Man in a Case

Since waking up, Sherlock has felt something was off. Mycroft tells him that he was stabbed by a dying suspect during his detective career. As for the occasional blank memories, they are nothing more than a post-traumatic stress response.

"I think Dr. Watson is very familiar with this. He has successfully overcome this disease, so he is a suitable choice to accompany you. And I believe you will like him."

Mycroft's words were impeccably polite, almost flawless. But Mycroft was never one to explain his motives.

Sherlock was confused for a while, but that confusion gradually faded. More precisely, it faded with time spent with Watson.

His brother was right; this former military doctor possessed a quality that brought him peace. Although he didn't know exactly why, he instinctively felt a comfortable tranquility.

His brain no longer needed stimulation to combat the emptiness; simply being in a room with Watson, occasionally discussing the dull headlines in the newspaper, or listening to him recount some battlefield experiences in his gentle voice was enough to calm his restless urge to seek morphine.

But for Watson, something was definitely different.

Sherlock recovered quickly, and his mental agility remained astonishing. Faced with case information he provided, he could often pinpoint the key points incisively, and his deductive reasoning remained precise.

But Watson could sense that something was missing—the almost obsessive passion that had once driven Sherlock to throw himself headlong into the puzzle.

Now he's more like a machine in a family workshop, idly analyzing, drawing conclusions, and then shutting down.

One evening, Watson brought Sherlock's room a hot cocoa, which Mycroft had suggested was a better way to perk him up.

He found Sherlock standing by the window, gazing at the deep night outside. The pale moonlight outlined his thin profile, casting a cool halo around him, creating a tranquil atmosphere.

“John,” Sherlock said softly without turning around, “after waking up from my serious injuries, I forgot a lot. Do you think there might be some very important things or people I've forgotten?”

Watson nearly dropped the cup, the warm liquid almost spilling. He steadied himself and placed the cup on the table next to Sherlock.

“Mycroft said that this is normal.” He repeated those hateful lines that he already knew by heart in a dry voice. “He also said that when a person’s spiritual temple is severely damaged, he will only forget the things that he subconsciously wanted to give up.”

Sherlock is a detective. He couldn't possibly miss Watson's crossed hands, trembling eyelashes, and evasive eyes at that moment.

Mycroft and Watson must be hiding something, they must be.

The detective's instincts clamored to tear away the disguise, but a deeper, more unfamiliar emotion rendered him speechless.

He couldn't delve deeper, he couldn't get rid of Watson; he couldn't do it. He hated deception more than anything in his life, and right now, a man was deceiving him, a man he had only known for a few weeks, yet he didn't even have the courage to say goodbye.

"Is that so?" Sherlock finally asked indifferently, picked up the cup of hot cocoa, and instead of complaining about its sweetness as usual, he drank it down in one gulp as if he had completed a task.

"That's probably it, since no one ever visits me."

He put the empty glass back on the table, then lay back on the soft velvet mattress: "We need to move out quickly. I don't want to stay here anymore."

"I happen to know an apartment in a good location."

"Then I'll leave tomorrow."

Watson said, "Okay."

His expression remained calm as he bent down to pack his luggage, his movements retaining the habits of a soldier—neat and efficient. However, when it came to fastening the suitcase clasp, those simple brass fasteners took him several tries before he could finally put it on.

He didn't say anything more.

Because he knew that some wounds lay far beneath the flesh. Some voids, even when carefully filled, would still have cracks, echoing only to the person experiencing them.

And he, John H. Watson, a military medic who had never flinched in the face of bullets on the battlefield, could only sit on a land blooming with lies, guarding a person whose soul had been partially taken away, while feeling the wound in his own conscience bleeding silently.

Everything that can be said is no longer possible. Everything that cannot be obtained is even more unattainable.

———

When Sherlock told Mycroft about the decision, his brother surprisingly did not object as expected.

"Are you sure your body can handle the... energy of Baker Street?" His vocabulary was still so limited.

“I am not porcelain, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied impatiently.

“Of course not, porcelain doesn’t cause that much trouble.” Mycroft’s tone seemed helpless. “You can move out of the house. But you need to report when you leave London and give me a spare key to your apartment.”

Sherlock scoffed, "I have a hundred ways to get it even if I don't give it to you, so why are you asking me what I need?"

“That’s different. You handed me the key to your own apartment yourself.”

“Suffocating care.”

He hesitated for a moment, remembering that Watson was still waiting for him. He pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket, roughly removed one, and tossed it onto Mycroft's mahogany desk. The brass key clinked against the smooth surface. Then he turned to leave.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft looked up, his gaze sweeping over the thick stack of government documents, and looked at his brother: “I thought that after everything that’s happened, we could at least maintain basic courtesy to each other.”

