Rotation
The doorbell rang. The butler's voice came from outside the door: "Sir, Miss Rose has arrived and wishes to see you."
Mycroft raised his hand, gesturing for Anthea to step back.
He didn't respond immediately. His fingertips lingered on the smooth umbrella handle for a moment, as if adjusting some kind of inner rhythm, before he walked steadily to the door and reached out to open the carved wooden door.
Sunlight streamed in from the high windows of the corridor, illuminating Rose's blonde hair. She wore a very simple yellow cotton dress, plain in style, even a little short, revealing a glimpse of her calves and feet in ordinary soft-soled shoes beneath the hem.
Furthermore, his keen and exceptional observation skills caught even more details: her slightly disheveled hair, as if she had just been embraced; her lips were redder than usual, as if they had been kissed forcefully.
Mycroft looked away: "I guess you're not here for afternoon tea, Rose."
Rose took a deep breath and looked directly into those deep gray eyes: "I've come to say goodbye, Mycroft."
"Who are you going with? That soldier?"
“He’s a lieutenant, not a soldier! Mycroft, tone down your arrogance,” Rose said, finding it unbearable. “We’re leaving tomorrow.”
“We?” Mycroft repeated the word. “What an intimate term. It seems that a polka and a few strolls in London have been enough for Miss Holmes to decide to entrust the rest of her life to a soldier she has known for less than half a month and whose background is shrouded in mystery. What an efficient romance.”
"Heh, you don't understand at all. He understands me, he sees the real me, unlike you who only sees me as a substitute for Eurus. He respects me and can give me freedom."
Mycroft scoffed coldly: "What freedom can he give you? Freedom to live a precarious, nomadic life?"
“Why are you always like this, always so mean, Mycroft?” Rose looked at him incredulously. “Especially to me and Sherlock? Can’t you ever act like a real brother, just once…”
“Brother?” Mycroft interrupted her. “So you’ve finally remembered that we have this pathetic relationship? Then, as your brother, should I congratulate you, my dear sister, on your impending ordeal in a stuffy ship’s cabin, on being treated as a plaything in a foreign land?”
His words went far beyond being harsh; they were becoming increasingly offensive. Rose looked up abruptly, her eyes filled with surprise and utter disappointment.
“I don’t know what kind of hatred you’re driven to say such a thing, but I do know that no one would like someone like you.” Rose’s voice miraculously calmed down because of her despair. “Sherlock has already moved away, and I’m leaving London soon. Now you should be happy, right? Congratulations.”
Mycroft's gaze turned completely cold. He took a step forward, his tall, thin frame casting a shadow: "So what are you doing here today? Did you come to satisfy my desires? Do you think I care about your stay or leave, your life or death?"
"I'm here to inform you, not to ask for your opinion. I'll be leaving whether you allow it or not. I'll be leaving tomorrow."
Rose met his gaze without flinching: "I think this is the last time we'll ever see each other. Goodbye, Brother Mycroft. No, farewell forever, Mycroft."
Rose turned away from "the heart." She walked quickly down the corridor, the lump in her chest making it hard to breathe. But she didn't stop, her pace quickening until she almost ran down the stairs, through the echoing hall, and out of the gilded, suffocating doors of Holmes Manor.
A cool evening breeze, carrying the distinctive soot and dampness of London, swept over her. She took a deep breath and felt the frozen blood in her lungs begin to flow again.
Then Rose walked straight to the waiting carriage: "Baker Street, 221B".
The carriage rumbled along in the night, the street scene outside the window gradually changing from the quiet luxury of the suburbs to the hustle and bustle of the city.
Rose leaned back in her chair, watching the passersby hurrying by under the gaslight. She felt a mix of reluctance and unwavering resolve about the impending farewell.
She had to see Sherlock before she left. He was the only person she had left who cared about her, her family.
Her heart pounded a little as she knocked on the familiar door of 221B. Mrs. Hudson opened the door, and when she saw Rose, a kind but slightly worried smile appeared on her face: "Oh, dear, come in quickly! Sherlock is upstairs, probably tinkering with his little experiments again. I hope my old wooden trunk won't suffer any more." She lowered her voice and gestured upstairs.
Rose thanked Mrs. Hudson and tiptoed up the stairs.
Pushing open the living room door, a unique aroma, a mixture of chemical reagents, old books, and violin rosin, filled my nostrils.
Sherlock was facing away from the door, leaning over the lab bench, intently staring at a bubbling flask, his signature black curly hair slightly disheveled.
“Sherl,” Rose called softly.
Sherlock looked up, a hint of surprise flashing in his deep blue eyes, which was then replaced by a pure, undisguised joy.
"Rose?" He put down his utensils, his movements so quick they almost knocked over the measuring cup beside him. "This is quite unexpected. So, you were kicked out of the manor by Mycroft and came to me for help?"
He spoke very quickly, with his usual sarcasm, but his eyes were warm.
Rose looked at him, her eyes welling up slightly. This was her brother, who always greeted her in his unique way, no matter what the outside world was like. She walked over, reached out, and gently hugged him. At that moment, she desperately needed an embrace.
