Poisons and Drugs
Mycroft is right. Sherlock, Eaton, Owen, Aunt Mary, Tom, and even that well-intentioned politician were all implicated by her.
She thought she shouldn't harm others anymore.
So Rose began a hunger strike.
On the first day, she didn't go downstairs for breakfast. When the maid came to invite her, she said she had no appetite. The same went for lunch and dinner. She simply lay in bed or sat by the window, looking at the gray sky outside.
Mycroft didn't ask. He sat alone at one end of the long table and ate his dinner quietly.
The next day, she still didn't eat. She felt a slight cramp in her stomach, but she didn't pay attention to it.
The meal brought by the maid was taken away untouched and replaced with fresh food. The steam from the soup slowly dissipated into the air.
In the afternoon, Mycroft probably finally couldn't stand it anymore and went to Rose's living room.
Are you getting revenge on me?
"I am taking revenge on myself."
"Report back at yourself for what?"
"To repay myself for coming into this world."
Mycroft threw the soup he was holding onto the ground. "How could you say such a thing?"
"Now you're even interfering with my freedom of speech?"
He pulled up a chair, sat down, took a deep breath, and slowly asked, "Is there any possibility for us to get along normally?"
"What kind of normal relationship is this? Do such siblings exist in the world? Do such lovers exist?"
Sometimes you really make me feel helpless.
“Then lock me in the cellar, like you did with Eurus,” Rose said weakly. “Or just kill me, like you did with Eaton.”
“No.” He stood up and walked toward Rose, who was lying on the bed.
Her blonde hair fell around her shoulders, and her face was pale.
He leaned down to kiss her, but she turned her head away. He didn't persist, but whispered in her exposed ear, "I can erase your memory, just like I did with Sherlock, can't I?"
Rose's lowered eyes suddenly snapped open, revealing honey-colored pupils. A genuine fear flickered in her eyes.
Mycroft got up, opened the door, and told the servant at the door to inform Anthea to bring the hypnotist over.
"No!" Rose screamed, "How could you do this?"
"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?"
———
The old hypnotist returned to the manor. He followed Anthea, his steps heavy, his face weary.
Then they came to a room deep inside the manor. Before they even got close, they could hear an argument coming from inside—a shrill female voice and a suppressed male voice.
The old hypnotist was suspicious, but Anthea seemed unfazed. She led him over and said to Mycroft, "Sir, I've brought the person you requested."
Mycroft nodded, gesturing for the hypnotist to come closer. The hypnotist glanced around the room; a woman with disheveled hair was staring at him with hatred.
“Why don’t you go to hell?” She looked weak, but still stumbled over. “Do you know your witchcraft destroyed Sherlock! You heartless monster!”
The elderly hypnotist panicked and backed away, but Mycroft reached out to stop the woman. Seeing this, Anthea also stepped forward and pulled her back.
Mycroft released his grip and said to the hypnotist, "Then I'll leave it to you. Let's begin, just like last time."
The hypnotist hesitated for a moment: "Last time I made that young man forget his two sisters. I wonder what memories Mr. Holmes needs to make this young lady lose this time?"
"all."
He could have used "All", but he used "Everything".
It suddenly dawned on her that it was Christmas Eve many years ago, when their mother wasn't home, and only the three siblings sat around the fireplace. Rose asked him what gift he could choose, and he generously replied, "Everything."
And now, the world has collapsed. He uses the word again in such a cruel context.
Rose looked at Mycroft in disbelief.
The hypnotist opened the wooden box he carried with him and took out a pocket watch carved with ancient patterns.
"Mycroft, you lunatic, you control freak!"
She cursed and pounded Mycroft's body with her hands, which were not yet fully bound.
His neat tie was disheveled, and his finely tailored clothes were wrinkled. But he didn't look away or say anything; he just looked down at her.
"You're beyond redemption, go to hell!"
"I hate you! I will always hate you!"
The hypnotist's fingers gripped the chain of the pocket watch, preparing to swing it.
A feeling of terror exploded in Rose's mind in an instant.
No! Don't!
Rose tried to stop the hypnotist, but it was no use. Mycroft remained silent, and naturally, the hypnotist didn't stop.
Her eyes were losing focus, and a wave of drowsiness washed over her. She struggled desperately, even biting her lower lip, trying to stay awake.
But the pocket watch swayed more and more violently, and her eyelids trembled more and more, each time trying to close.
Rose's mind was filled with those precious images: their nighttime conversation under the stars, their embrace in the rose garden, their heartbreaking vows...
No, she absolutely could not lose the memories of Sherlock. Those fragmented yet beautiful moments were all she had in this life.
"No, no! I can't sleep..."
