Darkroom Sculpture

The New Year's bells have already rung. Rose looks back and realizes that many years have passed since she was a little girl in the orphanage.

As time passed, she grew into the "flower bud" that his wife had described. Sherlock grew taller and taller, though he remained pale and thin, and he became increasingly paranoid and manic, on the verge of a breakdown. Meanwhile, Mycroft was about to graduate from Cambridge University, and his wife desperately wanted him to join the imperial court, despite his apparent passion for mathematics.

The wedding is over, and the lady is coming home.

Mycroft, Sherlock, and Rose had been informed in advance and, out of "aristocratic manners," the three of them had arrived in the living room early to wait. Mycroft stood by the window, Sherlock reclined on the soft sofa, while Rose sat upright in her chair, her mind preoccupied with her conversation with Eurus.

What a terrible conversation, she thought. She found Eurus's assertion of Mycroft's "love" utterly absurd. At the same time, there was a strange, faint hope, one she couldn't ascertain. It was driving Rose almost mad.

She couldn't even look Mycroft in the eye anymore. Sometimes she wondered what she was afraid of. She guessed she was afraid of finding evidence in Mycroft's behavior, but—was she afraid of facing evidence that Mycroft didn't love her, or evidence that he did?

Out of courtesy, Mycroft did not inquire about her conversation with Eurus. This secret, belonging only to the two girls, was so delicate, hidden, and heavy.

As Rose struggled with her unease, she stepped slowly down from the carriage bearing the royal crest, her gaze sweeping over the three children: Sherlock's somewhat agitated face, Mycroft's calm expression, and Rose's somewhat absent-minded demeanor.

Three children, three completely different individuals, yet all bearing the weight of the same surname—a surname she had fought tooth and nail to snatch back from the edge of a precipice with her soul and tears.

A barely perceptible weariness, like a cold spider's web, crept silently onto her brow. Once upon a time, she too possessed eyes as pure as Rose's, eyes that had quickly been sharpened by fear.

Those were the eyes of a young lady from a declining baron's family, who witnessed her parents struggling daily between pawning their silverware and maintaining appearances, and who knew all too well that once those glamorous curtains fell, what would be revealed was an abyss capable of swallowing a person whole—rumors, ridicule, and utter exile.

Sigson, her beloved Sigson, his untimely death was almost like a gaping maw opening in the abyss. The vicious whispers surrounding his cause of death, like maggots clinging to bones, the eyes that lurked, eager to devour the Holmes family as they fell… it was she who, through meticulously woven lies, through chaotic and sordid deals, through countless choices that forced compromise, nailed this crumbling family back to a respectable position.

She would not allow this family to fall into any more trouble.

The lady brought up Mycroft's career choice again at the dinner table, her tone carrying an unquestionable authority.

Mycroft put down his knife and fork, wiped his mouth very slowly and meticulously with a napkin, and then looked up calmly at his mother. "Mother, after graduating from university, I want to work for the Mathematics Association and make it my life's work."

"Why!" Seeing her eldest son, who was always respectable, shrewd, and the pride of her life, make such a rebellious move, she felt the veins on her forehead trembling: "I never promised you the freedom to choose your profession. You were born for politics, Mycroft Holmes!" She even stopped calling him by his pet name and called him by his full name, the name that was given to her with such high expectations.

“I never agreed to your involvement in politics,” Mycroft said coldly. “Mathematical research is my interest, ha… an interest, I almost thought it had long since left me.”

The lady jumped up from the dining table. "He's gone mad! Who drove him mad? Lock him in the attic!"

This wasn't a sudden outburst. Her eldest son's growing power brought her both joy and a strange sense of dread. Especially this Christmas Eve—when she attended the royal wedding and learned about Sherlock and Rose's "New Year's gift" with Mycroft's indulgence—this resentment had been building to a breaking point, just a tiny spark away from igniting it.

She tremblingly directed the servant, who hesitated for a moment before walking to Mycroft's side and hesitantly binding his arms.

Mycroft pushed them away, saying, "I'll walk by myself."

Mycroft's imprisonment lasted three days. On the first day, Sherlock coldly scoffed, "He's finally getting what he deserves." On the second day, Sherlock stopped speaking frequently and began playing the violin by the window. He avoided talking about Mycroft. His violin skills were already at a level that would earn him thunderous applause in the theater, but on that day, the notes were constantly vibratoing, and even a novice like Rose could clearly hear the chaotic, disordered notes. He angrily threw down the strings. "This damn day!" Sherlock roared.

On the third day, he couldn't help but talk to Rose about Mycroft again, his curly hair obscuring his deep blue eyes: "It's been three days. My mother can only leave me there for a day and a half at most, because she knows I'll die if I stay any longer. But why hasn't she released that guy yet? Mycroft has OCD; darkness and strange noises will drive him insane."

“It seems you’re worried about him too, Sherl. You don’t actually hate Mycroft as much as you say you do.” Rose hugged him, hoping to offer him some comfort.

Sherlock spoke much slower than usual: “Who would worry about someone like him? I’m just afraid he’ll go crazy, and the responsibility of taking care of him will fall on our shoulders, which would be terrible.” He paused for a moment: “Besides… Mycroft isn’t as strong as he thinks he is.”

