Wild resonance
"Mr. Owen has arrived, and he seems to have brought a friend with him." The butler lowered his voice: "The Prime Minister is also here, currently in his study, saying he has something to discuss with you concerning the safety of the Empire."
Mycroft nodded very slightly to indicate that he understood. His expression remained unchanged: "I won't disturb your precious time together. Sherlock, are you staying over tonight?"
"Of course not. And this isn't my home."
That's a real shame.
Mycroft turned and left, as if the conversation had been nothing more than a trivial exchange of pleasantries. After he left, Rose nodded to Sherlock. "Sherl, you're right."
The once-powerful Sherlock Holmes family in London was now nothing more than a magnificent robe crawling with fleas, its interior rotten to the core. And she was merely a button holding that robe together, preventing it from falling apart completely.
So where can this place be considered a home?
An inexplicable atmosphere of sadness hung between them. Watson, seeing this, felt somewhat at a loss, yet his good intentions made him rack his brains for a way to alleviate the sadness. "How about we go downstairs to the ball together? To be honest, I'm really curious about high society balls, hey, that's definitely a good idea!"
Rose stood at the top of the stairs, gripping the handrail, but hesitated to go down.
Sherlock chuckled. “You don’t look like you’re going to a banquet, you look like you’re going to watch a hanging,” he patted Rose on the shoulder. “What’s done is done, what’s there to be embarrassed about? Wait, you’re not looking at Owen, that’s…” He followed Rose’s gaze downwards and saw an unfamiliar blond young military officer.
The young man was looking up at Rose. He was tall and straight, with thick, dark eyebrows, a second lieutenant's medal pinned to his chest, and a nonchalant expression.
His blue eyes were lighter than Sherlock's pupils, like the midday waters of the Dover Strait.
“I am a friend of Owen’s. May I invite you to dance the first polka of the evening?” He bowed. “I am Eaton Smith.”
Looking at the enthusiastic blond youth before her, Rose was somewhat dazed. His youthful energy seemed completely out of place in the somber atmosphere of the Holmes family.
The moment the music started, Eaton had already spun her onto the dance floor. As his hand, through his white glove, supported Rose's lower back, the two danced to the fast rhythm.
“They’re betting on when you’ll faint.” He suddenly leaned close to Rose’s ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down her spine. “But I know you can do the whole thing—I saw you climbing the garden archway this morning to pick roses. Dear Rose, you’re different from them; you have the wild side.”
At the edge of the dance floor, Sherlock crossed his arms, quickly analyzing Eaton Smith, who was dancing with his sister. "Perfect dance moves, but his back is ramrod straight—clearly the result of years of habit. Calluses on the inside of his thumb and forefinger—frequent gun use. Sunburn marks and accent... let me think," judging from Owen's expression, "he couldn't help but chuckle, whispering to Watson beside him, "another 'hero' returning from the battlefield, but not from Afghanistan, but from Calcutta."
Watson's gaze was filled with well-meaning concern. "Um, Sherlock, your sister's dance partner looks very energetic, but isn't that dress a little, uh, too tight?" As he said this, he noticed the tension and excitement on Rose's face that he had never seen before. "But honestly, she looks much happier than before, which is always a good thing, right?"
In the shadows of the second-floor corridor, Mycroft stood silently. He held an untouched glass of champagne, his expression unreadable. His gaze swept down over the entire lobby.
He recalled his conversation with the Prime Minister. A woman named Irene Adler had obtained the private information of a core member of the royal family and claimed to possess even more valuable secrets that "the powerful Mr. Holmes is trying hard to conceal."
Meanwhile, Rose and Eaton were dancing gracefully on the dance floor, and some guests joked that they were a match made in heaven.
He downed the champagne in one gulp. In the past, he almost never drank alcohol.
Rose bought the white dress when she was a teenager, and it had been locked away at the bottom of her closet for many years. The size was clearly a bit too small. It was fine to wear, but it couldn't withstand vigorous exercise. Sure enough, after a few spins and some dancing, the straps made a snapping sound.
She froze, her face flushed. Eaton suddenly untied the medal sash, the golden tassel brushing against the back of her neck, sending a tingling sensation through her back.
Almost instantly, the dress stopped drooping. The knot of the sash was firm yet skillful, perfectly supporting the weight of the gown while subtly outlining a new silhouette. The knot he tied was beautiful, transforming the tattered dress into the latest trendy backless design.
