secret accomplice

Dr. Watson, who is currently on holiday, has been feeling strange lately.

The weather in The Hague should have been mild and pleasant, but he felt inexplicably uneasy. This unease did not stem from any clear threat, but rather from a series of small but persistent "accidents" and "discomforts" that accumulated.

For example, he was informed the day before the opening of a three-day international field medicine symposium that it would be postponed indefinitely due to the "last-minute withdrawal of funding from the main sponsor." His carefully prepared speech was now lying uselessly in his suitcase.

For example, the hotel he stayed at seemed to be working against him. The hot water supply was intermittent, the room phone would occasionally dial unanswered numbers, and one night, the fire alarm went off without warning, startling all the guests in the building, only to turn out to be a false alarm. The manager's apologies were incredibly sincere, and the compensation was generous enough, but the frequency of these incidents aroused suspicion.

What bothered him most was that he couldn't get in touch with Sherlock. The telegram he sent to 221B Baker Street went unanswered, and the several letters he wrote went unrepaired—this was highly unusual. Even if Sherlock was engrossed in some experiments or case and couldn't be bothered with the outside world, he shouldn't have disregarded even this basic courtesy.

But damn it—Watson rubbed his temples—that guy can't really not care, can he?

He began having frequent nightmares. In his dreams, there was not the dust and gunfire of Afghanistan, but the damp streets of London, and Sherlock's thin, pale face hidden in the darkness.

“The Hague is a real sin city!” he couldn’t help but complain to the huge balcony, slamming the tourist guide on the table. “I think I should go back to London!”

Without further hesitation, he quickly packed his meager belongings, rushed to the hotel front desk to check out, and booked the earliest ferry ticket back to England.

Standing in the carriage bound for the port, Watson watched the foreign scenery rushing past the window, feeling no lingering attachment, only an urgent longing to return to that misty city.

"Dr. Watson has boarded the ferry and is expected to arrive at the Port of London tomorrow afternoon."

“Very good.” Mycroft’s fingertips unconsciously rubbed the umbrella handle.

Watson must come back; he is the ideal candidate at this moment.

His loyalty to Sherlock is beyond question, his identity as a doctor is crucial, and his upright character and relatively simple background make him more suitable than anyone else in the manor to comfort Sherlock at this time.

Most importantly, his very existence might replace Rose's former position, restoring Sherlock's spiritual sanctuary and preventing it from collapsing completely.

As for the minor troubles that made it impossible for Watson to stay in The Hague, they were merely necessary measures.

Mycroft didn't even issue specific instructions himself; he only needed to hint that he hoped Dr. Watson would end his vacation as soon as possible, and someone would naturally understand and carry it out in various legal, compliant, and discreet ways. This was the kind of power he consistently despised, yet which possessed a magical quality.

Watson, weary from his journey, finally pushed open the door of 221B Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson opened the door.

"Oh! Dr. Watson! Thank God you're finally back!"

"Mrs. Hudson, where is Sherlock?" Watson asked anxiously, his gaze passing over her and landing on the familiar, now dimly lit inner room.

“He’s not home,” Mrs. Hudson said in a low voice, as if afraid of disturbing something. “He hasn’t been back for several days. A few nights ago, he went out in a hurry and we haven’t heard from him since. I…I received this.”

She shakily pulled a folded note from her apron pocket.

The letters on the note were elegant, delicate, and austere:

Mrs. Hudson:

My brother Sherlock needs to stay at the estate for a while due to an urgent matter, and will be unable to contact the outside world during this time. He is doing well, so there is no need to worry or visit him. Please continue to manage the affairs of Baker Street as usual.

MH

“Mycroft?” Watson frowned. This was highly unusual. Sherlock might leave temporarily because of the case, but not in this way, with Mycroft coming forward and completely cutting off contact.

Moreover, where is he staying? That Holmes manor that Sherlock so vehemently hates and almost never sets foot in? Why would he choose to stay there?

“And another thing,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice lowered, “there was a murder a few nights ago near Baker Street. A young officer was, was murdered, in that alley not far from us. I’m worried about Sherlock; do you think he’s involved in something terrible?”

