Indulging
What is he saying?
She was not a member of the Holmes family, nor was she a blood relative of Hero and Sherlock.
But he said it wouldn't be difficult to make her have Holmes blood flowing in her veins, while deliberately avoiding looking at her lower abdomen...
It turns out, he even wanted a child. A child of his and hers. A child who would call him Uncle Sherlock. A child who would bind the family together forever.
A wave of immense humiliation washed over Rose, and she felt all the blood rush to her palms.
She raised her hand to slap his face, but Mycroft grabbed her wrist mid-air.
But this is not a brutal confinement.
Mycroft's hand lightly covered hers, his fingertips gently encircling her wrist.
The force was well controlled, making it difficult for her to break free without causing any pain, as if it were the gentlest barrier between lovers.
“Promise me you’ll go back to your bedroom and rest. I’ll be watching over Sherlock tonight.” Mycroft looked tired. “And tomorrow, I’ll make things clearer.”
“Clearer? You’re using the word ‘clearer’ now, which makes me laugh.” Rose felt nothing but absurdity: “Eaton is dead. You murdered the person I loved. There’s a life between us, and I will hate you forever. Sherlock already knows I’m not his sister. When he wakes up and comes to his senses, a complete mental breakdown awaits him, which will be far more intense than physical pain. And he will hate me forever.”
“Mycroft, are you still trying to turn the tide? Are you going to keep deceiving yourself? Are you so smart that you can’t see it? You, me, Sherlock, we can’t go back! We can never go back! No matter what you do, things will never become clear, this family will only get more and more chaotic, because all that’s left between the three of us is hatred!”
Mycroft traced her eyes in the air with his other hand: "Rose, the hatred in your eyes is so intense, so pure. People claim to hate hatred, but they forget that hatred—it is itself an extremely strong bond."
"It is more resilient and enduring than vague feelings of affection, more fickle love. Look, your entire pupil is filled with me. Eternal hatred binds us together forever. Isn't this far clearer than when you were by that soldier's side, your mind wandering, even deciding to forget me, to forget our past?"
He released Rose. "And Sherlock, his spiritual sanctuary will indeed experience an earthquake. But doesn't the collapse signify the beginning of reconstruction? How can something be built without breaking down?"
“Strip away all the tender pretense, and what remains is the hard, undeniable truth. Isn’t that clearer than living in a fragile lie woven by our mother and maintained by us all?”
"So, Rose, we can't go back. But we will move towards a new and stronger future: a future where the three of us are bound together by life and death, and we will stay together for the rest of our lives."
Rose stared blankly at Mycroft, noticing the tranquil longing, gentle affection, quiet contentment, and even a hint of happiness in his eyes.
She instinctively took a step back, her lips trembling: "You're insane, Mycroft. You call hell the future, and you're dragging us all down with you, to be buried with your distorted clarity."
She practically ran away from there.
The long corridor was deep and dark, and the portraits of the clan chiefs on both sides appeared blurry in the dim light, like silent accomplices.
Downstairs is a pitch-black garden, and in the distance are the hazy candlelight of London, which never truly sleeps.
Freedom seems so close, yet it feels so far away.
After Rose left, Mycroft pushed open the door and returned to the medical room.
He stood by Sherlock's bedside, his gaze fixed on his brother's pale and peaceful sleeping face.
He then reached out and lightly brushed Sherlock's curly black hair with his fingertips, the movement carrying an almost reverent tenderness.
The touch was so light it was almost imperceptible, as if afraid of disturbing something, or as if confirming the warmth that had been lost and regained.
“You see, Sherlock,” he said in a low voice, “always uses the most extreme methods to prove things that I already knew.”
He bent down and tucked the blanket around him, his fingertips lingering on Sherlock's forehead for a moment, as if to smooth the furrowed brow that never relaxed even in his sleep.
“Don’t do it again next time, okay?” In the darkness, he even smiled slightly: “But there will never be a next time. I will never again have a moment of lapse in concentration and expose you to any…dangerous situation.”
There was a gentle knock on the door of the medical room.
Anthea walked in, but this time she was not alone; a person wearing a cloak followed closely behind her.
The man removed his hood, revealing snow-white hair. Mycroft reached out and shook his hand: "I think it's time. Let's begin."
A few hours ago.
When Owen revealed everything, when Sherlock lay unconscious in his hospital bed, and when Rose sat by his bedside, sobbing uncontrollably, Mycroft Holmes stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of the medical room, beginning to ponder how to mend this crumbling family.
Rationality emerges, like a scalpel in a medical room, precisely dissecting the mess before us:
Once Sherlock awakens, his almost obsessive pursuit of the truth will not let go of the name "Eurus," shrouded in mystery. He will trace back, verify, and spare no effort to find the real sister hidden by the family.
This was not out of compassion, but out of the instinct of his distorted personality: a huge mystery concerning his own roots was right in front of him, and he could not ignore it.
However, at the end of this pursuit lies a dead end capable of annihilating everyone.
