moths to a flame
“Owen’s ship is heading back to Berlin early the day after tomorrow. It was supposed to be a few days later, but he insisted on leaving earlier.” He looked at Rose, his voice lowering slightly due to a lack of confidence: “Rose, I still want to ask you one more time, are you willing to leave here with me?”
Rose was looking at him too. She tilted her head slightly, the evening breeze ruffling her hair and brushing against Eaton's flushed cheeks.
She looked into Eton's clear, untroubled eyes, shook her head, and opened her mouth—
“No, don’t tell me the answer!” Eaton interrupted her abruptly, pulling her into his arms almost desperately. It was a soldier’s embrace, rough, broad, and warm.
Rose buried her face in his strong shoulder, tears silently soaking his coat. "I can't leave. There's Sherlock. I... I can't just walk away like this, Eaton. You see, Mother's death hit him hard. He feels like he killed her. And I..." She paused.
The truth about the body double was like a fishbone stuck in her throat, and in the end, she expressed it in a different way.
“I am the only family member he has left, the one he feels he can hold onto tightly. If I suddenly leave and disappear, it would be like pulling out his last pillar. He would collapse. I can't imagine the consequences…”
Eaton paused for a moment, not immediately interrupting her grief with empty words of comfort. He simply reached out and gently lifted her cheek.
These hands have held hunting rifles and scooped up sand, and now they try to give some strength to the girl they love.
“Rosie,” his voice was unusually gentle, “look at me.”
Rose raised her teary eyes.
“I’ve heard you talk about your childhood, and I’ve seen the way he looked at you.” Eaton paused. “I know Sherlock and you have a deep bond.”
Rose nodded, her voice choked with emotion.
“But precisely because he loves you, because he cares about you,” Eaton said slowly, “what do you think his greatest wish is? Is it to keep you suffocating in this magnificent but dull manor forever, or to let you gain true happiness and freedom?”
"You think that your staying is supporting him, but have you ever thought that someone as perceptive as him wouldn't feel your unhappiness and repression? He might feel a moment of comfort because of your company, but when he later realizes that it came at the cost of your freedom and happiness, will that comfort still be sweet?"
Rose was stunned. She had never dared to think about this question so directly before.
Eaton’s voice became even more resolute: “A person who truly loves you has his happiness closely intertwined with yours. Your smile, your freedom, your vitality—these are all part of what sustains his world.”
“If you wither away here because you care about him, that would be the greatest harm to him. Your departure will not ruin his happiness, Rousey. On the contrary, your happiness is part of his happiness.”
“Rouxi, listen to me,” his voice carried a world-weary composure honed on the battlefield, a profound understanding of life and death. “I’ve seen too many people succumb to despair after losing their loved ones, but there are also those who carry the hopes of their loved ones and strive to become better people.”
He raised his hand and gently wiped away the tear stains on her cheek with his fingertips, his movements clumsy but his tone firm. "Sherlock Holmes is a smart man, perhaps one of the smartest I've ever met. I believe that deep within that brilliant mind, he will eventually understand this."
Rose stared blankly at Eaton; his words were like a ray of light, piercing through the fog and guilt that had lingered in her heart for years.
Yes, absolutely. She truly is a pillar of Sherlock's spiritual edifice.
But does he love the sister in his memory who was "like a little lark," or the living, breathing Rose in front of him who longs to break free?
Would he truly feel comforted if he knew she had been living a life of lies and self-sacrifice?
Sherlock may be paranoid, or he may be immersed in pain, but his love for her is real, filled with clumsy tenderness and wholehearted protection.
How could he want to see her wither away because of him?
Eurus once said that Sherlock couldn't pull her out of the vortex; instead, he might destroy himself.
Perhaps, bravely pursuing one's own happiness is the most powerful redemption for this distorted family relationship.
Perhaps true freedom is not only the liberation of oneself, but also a profound trust in loved ones—trust that they have the strength to endure and grow.
An unprecedented determination made her tremble.
Rose's hand, which had been hovering in mid-air, paused for a moment before it clung to Eaton like a moth drawn to a flame.
"I love you, Rousey, I love you."
A lingering, endless, tender kiss. Towards the end, Eaton even shed a tear.
Behind the large tree stood the gilded iron gate of Sherlock Holmes Estate.
Beneath the swaying shadows of the trees, there are only the most ordinary lovers in the world.
“A lowly, reckless soldier, a clumsy, wild goldfish. He says he loves her,” Mycroft tossed the report into the fireplace: “Does he even deserve her?”
The flames greedily licked the paper, turning it to ashes. Mycroft stood before the fireplace, his back tall, slender, and upright.
Anthea lowered her eyes: "Sir, the supplementary investigation results regarding Lieutenant Smith are in."
Mycroft didn't turn around, but simply tilted his head slightly, signaling her to continue.
“I used my deepest connections in Calcutta with the highest authority to trace his twelve years of service, even checking local non-military medical and civilian records.” Anthea paused. “The results showed that his file was not falsified. There were no hidden stains, no unexplained financial flows, and no connections to any suspicious organizations or individuals. Eaton Smith was indeed as he appeared: a young officer who rose through the ranks by merit, had a simple background, was trusted, and loved Ro—who had feelings for Miss Rose.”
Mycroft walked from the fireplace to the desk, his long, slender fingers pressing against the smooth mahogany surface, his knuckles gradually turning white as Anthea continued her report.
A good person, a truly good person of high moral character and integrity. There were no conspiracies, no scheming, and not even the alcoholism or violence often found in soldiers.
He can deal with the most cunning schemers, manipulate shrewd politicians, and calculate countless possibilities using logic and self-interest.
