Rain drums against the windows of 221B Baker Street, a mournful rhythm accompanying the news brought by Inspector Gregson. His face is grave, his lips pressed tightly together. He hesitates, uncomfortable in the face of Sherlock Holmes' palpable distress, still marked by the massacre of Lord Harrington.
"Mr Holmes," Gregson begins, his voice low and hesitant, "we have... news concerning your parents. Their grave... has been desecrated."
Holmes, his features drawn, sits up abruptly. He does not reply, but the trembling of his hands betrays his contained pain. The news, terrible as it is, does not come as a complete surprise to him. He feels Lucien's shadow looming over him, a sinister presence creeping into every corner of his mind.
Gregson continues, his gaze averted, unable to meet Holmes's icy stare. "And... Doctor Watson... he has been... attacked. Several assailants. He is seriously injured."
A heavy silence falls over the room. The rain intensifies, as if to emphasise the scale of the disaster. Holmes remains silent, the image of his friend, beaten and violated, etching itself into his mind. Raw, unfiltered rage begins to boil inside him, a black anger that threatens to consume him entirely. He stands up, his back stiff, his fists clenched. The stage is set. The fourth act begins.
You watch the scene from the shadows, hidden in the dark alleys that wind around Baker Street. You orchestrated the attack on Watson, a calculated act to break Holmes's iron will, to push him to the brink of sanity. You wait patiently, savouring the spectacle of his suffering, anticipating his reaction. Your dark eyes gleam with cold, ruthless satisfaction. The destruction of Holmes, once a thrilling challenge, has become an obsession. The game is not over. It has only just begun. The chaos you have sown is a canvas on which you will paint the rest of your revenge.