“I learned this in Calcutta,” he said with a smile, blocking everyone’s view. “It’s the skill of repairing sails with enemy flags.”
Eaton Smith politely withdrew his fingers after accomplishing all this, as if the almost intimate remedy was merely a gentlemanly emergency measure.
"It seems all the guests are going to lose. Now you're sure to finish the whole dance, and you'll be dazzling and radiant."
The music continued, the polka's rhythm lively and infectious. Eaton's hand returned to Rose's waist, guiding her back into the swirling dance. Rose's heart pounded, not only because of the thrilling interlude, but also because of Eaton's words and gaze.
He wasn't strictly European; he had spent many years on the battlefield in a foreign land. He didn't even speak standard English, and when he addressed her, he didn't call her "Ruth," but "Roussie."
But what he saw beneath the layers of fine clothes and etiquette was Rose, who came from an orphanage and still retained a wild spirit, not just the elegant and dignified noblewoman "Rose Holmes".
Rose took a deep breath, and following Eaton's lead, her steps gradually became fluid and confident. Her simple white dress billowed as she twirled, creating a striking contrast with the elaborate and heavy skirts of the surrounding ladies.
Strands of hair brushed against her cheeks, bringing a pleasant tickle. At this moment, she was no longer a stand-in who needed to be careful with her words and actions and play the role of a perfect lady; she was simply herself, a young woman spinning, breathing, and feeling a brief moment of freedom on the dance floor.
“Anthea,” Mycroft glanced at Eaton’s second lieutenant badge from his vantage point, “go check on this… soldier.”
“Yes.” Anthea quickly jotted down the matter, and then she heard Mycroft’s deduction.
"He's from Calcutta, a good shot, and his service term is probably between ten and fifteen years, oh, twelve years. Look at the page-turning marks on his thumb, he has at least one surviving family member who often writes to him while he's on the battlefield. Go check it out, military personnel files are probably kept confidential, no need to deal with the administration, just show me my card."
“Yes, ma’am,” Anthea replied quickly.
When the music ended, applause erupted, mixed with a few whispers.
Eaton bowed gracefully to Rose. Rose, slightly out of breath, her cheeks flushed from the exertion and emotion, returned the bow with a slight curtsy.
“I’m very happy, Lieutenant Smith.” Her voice was clearer than usual.
“It’s my pleasure, Miss Rousey.” Eaton’s laugh was hearty.
Owen missed witnessing the spectacular dance; he arrived late, walking through the crowd.
“Miss Rose, it’s been a long time. You’re as charming as ever. This is Lieutenant Eaton Smith, my best friend. Eaton, and this is Miss Rose Holmes.”
“We already know each other, Owen.” Eaton patted Owen on the shoulder, even winking, his tone relaxed: “And I’m completely captivated by Miss Rousey.”
Owen's expression turned somewhat uneasy. "Eton," he lowered his voice, trying to remind his friend, "watch your words and actions. This is London, not a military camp in Calcutta."
Eaton shrugged dismissively.
Rose felt an unprecedented sense of relief. She gave Owen a reassuring smile: "It's okay."
Eaton winked at Rose, his blue eyes flashing with a defiant light. "See, Miss Rose doesn't mind. Owen, you're too tense. The London air conditioning is freezing you; you need some Calcutta sunshine."
Seeing Eaton's state, Owen sighed helplessly, "Don't forget we have to meet with the shipping company tomorrow morning. I'll go back to my room to rest now." He nodded to Rose, then patted Eaton on the shoulder, "You should go back early too."
After saying that, Owen pushed through the crowd and walked out of the lobby. Eaton raised an eyebrow at Rose and said, "Want to go for a walk outside together?"
Rose smiled and nodded, following Eton into the evening breeze. The crisp outdoor air invigorated her. The London nightscape unfolded before her, with hazy fireworks in the distance and the indistinct outlines of gardens nearby.
Eaton stood beside her and pointed to a star in the night sky: "Look, that's Polaris. We rely on it to navigate at sea."
Rose looked up at the twinkling stars, a stark contrast to the artificial clamor within the manor. She felt a long-lost tranquility and a sense of hope.
Perhaps this young officer, who suddenly entered her life with exotic sunshine and the atmosphere of the battlefield, could truly become her North Star, leading her away from this foggy, ever-deepening quagmire called Sherlock Holmes.
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