"Mycroft, I'm sorry, please don't take away my memories..."
“I’ll do whatever you say, just don’t do it, I can’t forget Sherlock…”
She buried her face in Mycroft's suit, her voice almost broken:
"Please, Mycroft."
"Please..."
"elder brother."
In that instant, Mycroft suddenly spoke: "Stop."
The hypnotist's fingers froze in mid-air. He silently put away his pocket watch, took a step back, and stood with his head bowed, like a lifeless shadow.
"You can leave now."
Without asking any further questions, he quietly packed his things and left as silently as he had come.
Rose leaned weakly against Mycroft's chest, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her head throbbed with pain from anorexia and emotional turmoil.
The doctor arrived quickly. She let them administer the IV fluids. She kept her eyes closed as the needle pierced her skin. Mycroft held her other hand.
Until it was all over. The doctor left, and the two of them were left in the room again.
He loved kissing her neck because it had been brushed against by Eton's sash at the ball years ago. It turned out he had always cared about it, and been bothered by it.
Then, he held her in his arms: "Wouldn't it be better to stay within the boundaries I've drawn for you forever?"
As he said this, his hands even clenched a little tighter.
Rose looked up; his gaze was so gentle, so calm, yet she couldn't discern what lay there.
"The boundaries you've drawn?" She gave a bitter smile. "The boundaries you've drawn with lies, murder, and conspiracy?"
"It is the most indestructible boundary in the world."
“But I still have a way to escape, don’t I?” Rose sighed. “I’ll die, and that will end it all.”
ah…
die…
Mycroft's pupils dilated slightly.
———
The room had been altered. Any sharp objects had been rounded off, and even the corners of the tables were wrapped in soft silk.
She began to experience excessive sleepiness. But she no longer dreamed, or rather, she no longer remembered her dreams. When she woke up, her mind was always blank, like a carefully polished stone slab.
Mycroft ate with her every day. She still didn't eat much, because her sense of taste seemed to be deteriorating. The only difference she could perceive in food was its texture and temperature.
She also began to forget things; she couldn't remember what she had for breakfast or for lunch. She asked the maid, who would tell her exactly what she had. She asked Mycroft, who was also very patient. But she wanted to remember for herself, and she couldn't do that.
Besides, she was always tired and didn't even have the energy to pick up a thick book. Sometimes they would go to the opera together, but she wouldn't have the energy to stay awake until the end, and would always lean lazily against Mycroft.
She could smell his scent. A mingled blend of cedar, parchment, and the wood of the cabinet—crisp, conservative, and indifferent. She no longer wanted to avoid it.
She knew the problem lay with her daily milk.
For the first few days, Rose didn't notice anything amiss. She simply felt an unusual calm, as if the restlessness within her body had been soothed by a gentle hand. The world seemed to be shrouded in a soft membrane; sounds became distant, and light softened. Even memories of loved ones lost their sharp edges, turning into blurry shadows.
She no longer had that urge to escape; besides the urge, she no longer even had the desire to see the outside world. The garden walls no longer seemed like a confinement, the sky outside the window was no longer alluring, and even the raging inferno was no longer so appealing.
A week later, she began to ask for that glass of milk on her own initiative. At a certain time in the afternoon, she would look towards the door, like a furry little animal, with a hazy expectation in her eyes. When the maid appeared with the tray, her shoulders would unconsciously relax.
She no longer reads poetry collections; poetry and distant places are irrelevant to her. She also no longer tries to talk to strangers, and she won't even glance at Whitehall dignitaries as they pass by.
Most of the time, she simply sat or lay quietly on the bench, as if the passage of time had nothing to do with her.
Her world shrank to just this room, this glass of milk, and the occasional Mycroft who helped her pass the time.
Once, Mycroft was walking with her in the garden. He always held her hand as they walked; it should be dry and warm, she thought. But she couldn't feel any warmth.
Rose walked slowly. She stopped by the flowerbed and reached out to touch a half-open rose. Her fingertip pricked a thorn and bled.
She stared at the red mark, neither pulling her hand away nor showing any expression on her face, as if the pain belonged to someone else.
Mycroft quickly pressed a handkerchief to her fingertips, looking at her with concern: "Does it hurt?"
She looked up, her honey-colored eyes misty. She simply shook her head. She truly felt no pain. Not only in her body, but also in her heart.
Memories are fragmented, emotions are numb.
She refused to see John Watson, the only person she wouldn't see.
Only when Mycroft occasionally mentioned that name would a ripple appear in her lifeless eyes. It was pure hatred.
She met him when she was just one step away from freedom. The next day, Mycroft showed up at the restaurant.
He had promised to keep it a secret, yet he pushed himself back into hell.
She will hate him forever.
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