Chance and Inevitability in Life
Mycroft's lips weren't warm; in fact, they were rather cool.
He did not invade further; he simply lingered, seemingly using his own presence to cover up all traces left by Eton.
His hand firmly supported the back of her neck. Although it didn't hurt her, the strength was so great that she couldn't break free or resist.
Rose's blood rushed to her head in an instant, then froze in the next second.
Her mind went blank; all her anger, grief, and accusations were shattered by this sudden and untimely intimate contact.
She froze, unwilling to respond or resist, only able to feel his chilling breath enveloping her, carrying the scent of parchment, cedar, and a faint, bitter minty taste from his usual mouthwash.
Time seemed to stretch out, yet it also seemed to pass in the blink of an eye.
As he finally withdrew slightly, his gray eyes were inches away. She looked up and saw her own reflection in those eyes.
“They all say I have a sweet tooth. I admit it,” Mycroft smiled. “But they’ve got the wrong person.”
"It's you, Rose, only you, I can never give up on you in my entire life."
Mycroft released her and straightened the slightly wrinkled front of his suit jacket. He regained his usual meticulous demeanor, as if the chaos and indulgence of just moments before had never existed.
———
After saying goodbye to Rose, Mycroft went to Diogenes Club.
It wasn't because he needed to be particularly quiet today, but because he received a very eye-catching letter in his mailbox in Whitehall.
The envelope was made of ordinary kraft paper, without any signature or emblem, but the sealing wax mark at the closure was an intricate geometric pattern he had never seen before, subtly revealing a kind of exquisite malice.
The letter's content was so concise it was almost provocative, consisting of only a few lines of printed words:
"The roses of Calcutta have faded, and I eagerly await the next act. The Doctor is your accomplice, and you will certainly be mine. Mr. Holmes, see you at the Diogenes Club at midnight."
At that moment, Mycroft's fingertip lingered for a moment on that strange sealing wax stamp. This letter, this invitation, was undoubtedly an elaborate trap.
The fact that the other party knew Rose, Eaton, and Watson, and even used the term "accomplice," clearly indicates their provocation and threat.
This is very likely a dangerous seduction targeting him personally.
However, a stronger impulse overwhelmed all caution.
The shadow of Eaton Smith has not yet faded, and yet such meticulous manipulation is hidden behind that perfect officer? Who, and why, would send such a person to Rose's side?
Clearly, this person has been eyeing the Holmes family for a long time, and he has decided to start with Rose, the kindest and most innocent member of the family.
He had to go, he had to see this opponent with his own eyes, he had to personally pluck out this thorn in his side, uproot it completely, and thoroughly eliminate any potential threat that could harm Rose again.
There was a knock at the door; it was a man.
The man was casually dressed, had a friendly smile, but his eyes were as cunning as a venomous snake.
“Good evening, Mr. Holmes.” The man casually pulled up a chair and sat opposite him, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper, even a little glib. “I heard you’ve been dealing with some…minor troubles lately? Very efficient, admirable.”
"Good evening. I think you didn't just come here to compliment me."
"Hey, don't be so cold." The man picked up the bottle and poured himself a full glass of wine. "After all, we're not complete strangers. You've already accepted my gift."
Mycroft frowned slightly: "A gift?"
“Oh, look at my memory,” the man slapped his forehead, then said in an exaggerated tone, “It’s that soldier from Calcutta, Eaton Smith! I think you and Miss Rose will both like this gift, after all, I personally selected it.”
"It's not easy to find someone so completely pure and spotless. To cleverly utilize such a person is even more difficult. I really went to a lot of trouble. But it was all worth it, wasn't it? The moment our unsuspecting Captain Smith stepped into the Holmes house, it was like Pandora's box."
Seeing that Mycroft remained silent, the man smiled even more broadly: "Even the most cunning and treacherous person couldn't complete this task. It would be difficult to even deceive Sherlock, let alone you, the even smarter Mr. Mycroft, who is also particularly infatuated with his sister? I know this all too well."
"So, the person who could drag you down to hell must be an impeccably honest and upright good person. Eaton did just that, and I really want to applaud him, but unfortunately, he can no longer hear me. So, Mr. Mycroft, do you like this gift?"
So it was him. Eaton was indeed a puppet being used, and this man was the one pulling the strings behind the scenes.
But why did he do that?
“I really, really love this gift.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “But I’m curious, why me?”
"Curiosity, curiosity is the most dangerous thing in the world, Mr. Holmes. Just like you must have been curious about my name, my surname, and my address from the moment you received that letter, but I think you must have found nothing. You are facing someone you know nothing about. And I know you perfectly well. Whenever I think of this, I feel especially happy."
"Everyone thinks that the Queen and the Prime Minister are in control of the empire, but we all know that's not true, Mr. Mycroft. I believe that very few intelligent people know that the power of this empire is in your hands, and I happen to be one of them."
“You see, people like me usually hide in the shadows, playing dirty tricks. But you, well, you’re something else entirely,” he raised his glass, as if to Mycroft, “to frame an insignificant junior officer, to use the state apparatus, fabricate evidence, and ultimately let him die quietly—it was clean, efficient, and full of—art. Isn’t that another kind of fanaticism? I admire that decisive approach.”
The person in front of me not only knew about the conspiracy, but also seemed to be... cheering.
Mycroft sensed the threat and invitation in her words. He smiled slightly and poured himself a glass of wine: "I don't seem to understand what you mean specifically."