Watson's heart sank.

“I understand, Mrs. Hudson, thank you.” Watson tried to keep her voice calm. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure out what’s going on.”

He put down his luggage, turned and left 221B. Standing on the street corner of Baker Street, he quickly pondered.

Go to Scotland Yard? The officers might know something. But if Mycroft gets involved, they're unlikely to get any real information.

There is only one place where you can definitely find the answer.

Watson flagged down another carriage and gave his destination, which made the coachman look at him with slight surprise: "Holmes Estate."

The carriage slowly came to a stop in front of the iconic, gilded, magnificent iron gates of Sherlock Holmes Estate.

Contrary to Watson's expectations of tight security, the door opened silently for him, as if it had anticipated his arrival.

This silent welcome, instead of making him feel at ease, deepened his unease.

A neatly dressed, expressionless butler appeared before him.

“Dr. Watson,” the butler bowed slightly, “the master is waiting for you. Please come with me.”

"Which gentleman?"

“Mr. Mycroft”.

"Where's Sherlock? Is he here?"

The butler maintained his respectful manners but remained silent. Watson followed him in silence until they arrived, and the two did not exchange another word.

“John,” Mycroft smiled slightly, “you must be tired from your journey. The weather in The Hague must be much more pleasant than in London. Why not indulge yourself a little longer during your precious annual leave?”

Watson had no interest in playing games and cut to the chase: "I want to see Sherlock."

“So it was longing that got in the way. Alright, of course.” Mycroft paused for a moment: “However, before you see him, as Sherlock’s brother, I feel it’s my responsibility to tell you some necessary things.”

Watson frowned.

Over the years, he had come to know Mycroft to some extent. The more nonchalant the man's tone, the heavier his ominous premonition grew.

He forced himself to stand firm and looked directly into those eyes that seemed to see through everything: "Tell me what happened."

Mycroft sighed softly, as if regretting that such a trivial matter had been brought up so solemnly.

He strolled to the bookshelf, his posture still elegant, his fingertips brushing against the gleaming silver surface of a letter opener. It was the murder weapon used by Owen, now thoroughly cleaned. The butler had intended to throw it away yesterday, but Mycroft had ordered him to put it back here.

“An unfortunate accident, or rather, a series of…tragedies.” Mycroft began his narration in a steady tone, describing Eaton Smith’s death as “a regrettable accidental death” and Owen as a “madman who was driven to madness by the death of his best friend, filled with rage and resorting to violence.”

“That German, Owen,” Mycroft’s gaze never left the letter opener, “tried to attack me after making some baseless accusations. At that moment, I was distracted by some… trivial matters, and Sherlock, with his own body, stood between us.”

At this point, Mycroft looked at Watson, at Watson's wide eyes filled with shock and worry. He even chuckled reproachfully, "What a silly kid, always getting hurt over the people he cherishes, isn't he?"

Watson felt a wave of physical nausea. What he found even more unbearable than Sherlock's willingness to take the fall for Mycroft was the almost gleeful calmness with which Mycroft recounted the tragedy.

He suppressed his discomfort and asked urgently, "How badly is he injured?"

"Fortunately, his life is not in danger. But he has lost a lot of blood, and coupled with his long-term...unhealthy lifestyle, he is very weak." Mycroft walked to the desk, picked up a document that looked like a medical report, but hesitated to hand it to Watson. "He needs to rest, absolutely rest. He cannot be subjected to any stimulation."

"So you just locked him up here?" Watson couldn't help but raise his voice. "Cutting off all contact between him and the outside world? Not even telling Mrs. Hudson the truth?"

“No, John, I’m protecting him. Protecting him from being bothered by some…unpleasant facts.”

Watson felt a jolt in his chest from his heart. "What other unpleasant facts are there?"

"The truth is, Rose is not his sister. His real sister, Eurus, was imprisoned in the cellar for over a decade, and now I've locked her up in an even more airtight place. This is the secret the Holmes family has kept hidden for many years, but Owen immediately dropped this secret on Sherlock. And sure enough, his mental sanctuary was shaken to its core by a massive earthquake, almost collapsing completely."

