Bad puppy
Watson saw the gentleman again at Scotland Yard. He easily passed through the police gate and walked straight up to Sherlock and himself.
He spotted the gentleman first and whispered to Sherlock, "That's him, the one who took me to the abandoned warehouse last time."
But Sherlock didn't seem surprised at all: "I know exactly who he is."
As they were talking, the gentleman walked over and stood in front of Sherlock: "How public-spirited you are, well, even though that was never your motive."
What are you doing here?
"I'm here because I care about you."
"I've already received your concern, an overwhelming amount of concern."
Faced with the aggressive Sherlock, the gentleman sighed helplessly: "Always so aggressive, Sherlock. Our rivalry is so childish, don't you think? It always drags innocent people into it, and you know, it always makes Mother angry."
"Mother?" Watson was taken aback. "Whose mother?"
“Our mother.” Sherlock glanced at the gentleman. “He’s my brother, Mycroft. Have you gained weight again? Haven’t you given up your sweet tooth yet?”
“Actually, I’ve lost weight,” Mycroft replied.
"He's your brother? I thought he was some kind of nemesis, or some underground conspirator."
Mycroft laughed: "I'm not some underground conspirator; I hold a low-ranking position in the British government."
Sherlock gave Mycroft a cold look: "He is the Imperial government. He controls everything, and even his family can't have peace."
"Um, so when you said you 'cared about' him, it really was just 'caring'?"
“I don’t remember using that word.” Mycroft rubbed his nose. “See you later.”
After Mycroft left, the two went to a midnight restaurant. Sherlock seemed distracted, while Watson was lost in his memories and had no appetite.
He recalled their first meeting on a snowy London night. Sherlock, though looking sorrowful, was dressed in a magnificent robe—a type of aristocrat who would never normally frequent an inexpensive café. Then, she suddenly approached him, saying she finally had "half a freedom," and wanted to share an apartment with him; the location was already chosen—Baker Street. Good heavens, the exorbitant price—although he liked the man before him, he was truly strapped for cash, and his first instinct was to refuse. But Sherlock said, "Anything can be a problem, except money."
He later gained a more direct understanding of this. Large remittances frequently arrived in Sherlock's mailbox, likely from the same person, as the sender's name was always blank. Occasionally, checks were also sent; once, a check even lacked a specific amount, only bearing the bank's personal seal.
After the two moved in together, Sherlock deduced Watson's family structure at a glance and bluntly revealed it, but he remained tight-lipped about his own family.
He only knew that he was most likely from a noble family, but that he hadn't been happy in the first half of his life and was very resistant to being asked questions. He didn't even know the topography of London, even though he claimed he had never left the city. I remember asking him if he rarely went out before, and he just nodded impatiently, "You're right, I used to live a very secluded life, going out very, very, very little."
After spending some time with him, I roughly deduced his background. Sherlock probably had many siblings. After his parents passed away, he lost a power struggle due to his bad temper and inherited a sum of money, only to be evicted from his home and forced to find a new place to live. Although he was unpleasant to talk to, he didn't have any bad intentions, so he still had relatives who always remembered him.
After returning home that day, he finally couldn't help but ask Sherlock about his family. "A brother who manipulates the Imperial government, yet you consider him an enemy, and then what? What about the others?"
“Oh John, you’re acting like you’re checking files. Give it a rest; you’re not good at this.” Sherlock looked at Watson’s increasingly serious expression, spread his hands, and sighed. “I don’t have many siblings, there’s no family infighting, and I’m not some fallen nobleman who was kicked out of the house. Don’t deny it, your eyes and demeanor have already given away your conclusions.”
Watson felt somewhat embarrassed by the detective's ability to so easily see through people's hearts. "So what? Your family, your childhood?"
“Mother, brother, and sister. You’ve met Mycroft, but not Rose. I don’t know why she hasn’t come to see me. In fact, I’ve been planning to visit her lately. Uh, what am I talking about? I mean, who knows? And as for my childhood, I don’t want to talk about it.”
"And what about Mother?"
"I killed her."
Watson's fork fell to the ground. "You?" He tried to say something incoherently, but couldn't piece together a sentence.
The moment those words landed, it was so startling, carrying Sherlock's characteristic absurdity of presenting shocking facts in the most mundane way.
