Spiral Sea
Rose no longer mentioned leaving, nor did she go on a hunger strike. She obediently drank her daily milk, quietly staying within the invisible yet omnipresent boundaries that Mycroft had drawn for her. She would even give the maids who brought her meals a faint smile, though that smile never reached her honey-colored eyes, which seemed to be veiled by a thin mist.
However, a new and more unsettling sign began to emerge.
It started subtly. One afternoon at tea, Mycroft noticed several parallel, faint red marks on the back of her left hand, as if it had been repeatedly rubbed by something rough. He took her wrist and ran his fingertips over the marks.
He took her hand, his concern evident in his eyes: "What happened?"
Rose followed his gaze, a genuine look of confusion on her face, as if she were seeing these scars for the first time.
“I don’t know,” she searched her memory but found nothing. “Maybe I accidentally swiped it somewhere.”
Mycroft didn't ask any further questions, but simply instructed the maid to re-padded all the edges of the furniture in the room that could potentially cause scratches.
But the marks didn't disappear; instead, they multiplied and became increasingly hidden. Sometimes they were on the inside of her arms, sometimes on her waist, and sometimes on her thighs. They were usually scratches or unnatural redness and swelling, as if caused by continuous pressure.
She has no recollection of it, nor does she feel any pain.
She apologized when Mycroft found out. "I'm sorry," she said, her honey-colored eyes filled with remorse.
Once, he saw her sitting by the window with a book on her lap, her right hand unconsciously and repeatedly scratching the same patch of skin on her left wrist with her fingernails, where the skin was broken and bleeding.
“Rose,” he called out.
She abruptly stopped, as if jolted awake from a brief reverie. She glanced up at him, then looked down at the injury on her wrist, her eyes filled with confusion.
Mycroft summoned a doctor. The doctor carefully examined the wounds and prescribed some ointment to treat them, but privately told Mycroft, "Mr. Holmes, the ointment has relieved her of pain and stripped her of her will to die, but her subconscious has never given up on leaving this place."
The doctor paused for a moment, then cautiously explained, "But this doesn't mean it's ineffective; it just shows that her will... was once very strong."
An instinct she herself couldn't perceive or control. Her soul was imprisoned by drugs, with nowhere to go, even anger and sorrow were numbed. But her heart never gave up trying to escape, even to hell. There was no other way in the world, so the only option was to find a way out through the most primal means, within her body.
He ordered increased security. Maids were instructed to stay close by at all times, ensuring Rose's hands were always within sight. Soft gloves were placed on her hands to prevent her from scratching unconsciously.
However, the harm has simply taken a different form.
She started to stumble and bump into things occasionally. When walking, she would accidentally bump into a door frame, leaving a bruise on her shoulder. When reaching for a water glass, she would accidentally drop it, and the broken pieces would sometimes cut her ankles. She remained unusually calm about these accidents, as if the body covered in bruises and scratches did not belong to her.
One night, Mycroft was awakened by a noise beside him and looked in that direction.
Rose didn't try to escape, nor did she make any violent moves. She simply curled up on the carpet at the foot of the bed, her forehead pressed against the cold, silk-covered bedpost, gently tapping it again and again, producing a dull, repetitive knocking sound.
Moonlight filtered through the gauze curtains, illuminating her pale face. There was a noticeable red swelling on her forehead.
Mycroft's heart clenched. He hurried over, knelt beside her, and placed his arm between her forehead and the bedpost.
The impact stopped.
Rose slowly raised her head, looking at him with a dazed expression, as if she didn't recognize him. Several seconds passed before her gaze finally focused.
"I'm sorry," she apologized instinctively, though she didn't know why.
Mycroft didn't speak. He looked at the glaring red swelling on her forehead, then carried her back to bed and covered her with the blanket. She obediently closed her eyes, her breathing quickly becoming even, as if she weren't the one who had just banged her head against the bedpost.
He sat on the edge of the bed, gazing at her peaceful sleeping face by candlelight. His fingers unconsciously caressed the skin on her arm, which was still aching from where she had bumped into him, beneath the cuff of his suit jacket.
———
The intervention has begun.
The first thing to come is stricter protection.
The bedroom had changed. The large, classically styled bed with pillars had been moved and replaced with a tatami mat from Kyoto, completely covered with thick, soft cushions. A plush carpet covered the floor, so even if you slipped and fell, you wouldn't get hurt.
The marble seat by the window where she often sat had been removed and replaced with a velvet couch.
The entire room felt like a soft box carefully prepared for fragile items.
Secondly, there was the dosage of Gu Ke Bao. He gradually reduced it for her long-term health.
