A Misjudged Look Back
The carriage stopped in front of 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock returned from the crime scene. His hands were covered in wet mud, which he had picked up near a drain in the reeds along the riverbank. His client insisted the place was haunted, but he had only found a malnourished stray cat and half a nest of rats.
Then Sherlock saw the door knocker. It had been left lying around, but now it was perfectly straightened, without any care. Aside from Mycroft, who had a severe case of obsessive-compulsive disorder, he couldn't find anyone else who would do that.
He stood at the doorway, paused for a second, and then stepped inside.
In the living room, Mycroft sat on the scarlet sofa that belonged to Sherlock, his hands clasped together on the umbrella handle.
A fire was already lit in the fireplace, clearly Mrs. Hudson valued her guest. Watson leaned against the wall, holding today's evening paper.
“Good evening, Sherlock,” Mycroft said as he walked in.
Sherlock walked to the fireplace, his back to him, and asked impatiently, "What are you doing here?"
“I’ve come to tell you something.” Mycroft looked at his thin back: “You’re going home for Christmas this year.”
Is this an invitation or an order?
"Think what you want, but I want to see you that day."
A few seconds of silence followed. Sherlock spoke up: "John is going too."
"This is a holiday for family."
"So John has to go!"
Sherlock turned around and glared angrily.
Mycroft stared at him for a few seconds, then smiled. He turned his gaze to Watson, who was sitting on the side of the living room. "I think we should hear John's opinion himself."
Watson's fingers gripped the edge of the newspaper, making a slight rustling sound.
“I…” Watson began. He glanced at Sherlock instinctively, then looked away before his gaze met hers.
In that instant, the scene of his last meeting with Rose flashed before his eyes. Later, when he went back to Aunt Mary's restaurant, it had been replaced by an unfamiliar bakery, and he figured Rose had most likely been found.
He had lived an upright life, fearless of anything, yet his only fear was that Mycroft would cause Sherlock to leave him. Did he already know about what he had been hiding for Rose? What did it mean that he was now throwing the question at him? Was he implying that if he sided with him now, he wouldn't pursue the matter from before?
Thinking of this, Watson lowered his eyes, his voice a little dry: "Since it's a family holiday, I... won't go."
Mycroft glanced at Sherlock with a wry smile. He stood up and straightened his suit jacket. "Well then, see you at Christmas."
The door opened and closed, followed by the sound of the door knocker being adjusted. Finally, there was the sound of wheels rolling over the stone pavement, the sound gradually fading into the distance.
The living room fell silent.
The scarlet leather chair was empty, but Sherlock didn't sit down; he remained standing in front of the fireplace. The flames roared in the hearth, but they couldn't melt the chill that enveloped him.
Because just now, his already scarred heart had suffered another wound.
The great detective, who speaks incredibly fast and is eloquent, now even has to muster up the courage to speak.
After a long silence, he finally spoke: "...Why?"
"Why what?"
"Stop trying to fool me with that act!" Sherlock walked up to Watson, his gaze fixed on Watson's face: "Why aren't you going?"
Watson avoided his gaze: "Mycroft is right, it's a family gathering. I'm not appropriate."
"An outsider?" The detective was furious, but instead laughed out loud. "John, we work together on cases, we spend every day together, I even consider you—" His voice trembled at the end, "I even consider you my only friend in this world. And now you're telling me you're an outsider?"
He gripped Watson's clothes. He had a height advantage, so it should have been effortless for him. Why was he struggling so much, as if he had used up all his strength?
His voice deepened, and he demanded through gritted teeth, "What do you take me for?"
Watson felt pain all over his body, a feeling a thousand times worse than the pain of an old battlefield wound reopening on a rainy day.
He wanted to say no, he wanted to say you don't know what you've forgotten, he wanted to say you don't know what I'm carrying, he wanted to say your brother can make anyone bow down, he wanted to say your question hurts more than any bullet in my body...
But he couldn't say anything.
Because he truly has a weakness, truly feels guilty, and his emotions are truly unacceptable to this world.
Watson lowered his eyes, his voice barely audible: "I'm sorry, Sherlock."
Sherlock abruptly released him.
He turned around and practically dragged himself toward his bedroom. A loud "bang" echoed as the door slammed shut.
"Don't call me Sherlock, Mr. Watson."
———
On Christmas Day, the Holmes family's carriage was waiting downstairs very early.
