Endless Summer
She no longer passively drank the milk, but would actively ask the maid for it at fixed times. Sometimes Mycroft would bring it to her, and she would always carefully take it, drink it all, and then give him a grateful smile.
When he was working, she would often sit next to him, her breathing almost inaudible. And when his gaze swept over her, she would look up at the opportune moment to meet his eyes.
The seasons change outside the window, but the manor seems to never change, always warm and quiet, making one drowsy.
It's Christmas again. Mycroft hands Rose a gift, and she opens the box to find a necklace inside.
She glanced at it, said nothing, and unlike last year, didn't let it fall to the ground and never pick it up again.
She simply turned away from him, tossing her long hair behind her neck. It was a silent invitation.
Mycroft took out the necklace; his movements were a little clumsy, but he quickly fastened the clasp. The gemstone hung heavily below her slender collarbone.
Rose let her hair down, turned around, and thanked him.
He didn't say anything, but simply reached out and tidied the stray strands of hair at her temples.
Sometimes the two of them go to art exhibitions together.
"Rose, do you like this painting?" He pointed to a landscape painting on the wall. It was a lotus pond on a summer night, painted by a master painter who was renowned throughout Europe, with exquisite skill.
As she looked at the painting, memories of fishing with Sherlock by the artificial lake flashed through her mind. When a fish was about to bite, he would scare her, causing her hand to tremble and the fish to return to the lake. She would complain about his pranks, but he would laugh and say that the fish were still young and it wasn't the right time yet. He was such a good person, so why did he not receive a good reward?
Mycroft was waiting for her to answer the question, but when she spoke, she said to him, "Do you want me to like it?"
So he stopped asking. If she glanced at something a few times, he would buy it and put it in a suitable place at home. Most of the time, the two of them would silently look at the exhibitions, skim through them, and then leave.
This meticulous compliance, like fine threads, entwined his heart. He felt no pleasure; on the contrary, the more she acted this way, the more he felt something blocking his pleasure.
One rainy afternoon, they passed by a corner dessert shop that she and Sherlock used to sneak off to. The window still displayed lemon cakes covered in thick icing. Sherlock always loved to buy them, stubbornly claiming it was just to "replenish the brain's sugar needs." She would take a small piece and laugh at his excuses.
At that moment, Mycroft noticed that she was walking a little slower and turned his gaze to the shop beside her.
"Shall we go in?" he asked.
Rose quickly looked away and shook her head. "Too cloying," she said softly, "and...I remember you didn't like the feeling of being crowded in the store."
Mycroft smiled faintly and said nothing.
When they returned to the manor from the dessert shop, the rain hadn't stopped. The candlesticks in the corridor were already lit, casting long shadows onto the dark carpet.
Rose ate very little for dinner, explaining that her daytime walk had left her feeling tired. Mycroft didn't ask, simply saying, "Then go to bed early tonight."
That night, she slept soundly. He was reviewing Whitehall's decrees, staying up very late because of the upcoming Swedish general election.
Suddenly he heard a faint sound; she was dreaming. At first, it was just soft murmurs, indistinct and unclear. Then her body began to move slightly, her brows furrowed, and her fingers unconsciously tightened around the sheets.
He tossed the documents aside and hurried over. She was lost in thought, her hands clasped aimlessly. He offered her his hand, trying to give her some support.
Then his hand was gripped tightly, and a tear rolled down Rose's cheek. She murmured something to herself. He leaned closer and heard her say:
“Sherlock…have you come to take me away…”
The next day, he didn't give her milk. The withdrawal symptoms from the medication arrived as expected; she began to tremble uncontrollably, her nightgown soaked with cold sweat.
But instead of begging as she usually did, she bit her lower lip tightly, curled up in the corner of the bed, and silently endured the pain.
Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed, watching her quietly.
“You can ask me,” he said.
Rose lifted her sweaty face, her eyes, though strained to focus, held a hint of stubborn pleading: "I... can endure it."
At that moment, Mycroft saw the staggering price she was willing to pay to achieve her goal.
But her goal, the person she was willing to go to such lengths to achieve, was never him, but Sherlock. They were the only two people he loved in his black-and-white world, and love taken to its extreme gave rise to hatred.
He handed her the milk, then let go just as she was about to take it.
Liquid splashed everywhere, and the glass shattered on the floor. She looked up at him, puzzled, but quickly concealed her confusion, hastily apologizing, "I'm sorry."