The initial reduction in size went almost unnoticed. Rose remained quiet, only occasionally appearing more agitated than usual, unconsciously frowning and fidgeting with her skirt.
But soon, changes began after the drug concentration in her blood dropped significantly.
The soft protective barrier between her and the world seemed to have thinned. The sounds became sharp again, and the light regained its original intensity, even becoming more glaring. More importantly, the painful traumas that had been forcibly suppressed by medication reappeared in her nightmares time and time again.
Rose keeps inexplicably thinking about Sherlock.
On Christmas Eve, Mycroft handed her a velvet box: "A Christmas present."
Rose opened it up and saw a perfectly cut gemstone, deep blue in color with a subtle luster.
But she was reminded of Sherlock's pupils.
In that instant, her hand suddenly loosened, and it fell onto the carpet.
In addition, she became increasingly irritable.
One ordinary midday, while she was eating, she suddenly threw her soup spoon on the floor. The silverware struck the ground with a jarring sound. She screamed, "I remember the fish soup was cold!"
Mycroft gestured for the maid to tidy up, and gently comforted her: "The temperature is constant, Rose. It's your own senses that are distorted."
"My senses?" She found it utterly absurd. "You've already ruined my senses!"
As the medication dosage was gradually reduced, Rose was no longer just irritable; she descended into a more primal madness.
It was too noisy, too bright, and too painful. Most of the time, she was confined to that soft bed, watched over by a maid. The doctor had suggested using ropes, but Mycroft refused.
She couldn't sit still, nor could she sleep. The silk sheets were tangled up by her movements, then kicked away. She would suddenly sit up, tugging at her dull blonde hair. The next moment, she might abruptly lie down, curl up, and press her knees against her chest, as if that could ward off the excruciating pain in her internal organs.
Her world consisted of only two states: the hellish withdrawal symptoms and an unwavering craving for the drug that could pull her out of hell.
Mycroft didn't go in to see her often; most of the time he just stood outside the door.
The heavy oak door could block out most of the sound, but he could still hear the muffled rolling sounds coming from inside, the maid's attempts to dissuade him, the occasional thud of something falling to the ground, or broken groans as if they were being covered by cloth.
Because often, as soon as he stepped into that room, as soon as Rose noticed his presence, all her mania would instantly transform into a precise, heartbreaking plea directed at him, as if a switch had been flipped.
She would immediately roll off the bed, almost crawl to his feet, and hug his legs desperately.
Then she would look up at him with tears streaming down her face.
Sometimes she would beg him, calling him "brother" over and over again, promising that she would never leave him again.
Sometimes she would describe her pain in detail, using vivid language to depict the torment she was enduring.
Sometimes she would become unusually proactive in negotiating, making promises, swearing oaths, and using every trick in the book to try and get that glass of milk that would free her.
Mycroft knew he couldn't be soft-hearted. However, watching her tremble and break down beside him, watching her pour out her pain, his icy rationality began to crack.
Finally, after nearly three hours of crying and pleading, he held her and asked Anthea to bring the milk.
When it was brought in, Rose's eyes immediately lit up with a mixture of joy and gratitude. She snatched it and gulped it down in a flustered manner.
A few minutes later, my tense nerves began to relax, my agitation subsided, and a dreamlike sound came through, and the world was once again shrouded in that soft membrane.
A happy glow shone on her face.
Mycroft completely abandoned his plan to reduce the dosage.
———
Rose returned to her former self: docile, quiet, and approachable. In response, the scars gradually reappeared.
He ultimately chose the most primitive and direct method.
He increased the time he spent personally caring for her. He moved all his official duties to her side, sitting in her room, within her sight.
He would immediately stop her when she unconsciously reached for a place that might cause harm, even if it was already wrapped in silk.
When she starts scratching her skin due to inexplicable anxiety, he will hold her hand and cover her slightly cool fingers with his warm palm.
When she tosses and turns restlessly in her sleep late at night, her body unconsciously bumping against the bed, he will pull her into his arms to restrain her movements that might hurt herself.
This was a silent, hands-on form of care. With his body, he built a moving, warm wall, separating her from the world she was attacking herself.
Rose showed neither liking nor disliking this. Of course, she also never stopped hurting herself.
One afternoon, they were sunbathing together. The sunlight was warm and cozy, and Rose nestled on Mycroft's lap like a cat.
"When will you be able to behave? Maybe I'll reward you with something."
"I don't need your charity."
“But didn’t you say you wanted to see Sherlock?” Mycroft smiled and said, “I must have been too busy and remembered it wrong.”
“Listen to me…” Rose hesitated for a moment, then looked up at herself: “What should it be?”
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