But how can he deal with a purely good person?
Lately, something has been relentlessly assaulting the high wall he has built with reason over the years, relentlessly pulling at his last shred of humanity, his refusal to indiscriminately kill innocent people.
It was jealousy. Naked, savage, and utterly inelegant jealousy.
He was jealous that Eaton could so easily call her "Roussie," with an exotic accent, yet it seemed to possess a kind of intimacy that he could never reach.
He envied Eaton for being able to hold her hand and run through the dusty market, watching her laugh without a care in the world, her eyes reflecting a strange, passionate intensity.
He was jealous that Eaton could embrace her as a matter of course, kiss away her tears, and promise to take her to see the world—the world that Mycroft had protected but had never truly let her experience.
He closed his eyes, and his mother's dying curse echoed clearly once more: "I will watch from heaven as you go mad, fall, and become insane in your desperate love..."
But this time, her mother's gift hummed in another ear: "I will leave everything to your family, including Miss Holmes."
She was Miss Holmes, his sister, and part of this heavy inheritance. He had the right to keep her. He could do whatever he wanted: freeze her funds, stage an accident at Eton, use Sherlock's mental state as a pretext, or even more direct methods.
The power of the British government was enough to crush an insignificant lieutenant and his so-called love.
That was enough to ensure she could never leave, that she would forever belong only to the Holmes family, to... him.
He saw his blurry reflection in the window—a face with sharp features but dark, clouded eyes, so unfamiliar.
Is this his mother's revenge on him before she died? Is this what she wanted to see from heaven? A monster who has abandoned reason, whose personality has been eroded, who is driven mad by love and hatred, by jealousy, and who is willing to destroy those he loves?
A monster like her?
He had reached the edge of good and evil, and reason and emotion were screaming at each other.
He reached out his hand. The hand that manipulated the empire, that could turn the tide of events.
The celestial river he had once drawn with his own hands had dried up due to Eton's intrusion, and now he faced a difficult choice.
Either suffer for the rest of your life, lose your loved one forever, and never see them again in this life; or be tainted by the innocent, be caught in a cycle of tragedy, and fall into eternal night.
That evening, Eaton returned to the hotel he shared with Owen, his face beaming with undisguised joy.
Owen was checking his packing list for tomorrow by candlelight when he saw him like this and put down the list: "What's wrong?"
Eaton practically leaped up to him: "Owen, Rousey said yes!"
Owen was stunned. Instead of the joy Eaton had expected, his face slowly furrowed.
"Are you sure? This is so sudden. Do you know what this means? She's giving up her aristocratic status, everything in London, to go with you to a completely unfamiliar place, even a place ravaged by war."
“She doesn’t care about any noble titles!” Eaton waved his hand. “Didn’t you see how repressed she was in that house? And I will definitely protect her. Don’t you trust my marksmanship?”
“I saw it,” Owen interrupted him, his expression turning serious, “but I also saw something you might not have noticed.” He hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully, “Eaton, you’re a pure soldier, your world is black and white. But the Holmes family isn’t like that. Especially Mr. Mycroft, his world is a world of countless layers of gray.”
He stood up, lowering his voice even further: "He and Miss Rose, I, I don't know how to describe it, but there was something wrong between them. It wasn't the usual concern of a brother for his sister; it was something more complicated, more subtle, more, I, I can't put it into words, but it definitely went beyond normal sibling affection."
He thought for a moment, then continued, “He controls almost everything. Do you think he would so easily let go of his sister, whom he cares so much about, and run away with someone like you—excuse my bluntness—whose background is worlds apart from his? Eaton, I fear you've crossed a dangerous line you can't imagine. Mycroft Holmes, he's definitely not the charming gentleman you see on the surface. You don't know what he's capable of doing to Rose; he once—”
At this point, Owen's voice abruptly stopped, as if he had something difficult to say.
Eaton frowned. "Come on, Owen, he's her brother after all. I think you're just paranoid because of the London rain!" With that, he hummed a Calcutta tune and turned to go into the bedroom.
The candle flame in his hand still flickered. In the dim candlelight, Owen seemed to have returned to that afternoon.
The suffocating afternoon when I was summoned by Mrs. Holmes.
The lady sat on the sofa, and when she laughed, her eyes looked a lot like Eurus's, those eyes that had always lived deep in her memory.
“Owen, I really like you and wish you would be my son-in-law.” The lady gazed at him with pity, but then added, “Unfortunately, it’s not possible.”
Eurus was stunned. The person he loved had always been Eurus, but this family had erased her from their lives. His lover had vanished without a trace, and suddenly a fake lady had appeared. His father, facing a failing business, was pressuring him to marry her. Now, however, his wife said it was impossible.
The lady was talking to herself in a way he couldn't understand.
“My eldest son gave up his dream career and agreed to go into politics. His only request is that Rose not marry you.”
“Owen, how absurd is this? He traded his freedom for Rose’s right to choose her own marriage.”
“Mycroft treats her so well. Hey, do you think he’s forgotten he’s not Rose’s biological brother? Or has he never forgotten he’s not Rose’s biological brother?”
Owen remembers standing frozen in place, completely at a loss. The lady kept talking, occasionally smiling at him.
He finally mustered the courage to ask, "How is Eurus? Is she still alive?"
He remembered the lady glancing at him, a look that was complicated with emotion.
When she spoke again, she changed the subject: "I will sign a long-term contract with your family, which will remain in effect forever, regardless of whether I am the head of the family or not. In return, I think you know how to keep all the secrets of the Holmes family hidden."
"You should know when to shut up."
"And, when... to speak up."
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