Chongchongwang
After her return, Mycroft no longer restricted her freedom.
Rose could leave the manor, stroll in Hyde Park, and browse the latest hats at Harold's. No one stopped her; the servants prepared her carriage every day. She felt a glimmer of hope: had that failed escape somehow awakened Mycroft?
But that feeling quickly disappeared.
Wherever she went, she could sense something invisible. Shop assistants would have her favorite items ready as soon as she entered, their politeness making her uncomfortable; gentlemen she encountered in the park would tip their hats and call her "Miss Holmes" precisely; even a little girl selling flowers on the street would hand her a bouquet of her favorite lisianthus as she passed by, saying that "a gentleman who wishes to remain anonymous" had already paid for it.
She tried to apply for jobs, relying on the skills she had learned at Aunt Mary's restaurant. The owner of the first restaurant was apprehensive, saying that his small shop was too humble to accommodate her. The second restaurant was even more direct, repeatedly stating that they didn't need any staff, even though there was a sign hanging at the door saying they urgently needed someone.
She went to Baker Street again, hoping to see Sherlock, whom she longed to see. But she found that there were always some seemingly idle people around 221B.
Indeed, given Mycroft's almost pathological concern for his family, how could he possibly let Sherlock off the hook? Perhaps from the very first day Sherlock moved in, he had already replaced all the neighbors on this street.
These people didn't stop her, but when she approached, they would deliberately cough or light a cigarette, like silent alarms.
She mustered her courage, walked up to a man reading a newspaper on a street corner, and asked him directly, "Did Mycroft send you?"
The man put down his newspaper, showing no embarrassment at being exposed, only the usual politeness of an English gentleman: "Miss, I'm just waiting here for my friend. However, if you need any help, I'd be happy to assist you."
She understood. This wasn't surveillance; it was a demonstration. Mycroft was showing her that every inch of this city was permeated with his will. Every breath she took was with his tacit approval. She was free, but her freedom was confined within a vast yet impenetrable wall he had drawn.
She distanced herself from Baker Street and never set foot there again. She and Sherlock were both prisoners, though he himself didn't know it. That was crueler, wasn't it? He didn't even know what he was going through.
She went to the Thames again, watching the murky water rush by. At that moment, she remembered the smell of freedom mixed with the stench of decay that she had smelled after climbing out of the sewage pipes.
London is no longer London; it is an enlarged, exquisite model in Mycroft's hands. And she is a tiny doll within that model, allowed to move around freely, yet forever unable to step outside its boundaries.
Rose's world grew larger, with no visible boundaries. Her prison also grew larger, seemingly endless, just like her world.
She never wanted to go out again.
———
Mycroft goes home for dinner every day, and usually returns around noon.
At the restaurant, he still allowed her to choose her preferred seat, but he no longer sat in his usual spot in the center of the long table.
He now sits across from her, or occasionally next to her.
During meals, he would talk to her. He would ask her what she had done that day, if there had been any happy moments, or if anything was bothering her. His tone was very normal, as if nothing had ever happened between them—no escape, no capture, no dramatic scene in the carriage.
Rose rarely answered. She just kept her head down, poking at the food on her plate with her fork.
Mycroft wasn't angry. He would continue talking, sharing trivial anecdotes from Whitehall, or commenting that the soup was a bit salty. If she remained silent, he would quietly finish his meal, wipe his mouth, say "enjoy your meal," and get up to leave.
Rose initially resisted. Not strong enough to overturn the stone table, she simply flung the plates laden with food onto the floor. Instantly, the aromas of various ingredients mingled, and broth spilled onto the plush carpet.
Mycroft wasn't angry, nor did he show any unusual expression. "It seems today's meal wasn't to your liking," he glanced at the butler standing to the side, "Change it."
Soon, steaming hot dishes were placed on the table, and the carpet was replaced with a new one, as if the venting just now had never happened.
She considered throwing the newly served food on the floor, but she realized that it was pointless; it would only waste food and add to the burden on the kitchen staff.
In that instant, Rose suddenly recalled a scene from her childhood at the dinner table where her mother forced Sherlock to eat vegetables. Mycroft had taken the fork and carried out that silent violence himself. Later, in the garden, he explained that this violence was a form of protection.