Sherlock picked up the fork and went to the cupboard to get a new one. Seeing Watson's expression, he explained, "To be precise, I drove her to her death. She died because of me. I destroyed something she was proud of."
Watson wanted to comfort him, but then felt she shouldn't, so she went to eat in silence. After eating half a serving of fish and chips, he couldn't hold back any longer and said, "Hey, listen to me, I've been on the battlefield. Life and death are commonplace, and things back then weren't necessarily as you imagine. Maybe she wasn't killed by you—"
“John, that’s enough.” Sherlock picked up his violin and turned his back to Watson. “Stop.”
The melodious tune spread through 221B, and if pedestrians looked up, they could occasionally see a tall, thin young man playing the violin by the window. His fine, curly hair covered his forehead, his eyelashes, and his slightly trembling, heartbreaking eyes.
After meeting Sherlock, Mycroft suddenly longed to see Rose. He hadn't returned to the manor for several days, and the butler regularly reported to him on Rose's daily life: the young lady mostly stayed in her bedroom and almost never went out.
He walked toward the mansion. The closer he got, the slower his steps became, as if the air had become thick and resistant.
He stopped outside Rose's door. He raised his hand, his knuckles finally landing on the carved wooden door with a dull, restrained sound.
"Just leave the food at the door, I'll go get it in a bit, thank you," Rose's voice came from inside, probably mistaking him for a servant delivering fruit.
He pushed open the door and entered. Rose was sitting by the window with an open book on her lap, looking slightly weary.
His listless and unwell appearance, despite being perfectly healthy, inexplicably irritated him: "How long will this 'illness' last?"
Upon seeing Mycroft, she was clearly surprised and closed the book. "I think you don't want to see me, so lying about being sick is the best way, isn't it? It's better for both of us."
Mycroft glanced at her, but ultimately said nothing, though he didn't leave either.
The two remained locked in this stalemate until Rose finally broke the silence: "What kind of person is Sherlock's new roommate? I think, given your habits, you'll definitely make time to meet him in person."
“He might be my brother’s savior, or he might make him even more hopeless.” Mycroft took off his gloves and sat down on the soft sofa in Rose’s bedroom. “It seems this manor has become very quiet since Sherlock left.”
Rose nodded. Whether it was the joy of childhood, the rebellion of adolescence, or the desperate struggle of today, Sherlock's existence was like a sharp ray of light piercing through the gloom, or a piercing yet real shout.
“You,” Mycroft paused, seemingly choosing his words carefully, “if you find this place too empty or uncomfortable, I can arrange for you to go to another estate. I have a private property on the south coast, with a warm climate and beautiful scenery.” As he spoke, his gaze shifted slightly to a small oil painting on the wall, as if the suggestion were merely a casual, official arrangement.
Rose was silent for a moment, then shook her head. "No need, it's all the same. What's the difference between one manor and another? It's just a change of scenery, and I'll continue playing 'Miss Holmes'."
Mycroft turned his gaze to her: “You are the Holmeses’ daughter, my sister, and I am your brother,” his tone hardened again, “that’s a fact, no acting required.”
“Facts?” Rose smiled. “What are facts to you? It’s a fact that Eurus is locked up at the bottom of the tower, it’s a fact that I was brought from the orphanage to replace her, and it’s a fact that Sherlock knows nothing about it. And you, what are the ‘facts’ you want me to believe?”
A long silence spread through the room, broken only by the occasional crackling of burning wood in the fireplace.
Finally, Mycroft spoke slowly, his voice eerily calm: “You are legally recognized, given the surname Holmes, living in the Holmes estate, and enjoying all the rights and social status of Miss Holmes. Sherlock acknowledges you as his sister, and I,” he paused slightly, “acknowledge you as mine, sister. — This is the only fact that needs to be recognized and is in operation.”
Rose sat there, the book on her lap growing heavy.
That moment in the garden when her knuckles turned white, that Christmas Eve when she was allowed to visit Eurus, that brother who fought for a moment of freedom for her and Sherlock… these fragmented memories overlap with the cold and rational ruler before her, forming an incredibly contradictory mystery.
The more he emphasized this cold "fact," the less Rose could believe that this was all there was to it.
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