War Imprint
That summer, Sherlock found his roommate and began preparing to move out of the manor without hesitation, a stark contrast to his usual lazy demeanor.
“These, these, these,” Mycroft tapped the handle of his umbrella against his bookcase, curio cabinet, and fine clothes in turn, “are they all to be discarded?”
“Of course,” Sherlock said, as if he’d heard something idiotic, “if I had a choice, I’d give up my surname too.” He suddenly noticed the violin next to the display case and grabbed it. “Oh, not including this one.”
Mycroft chuckled. "So, does he really like music? Your roommate?"
“You’ve already dug up every bit of his information, why are you still trying to trick me into talking?” Sherlock didn’t even look up, continuing to stuff a thick scarf—the one Rose gave him on his coming-of-age day—into his suitcase.
"That's different. I'd rather hear it from you."
"No comment," Sherlock replied curtly. "I probably know less than you do."
“So you don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Mycroft sat in the velvet sofa, watching his younger brother squatting on the floor packing his things with interest: “You didn’t cover for others like this before.”
"You weren't so nosy before."
"A former army medic who returned wounded in Afghanistan, still suffering from mental anguish. Ordinary family background, ordinary looks, ordinary personality, even somewhat worldly foolishness. You only met once, many years ago on Christmas, on that snowy night when I let you go out. So, why him? Why him of all people?"
Sherlock stood up, his eyes blazing with anger: "Shut up, Mycroft! Put away your arrogance! You can say whatever you want about me, but you have no right to speak of Watson like that!"
“Interesting,” Mycroft laughed again. “Looks like you care about him. Well, people always cherish new toys more….”
Faced with such harsh denigration, Sherlock's words also sharpened: "Your vocabulary is getting poorer and poorer, Mycroft. Or has your world degenerated to the point where there are only concepts like 'toys' and 'collectibles'?"
“He’s not a toy, nor is he a boring file in your database. He is,” Sherlock paused, as if searching for a word of sufficient weight, “he is a living, breathing person, he is my friend.”
"The war left its mark on him, yes, but not 'worldly stupidity,' but post-traumatic stress disorder, a rational response to extreme stress. This, on the contrary, proves that he experienced the real world and had love for life in war. Unlike us, he was not trapped in this glamorous cage from childhood, his heart turned cold. He was much more resilient than you think."
Mycroft took out a cigarette from his pocket, but did not light it. Instead, he slowly twirled the slender cigarette between his fingers before speaking slowly after a while.
"All lives end, all hearts are broken."
Life will eventually end, leaving behind only a broken heart.
"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."
Love is useless, Sherlock.
"You live such a painful life because you take this as your life motto. Your pain is not in heartbreak, but in the fact that your heart has never truly been moved by anything."
Suddenly, Rose's smiling face appeared before Mycroft's eyes, along with the image he had been desperately suppressing, hidden deep within his heart. He didn't speak, but simply took another drag of his cigarette, his gaze fixed on the view outside the window. The London sky was always that indistinct, grayish-yellow.
"Watson has seen real hell; his heart may be cracked. But he understands pain, and therefore he can have compassion. He chooses to save, not destroy, even in his own most difficult moments. How many of these cold, perfect, calculating people around us have you seen?"
"Watson's heart beat fiercely for his beliefs, his comrades, and what he wanted to protect. It shattered, but every fragment proved that he truly lived and cared. And you, Mycroft? Your 'British government'? Your chessboard and pieces? Your heart certainly cannot break, because it is just a lifeless stone."
“What a passionate defense. So loyal, Sherlock.” Mycroft slowly exhaled a smoke ring. “I hope that when you face final disillusionment, the heartbreak you suffer won’t be too unbearable.”
Sherlock snapped the brass clasp on his suitcase shut: "I hope that when we meet again, you'll have found a 'goldfish' willing to swim into your stagnant pool."
“I will have your things kept safe. Perhaps,” he paused, walking toward the door, his cane making a dull thud on the carpet, “perhaps one day you will come back… to retrieve your things.”
Sherlock turned and pushed open the heavy door in the opposite direction. Outside was the free and noisy air of London, a mixture of the sound of horses' hooves, newsboys' cries, and the smell of coal smoke.
The sun shines brightly, and the dust has settled.
"Sir?" A figure dressed in a black suit appeared silently at the door of the study.
“Anthea, clean up what Sherlock left behind. Number the book chests and put them away; the clothes don’t need to be moved or dealt with. As for the curio cabinet,” his gaze swept over the cabinet filled with strange specimens and very “Sherlock” trophies, “…seal it. No one may open it without my permission from now on.”
“Yes, sir,” Anthea replied, her eyes keenly noticing the officer’s unusually straight back and the lingering tension in the air.
"You've seen Watson's files, the post-war trauma... Do you think it could be fake?"
Anthea shook her head: "The doctor has given us a detailed report, and Watson himself is receiving regular treatment..."
Mycroft's expression had lost its usual, slightly annoyed calm. "That's just appearances, Anthea. Appearances alone are never enough to constitute an argument. A decorated officer, two-time combatant, even a hero's medal for his marksmanship. It's strange, really strange, that such a person would have war trauma."
"Should we increase Dr. Watson's level of observation?"
"No need for now, just keep a regular watchful eye on her—but make sure Shell is not affected by any potential dangers."
"And I need to see Watson. Make proper arrangements; you know how to keep it from my astute brother."
“Understood.” Anthea nodded slightly, quickly jotted down the key points in her memo, and then quietly withdrew as she had appeared.
Rose lingered in Mycroft's mind. After Anthea left, he frowned and couldn't calm down.
Since their last cold conversation, she had been deliberately avoiding him. She said she had the flu and didn't want to eat with him, having the servants bring her meals to her bedroom every day. She knew perfectly well that the doctor would tell him the truth—that she wasn't sick at all. But she did it anyway, perhaps to see how he would handle it, or perhaps simply because she didn't care about his reaction.
In the end, he himself offered to forgo the daily family banquets and spent most of his time at the Imperial Government, rarely returning to the manor. When he did return, it was usually in the evening. He lived in the "heart" of the estate and often looked out through the French windows to watch for her carriage returning home.
The two stood there like that until he heard from the butler that the second young master often took the young lady drunk in a corner of the opera house, seeking only a life of debauchery; and that the young master himself still bought drugs every day, but it was uncertain whether he had given them to the young lady.
That wouldn't do. He granted Sherlock's wish, allowing him to move out and pursue the career he wanted. To keep him from becoming despondent, he forced Sherlock to share an apartment, even though he had given him more money than he could spend in several lifetimes.
He even found roommates for his younger brother. One was a young man of Chinese descent but with a strong sense of justice; the other was a highly respected and gentle professor; and the third was a retired MI6 agent with superb martial arts skills, who would surely be able to protect him.
He never imagined that Sherlock wasn't alone; he even called that person a "friend." —It turned out that from beginning to end, he was the only truly lonely one.
He didn't summon any servants, but walked alone through the long, quiet corridor. Looking up, he saw the moon and a few scattered stars.
I just don't know which one is the mother.
She must be smiling radiantly right now. She left him a vast fortune, the power to control everything, and an unsolvable curse.
She was in the heavens, looking down. He, on the mortal world, felt lonely at such a height.
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