“Therefore, after he fell into a coma, I brought in the best professionals for him and used some… unconventional but extremely effective methods,” Mycroft paused again, “and now, all his memories of Eurus and Rose have been properly removed.”

Watson was struck dumb, frozen in place. "You...you erased his memory? What did you turn him into? A blank sheet of paper to be painted on at will?" He couldn't believe his ears. "Mycroft, you're his brother! How could you—"

“Precisely because I am his brother.” Mycroft’s tone turned cold: “What should he remember? Remember that Rose was a substitute his mother found, that the kinship he cherished was built on lies? Remember that his real sister was imprisoned by the family, and that he himself knew nothing about it or even forgot about her? Or should he remember being stabbed through the body, walking on the brink of death, and nearly losing his life?”

He approached Watson step by step.

“John, you’re a doctor. Tell me, when a person’s mental sanctuary is riddled with holes and on the verge of complete collapse, is it better to keep stuffing it with these cruel truths that are enough to crush him, or to simply remove the fuses that are about to detonate the explosive?”

“But that’s not a fuse, that’s his life! That’s his experience, his emotions!” Watson immediately retorted. “You have no right to decide for him what to remember and what to forget! If you make him forget everything, what does his entire life up to this point even matter!”

“He remembers me,” Mycroft interrupted him again. “He remembers that he’s my brother and I’m his brother. That’s enough for him. As for the rest, he’ll rebuild. Like you, John. You’ll be a completely new presence to him. A trustworthy doctor, someone he can get along with quite well.”

“I’ve made my choice. And now, John, you need to make yours.” His gaze was fixed entirely on Watson. “You can go see him now. You can tell him everything. You can watch him, watch him break down again in front of you because of the unbearable truth, even become a deranged madman like Owen. Or…”

Mycroft paused, his tone softening, with a seductive cruelty in his voice.

"Or, you can play the role of your 'best friend' and 'roommate.' You've only just met him. You know nothing about his sister, Rose, the German, or the soldier from Calcutta; you've never met them before."

“You help him recover, using your stable and positive influence to rebuild his life. Let him live in the present, in a new world without those painful memories.”

Watson felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. "Why!" his voice trembled. "Why did you do this! Why tell me this!"

As he spoke, despite his soldierly instincts desperately suppressing his emotions, his eyes uncontrollably welled up with tears: "If you're so capable, why didn't you have someone erase my memories as well? Mycroft, why, why did you make me suffer a lifetime of torment too..."

Mycroft looked at him, and for the first time, a look of almost pity appeared in his eyes.

“Because there’s no need for that, John,” he said softly. “Because I know you. I know your loyalty, your sense of responsibility, and your feelings for Sher… your eternally kind nature.”

“You know the consequences of letting Sherlock know the truth, so you will definitely make the best decision for Sherlock, even if it will torment you for the rest of your life.”

"If either Sherlock or you are destined to suffer for the rest of your life, you will definitely choose yourself."

He smiled slightly and extended his hand to Watson: "And I am honored to have such an...accomplice."

Watson stood frozen in place, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug deep into his palms. He looked at Mycroft, his mind filled with unspoken questions, but his lips trembled, and he couldn't utter a single word.

He suddenly remembered that Mycroft had reached out these hands to him a few years ago.

It was in an abandoned old factory when Mycroft asked him to monitor Sherlock's every move and, seeing through his predicament, generously offered him a high reward.

He refused at that time, decisively and without hesitation.

Now, however, it has become incredibly difficult for him to say "no" again.

I've lived with Sherlock for several years, and those years have flown by in the blink of an eye. It's not just time that's passing by, but also much more.

He lost.

Because time has passed, and because things are different now.

But now,

As long as Sherlock is on the bet

He will never win.

After a long silence, Watson finally spoke.

“What about the neighbors, the clients Sherlock has dealt with before, and Mrs. Hudson,” he said, head bowed, “…what about them?”

Mycroft simply smiled: "No problem."

“…Take me to see him.” He heard his own voice, dry and hoarse, as if it came from a very, very far place.