Heart Burning
“Step out of this door and you will die.” Mycroft’s gray eyes stared at Owen. “But if you don’t go out, your family will perish.”
"You should be glad that at least I gave you a choice. But you, Owen, never gave me a choice."
Owen's body trembled violently. All his madness and accusations seemed pale and powerless in the face of absolute power and ruthlessness.
He glanced at Rose; those eyes that had once warmed his heart and filled him with guilt were now empty and filled with despair.
He glanced at Sherlock again; the brilliant detective was caught in a vortex of collapsing worldviews, his mind seemingly flashing back to fragments of the past.
Owen laughed, a short, broken laugh filled with self-mockery.
He turned slowly, very slowly, and walked toward the open door that led to his known destiny.
"No!" Rose broke free from her immense shock, rushing forward to stop Owen, then turning to face Mycroft, her voice trembling with grief and anger, "Making him swear to keep the secret is enough, why force him to die? You've already killed Eaton, isn't that enough!"
“He promised to keep Eurus’s secret, but did he? My trust in him is completely gone.” Mycroft stared at Rose, saying each word clearly, “And he deserves to die just because you pleaded for him.”
"So, this is the answer?"
"Because you love me, you murdered Eton. Because you love me, you cover everything up with harshness. Because you love me, you keep me tied to London for over a decade."
She took a step forward, looking directly into the eyes of the man she had once feared, observed, depended on, been close to, and even secretly harbored feelings for:
"Then, Mycroft Holmes, your love is the ugliest and most detestable thing I have ever seen in my life."
In that very instant.
Just as Mycroft's attention was drawn to Rose...
Owen suddenly turned around, let out a roar that was not human, and lunged at Mycroft in front of the fireplace with all his might.
The assassination happened too quickly and too unexpectedly.
But almost at the same instant, another black figure flashed by.
It's Sherlock.
Almost instinctively, he rushed in and used his thin back to shield Mycroft from Owen's fatal blow.
His mental sanctuary may be crumbling, his world may be turning upside down, and he may be filled with an incurable rage against Mycroft.
But in that critical, fatal moment, his body reacted instinctively, before any thought could elicit a response—
It is an instinct deeply ingrained in one's bones, a protective force that transcends all hatred and misunderstanding, flowing in the depths of one's blood and cannot be severed.
Without thought, without weighing the pros and cons, in that split second between life and death, his thin yet resilient body had already completed a silent betrayal: betraying all the hatred he spoke of, betraying the endless resentment he harbored for Mycroft.
He had said "I hate you" countless times. But "I will never let you die"—at this moment, he said it with his body. Just this once.
"Well!"
A heavy thud and a suppressed groan of pain rang out simultaneously.
With a death wish, Owen charged with all his might.
Sherlock stumbled, his chest slamming heavily against Mycroft's chest, as if something sharp had pierced his body.
A sharp pain exploded from his back, and he groaned, clearly feeling a warm liquid rapidly soaking through his clothes and seeping out.
Owen looked up at Sherlock, who was standing close to him protecting his brother. The last vestiges of madness in his eyes faded quickly, like ashes that had been burned away.
Sherlock's head drooped over Mycroft's left shoulder, the warm, gradually spreading dampness inside his long black trench coat quickly soaking through the expensive suit fabric.
Mycroft instinctively reached out and caught Sherlock's sliding body, his palm clearly touching the sticky, warm wetness. Looking down, he saw that his palm was already covered in a glaring crimson.
“Sherlock, Sherlock, why are you always so stupid?” Mycroft looked at his brother’s face, which was turning pale from blood loss. His usually sharp blue eyes were now lowered, and his curly black hair was soaked with cold sweat, sticking loosely to his forehead.
Owen snapped out of his daze and noticed the letter opener he had somehow found himself holding, now stuck in Sherlock's back. It had originally been an inconspicuous piece of silverware on the decorative shelf next to the fireplace.