I don't know if he accepted her apology, because he only said, "Didn't you need it? Why didn't you drink it? Did I not give it to you?"
She paused for a few seconds, her honey-colored pupils contracting laboriously in the haze created by the drugs. She didn't question them, nor did she show any resentment; she simply obediently and without hesitation bent down.
She stretched out her slender fingers to dab at the winding, milky-white liquid on the carpet. Her fingertips were stained with the liquid, mixed with carpet fibers and dust. She raised her hand, preparing to put it in her mouth.
That's enough.
He grasped her hand, and she froze, her gaze somewhat timid.
"Just how far are you willing to go for Sherlock?"
"……sorry."
"I cannot apologize."
"I...I don't know."
“Look at me.” He looked directly at her. “Tell me, what do you want right now?”
Rose reached out, wanting to grasp his hand back. But then she remembered the milk residue still clinging to her fingertips and his habitual fastidiousness, and pulled back as if electrocuted.
Her eyes were moist, her eyelashes trembling like wet butterfly wings. She opened her mouth, her voice trembling, "I...want to make you happy."
Why do you want to make me happy?
“Because,” she struggled to find the right words, “because, because,” she burst into tears, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I’m so sorry…”
Rose crouched on the floor, sobbing like a child. Mycroft tried to hug her, but when he touched her, she instinctively flinched, then trembled and retreated into his arms. When his hand touched her back, she convulsed again, then apologized frantically.
She cried even louder.
Mycroft didn't press her further. He simply picked her up and carried her to the bathroom. The milk stains and dust on her body were washed away, and she leaned against him obediently throughout, letting him do as he pleased.
The room was filled with the steam of milk. He helped her change into a clean nightgown and brought her fresh milk. This time, he personally held the cup to her lips.
Rose sipped her drink slowly. After finishing, she instinctively tried to smile, but froze the moment she met his gray eyes. The smile remained on her lips, unable to bloom no matter how hard she tried.
Mycroft didn't puncture it; he simply took the empty cup and placed it aside.
He then left the bathroom. After drinking the milk laced with the drug, Rose's world quieted down; her body became less sensitive, and her turbulent emotions were calmed.
She stood up, opened the bathroom door, and looked in Mycroft's direction. He was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, and there were some unopened cabinet documents on his desk.
His brows bore a lingering weariness, and an emptiness that suggested he had gained everything yet had nothing at all.
Such an expression never appeared on him, because he was always the one in control of the situation and had boundless energy.
She looked at him for a while, then slowly walked up to him and knelt down.
Mycroft opened his eyes as she approached, a questioning glint in his grey pupils. His brow furrowed immediately when he saw her movement.
"What are you doing?" His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a clear sense of dissuasion.
Rose didn't answer; he simply reached out and tried to unbuckle his belt.
Mycroft grabbed her wrist with considerable force. "Rose," he called her name, his voice turning somber, "stop."
She looked up, her honey-colored eyes devoid of emotion, simply gazing at him like a small animal: "You look tired."
Mycroft released her wrist, leaned back, and created some distance.
"So this is the new way you've learned?" His tone was unusually calm. "To see him?"
Rose lowered her head, tacitly acknowledging the accusation. She looked at the pattern on the carpet: "Is it alright?"
Mycroft took a deep breath. "Get up." He pulled her up. "Go and rest."
Rose stood up following his hand, then walked to the bedside and lay down. She turned to his side, closed her eyes, and deliberately kept her breathing steady, trying to prove that she was obeying.
He didn't stay overnight, but simply tucked her in, silently got up, and left the room.
The door was gently closed.
Rose opened her eyes; her honey-colored pupils reflected no light.
She looked out the floor-to-ceiling window. The moon had risen, bright and flawless.
Then she turned over, buried her face in the soft pillow, and remained motionless like a truly asleep person.
Only she knew that before her consciousness sank into the chaos brought on by the drugs, the last thing that flashed through her mind was not the blood and tears of the past ten years, nor the love and hate that could not be severed.
It was a morning long ago. She was very young then, and Sherlock took her hand, and they ran to the fields behind the manor. The sun had just risen, and dew still clung to the grass. They ran and ran until they were breathless, then collapsed onto the grass, laughing together.
The sun was warm that day, and it felt a little hot on my face.
She remembers that temperature.
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