The Holmes Brothers
That was in the summer of 1842.
When Sherlock once again mentioned that vague impression of "curly hair, a smiling face, and a little lark" at the breakfast table, Mrs. Holmes selected Rose from the orphanage and brought her to the spacious manor.
The lady dismissed the servants but did not look at Rose. Her fingers traced an open box, in which was reflected an old photograph of a girl who resembled Rose but belonged to another girl.
However, the box was covered in an instant.
“From today onward, your name is Rose Holmes.” She paused slightly. “Sherlock needs his sister, and the Holmes family needs an impeccable young lady. And you, Rose, your only value lies in playing that role well. Remember, any mistake—any trace that makes you unlike 'her'—will send you back to where you belong, or worse.”
"Who is 'she'?" The question stuck in Rose's throat. She lowered her head, not daring to look at the lady.
The musty smell of the orphanage seemed to linger in her nostrils, constantly reminding her that she was nothing more than a counterfeit, her name and past erased.
However, the instinct to survive and the desire for the truth overwhelmed all fear.
“Yes, madam,” Rose said, taking a deep breath and lowering her eyelashes.
"What should I call you?" Mrs. Holmes poked Rose's forehead hard with her finger, a sharp pain shooting through her forehead before turning into a dull ache. "How could you possibly fool my two sons with that cowardly look? Do you even know how incredibly intelligent they are?"
Rose had been adopted twice and then sent back to the orphanage. Reading people's expressions and moods was a skill she learned from a young age.
Fearing she might displease her mother, she quickly changed her address and tried her best to adopt a less timid tone: "Mother."
“Very good.” The lady’s lips curled into a slight smile, as if her previous rage was merely an illusion. “Now, go and wash away the last trace of wild dog odor from your body. Your ‘brothers’ are waiting for you.”
Years later, on countless nights, Rose would recall that morning when she was caught in the web of fate. The dark red velvet curtain was slowly rising, and neither of them realized that this drama woven from memories, lies, and blood ties would eventually come to an end in the rest of their lives.
“This is Rose,” the lady said, placing her hand on Rose’s shoulder. “Sherl, your memory is correct. She had been fostered in the countryside, and I only recently brought her back.”
Rose looked at the boy with fear—Sherlock Holmes. He was probably a year or two older than her, with short, slightly curly hair. What was most striking were his deep blue eyes, like priceless gems.
At that moment, Sherlock was looking at Rose with great excitement.
“Hello, sister.” Almost the instant the lady finished speaking, he embraced Rose. The intimate gesture made her tremble, then she smelled the comforting, clean scent of soap on the boy.
Just as Rose froze from the sudden hug, she saw another presence in the shadows behind Sherlock.
The boy was a bit taller and probably older than the two of them. This must be the lady's eldest son, Mycroft. Seeing Rose's gaze fixed on him, he walked over, his previously scrutinizing expression instantly vanishing, and he smiled at Rose in a gentlemanly manner.
Unlike Sherlock's reassuring smile, she could only sense cold formality and politeness.
Sherlock released Rose, his eyes still crinkling with a smile. His eyes weren't large, but the curve of his smile was captivating. "I'm the older brother," he said, seemingly genuinely happy. "You're just as beautiful as I remember. Actually, I'd forgotten what you looked like, but a vague impression kept reminding me that a sister should be beautiful." As he spoke, he even turned to look at Mycroft behind him. "It's frustrating that the three of us really don't look alike at all."
“There’s nothing to be discouraged about, Sherlock. Biological characteristics really don’t matter when it comes to filling an emotional void.” Mycroft walked closer to them. “Blood ties… are such a poor-quality adhesive… aren’t they?”
Fortunately, the lady interrupted him in time. She exaggeratedly walked between the three of them, separating Mycroft from the other two on either side: "Good heavens, Mycroft, you're always so pessimistic!"
Mycroft shrugged, looking indifferent. But he didn't say anything more.
From that day on, Rose took over everything from the real Miss Holmes, whose name had been erased, though this takeover was somewhat forced. As time passed, she gradually became aware of the undercurrents within the mansion.
Mr. Holmes died young, and the family suffered a severe blow, nearly being uprooted by high society. It was the wife of the Marquis who took on this responsibility, and through her efforts, the forgotten name gradually regained its vitality, even becoming more renowned than before.
Rose knew without much thought that all of this represented the culmination of her countless efforts. Perhaps having experienced the desolation of being ignored, she had become exceptionally obsessive, placing great importance on "prestige" and "aristocratic rights." This invisible pressure constantly loomed over the manor, especially over her two children.
…Two children? Then, who was the "she" that the lady had Rose replace? She remembered that the lady had clearly used "her" when she spoke. Rose's subconscious told her that there had once been a young lady in this family, probably around the same age as Rose.
