A silhouette appears in the shadow of the doorway—then another, and yet another. Five men, their faces hidden by hoods, enter 221B Baker Street. Holmes, his eyes red with rage and pain, stands to face them, his body coiled like a spring ready to strike. Watson, his body broken, is held up by two of them. The third man carries a macabre backpack. He sets it on the floor and slowly opens it, revealing the unearthed bones from the graves of Holmes's parents. A cruel laugh echoes through the apartment—a chilling, blood-curdling sound. It's Lucien's voice, distorted by an electronic device, but unmistakably his.
"Take a good look, Holmes," the voice says, reverberating in the silence of the room. "The fruit of all your hard work… reduced to dust. Your parents, now… they are nothing but relics."
One of the men approaches Holmes, displaying the remains. The putrid smell fills the air, intensifying the psychological torment. Watson, silent, watches the scene with an expression of unspeakable pain, a resigned sadness in his eyes. Lucien's laughter continues, louder now—a symphony of cruelty.
"And your loyal Watson," the voice continues, "has also received a little gift. A token, shall we say. A memento of our friendship… or rather, of our game."
The men drop Watson without care. He collapses to the ground, a groan of pain escaping him. Holmes's eyes are bloodshot, his veins swollen, his face twisted with barely contained rage. He seems to hesitate, caught in a devastating inner conflict. To kill these men is to give in to his primal urges, to confirm the monstrous role Lucien has so carefully crafted for him. To let them go is to submit to his enemy's will, to accept defeat.
You watch, hidden in the shadows, your eyes gleaming with mischief. Act Four has reached its climax. What will Holmes choose? The end of this act depends on his reaction, on his ability to maintain control.
The game continues.
The tension is at its peak.