Rare freedom
Flowers...fresh?
"That's all you can think of? That kind of word?" Rose chuckled. There were so many brilliant and beautiful words to describe the blooming rose bushes at that moment, such as bright, gorgeous, fragrant, and rich. People can describe something from multiple perspectives, including sensory and intuitive, olfactory and visual. But in Mycroft's mental palace, these colorful words have probably been completely discarded long ago.
Indeed. Having managed to navigate the world of a shrewd and sophisticated woman for so many years, she should have long anticipated that Mycroft had optimized and given up many things. Even though this necessary sacrifice had gradually eroded his true self, it had also shaped him into the invincible person we see today.
But are there truly invincible people in the world? Is there still a faint, imperceptible crack remaining in him? It's a weakness, but it also reveals the subtle light of humanity.
This was the first time Mycroft Holmes had ever seen someone express such emotions towards him: pity, sorrow, and even a hint of sympathy.
He said goodbye and left, his steps as usual. However, just as Mycorft turned to leave the garden, Rose's eyes caught a very subtle detail.
His slender, bony fingers tightened for a moment, his knuckles turning slightly white from the force. It was an extremely brief, almost imperceptible movement, as fast as the fleeting undercurrent in his eyes.
This action, like a pebble thrown into stagnant water, stirred up ripples in Rose's heart that could not be calmed. What was it? Was it suppressed anger? Or... something more indescribable, something that robbed him of a moment of peace?
She watched him disappear around the corner from the rose bushes, fear still lingering, anger unabated, but that momentary whitening of his knuckles was like a faint, eerie code, imprinted on her mind.
Mycroft Holmes, the walking iceberg, the ruthless executor, what exactly is the undercurrent deep within his heart?
For the first time, Rose vaguely sensed that beneath the iceberg's surface might not be entirely desolate darkness.
Rose and Sherlock have been performing very well lately, much to the Lady's delight. She has bestowed upon them something everyone has always dreamed of, even if it's only for a short half-day.
She and Sherlock were allowed to leave the manor and wander around town. Of course, servants were watching them from the shadows, but they didn't care. This right to roam freely had given them an intoxicating sense of happiness.
Normally, she could only peek out from behind the curtain while riding in a carriage. Now that she had actually set foot on this bustling land, Rose was at a loss as to where to go first.
How about the circus?
“No, no, Rose, we’re not going to the circus. Those animals are trained in cages to skillfully entertain tourists; how are they any different from us? Going to see that kind of show is a terrible idea,” Sherlock’s tone was as fast as ever, but this time it wasn’t the impatience of a genius, but a deliberate saving of time. “The train station? I imagine seeing guests from all over the world coming to London there, all sorts of people, with all sorts of thoughts, just stepping onto this desolate land…”
“Brother, London is not barren. Look around, it’s full of life. The Industrial Revolution has breathed new life into this ancient city.”
"But there will always be one place in London that is forever gone, forever."
They eventually went to the station.
Sherlock stood at the edge of the platform, his black trench coat fluttering slightly in the wind. His deep blue eyes scanned each passing figure rapidly, his face displaying an almost greedy focus, as if trying to extract the hidden stories from these hurried bodies.
“Look at that long-haired woman in the plaid coat,” he spoke rapidly, his voice broken by the train’s whistling and the clamor of the crowd, “constantly squinting at things, probably a recluse, haven’t seen the light of day in a long time. The coat is loose and ill-fitting, but the lining is made of fine wool, recently ironed. Hastened departure? Runaway? Failed elopement? Hmm, looks like she’s looking for someone. Strange, her clothes are so disheveled, yet her expression is so relaxed, really strange… Hey! Looks like she’s spotted the person she’s waiting for. Aha, notice the change in her expression… Disappointment, but not despair. Interesting, very interesting.”
This insight, which should have been a sharp weapon, now filled Rose with sorrow. Sherlock reveled in the thrill of "seeing through" her, as if it were the only way he could connect with this cold world.
Poor Sherl…the genius Sherl…
She felt sad for him.
On the way back, the carriage drew its heavy curtains again. The carriage was pitch black, just like their destination, forever shrouded in night.
Rose nestled against Sherlock's shoulder, her long, flowing hair cascading down his left hand. She sighed, "If only we could fly away like birds."
"Fly away?" Sherlock paused upon hearing this, his deep blue eyes like the Thames River dried up centuries later: "You're different from when you were a child. I guess your mindset has changed. Do you remember when I said I wanted to escape as a child, and you told me that the outside world... was just another, bigger prison with even more ambiguous rules?"