Regardless, the two mustered their courage and went to the top floor room of the manor—the "heart" of the estate, the lady's bedroom. From there, one could see everything in the entire place.

The two stood in front of the door, hesitating about how to start the conversation, when they suddenly heard the butler and his wife talking inside.

“Young Master Mycroft is still the same, only less responsive to noise than he was a couple of days ago. We wake him up whenever he falls asleep, and we haven’t brought him any food, but he refuses to give up his job at the Mathematics Association no matter what. Now, when we call him, he barely responds.” Rose and Sherlock heard a “thud”—the sound of the butler kneeling: “Madam! We must stop now, his body is nearing its limit!”

Rose's tears welled up instantly, but she didn't realize they were streaming down her cheeks. She covered her mouth tightly, the inside of her fingers damp with tears, feeling their warmth. Sherlock seemed to be in no way less pain than her, his deep blue eyes swirling with conflicting emotions.

Inside the door, there was a suffocating silence. This silence was more terrifying than any roar. Rose could hardly imagine what kind of weighing was taking place on the lady's beautiful yet cold face at this moment—was the value of the family heir more important, or was her unchallengeable authority more important?

Finally, the lady's cold voice pierced through the door, carrying a hint of barely perceptible weariness, yet still firm: "...Get him out."

The two rushed towards the tower's attic almost hastily.

The attic door was ajar. A chilling aura, a mixture of dust, old wood, and some indescribable, pure darkness, wafted out. Then came the mournful sound of a violin, like a vengeful ghost. Sherlock's steps faltered at the doorway, as if blocked by an invisible barrier. Rose took his hand, and together they climbed the stone steps.

Dim light peeked in sparingly from the narrow window, barely outlining the silhouette of the figure in the center of the attic.

Mycroft was not standing.

He sat leaning against the wall on the cold floor. His ever-immaculate black and gray suit, a symbol of Cambridge's elite, was now covered in dust, with several unnatural wrinkles and tugs, as if it had survived a silent struggle. His brown hair was disheveled, with a few sweaty strands clinging to his pale forehead.

This is no longer the walking iceberg, the meticulous and precise chess player.

This is a statue that was violently toppled and is covered in cracks.

The butler and two burly male servants approached cautiously, their faces showing obvious fear and unease. “Young Master Mycroft… Madam requests your presence. You… you need to rest.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock’s voice rang out abruptly, hoarse and anxious even he himself didn’t realize. He stepped into the attic, his boots slamming into the dusty floor. He tried to help Mycroft up, his black trench coat slightly distorted from the strain: “Get up!”

The butler seized the opportunity to signal a servant to step forward and help him. Just as their hands were about to touch Mycroft's arm—

"Let go. I'm fine."

Mycroft has clearly suffered a severe emotional trauma, yet he still instinctively resists being touched by strangers.

The lady knew very well that he relieved his psychological stress by binge-eating sweets, so for three days in a row, he was deprived of the right to eat. He was not even allowed to sleep; whenever he was about to fall asleep, a servant would come in and ring a clear, sharp bell in his ear.

And the countless invisible, hellish musical notes emanating from beneath the tower constantly tore at his nerves. Moreover, he suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder. The absolute torment of silence and darkness nearly eroded his rational defenses. The auditory hallucinations, like a persistent, insidious affliction, gnawed at his consciousness.

He was on the verge of defeat, but a certain belief, or obsession, sustained him, giving him unwavering courage to endure anything. It was a shadow in his mind, initially blurry, but growing clearer over time. This hellish experience, as if by magic, made him understand the truth he didn't want to admit.

Mycroft struggled to his feet, without even using the wall for support. He retained his tenacity and arrogance.

When he looked up, Rose saw his expression.

That once handsome, aloof, marble-sculpted face was now as pale as a ghost. A faint bluish tinge surrounded its sunken eye sockets, while the whites of its eyes were streaked with bloodshot veins. Those grey-blue eyes, which had always been all-seeing and utterly expressionless, now resembled icy water flowing beneath a layer of ice, desperately trying to maintain their composure and clarity. The echo of Sherlock's words to her, "Mycroft isn't as strong as he thinks," now sounded like an ominous prophecy.

She gazed at him with heartache and worry, a hint of relief at surviving a disaster in her eyes: "Thank goodness, you're still here."

Mycroft forced a smile: "To crush my spiritual sanctuary with just these piano notes seems a bit lacking."

“Mycroft,” Sherlock couldn’t help but sneer at his forced composure, “I imagined I would see a dead body, but it seems my wish has been dashed.”

“What a pity, I thought we were meeting at the gates of hell right now,” Mycroft replied defiantly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and pulled up the collar of his trench coat: "Stop spouting your damn pessimism. Now, right now, get out of this damn place and go back to your bedroom to rest, you hear me?"

In a moment unnoticed by anyone, the lady's eyes were reflected behind the glass window. Her gaze lingered on Mycroft and Rose's hands, which, though dusty, unconsciously touched each other.

She gripped the intricate hem of her skirt tightly.