Joyful separations and sorrowful reunions

The customers' laughter and the clinking of cups and plates came to an abrupt halt.

All eyes were focused on the table in the corner, and on Rose, who stood frozen in the middle of the shards, her face pale.

The noise attracted Mary from the kitchen. Seeing the mess and Rose standing frozen in place, Mary rushed forward, both shocked and furious, instinctively shielding Rose behind her. She yelled at the uninvited guest, "Sir! What do you want to do to my Anne?!"

“Your Anne?” Mycroft said as if he had heard a joke. “Do you even know who she is? Yet you dare to make such a claim.”

These words struck Mary like a bolt of lightning.

Looking at the distinguished young man, she couldn't reconcile him with the abusive stepfather Rose had described.

She turned her head sharply and looked at Rose again: that excessively beautiful face, that deliberately dyed brown hair, that seemingly innate and indelible demeanor...

Instantly, the blurry wanted poster appeared in her mind.

“Who, who are you? You are, are you that wanted criminal?” Mary jerked her hand away from Rose as if burned, pleading with Mycroft, “I know nothing! She forced me to take her in! She fabricated a pitiful story to gain my sympathy—this criminal even seduced my son!”

“She’s not a criminal.” Mycroft looked coldly at Mary. “She’s my family member, and you kidnapped her.”

Anthea, who was sitting opposite Mycroft, also stood up and reminded her at the opportune moment: "Kidnapping an official's relative is a serious crime of the Empire, Madam."

“Official…Imperial crime…” Mary murmured these terrible words over and over again, her legs went weak and she almost collapsed to the ground, her face drained of all color.

The last vestige of warmth in her eyes as she looked at Rose was completely replaced by immense fear and resentment.

The crowd erupted in a burst of whispers.

“The game is over, my dear Rose.” Mycroft leaned forward slightly, his voice low and clear, only loud enough for her to hear. “You see, the world you desperately fled from is the only place that can give you a ‘true’ identity. And this ‘real’ world you tried to integrate into can completely abandon you with just a single sentence.”

His tone even carried a gentle urge: "So... let's go home, okay?"

Rose knew this was not a question.

——————

Sherlock sat bolt upright on the sofa, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

John was awakened by the noise and rushed out of the bedroom, looking at him with concern: "Are you alright?"

“I dreamt I was walking in a terrifying jungle, with lots of vines and thick fog. A girl was crying, but I couldn’t find her. No, there was something else, I can’t remember…” He stood up, clutching his head: “Damn it, damn it, damn it! What else was there!”

He paced restlessly around the room, wondering, "What is it? What have I forgotten?" His breathing quickened, and his eyes began to glaze over, as if he were desperately searching through his vast and chaotic palace of memories. Suddenly, as if he had grasped something, his body stiffened abruptly.

“Wait, yes, yes, it’s roses, that’s right, roses!” He grabbed Watson’s hand. “John, let’s think back. Which customer brought in a bouquet of roses? Or which crime scene had roses? Even just a flower girl selling roses on the street corner! Any detail will do!”

Sherlock's brows were furrowed, his face contorted with extreme focus and some invisible resistance, as if he were using all his mental strength to try to pry open a heavy, welded-together door.

Watson's hands trembled along with his. Looking into Sherlock's eyes, and recalling the horrific scene of his encounter with Rose yesterday where he didn't recognize her, a surge of courage brought the truth to his throat: "Yes—"

"Ugh—!" Sherlock suddenly cried out in pain. He abruptly released Watson, curled up on the sofa, clutched his head tightly with both hands, and buried his fingers deep in his dark curly hair: "My head... my head hurts so much..."

“John…” he practically spat out the words, “Go get the patch… the patch…”

Watson was interrupted. He silently turned and strode quickly toward the cabinet where the medicines were stored.

His expression became incredibly weary, yet also incredibly resolute.

He would never speak of it again in his life. He couldn't let Sherlock suffer that agonizing pain again.

A dull pain shot through his chest, and Watson lowered his eyes: If someone is destined to suffer for the rest of their life, then let me bear it for you.

——————

The carriage drove silently into the night toward Holmes Estate.

"Who?" Rose cried, grabbing her hair. "Who betrayed me?!"

Mycroft looked at her coldly: "I haven't even settled accounts with you yet, and you're already questioning me?"

“It’s John Watson, isn’t it? It must be him, only he saw me,” Rose broke down completely, laughing self-deprecatingly. “It’s not surprising, he’s completely won you over. I shouldn’t have trusted anyone, how could I have made such a mistake…”

She huddled in the corner, not sitting on the velvet cushion. The wind blew in through the car window, and she shivered, whether from anger or from her thin, coarse cloth clothes, it was hard to tell.

Mycroft took off his coat and threw it at her: "I advise you not to torture yourself to death."

"Yes, I should just obediently wait to be tormented to death by you, shouldn't I?"

"If I really wanted you dead, you would have been reduced to ashes long ago. Why are you still here talking back to me?"

