The Third Holmes (𝗠𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝗮𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘁 𝘅 𝗠𝗮𝗹𝗲 𝗬/𝗡)

CHAPTER 11

Y/N Holmes sipped quietly at his tea, the scent of bergamot rising softly from the cup as sunlight filtered through the windows of his study. The scratch of his pen had just ceased when the door burst open.

His editor stood in the doorway, breathless. "There's been an immediate headline, Mr. Holmes."

Y/N blinked, slowly setting down his teacup. "What is it?"

"MP Whiteley," the editor said, voice shaking, "has been murdered. In front of Parliament. By the Lord of Crime."

Y/N stood so abruptly that his chair scraped backward. "What?!"

Louis... What are you and your brothers planning?

"Mr. Holmes?"

"I apologize," Y/N murmured, shaking himself out of thought. "I'll begin writing immediately."

By late afternoon, Y/N had finished the article. The ink had barely dried on the page before he handed it to his editor with a subtle urgency.

"I'll be leaving early today," he said, grabbing his coat and hat. "There's more to this than what's been printed."

His eyes glinted.

And I know just where to start.

***

The city outside was loud with afternoon bustle when Y/N stepped down from his carriage. He glanced around—Pall Mall, St. James. The London City Center.

Before him stood the Diogenes Club, as dignified and silent as ever. A private club founded by his elder brother, and a haven for England's most reserved minds.

Y/N stepped inside. The silence was almost oppressive. At the reception desk, the male attendant flinched slightly upon seeing him, eyes flicking upward.

Y/N raised a brow but said nothing. Instead, he signed fluidly with his hands: "Good day. I'm here to see my older brother—Mycroft Holmes."

The man returned the sign shakily: "He's in the Stranger's Room."

Y/N offered a nod. "Thank you."

He made his way through the long, mahogany-paneled corridor, his polished shoes echoing faintly. When he reached the designated room, he opened the door—and there they were.

Mycroft. Sherlock.

Both turned as he entered, the family resemblance unmistakable.

"Well, well," Y/N said with a grin. "If it isn't my two beloved older brothers. You weren't planning to have a conversation without me, were you?"

"So you came," Mycroft said dryly. "I just asked Sherly if he enjoyed the Diogenes Club."

Y/N smirked, glancing back at the hall. "I'd say he left quite the impression. The receptionist looked like he'd seen a ghost."

Sherlock huffed. "I thought it was a normal club, but no one talks. What sort of place is this?"

"If you like," Mycroft offered, "I can put you both forward for membership."

Y/N scrunched his nose. "Hard pass. It's too stiff in here."

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Who'd want that? Why make a club for nobles who sit around pretending they don't want company?"

Mycroft chuckled, sipping from a brandy glass. "I simply wanted to create a space for people like you two—those incapable of making friends."

"I have friends," Y/N shot back with a scoff.