Sherlock stiffened for a moment; he was never used to overly intimate physical contact. But quickly, he raised his hand and awkwardly patted her back.
A few seconds later, he suddenly realized something was wrong, quickly released her, and scrutinized her face. "You've been crying? No, not entirely. You were emotional, but your mind was made up. Wait, you've already seen Mycroft." He suddenly sensed something, and his tone turned serious: "He upset you. Just like always."
Rose sighed and sat down on the slightly disheveled sofa opposite him. "I'm leaving, Sherlock," she said directly.
Sherlock paused for a moment, then walked to the fireplace, picked up his violin, and casually plucked the strings, producing an off-key note.
"Leave London?" he asked, sounding casual, but Rose knew he was thinking fast.
“Yes, it’s tomorrow. Eaton and I will go back to Berlin first, and then to India.” She didn’t want to hide anything.
A soft vibrato escaped the strings. Sherlock put down his violin, turned around, and put his hands in his pockets. "Is it that lieutenant from Calcutta? You love him?"
“Yes,” Rose said honestly, “I love him, and I want to see more of the world with him.”
Sherlock was silent for a moment, then slowly walked to the window and looked down at the lights of Baker Street. "Mycroft is furious about this, I guess? Is he using his rational shackles and risk assessments to bind and hurt people again? He's always been like that."
Rose gave a wry smile: "Pretty much. Worse than that."
“Don’t pay attention to him.” Sherlock took a few steps closer, leaning against the edge of the lab bench, his eyes beneath his curly hair looking intently at her. “Are you sure this is what you want? To get away from all this, to go to a completely unfamiliar place?”
“I’m sure.” Rose’s voice was soft, but incredibly firm. “There’s no place for me here, Sherlock. But perhaps there is.”
Sherlock stared at her for a few seconds, then nodded. “Very good,” he said simply, “If it makes you happy, then you should go.”
“Just be careful, Rose. The world isn’t always as bright as it seems, especially in places where there’s still war. But I trust your judgment, and Eaton will definitely protect you. However, if he fails to do so and lets you get hurt in the slightest, I will make sure he feels the retribution of a detective.”
Rose couldn't help but laugh. Her laughter was tinged with tears: "I'll miss you, Sherl."
“Write back occasionally,” he instructed, “describing the exotic customs and traditions, oh! and the novel cases. The mediocrity of this place is driving me crazy.”
With that, Sherlock walked to the desk, picked up a notepad and a pen, quickly scribbled a line, and slipped it into her hand. “Here, this is someone’s contact information. This person is a high-ranking official in the East India Company. I once cleared his name, and he’s still very grateful to me. If you run into trouble, go find him. Mention my name.” He smiled. “Of course, I hope you never need it.”
"You proved him innocent? You're truly something else, Sherl."
“No, when he was charged with murder, I used reasoning to prove to the police that he had robbed another restaurant at the time.”
Rose chuckled to herself.
“Alright,” Sherlock clapped his hands, turned away, and resumed his usual slightly impatient tone, “The farewell ceremony is over, right? You should go back and pack your bags. Whether you elope or pursue freedom, you need to be well prepared.”
He gestured with his chin toward the door, but there was no hint of urging in his eyes.
Rose knew this was his way of making the farewell less sentimental. She nodded and walked towards the door. As her hand touched the doorknob, she stopped and turned back to look at him.
“Sherlock,” she said softly, “maybe…maybe one day you and John can come to India?”
“Perhaps,” he said with a faint smile, “if the cases there are interesting enough.”
Rose smiled too. Having grown up together, she understood Sherlock's unspoken meaning all too well. It wasn't "if the cases there are interesting enough," but rather "if I miss you too much."
She opened the door, went out, and gently closed it. Soon, the sound of a violin filled the air—no longer the somber, languid melody, nor the intense detective's march, but a melodious tune of blessing and remembrance, flowing gently through the night on Baker Street.
However, just as Rose was about to step onto the carriage platform, a commotion nearby caught her attention.
Not far from 221B Baker Street, in a dimly lit alleyway, a group of people gathered, their whispers filled with fear and unease.
The gaslight barely illuminated the area, reflecting the bewildered expressions on people's faces.
Rose felt a sudden unease and asked the driver, "What happened up ahead?"
“Oh, miss, there has been a murder in London. Someone has died. But don’t worry, miss, we can take another route.”
She pushed through the crowd and squeezed forward recklessly.
In the center of the crowd, on the ground near the damp, cold wall, lay a familiar figure.
Her gaze first fell upon the slightly worn military uniform, which was still faintly discernible even in the dim light. Then, she noticed the golden hair scattered on the cold stone slabs, still dazzling despite being stained with dirt.
Those eyes, once filled with the waters of Dover, will never see the light of day again.
Rose felt a ringing in her ears, and the noisy voices gradually faded away.
The universe was silent, but her world was filled with a sharp, violent roar.
That's Eaton.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