Seeing that Rose remained silent, he continued, "Back then you said you wouldn't escape, but would destroy this cage from within. Now you're talking about escaping. — It seems you've probably realized that destroying the walls your mother has carefully built is impossible. It's always good to be clear-headed, because in the face of inevitable despair, holding onto hope is the most terrifying thing."
Sherlock looked down and saw Rose with her eyes closed, seemingly fast asleep. He smiled and said nothing more.
At that moment, Rose was feeling a series of lightning bolts striking her heart. Sherlock's casual remark sent chills down her spine.
Childhood? It was the real Miss Holmes, a lingering image in Sherlock's memory... It turns out she had long harbored rebellious thoughts, even wanting to destroy everything from the inside out.
She…she not only wanted to escape the cage, but she wanted to destroy it! Good heavens, Rose felt a chill run down her spine. At that time, Miss Holmes was just a five or six-year-old child. Thinking of this, Rose's mind raced with images of Mycroft, Sherlock, and the real Miss Holmes she had never met. What kind of children were they? They were like creations of angels and devils.
They were bestowed with unparalleled insight and analytical abilities, yet confined to a magnificent yet suffocating mansion, struggling to survive under the madam's thumb. Years passed, and this thumb showed no sign of loosening; instead, it tightened even more.
She never imagined that those slender hands had once "crushed" a person to death.
That makes her "disappearance" more plausible. At first, Rose thought she probably died from the scarlet fever epidemic that had swept through the country years ago, but now she realizes that Miss Holmes did not disappear because of a natural disaster, but rather because of "man-made disaster."
When she took action, the lady probably sensed something and preemptively destroyed her ability to act, or even... her life.
That question came to Rose's mind once again.
The question that had lingered in her mind for years resurfaced. Was the real Miss Holmes still alive? Rose didn't even know her name. If she was, where was she? What was her condition?
Rose felt Sherlock gently place her on the soft seat of the carriage. Then, he draped his long coat over her and pulled the curtains tighter.
In the pitch black, Sherlock said softly, "But in this despair, and in a future destined for despair."
"I will protect you until the end of my life."
Rose heard his heartbreaking words of comfort.
Sherlock, my brother Sherlock. In the pitch-black, enclosed space, a single tear slid down her cheek.
"You're so indifferent to death, what keeps you alive?" She dared not ask that question.
She didn't even dare to ask, "When you know everything, when you discover that what you consider a 'treasure' is nothing but a 'fake,' will you still cherish me so much? Will you still be able to face a future destined for despair?"
Back at the manor, the oppressive atmosphere remained unchanged.
Mycroft was unusually absent from the dinner table. The lady simply remarked, "Mike has an academic salon tonight, so we don't need to wait for him." Her gaze swept over Sherlock and Rose, lingering particularly long on Sherlock.
Unlike Rose, who was better at disguising her true feelings and never openly offended the lady, Sherlock's rebellious nature made him not bother to hide his emotions. At this moment, he seemed not to have fully recovered from the excitement at the station and the dejection of the journey home, appearing somewhat absent-minded, mechanically performing his dining etiquette, chewing with a chillingly precise number of times.
“Sherl, focus. Springtime at the manor is the most beautiful time of year, but being locked in the attic means saying goodbye to all that beauty.” She warned coldly, “Through that window, all you’ll see are flocks of crows.”
The clock tower was built in the backyard of the manor, even more remote than the mill. The top floor of the clock tower was one of their eternal shadows—the attic, where the lady most liked to punish the children. It had only a short window, unlit at night, and always echoed with the faint sound of a violin.
Unlike the melodies that always overflow from Sherlock's strings, this sound seems to come from hell, sometimes roaring like a demon, sometimes whispering like a monster. After listening for a while, instead of losing your fear due to familiarity, the fear intensifies because you can anticipate the melody that follows.
Here, even if you scream, no one will respond.
When the day the imprisonment ends, when the light of day returns, when the sun shines again, no one can help but weep bitterly.
Upon hearing the word "attic," Sherlock felt a sudden nausea. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a series of hurried footsteps.
The butler rushed forward in a flustered manner and whispered something in the lady's ear. The lady's eyes narrowed instantly; she looked incredulous, rose from the table, and walked quickly toward the door, a far cry from her usual slow and elegant demeanor.
The butler deliberately lowered his voice, so even though Rose was sitting right next to the lady, all she could hear were scattered syllables.
The syllable is "Eurus".
So that's the real Miss Holmes's name.
It's ironic that Eurus and Rose even sound so similar.
In Greek mythology, Eurus is the name of the god of the east wind. Rose, on the other hand, is simply a flower kept in a garden and used to express love.
Suddenly, a violent and turbulent wind swept through Rose's pupils. Almost instinctively, she quickly looked at Sherlock.
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