He always felt like the house was bigger for them. There were four, and the house already had more than ten rooms, a large kitchen, a sitting room, a dinning room, two libraries, more bathrooms than rooms, the service room and the list continued.
But he knew the layout perfectly. He knew each room and what he could find on them. There was a room where his father and his older brother used to sit and talk about books and different things he found boring and dull. Politics, why people would talk about politics and economics? As he always loved to say, it was just 'dull'.

There was a room where some of the maids used to sleep. Again, 'dull'. One day when all of them were cleaning all the house because his parents were coming from a holiday in France, he found out that one of them was pregnant and she was planning an abortion.

His mother's favourite room was upstairs and was near the end of the hall. It was big enough for a piano, and a little library with different musical books, composers biographies, partitures, and old paintings hanging on the endless blue walls. The entire room had a slightly shade of blue, wich was her favourite color. It was the place where he learned how to play the violin, his favourite instrument and he love it for two only reasons: first, Mycroft couldn't play it because, according to his deductions, music was something he would never understand. He could be a genius at Politics, Geography, Economics, History and even cooking, but music wasn't his area. And second, because his mother always loved to heard him playing. 1812 Overture was her favourite from Tchaicovsky, her favourite composer. Little Sherlock had something with his mother. A kind of love he would not admit, not even in the future years. The only opinion that could count to him was his mothers. And she felt it.

His own room was like his brother's. It only had the necessary furniture and a large desk and library in each room. He liked the books about mistery, horror, gore and some crime tales. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was his favourite writer and the most popular between all his books.

The first room upstairs was his parents room. It was like his own, but with a large wardrobe to keep his mother's clothes and without a desk, because his father had his own room-office. But there was a room he could never get access to. It was at the end of the hall, and it was locked. Since he had memory, no one had entered to the mysterious place. Not even the maids, and everytime he asked them for a key, they always replied the same.

"Sorry Sir, we don't have the key of that room" He knew they were all saying the truth, they never lied to him because they perfectly knew that he could tell when someone was lying to him and everything about everyone. Despite his words, the maids keep calling him 'Sir' after his mother orders. He had only seven years old, he wasn't a 'Sir'.

The boy tried everything, but he couldn't tell what was behind that door. He considered a few options to get access to that room. He could go to Mycroft and ask him. He was older than him, so maybe he knew what was inside or, he could go to his parents and simply ask. He was the owner of that house as his parents, so he felt like if he would ask them about it, they should explain something to him. If the previous options failed, then he needed to do it by himself. He'd have to break in, someway.

Before his brother went to school he cornered him in the kitchen, where no one could hear them, despite for the maids for strict orders were 'deaf' and 'blind' to the activities of the members of the Holmes family. They just only were there to clean and cook.

Mycroft was looking inside the fridge with his nose almost touching the cakes one of the cook's prepared early in morning, when Sherlock started his interrogation.

"What is inside that room?"

The teenager looked at him with a serious expression across his face. He knew, without anyone's help that his little brother had been looking for that room before and eventually questions were expecting. Sherlock Holmes, his young brother was as clever as him, as clever as every Holmes in the family. But there had been always a problem with him. Most of the men of the family dedicated his life to the study of the Politics and Economy, becoming most of them into important lawyers, members of the Parliament- politicians. But Sherlock never shown any signs of interesting in those areas. In his longs conversations with his father, he confessed that the only thing he and his mother could do was waiting to see what he wanted to be. They wouldn't need to persuade him or at least press on him. They were convinced that he would develope his own taste on something. Mycroft Holmes didn't need to look into his brother's books or in his behaviour to know what Sherlock wanted for his life. So, when he cornered him in he kitchen, he knew that that was the time to tell him some facts. Facts that he ignored because no one told him, and now he was asking to know.

"I'm late to school. Tell Mummy I'll come on Sunday"

He closed the kitchen door slowly and the driver opened the door car for him. Mycroft wasn't coming home until next week, and Sherlock wasn't a person who fancy the suspense. If his brother wasn't going to tell him, maybe hiss parents would.

That night little Sherlock was having dinner alone with his mother. His father excused himself, but as a member of the British Government he had important events to attend that night like strikes in some part of the country. And that only made things easier to him, because his mother used to spoil him when his father was out, like the youngest of her children.

After one of the maids served them some ice cream as dessert ordered by Sherlock, he confronted his mother who was deeply lost in her thoughts that night. For some reason he noted that she used to lost herself into his mind during the third week of each month. It was like she was remembering something that wasn't a good memory. But not only her, everyone in the house was different a that moment of each month. He couldn't tell a words from Mycroft who was attending to Harrow. His father was quite like usual but his look was as lost as his mother's.

It was an eighteen of June exactly.

"Mother, what is inside the last room upstairs?"

Unlikely Mycroft, he never called his mother 'Mummy'. She was 'Mother' to him and that was something he knew that was upsetting her, but he couldn't change it. Mrs Holmes face was pale to say the least. That was the most unexpected question coming from Sherlock's mouth. She was ready to talk about sex, bees, different types of blood, etcetera. But that was a question she wasn't ready to answer to his youngest child.

Elizabeth Holmes stood up ordering the maids to clean the table and saying to them they could go to sleep because she wouldn't be needing them for the rest of the night. The little boy stood up with her, and she took his hand and they climbed the stairs together. He thought they would be playing a Tchaikovsky duet with him on the violin and his mother on the piano, but they ended in front of the door of the last room of the house.

He saw as his mother took a key from inside the front part of her dress and opened the door for him.