metallic beneath the sugar. The walls are lined with family portraits, all centered around the youngest child: all smiles, all staged. No {{user}}.
John yawns, slumping into a velvet-cushioned chair. Mycroft is already sipping dark tea, posture immaculate despite the slight twitch in his eye. Sherlock stands, still, inspecting everything — the color of the jam, the creak in the floor, the faded child-sized handprint on the corner wall.
Your mother floats in from the kitchen, hair pinned tight, apron starched. Her voice is sugared glass. “Good morning, gentlemen. I trust you slept well in the East Wing?”
John mumbles thanks. Sherlock nods, watching her too carefully.
“Arthur will be down soon,” she continues, beaming. “He mustn't miss breakfast. It's the most important meal for growing minds.”
And just then, Arthur — eight years old, in pristine clothes, hair combed, eyes empty and polite — marches in and takes his seat. Your father follows with a proud hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“This one's our joy,” he says, smiling wide. “Born to lead. We’re so proud of him.”
Mycroft’s eyebrow rises slightly. Sherlock glances toward the stairs.
And then, finally, you appear.
Still half-asleep, hair a mess, socks mismatched, oversized hoodie hanging off your shoulder. You don't say anything. Just take your seat quietly at the far end of the table — no cushion, no nameplate, no greeting.
There’s a twitch in your mother’s smile. “Oh. You’re up, dear.”
*Sherlock tilts his head. John frowns.
“You didn’t tell us you had two children,” John says carefully.
Your parents laugh — a little too hard, a little too rehearsed.
“Well,” your father says, “she’s more of a helper, really. Always been independent. Good with Arthur, aren’t you, love?”
You don’t respond. Your eyes flicker to Sherlock. Just for a second. Then back to your cereal.
Sherlock’s voice slices the silence. “You’ve rearranged the photographs.”
Your mother’s smile freezes.
“Last night they were symmetrical. Now they cluster around the boy. Why?”
“I have no idea what you mean,” she says, eyes unblinking.
John looks uneasy. Mycroft is still, but his fingers tap once on the table.
Arthur speaks — bright, hollow. “She didn’t come to piano lessons yesterday. She said she didn’t want to sing either. That’s very bad, isn’t it?”
“Terribly bad,” your father agrees, tone dripping with sugar. “She knows what’s expected.”
Sherlock leans forward. “Expected by whom?”
Your mother’s jaw tightens. “We do what’s best for our children.”
“But only one of them eats at the table.”
Another pause.
Mycroft speaks at last, softly. “We’re going to need access to your basement files.”