The fact that "Rose is not his real sister" was already a devastating blow to his mental well-being; if he were to confront the even crueler truth that "his real sister Eurus was imprisoned for many years and even moved from the cellar to the more secure Sheringford by her own brother," he would surely break down completely.
Furthermore, Sherlock's investigation itself is a continuous denial of Rose's value. Each investigation into Eurus, in Rose's eyes, seems to confirm that she is merely a substitute. And when the truth about Eurus is revealed, how will Sherlock face Rose? Whether he feels hatred or pity, it will be a deeper wound for her.
Eurus's very existence is a ticking time bomb. Once Sherlock finds and contacts her, no one can predict what this terrifyingly intelligent and vengeful prisoner will do. She might use Sherlock, she might destroy Sherlock, or she might drag the entire Holmes family and even more innocent people into her dangerous "game" to achieve her revenge.
Therefore, Sherlock's awakening and investigation will inevitably drag them, along with the imprisoned Eurus, toward an irreversible end: Sherlock collapses, Rose loses her heart, and Eurus goes out of control.
This is an unsolvable deadlock.
The most desperate thing is that any attempt to appease, explain, or obstruct, any attempt to delay, will not change anything; it will only hasten the process and exacerbate the tragic outcome.
But it was longing, it was yearning, it was love.
Those were his younger brother and sister, the people he cherished, and everything he was obsessed with in his life.
Explosion and destruction? No, he absolutely cannot let that happen.
He must untangle this knot.
But how can this be done?
His hands were still stained with Sherlock's blood. He paced back and forth in front of the French windows. On his desk lay the thorny issue sent by the Cabinet, the one that had been causing the Prime Minister so much distress. That issue was not even one ten-thousandth as thorny as the one at hand.
What should I do?
In that split second, he suddenly remembered the hypnotist his mother had found years ago.
Years ago, Sherlock angered his mother by claiming he wanted to become a pirate, and she brought in a renowned London hypnotist to give Sherlock "extra treatment."
At the time, he didn't know much about this industry and just thought it was a gimmick. He didn't take it seriously or interfere.
However, after several treatments, Sherlock, whose life's ideal was to sail the seas as a pirate, became afraid of water and would even avoid the smallest puddle.
After his mother died, he avenged Sherlock by publishing a story in the newspapers about how the man, drunk, slipped and fell in front of the fireplace, burning half of his body to ashes.
At that moment, he suddenly thought of her again, and of this profession.
Was she also in such despair at that time?
When loved ones are about to slip out of your control, when your carefully constructed world is on the verge of collapse, when love is twisted into an impulse to possess forever... it turns out that reaching this point is not so hard to imagine.
Did your mother also feel the same despair of being pushed to the edge of a cliff when faced with Eurus’s extraordinary talent and destruction, and Sherlock’s unconventional dreams?
Did you ever think that only by erasing those "outdated" parts could the entire crumbling system be preserved?
At that moment, he suddenly understood her a little.
In order to maintain his family and keep the people he cares about by his side forever, any means, even crushing a part of their souls, seem to be an acceptable price to pay.
Forget part of the past, because the past is not important.
The important thing is that he, Rose, and Sherlock are together now and forever; and they will never be apart in the future.
He went into the cubicle and summoned Anthea:
“Find the best hypnotist in London. Whether he’s retired or not, wherever he is, I want to see him before dawn.”
He finally did exactly the same thing his mother had done years ago, only this time he went even further: instead of making Sherlock fear something, he made him forget someone.
At this moment, Mycroft stood in the shadows, watching the old hypnotist carefully examine Sherlock's pupillary responses and physiological indicators.
“His willpower far surpasses that of ordinary people, and his memory palace is complex and stable.” The hypnotist withdrew his hand, his tone grave. “Forcibly erasing, especially such core interpersonal memories, could lead to a worsening of his personality, such as becoming more stubborn and unreasonable. That’s too dangerous, Mr. Holmes.”
“That’s why we need your help.” Mycroft stepped forward into the light, his face half-lit and half-hidden in shadow. “Please make sure to completely erase all memories related to his two sisters, Rose and Eurus.”
The old hypnotist's cloudy eyes looked at Mycroft: "You're the only one you remember, sir?"
“He is my younger brother, and I am his older brother. It’s enough for him to remember that.”
"To protect him?" The old hypnotist's words carried a hint of sympathy for Sherlock. "Or so that he may belong to you forever, Mr. Holmes?"
Mycroft's grey eyes remained unwavering: "Is there a difference? All you need to know is that if you refuse, or fail," his gaze swept over the wrinkled hands, "you, and your peaceful old age, will cease to exist. But if you succeed, you will receive a fortune enough to live out your days anywhere, and... my friendship."
The old hypnotist fell silent. He looked at the sleeping Sherlock, whose young and handsome face still bore the traces of childhood innocence.
"I'm so sorry, child." He hunched over, as if he had aged several years in an instant.
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