"Then just let me vanish into nothingness, otherwise I will never give up on pursuing freedom and the future!"

"That shed in the backyard of that restaurant, is that the freedom you want? That fool who can't even see a fraction of your worth, is that the future you'd rather die for?"

"So you see my value? What value do you see in me? Is it the value of locking me in a cage to satisfy your twisted family values? Is it the value of tying the three of us together for life and threatening me to have your children?!"

Mycroft's forehead veins bulged: "Oh, so you've gotten yourself into this state just to prove you can seduce that idiot, just because you're willing to have his child?"

“Because I want to live for myself!” Rose’s voice was hoarse with excitement. “At least the hardship there was my own choice, at least the air there wasn’t a gift from anyone! Unlike now, where even this tattered coat I’m wearing seems to be part of a stage play you’ve meticulously designed!”

"You actually call this a stage play that affected the Navy, the Ministry of Transportation, and the Ministry of the Interior, disrupted the travel of all the people in the Empire, and even made me rush back from the wilderness overnight to clean up your mess?" Mycroft sneered. "You certainly used a lot of actors in this stage play."

“A mess? You call that a mess? Then let me just rot there!” Rose almost screamed. “Why would someone as important as you condescend to be there! Why won’t you just let me fend for myself!”

“Because—” Mycroft took a deep breath: “Because you belong to this family, and I will not allow any part of this family to be destroyed.”

Rose thought she'd heard the most ridiculous joke: "Home? In this home, an older brother loves his younger brother and sister so much that he wants to possess them, so much that he wants to erase his younger brother's memories, so much that he wants to kill everyone who gets close to his younger sister. Is this what you call a home?"

Something that had been taut for so long finally broke.

"Then tell me, who is your home?" Mycroft's long-suppressed anger finally erupted. "That coward you're betrothed to? That reckless soldier who doesn't know the meaning of life? Or that worker who plans to trap you in the slums forever with a cheap wedding dress?"

"At least it was my own choice!"

“Your choice is self-destruction!” He gripped her wrist. “Crawling through filthy pipes, jumping into the icy river, and getting soaking wet on your way to the station. And look at yourself now, your frostbitten fingers, the knife cuts from chopping vegetables, your hair ruined by cheap dye,” his eyes seemed to sting, his voice softening, “Do you know how I feel seeing you degrade yourself like this?”

"Let me go!" Rose struggled fiercely. "I'd rather be a dirty free man than a refined prisoner! I hate you, Mycroft Holmes, I hate you!"

"Hate?" A cruel smile curved his lips. "Then hate."

Before he could finish speaking, he pulled her into his arms, his other hand gripping the back of her neck, and with irresistible force, he captured her lips.

This was a kiss that had nothing to do with tenderness.

It is possession, punishment, declaration, and two souls tearing each other apart in despair.

The carriage lurched more and more, the expensive suit creaking against the coarse cloth. Her head slammed against the side wall more and more frequently. He reached out his left hand to cushion the impact between her head and the wall.

When everything calmed down, Rose lay on the velvet cushions, looking at the antique canopy on the roof. Mycroft straightened his clothes, his gray eyes peering through the window at the fields rushing past, shrouded in industrial dust.

"I will let that woman and her son go."

"Oh. So this is a transaction?"

Mycroft turned and looked at her coldly: "If that's what you think, there's nothing I can do about it."

"I shouldn't have thought that way. I overestimated myself." Rose said sarcastically, "If you wanted to, all those stunningly beautiful socialites would flock to you. Why would you need me?"

Mycroft was furious: "Who do you think you are?"

"What do you take me for? And what do you take Sherlock for? We're brothers!"

"Is that so?" Mycroft sneered. "Are you?"

“You’re right! Of course I’m not!” Rose’s voice broke down: “I’m just a prostitute you neither want to admit nor can you let go of!”

Mycroft's face grew increasingly grim: "I advise you to watch your words."

“Pay attention? Why should I pay attention?” Rose’s laughter grew even more agonizing, tears welling in her eyes. “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted? To turn me into someone with no past, no family, no name! A puppet who can only depend on you and please you! And now you’re asking me to watch my words? Mycroft Holmes, you want to brand me a prostitute while expecting me to maintain the dignity of a lady? There’s no such thing as a free lunch!”

Mycroft gazed at her, a storm rapidly gathering in the depths of his grey eyes. Yet, at the very moment the storm reached its climax, it eerily subsided.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. All his outward emotions—anger, loss of control, even the slightest hint of being stung—were suppressed beneath that icy exterior.

Finally, he leaned back in the soft chair, his gaze filled with only a cruel calm.

"A prostitute?" Mycroft said casually, "Rose, you overestimate yourself and insult this... ancient profession."

"At least prostitutes have a price tag; they exchange services for payment. They know their place and understand the rules of the transaction. But what about you?"

He smiled slightly: "You don't seem to be in a position to charge me."