He released his grip abruptly as if burned, staggering backward, the madness fading from his face, leaving only utter bewilderment and deathly silence. He was finished, no matter what, he was finished.
Sherlock began to breathe rapidly, and the excruciating pain caused cold sweat to bead on his forehead.
"Bring a doctor here immediately!" Mycroft's speech was unusually slow. "Also, block all news." At the same time, his gaze swept over Owen, his eyes no longer filled with mere disgust, but with a pure, cold indifference, as if looking at an inanimate object. "Control him."
Anthea arrived swiftly and began executing her orders efficiently and calmly. She contacted the private doctor, blocked communication, and completely cleared the area, ensuring that everything that would happen tonight was completely sealed within the "heart." Her well-trained servants followed closely behind, effortlessly subduing the lifeless Owen.
Rose knelt beside Sherlock, frantically trying to press a handkerchief against the wound on his back, tears blurring her vision. "Hang in there, Sherlock, the doctor will be here soon."
She was incoherent, overwhelmed by immense grief, anger, fear, and worry about Sherlock's injuries.
Eaton's death, the revelation of his identity, Mycroft's feelings, and now Sherlock is seriously injured while protecting the murderer.
Her world was shattered in just one night.
Sherlock's breathing grew heavier and heavier. He struggled to look away from Mycroft's face and looked at Rose, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he could only close his eyes helplessly, his consciousness sinking into the boundless darkness.
He seemed to be falling into a long-lost, peaceful sleep in his brother's arms, just like when he was a child.
The glaring crimson on Mycroft's fingertips represents the sins and punishments he can never wash away in his lifetime, and also the deepest, most helpless, and most tender kinship between them.
Mycroft picked up Sherlock, and he found him much lighter than he remembered, a realization that pierced his heart once again.
The manor doctors followed behind their master, hearing his urgent and brief command:
"Save him at any cost."
As night deepened, the "heart" of Sherlock Holmes Manor was convulsing and bleeding violently.
Medical room.
Rose knelt on the carpet beside the sofa, holding Sherlock's cold hand tightly, as if she could transfer her life force to him in this way.
“Sherl,” her tears dripped onto Sherlock’s arm, “you can’t die. I still have so much to say, so many things I’ve kept bottled up for so many years.” Her voice choked with emotion, as if she were talking in a dream, “Please…”
She once thought she was a caged bird, then she thought she was a chess piece in the palm of her hand, but only now does she realize that everyone, everyone in this family, is part of this swamp, devouring each other, entwining with each other, and sinking together.
In this swamp, the line between love and hate has long been blurred.
Mycroft stood a little further away, with his back to the center of the chaos and facing the huge floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the manor.
His straight but stiff back was reflected in the windowpane, along with the blurry outlines of the busy people in the room.
His hands hung at his sides, and the dried, dark bloodstain on his right hand was particularly striking. It was Sherlock's blood.
He didn't wash it.
That sticky, warm touch seemed to have seeped through his skin and been deeply imprinted into the depths of his soul, burning out a scar that would never heal.
He has already paid part of the price for that decision: the life of an innocent man, and the loss of his own humanity. And now, fate seems to be demanding more from him.
He was willing to pay any price, but the one who should bear this punishment should not be his seemingly exceptionally intelligent but immature younger brother, nor his rebellious, fragile, and confrontational brother who stood in his way with his own flesh and blood at the critical moment of life and death.
It shouldn't be the younger brother he deeply loves, and perhaps subconsciously loves as well.
He is accustomed to calculating probabilities, assessing risks, and taking control of the overall situation.
He could predict the direction of international affairs, thwart the most elaborate conspiracies, and decide the fate of countless people with a single signature.
But at this moment, with Sherlock's life on the scales, all he could do, like any other mortal, was helplessly wait.
"...He's temporarily stable, but he needs close monitoring and cannot be moved or stimulated in any way." The chief physician finally took off his mask and walked behind Mycroft, his tone respectful but unable to hide his exhaustion. "Fortunately, the killer acted on impulse, and the blade missed a vital spot by a little. However, due to excessive blood loss, coupled with his long-term abuse of drugs... illicit substances, his physical condition is not ideal; he is very weak."