Did the real Miss Holmes die? Why did she die? If she didn't die, where is she?
A seed of doubt was planted in Rose's heart, sprouting over time but failing to grow, because no one could find any clues. The former Miss Holmes had become almost a taboo in the entire manor, and Rose, as her replacement, diligently played that role.
At first, Rose worried she wouldn't be able to play the role well. Sherlock was incredibly intelligent—even to the point of being frightening to Rose. However, he always seemed unclear about his own affairs. Perhaps it was an intense longing for family that suppressed his suspicion of everything, giving rise to a dazzling trust. In short, he always regarded Rose as his long-lost sister, or rather, as a treasure he had lost and then regained.
On many sleepless nights, they would lie on the lawn in the garden and look at the stars. The evening breeze tousled Sherlock's natural curls and also obscured the world-weary look in his eyes.
"I hope I don't turn into some kind of star when I die," he muttered. "Who wants to keep watching this noisy human world?"
Rose smiled. "What if there are still people in this world that Brother Sherl cares about?"
He paused for a moment, then snorted, "Then I'll be the moon too. That way, you won't have to go through any trouble to find me."
This time, Rose remained silent.
Although they were not related by blood, warmth was infused into Rose's life in these moments. Along with this, as time passed, her memories of the orphanage gradually faded. She no longer treated Sherl as a "client," but she was also hesitant to truly consider him family—a sense of inferiority lingered in her heart, and she was especially afraid of him discovering that she was not the real Miss Holmes, thus she could never let go of her inner turmoil.
However, compared to Sherl, Rose feared Mycroft even more, the future heir of the family and the eldest son whom she was so proud of.
"Biological characteristics are indeed irrelevant to the pseudo-proposition of filling emotional voids." What was he trying to express with that first sentence? Did he already know that Rose was not Miss Holmes, but his later attitude didn't seem to indicate that he intended to reveal it?
So calm. Neither deliberately avoiding nor deliberately approaching, always as natural as plain water. She showed neither joy at having her "lost and found sister," nor any resistance. Many times, Rose had the illusion that she really was Mycorft's sister.
Rose usually only saw him at the dining table, where she sat opposite Mycroft, but he was almost always reading a newspaper. The open pages of the book blocked Rose's view, and she could only see his neatly styled brown hair peeking out from the edge of the newspaper.
If it were Shelly, the lady would have immediately demanded that he put down something that shouldn't be on the table. But she had always been exceptionally lenient with Mycroft. Since the lady didn't say anything, naturally no one dared to ask him to do anything. During the oppressive and dull mealtime, his attention seemed to be entirely on the newspaper, and he almost never spoke.
Rose's plan to observe his words and actions to see if he knew she wasn't his sister failed. A whole year passed, and aside from discovering his unusual love for sweets, Rose knew practically nothing about him.
But she dared not slacken her efforts to please him as arranged by the lady, mixed with a selfish desire to spy on him.
Holmes Estate has a terrace that is always filled with flowers. Mycroft often sits on a lounge chair there, seemingly pondering some profound questions, but his expression is always languid.
"Good morning, brother." When Rose served cocoa biscuits and tried to ingratiate herself with the future head of the Holmes family according to the etiquette her wife had taught her, he would always nod slightly and say, "Hello, Rose."
Today, as he took the cocoa biscuit, he suddenly raised an eyebrow at Rose and asked, "You've been crying. Why?"
Rose instinctively tried to cover it up, but he impatiently turned his gaze away: "What's there to argue about in front of me? There are creases on the lower left side of the dress, and even some undried marks. Judging by the length of your arm, lifting the hem would bring it right up to your eyes."
Sherlock was right; his patience was indeed short, and his insight was astonishing. Rose stood there, chilled to the bone, and stammered, "Because I didn't want to come to you."
Damn it, in the instant her rationality was shattered by being seen through, she had unconsciously blurted out the truth. Realizing everything, she lowered her head in fear, unable to look at his expression, her hand holding the plate trembling slightly.
He wasn't angry; he simply told Rose to leave. She felt like a prisoner pardoned from the death penalty, her back drenched in cold sweat. In the brief moment she turned away, Rose heard his emotionless voice: "You don't need to send me desserts anymore. If Mother asks, just say it was my wish."
Rose nodded. Then she suddenly remembered that he was sitting behind her and couldn't see her at all. So she added gratefully, "Thank you."
Mycroft didn't speak, and Rose didn't dare turn around to look at his expression. After that, he rarely appeared on the terrace anymore.
Was this a kind of quiet care? An invisible, unspoken help? Rose pondered for several days but couldn't come to a definite conclusion. But before she could figure it out, something terrifying and outrageous happened, completely overturning her first and subsequent impressions of him.
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