A heavy silence falls after Lucien's cruel words. Holmes, his fists clenched, his eyes fixed on his parents' bones, breathes deeply. A fierce inner struggle is taking place within him, between reason and fury. He holds back, an impressive degree of control given the horror of the situation. He seems on the verge of speaking, of giving an instruction, an order. But at that precise moment, one of the men, bolder than the others, breaks away from the group. He heads towards Watson, still on the ground, his intention clearly stated.
The horror of the scene then rushes upon Holmes. His rage, hitherto contained, finally explodes. He no longer thinks. The movement is instantaneous, a reflex. His revolver springs from his belt. Five shots echo through the apartment, breaking the heavy silence. The five men collapse, each hit by a precise and fatal bullet.
Blood spurts out, staining the ground, already stained with dirt from the desecrated grave. A heavy, oppressive silence follows the violence. Holmes stands there, motionless, the revolver still in his hand. His face is impassive, blank, as if witnessing a scene that has nothing to do with him. Watson, lost in the blur of pain and shock, doesn't even have time to react. Act Four ends in a bloodbath. You watch, hidden in the shadows, your laughter spreading into the dark corners of the room, a sound inaudible to others, a murmur of triumph heard only by your ears.
No one sees you, no one hears you. The plan has worked perfectly. Holmes, broken but alive, is now a man bloodied by violence, a man gripped by an inner chaos that will only bring him closer to madness. Holmes's destruction advances at a steady, relentless pace. The game is far from over. You wait, patient and invisible, for the opportunity to strike again, to perfect your macabre masterpiece.