What do you take me for?

"I consider you my brother whom I almost lost."

He was his younger brother. The younger brother who shielded him without hesitation, the younger brother who bled and nearly stopped breathing in his arms.

He needed to confirm Sherlock's complete acceptance of him; he couldn't bear to experience that feeling of being powerless and standing outside the door again.

"Heh. I'm your brother, but I'm also a prisoner in your palm, a puppet in your hands. Stop trying to control me!"

“If I really wanted to control you, you'd still be lying in the manor's medical room, on IV drips to stay alive, instead of standing here arguing with me.” Mycroft stared at him. “What are you resisting?”

"What else do you want? Giving you the key and tolerating you breaking into my house is not enough; you also want me to willingly and completely belong to you?"

“That’s not your home, Sherlock Holmes!” Mycroft’s gaze suddenly turned cold. “This is your home.”

“Now hand me the key with both hands, Sherlock. And you should say, ‘This is the key to my residence. Please hold it, brother dear.’”

Sherlock's voice rose in anger: "Mycroft, why do you always humiliate me in the name of concern?"

Mycroft was unyielding: "My concern goes beyond this. I handpicked Dr. Watson from among many, but if you find this concern bothersome, then..."

He looked coldly at Sherlock: "...John might need to reconsider his career plans. Caring for a patient who refuses to be cared for is a huge drain on any doctor."

"You arrogant, self-important bastard!"

Mycroft showed no anger or offense; he simply glanced at Anthea standing to the side and said, "Go and fetch Dr. Watson. I think my brother needs some help right now."

"No! Don't disturb him!" Sherlock hurriedly grabbed Anthea's arm, his grip so strong that even the well-trained agent frowned slightly. "Don't go!"

Anthea remained silent, only turning to look at Mycroft. Sherlock's gaze followed, but Mycroft remained silent, seemingly waiting for her response.

"...Don't coerce him anymore."

"This doesn't seem like the way to ask for help."

Looking at Mycroft's confident expression and Anthea's patient posture as she awaited orders, Sherlock felt a surge of rebellious words well up in his mouth, but he swallowed them back.

He knew Mycroft too well. Those seemingly offered choices were actually pre-ordained dead ends.

He could tolerate his dignity being crushed, but he couldn't let John pay the price for his stubbornness. The doctor, who had just emerged from the shadow of the battlefield, couldn't afford to lose anything more because of him.

He gritted his teeth, walked over with a sense of humiliation, and picked up the key from the table again. This time, he walked around the large desk, stood in front of Mycroft, and handed him the key with both hands.

“This is my apartment key, please accept it,” he said, suppressing his emotions, his Adam’s apple bobbing, “…Brother.”

Mycroft's lips seemed to curve upwards slightly. He finally extended his well-maintained hands, and with elegant and composed movements, picked up the key from Sherlock's slightly trembling palm.

The cool brass pressed against his warm palm.

“I think I will keep it safe.” Mycroft held the key in his hand as if it were a precious gift. “And thank you for the invitation. I will visit when I have time.”

“You better never come back. I really hope I never see you again!” Sherlock abruptly pulled his hand back, his eyes filled with the rage of being trampled on.

“But you know you can’t, just like you said, I have a hundred ways to see you,” Mycroft’s voice was slow. “And your heart can’t do it either, because I’m your only family. Who else do you have besides me? John? Do you really know him?”

Sherlock glared at him resentfully, then slammed the door and left.

———

After he left, Mycroft sat alone in the large chair, his fingertips tracing the key that still retained Sherlock's warmth.

“Anthea, do you think he really likes that army doctor?” He slowly held the key up to his eyes, examining it in the flickering firelight of the fireplace. “I actually pushed Watson into his arms again. I was so generous.”

"Why does Sherlock, who has no memory of anything, still instinctively want to leave this house?"

"When that German stabbed you, he shielded you without hesitation. How could Dr. Watson compare to such a bond that transcends life and death?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, neither confirming nor denying. But he ultimately said nothing more, got up, and put the key into a locked compartment in his desk drawer.

There were already some things lying there.

A few doodles by Eurus when he was bored.

An old badge from the Mathematics Association, its luster long since faded.

The handmade book that Sherlock gave him when he was seven years old had a crooked inscription on the title page: "To my all-knowing brother Mycroft."

The letter opener that Orn used to stab Sherlock.

There's also a yellowed photograph of Rose with the Holmes brothers when she first arrived at the manor, but he's already cut off her part.

The label for this hidden compartment is: /The family, The treasure/.

He closed the drawer, locked it, and the safe made a soft click.