Perhaps he has never changed over the years.
———
Sometimes, he would bring back little things. A new collection of poems by her favorite poet, a box of trendy handmade chocolates, or a silk scarf embroidered with intricate patterns. He wouldn't call it a gift; he would just casually place it on the table in her room or next to the sofa in the living room.
Rose never touched those things. The poetry collection lay on the table, the chocolate slowly melted in its box, and the silk scarf remained in the folded shape it had been when it was laid down.
Her world grew larger and larger, but her own sphere of activity shrank, eventually becoming almost entirely confined to her bedroom and the small living room connected to it. She would sit by the window for long periods, staring at the unchanging scenery outside, motionless.
Sometimes Mycroft would take her to see stage plays. She would always cry whenever they watched Romeo and Juliet.
That kind of burning passion, like a moth drawn to a flame, that courage to do something knowing it's impossible, is so similar to the life that burns on stage.
The play was later discontinued. The theater announced that due to certain technical issues, they had permanently cancelled its run.
Standing in front of the announcement, she unusually spoke to Mycroft: "Wouldn't it be different?"
It seems her language skills have deteriorated; even someone like Mycroft couldn't grasp her meaning in that instant.
“What’s different?” Mycroft asked.
She turned her head to look at him, her blond hair fluttering in the wind: "If you hadn't given up on mathematics and hadn't entered politics, would things be different?"
"Won't."
"Would things be different if I weren't there?"
Mycroft paused for a moment, then said, "There are no 'what ifs' in life."
———
if?
As the word brushed against his eardrums, Mycroft recalled the last time it had appeared in his spiritual sanctuary.
The tailor stood before him, nervously twisting his apron in his hands, glancing up at him furtively as he described the appearance of his former blonde fiancée.
His expression was calm at that time, but his heart was churning with turmoil. When he finally found Rose, the pain of losing her became even more acute.
That afternoon, the tailor reminisced, speaking haltingly. He didn't listen to the latter part, nor did he need to. His mind kept flashing through other, impossible possibilities: what if she really did marry that worker? What if she really did live under an assumed name? What if she left London altogether…
All these "ifs" point to a common, intolerable outcome for him: a world without Rose, or a world where Rose doesn't belong to him. It would be a barren, silent, colorless universe.
He remembered his childhood, when his mother locked his beloved Euclid's Elements in a cupboard. She said, "Because you love it, you must stay away from it." He understood then that in this family, liking something meant losing something else. After that, he stopped expressing his feelings, silently using every means to keep everything he cared about by his side.
Even people.
The kinship flowing in his blood and the love that blossomed amidst tragedy were far more important to him than his own life, for someone who grew up in an emotional wasteland.
So he drew a line in the sand, trapping Sherlock in an invisible net, and completely binding Rose to London.
But this cage of relentless conflict holds more than just the two of them.
He looked at her blonde hair fluttering in the night wind, at her heartbreaking eyes. He desperately wanted to tell her, no, it wasn't what she thought. But he couldn't bring himself to say it. She didn't love him; he couldn't risk touching that fragile layer of ice again. Besides, he had long since lost the ability to express tenderness.
It's tragic, he knows. But it's the only way he's ever learned to love.
———
After returning from the theater, Mycroft rarely went to Whitehall. He spent most of his time at home, even using it for official business and meetings with colleagues.
Rose also sought help from these prominent strangers.
She remembered how surprised the man was. He probably never imagined that Mycroft, who was always extremely indifferent to physical contact, would have such a manic and repressed side.
But perhaps his moral standards were too high, or perhaps she looked too pitiful, the gentleman still agreed.
However, nothing happened; it was as if a small stone had been thrown into the river, creating a few ripples before the water quickly calmed down.
She thought that maybe the person had just agreed casually and hadn't actually done anything about it. Or perhaps they were just a casual person to begin with.
This conclusion was overturned a few days later, one night. Mycroft gently tucked her in, but as he kissed her forehead as usual, he suddenly whispered something.
"Please stop hurting people, okay?"
Rose's pupils suddenly dilated.
Then his kiss landed, so long, so light, as if nothing had happened.
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