Rose burst into tears, tears of joy mixed with grief. She leaned down, her forehead gently touching Sherlock's uninjured arm, her shoulders trembling violently.
Realizing she might wake him, she covered her mouth and left the medical room, squatting down in the oak doorway. Tears fell onto her thumb and forefinger, warm as blood.
Mycroft walked over and saw Sherlock lying on a clean bed, his face as pale as paper, his breathing weak but steady.
The drugs and blood loss plunged him into a deep, unfathomable sleep, allowing him to temporarily escape the despairing reality that had just shattered his mental sanctuary.
Sherlock had probably rarely had such a completely relaxed moment since birth. Thinking of this, a dull ache returned to his heart.
Mycroft wanted to touch Sherlock's cheek, but in the instant his hand fell, it shifted slightly and landed on Sherlock's black curly hair.
He lowered his eyes and said, "I'm sorry, Sherl."
Outside the medical room, Rose's eyes ached from dryness, but her heart ached even more.
Although they are not related by blood, Sherlock has become an irreplaceable family member in her heart through more than a decade of close companionship and fierce protection.
Abandoned by her closest relatives at a young age, she wandered through the indifference and loneliness of the orphanage until she was brought to this magnificent yet oppressive manor, until she met Sherl, who embraced her and gave her warmth upon their first meeting.
That was the first time in her life that she had been truly embraced.
Later, those nighttime talks under the starry sky, those whispers in the carriage, those awkwardly caring gestures he made during countless oppressive days...
The heartbreaking words he uttered softly in the carriage, thinking she was asleep: "I will protect you until the end of my life."
Everything had already seeped into her parched heart like a gentle stream, converging into a real torrent called family affection.
And now...
Rose buried her face deeply in her knees.
Eaton is dead, and the light that illuminated her life has vanished in an instant; all the beautiful memories of the past seem like fleeting dreams. She has lost her lover.
Her true identity was laid bare by Owen; she was no longer Miss Holmes, but merely an adopted orphan, a tool to maintain the balance. She had lost Sherlock, her only family.
When everything that was false, glamorous, and precarious was torn apart, she felt as if she had returned to the starting point where she had nothing.
She hated Mycroft's coldness and madness, hated how easily he took Eaton's life, and hated how he dragged everyone into this endless hell.
But looking at Sherlock's pale face on the hospital bed and listening to his weak breathing, her overwhelming hatred was mixed with an unbearable pain and fear. She was afraid of losing Sherlock, afraid that the person who had given her the most warmth and whom she regarded as true family would also leave her.
She desperately hoped Sherlock would escape death, but she was also terrified. When Sherlock regained consciousness, how would he view her, the fake sister who had deceived him for over a decade? How would he view her, his... accomplice?
At that moment, Rose felt a hand land on her shoulder.
"Go back and rest first. You always go to bed early. It would be too troublesome if you got sick too."
Mycroft pushed open the door at some point and walked to her side.
His tone was so indifferent, so nonchalant.
It was as if it were just a matter of comfort, rather than the fact that someone had just been killed, and that the victim's relatives had almost killed his relatives.
A sense of utter absurdity startled Rose, followed by a chilling and utterly disgusting feeling.
A resolute glint flashed in Rose's eyes: "I will never forgive you, never. For Eaton, for Sherlock, and for that foolish me who may have once harbored even a sliver of hope for you."
“I will leave once Sherlock is out of danger. This is not a request for your opinion, nor a farewell. Whether you allow it or not, and whatever means you use, I will leave.”
"You can't go anywhere, and you can't go anywhere."
"Why! I don't have Sherlock Holmes blood in my veins!"
Mycroft's gaze swept over Rose, but deliberately avoided her lower abdomen.
He gave a half-smile and said rudely, "Is it that difficult?"
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