“Oh, you understand.” The man’s smile deepened, tinged with a cruel pleasure. “You see, this world is like a giant stage. I always thought that only villains like me needed to hide behind the scenes, while righteous people like you were always in the spotlight, playing the role of justice and order. But now, I realize I was wrong.”
He leaned forward, his voice lowered, like a devil's whisper: "You and I are not that different in essence. When something we cherish is threatened, so-called rules, laws, and morals can be easily abandoned. I know all too well that determination to fall into darkness in order to protect something."
“You’ve finally succumbed to sin, Mycroft Holmes.” The man’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “You’re no longer the aloof, immaculate ice man you once were. Welcome to the real world. Join me; the games here are far more interesting than your political chess games…”
He raised his glass, leaning slightly forward, ready to clink glasses with Mycroft. But before their glasses even touched, Mycroft released his grip, and the clean floor instantly splattered with crimson liquid.
Mycroft stood up, his gaze not on the man, but sweeping past him and landing on the brightly lit street outside the glass behind him.
"Aren't people like a group of gorgeous goldfish swimming in a fish tank? They follow the rules and think that the tank walls are the boundaries of the world."
"And you, you think you are an observer outside the fish tank, but in fact you are inside the tank yourself, because it is inside the tank that you can stir up trouble."
"Once you cross this transparent, seemingly unobstructed glass wall, you will immediately find yourself to be nothing and quickly dehydrate and suffocate."
Jim Moriarty, of good birth, is passionate about mathematics and criminology. He is homeless and likes to use chess to randomly determine which apartment he lives in.
Mycroft turned his gaze from the window back to the man.
“You’ve made a mistake, Professor Moriarty.” Mycroft looked at him. “You thought you had seen my so-called depravity, so you eagerly showed yourself, trying to classify me as one of your own. But you’ve got one thing wrong.”
“I have never stood under what you call the spotlight. I am the light source myself, regardless of where I am. The darkness you see is, to me, nothing more than an insignificant shadow that must be contained under the light.”
“You say you appreciate art, then you should be able to understand that pruning diseased branches and leaves off a tree, no matter how clean or neat the process is, is never about appreciating the appearance of the fallen branches, but about the health of the whole tree.”
“And you even invited me to join your game?” Mycroft smiled slightly. “You seem to have forgotten that the rules governing this world have always been written by me. And you, and your so-called interesting tricks, are nothing more than imperial redundancy that needs to be periodically cleaned up in my eyes.”
"Thank you for your gift; it has indeed helped me a lot. As for dealing with this redundant item, that's already on the agenda."
He stopped looking at Moriarty's instantly frozen smile, turned around, picked up the black umbrella leaning against the chair, and then prepared to leave.
"As a return gift for that gift, I'm giving you one too. And while we're talking, I think you've already received it, or rather, your chessboard-like apartment complex in London has burned down."
"Then I wish you... a pleasant sleep, Jim."
———
Watson didn't get to see Mycroft, but he did get to see the butler.
He found Watson and told him that his master had some things to take care of and probably wouldn't be back that night. He also said that his master had ordered him to take him to see Sherlock first.
"This is it." As they approached the room at the end of the corridor, the butler stopped, pointed inside, and then backed away.
Watson took a deep breath and stepped into the room.
The room was spacious and bright, and elegantly decorated, but it appeared much simpler compared to the rest of the manor.
Several unopened wooden crates were neatly stacked in the corner, while the curio cabinet was covered with thick dust netting. There was a violin stand in the corner, but no violins.
It turns out that when he left the manor, he took nothing with him except it, and now, even that is no longer with him.
He walked through the outer room, hesitated, and then went into the inner room.
Sherlock was wrapped in a wool blanket and reading a newspaper. His face was still pale, his lips were bloodless, and his curly black hair, probably due to neglect, had grown much longer than before and hung down loosely.
The detective remained as sharp as ever, his gaze already leaving the newspaper the moment Watson approached.
They fell upon Watson calmly, with a purely scrutinizing quality, but lacked the warmth and turmoil that had once been present in his eyes after sharing life and death.
Sherlock watched the man slowly approaching him, and his mental sanctuary began to dissect him as if by habit:
The man's right shoulder stiffened involuntarily; he was a soldier, and one who had been injured. The calluses on his hands were from where he had used syringes on patients year after year—a doctor? He seemed to be a military medic.
He's clearly been out of the military for a while now and lives in London, most likely with a roommate. Oh, and they seem to get along very well; he keeps reminiscing about him. I'm a little envious of his roommate; it's so lucky to be remembered.
Oh, look at his furrowed brow and unconscious little gestures; this man has something on his mind, something about his roommate. It seems he's made a huge sacrifice for him, but he feels guilty about it. What could it be? It's intriguing.
He seemed very nervous? I wasn't that fierce myself, so why did he have such an expression—so sad, so joyful, even somewhat sorrowful? Well, people who come back from the battlefield are all a bit neurotic, but this person was probably especially so.
Wait, I'm getting off-topic. Why does my mind become so emotional when I'm with this person? No, no, it must be because I'm recovering from a serious illness.
He glanced at Watson again. Although the man had lived in London for some time—no, to be precise, two or three years—he still hadn't completely covered up his sunburn. Therefore, his service location could only be one of two places.
Watson looked into Sherlock's searching eyes, his gaze shifting as if they were meeting for the first time. His heart nearly stopped beating.
Then he heard Sherlock speak in that familiar tone, tinged with a hint of languor and inquiry:
Afghanistan or Iraq?
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