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Sherlock was clever. Everyone said so. There was nothing he couldn't figure out if he put his mind to it — much to the consternation of his teachers. Each fact learned became intrinsic knowledge until he could hardly imagine his life before he'd learned it. Sherlock absorbed lessons like a sponge — many of them unintentionally taught — and the one he knew best was that Bea's death was all his fault. The facts were thus:
Bea wanted him to play with her.
He refused.
Bea drowned.
Ergo, had he played with Bea, she would not be dead. It had been his inaction to drown Bea That Day.
Sherlock never told anyone his deduction. He couldn't bear the idea that they might not know, and should he tell them, they would. They would see the truth behind the charm and mischief to the selfish little boy that killed his sister.
So Sherlock smiled, and deflected, and devoured every scrap of knowledge he could find. He became a force of nature, the singularity around which others orbited. Sherlock danced through life, restless feet and itchy fingers ensuring regular visits with Mycroft as his dear brother tried unsuccessfully to keep him out of trouble. (The visage of his sister growing up in the corner of his eye.) He kept moving, driven by the need to partake in everything this world had to offer.
Sherlock had stolen Bea's chance to experience life for herself; the least he could do was share it with her now.
No one had told Mycroft the accident was his fault. His mother never brought it up during his visits; his father never sat him down and pointed out how, precisely, Mycroft's inability to mind his sister led to her death; and Sherlock refrained from mentioning That Day in any capacity.
The words had never been spoken, but the weight of them pressed heavily on his shoulders nonetheless. Mycroft was the eldest; it was his duty to uphold his family name and protect his siblings.
His failure proved to be the catalyst of his family's implosion.
His father disappeared into his travels and banished the rest of them: his mother to the asylum, Sherlock to school, and Mycroft to London. The manor closed with no one to live in it, and Mycroft found himself desperately holding on to the remnants of his family.
The years passed and Mycroft buried himself in his work. He coaxed his way into the Foreign Office — a respectable station. Dignified. Positioned carefully to shield his brother from the harshest consequences of his own youthful exuberance. When it became clear his brother would find himself in situations he would be unable to get himself back out of, Mycroft busied himself with stockpiling favors in every corner of London society and paid meticulous attention to the exploits of one Sherlock Holmes.
No one had told Mycroft he needed to watch over Sherlock. No one explicitly laid the responsibility on his shoulders. No one explained how it was his duty, should Sherlock fly too close to the sun in his irrepressible curiosity, to catch him.
No one had to.
He hadn't protected Bea, couldn't take care of his mother, couldn't be the son his father desired, but he'd be damned if he let Sherlock down.
Cordelia had been over That Day enough times to drive her mad (if she hadn't been already, of course). She'd lived it a thousand times in her memory, etching the details into the walls of her mind with hammer and chisel. The warm sun, the cool river rushing over her ankles, laughter floating on the breeze. A perfect summer's day she now despised.
She carved other details into her bone marrow. The panic when she'd first realized Bea was gone. The fear as she waited with Silas for news. The devastation that sent her to her knees (and later, the asylum).
She hadn't only lost Bea — beautiful, compassionate, vivacious Bea — she'd lost Sherlock and Mycroft, too. Oh, they visited. Mycroft was good enough to see her frequently, and Sherlock dutifully came whenever Mycroft caught hold of him. Her mind may be addled, but she had not let go of reality entirely. No child wanted to see their mother in such a state, and her heart squeezed painfully whenever they came — sorrow, for them to be in this place, and gratitude, for their bravery to come anyway.
Her boys grew into men without her.
Cordelia knew she could never atone for her fatal sin. Oh, how she longed to redo That Day. To go with Bea, hold her hand, keep her safe (keep her alive). Cordelia's heart had stopped beating the moment she'd looked up to find Bea gone, and its void left her hollow.
She'd lost everything. Her husband, her children, her place in the world (her sanity). It was only fitting, she supposed, to lose everything Beatrice would never attain. It would never be enough. Nothing could ever make up for the life she'd lost with her carelessness.
So Cordelia would wait, imprisoned by the ruinous nature of her grief, for the day she would see Bea again.
Beatrice might not remember much from her previous life — her father tried to shield her from the sordid details — but what she didn't know, she could extrapolate.
Fact: her mother had been a danger to her.
Fact: her mother had not been a danger to her brothers.
Fact: her father thought it best to remove Beatrice completely from the family instead of attempting remediation.
Conclusion: something was deeply wrong with Beatrice, so much so it drove her mother to filicide.
Her mother was mad, Father told her. Tragically, clinically insane. There was no cure for lunacy, Beatrice knew, and should she value her life, she'd stay far away from Cordelia Holmes.
Bea could study and adapt and become invaluable to her father's empire, but she could not change her inherent nature which provoked her mother so severely. Something in Bea, even as a child, had affronted her mother into acting against thousands of years of evolution.
She hated her brothers for having what she could not. When Father tentatively proposed hiding her true identity from them, she agreed without hesitation. Let them be satisfied with Cordelia's love; Bea would hoard their father's. Each particularly clever solution she found to his problems cemented her more firmly at his side.
Beatrice would never know her mother — would never know the woman behind the madness — and she refused to lose her father as well. She might not have her mother's love, but she would earn her father's.
Fortune was a fickle mistress, and Silas found himself on the harsh end of her fury more often than he thought quite fair. Audentes fortuna iuvat, as the scholars said. Fortune favors those who dare, and Silas would risk everything to curry her favor.
Dancing after dinner, lounging by the river, raising three children — these were all distractions, and nearly brought Silas to ruin. His businesses were failing and Cordelia was growing suspicious of his insatiable demand for capital. She was a complication he didn't need. Life as a husband and father had become tedious, and Silas craved freedom.
Disappearing Beatrice, committing Cordelia, and separating the boys had been a stroke of sheer genius, and Silas dared hope his fortunes were turning.
The richer he became, the more wealth he desired, and the more certain he became that this was fate. Why else would everything fall into place as if by design? Cordelia neatly tucked away; Mycroft building political bridges for the Holmes name; Sherlock clever and educated and poised to join him in due time; Beatrice obediently at his right hand.
It wasn't enough.
Silas held power over life itself. Countries would crumble beneath his heel. This gas, this invisible touch of death, made him a god, and he would see himself worshiped. No matter the cost.