Amber flying insects
During this time, Rose did not leave her room.
Mycroft did say she was free to move around the manor, but she had no intention of doing so. The hallways, the living room, the garden—all those places made her feel oppressed. She just wanted to stay in this room with the door closed.
She felt like she was going crazy.
Her mind was a jumbled mess, a jumble of thoughts swirling around her. The words Owen had hysterically shouted that night echoed in her head over and over again.
He said Mycroft loved her. At the time, she thought it was unbelievable, that it was crazy. But then Mycroft kissed her.
That kiss, like his usual demeanor, possessed a chilling gentleness. The act itself confirmed Owen's statement more directly than any words. It was something a brother would never do to his sister. Now, he himself seemed no longer to shy away from it. By kissing her, he was acknowledging it, and simultaneously forcing her to acknowledge it as well.
Then she thought of Sherlock. Sherlock had always claimed to hate Mycroft, saying he would hate him forever. But when Owen rushed at him with a knife, he didn't hesitate to stand in front of Mycroft. In that life-or-death moment, his body's instincts told the truth. He cared about him, he loved him, and he was willing to sacrifice his own life to protect him.
She thought Mycroft would finally come to his senses, but instead he became even more stubborn.
He had someone erase a portion of Sherlock's memory. Everything about her, everything about Eurus, was wiped away. Sherlock's world was now only about him; he wanted to possess his brother, and he wanted to possess her too.
Sherlock will never remember the more than ten years they grew up together, those conversations under the stars, those moments of relying on each other, those warm moments for each other—all gone.
He was the only person she cared about now, and he had completely forgotten everything about her. Her first twenty years seemed to have vanished with them. Thinking about this, a question suddenly arose in her mind: had she truly lived in this world?
She wasn't the real Miss Holmes, nor was she the girl from the orphanage. Who was she? Why was she alive?
She would sit in her room, sometimes for hours on end, doing nothing. The food the maid brought would often be left untouched. She also slept poorly at night, occasionally falling asleep only to be quickly awakened.
Because she always dreams of eyes, many pairs of eyes.
The eyes that gleamed under the lamplight belonged to Eaton. He told her he would take her to see the endless desert and the eternally flowing Ganges. Then, the next second, those eyes reflected a pool of blood, dying with unfinished business.
The heartbreaking eyes in the carriage belonged to Sherlock. He whispered, "I will protect you until the end of my life." But now, while the flame of life remained burning, she was gone forever from his world.
Those eyes, always brimming with kindness and unwavering resolve—the eyes of a soldier—that was Watson. No, that wasn't Watson, for the word "resolute" had forever left this soldier; he had become hesitant and weary. He had told a colossal lie, crossed a line, and would spend the rest of his life in guilt. But she had no right to condemn him. To protect Sherlock's spiritual sanctuary from falling into the same precarious state as before, or worse, he chose to silently bear it all, even a lifetime of torment from his conscience.
Empty, emotionless eyes—that was Eurus. Eurus's words echoed repeatedly in her dream, keeping her tossing and turning all night. Eurus's seemingly joking words now appeared to be reality, and the stark truth was laid bare before her. Everyone was consumed by it, but Eurus was nowhere to be seen; she seemed to have vanished completely.
There was also a pair of eyes, gray and calm. Whenever these eyes appeared in her dreams, she wouldn't wake up, but would sink deeper and deeper into one nightmare after another, until she was pulled back to the real world by the blazing midday sun.
Sometimes she dreamt of the scene in the "heart" after her wife's death. At that time, she even developed a vague affection for this elder brother, and she asked him if, under the iron curtain of reason, there could be ripples of emotion? She clearly remembered his answer back then; his voice was no longer gentle and calm, but cold and hard as iron. But in her dreams, he never spoke.
Because whenever she dreams of this place, the room where they confront each other is no longer the old-fashioned fireplace, no longer the exquisitely crafted mahogany bookshelves. Everything familiar collapses with a crash, a thousand demons and ghosts struggle and howl, and torrents of lava surge and roar, threatening to destroy her mortal body and burn her internal organs. Meanwhile, the fires of hell burn day and night, endlessly.
She cries even in her dreams.
———
After experiencing utter humiliation, Sherlock returned to his room to find Watson still packing his luggage.
He didn't say a word, but Watson could feel the cold and oppressive aura emanating from him.
"Mycroft refused?" He tried to reassure Sherlock, "It's alright, he's probably just worried about you recovering from your illness—"
"He agreed."
Sherlock interrupted him, then walked over to Watson and quickly glanced at the suitcase waiting to be closed: "Is everything packed? We don't need to wait until tomorrow, we're leaving today to go to that place you mentioned."
“Almost done,” Watson said, pointing to the cabinet of curiosities inside the dust cover. “Except for the things in here, I think they’re all from your previous collection. I just didn’t know which ones to take, so I didn’t touch them. I was planning to wait until you came back.”
Sherlock lifted the cover, his gaze sweeping aimlessly over the specimens, fossils, and strange collectibles he had once treasured.
To him at that moment, they were just a pile of vaguely remembered junk. He rummaged through them casually, his movements tinged with impatience, quickly glancing over them.
In the deepest corner of the display case, his fingertips touched a soft object that seemed out of place with its surroundings.
He pulled it out. It was a hand-knitted pirate hat, made of ordinary materials, with workmanship that could even be described as rough, and with loose threads at the edges. It was black, but due to its age or improper storage, it appeared somewhat faded and worn.
"What is this?" he muttered to himself, rubbing the rough fabric between his fingers. "The workmanship is terrible. The stitches are messy, the threads are loose, and it's made of the most ordinary wool. How could I keep such a piece of junk? And hide it inside the back?"
He tried to search the blank palace of memories for any related clues, but to no avail.
His fingertips unconsciously rubbed against the rough yarn, and a fleeting, reassuring sensation startled him, before a dull ache began to throb in his head.
This made him even more agitated, who was already suppressing his anger, and a conclusion was hastily drawn: the hat seemed almost bizarre, meaningless, and of questionable taste.
He casually tossed the pirate hat into the trash can. It landed lightly on a few old, outdated newspapers without making a sound.
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