Sherlock stood by the window, playing piece after piece, but his mind was elsewhere, the music harsh and discordant. He glanced back, then irritably tossed the violin onto the sofa, grabbed his black coat hanging on the back of the chair, and went out the door.
A blast of cold air hit him. The driver opened the car door for him. The carriage was warm, and the winter scenery outside the window was beautiful, but he had no heart to appreciate it.
He drove through familiar streets, past increasingly sparse buildings, and finally entered the manor's heavy iron gates. Everything was the same, yet everything seemed different. He had last left in late summer of last year, and now only withered rose branches remained in the garden, covered with a thin layer of frost.
Then he met Mycroft, and the two brothers had their usual witty and sarcastic conversation. He talked to Mycroft about several recent cases, which Mycroft described as "attention-seeking."
Then they played a deduction game, using a thin sweater as a prop. Clues were passed around and deciphered between the two, and in the end, as he had countless times before, he was defeated.
Sherlock yanked open the curtains, opened the window, and threw the sweater out. A gust of wind blew in from outside, causing the sheer curtains on the terrace to flutter.
Then, he saw her.
In the terrace connected to the study, perpetually adorned with flowers, a woman in an ivory-white dress reclines on a soft couch. Her long, golden hair hangs loosely down her neck, shimmering brilliantly in the sunlight.
The detective's instincts kicked in immediately, and a flood of information poured in:
The clothes were impeccably tailored and made of luxurious fabric, but the style was simple and the color monochromatic, perfectly in line with Mycroft's old-fashioned aesthetic. The skin was almost sickly pale, lacking the slight tan lines from daily activities—a color likely cultivated through prolonged indoor living and deliberate maintenance. The fingers were slender, smooth, and clean, but showed no signs of frequent instrument playing or manual labor; even the nails were rounded.
The conclusion was reached within a thousandth of a second.
An opportunist, a parasite who trades beauty and obedience for a life of luxury.
A hint of mockery, a mixture of disgust and knowing sarcasm, appeared on Sherlock's lips.
“My dear brother,” he began, his tone laced with sarcasm, “it seems even you are not immune to the need for some adornments to embellish your dull power.” His gaze deliberately swept over the woman, and he continued sarcastically, “I must say, your taste is not bad. At least it’s much more aesthetically pleasing than your allies in the government.”
Mycroft's unusual silence was seen by Sherlock as tantamount to tacit agreement.
His aggression intensified, and his words became increasingly sharp, directly targeting the silent woman: "But, vain lady, clinging to an iceberg, don't you feel cold? Or is the warmth of power enough to make you ignore the suffocating feeling of losing yourself?"
Just then, as if she had heard his words, the woman on the terrace turned her head.
Her gaze traveled several meters and landed on Sherlock.
There was no panic as expected, no shame as expected, and not even anger at being ridiculed.
There was nothing in those eyes except a deep, tender...longing.
All the harsher words Sherlock had prepared stuck in his throat.
An intense feeling of discomfort made him feel terrible. His heart started beating out of control for no reason, pounding against his chest so fast it made him panic. It wasn't fear, but a more primal, physiological rejection.
This is wrong; it makes no sense at all. How could a woman who has climbed the social ladder and is being so humiliated possibly show that kind of look in her eyes?
"Damn it..." he cursed under his breath, but he didn't know if he was cursing Mycroft, the strange woman, or himself for his sudden loss of control.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft stopped his rudeness, “when are you going to get rid of these vulgar words? You’re almost an uncle.”
He frowned sharply, glanced at Mycroft, as if to say something, but then stopped himself. He shrugged. "I don't care."
After a pause, he finally asked, "Have you thought of a name?"
Mycroft smiled. "William Holmes."
"Your conservative taste has remained unchanged for ten years, dull and boring."
After saying that, Sherlock Holmes adjusted his black trench coat, didn't look at the woman again, turned around, pushed open the door and walked out.
The fog was heavy today, and the sunlight couldn't penetrate it. A stagnant, soft dimness filled the room, as if it were forever frozen in some moment between dawn and noon.
Looking down from the window, Mycroft saw Sherlock's silhouette clearly at first, then it was enveloped and diluted by the thick fog, eventually disappearing completely into it.
That doesn't mean he disappeared. He never left this home; he simply existed in a different form, within its lingering atmosphere.
Then he looked away, picked up the now-cold tea, and smiled at the woman: "Merry Christmas. How's this year's Christmas present?"
[End of text]
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