The past is like a dream
The door to 221B Baker Street creaked open in Watson's hands.
A draft of overly clean air, carrying the scent of lemon slices and disinfectant, wafted over me. It wasn't the smell of home; it smelled of something thoroughly cleaned, disinfected, and then reassembled.
Sherlock followed behind him, his sharp eyes scanning the foyer inch by inch.
“It seems your landlady is a clean freak, John,” he reasoned consistently. “Or rather, she has some kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder. The floors have been rewaxed, even the dust on the handrails has been cleaned. There’s nothing here that belongs to the past.”
Watson forced a smile: "Mrs. Hudson is indeed very clean."
He led Sherlock up the stairs. The living room door was open, and the sight inside almost suffocated Watson.
Familiar, yet utterly unfamiliar.
His armchair was still in the same place, but now covered with brand-new, wrinkle-free velvet cushions. The chair that used to belong to Sherlock in front of the fireplace was gone, replaced by a similar but clearly brand-new single sofa. The area on the wall that had once been studded with letters and clippings was now spotless, with only an expensive, traditional, old-fashioned landscape painting hanging on it. The books on the bookshelves were arranged like soldiers, reorganized according to spine color and height, without a trace of having been read.
There are no chemical laboratory equipment, no randomly piled violin sheet music, no pipes, no scattered bullet casings, and no nicotine patches here.
There is nothing that belongs to the former Sherlock Holmes.
There was only one person in the world who could deceive Sherlock without him noticing. Watson didn't know where he got the key, nor when he had fixed everything. He felt a chill run down his spine.
“It seems your roommate moved out quite thoroughly.” Sherlock looked around and couldn’t help but admire, “It’s terrifying, but also quite interesting, to be able to clean up a house so thoroughly that no one can find out what kind of person he is. I’d love to meet him.”
Just as Watson stood frozen in place, unsure how to respond, he heard Mrs. Hudson's somewhat flustered footsteps coming from downstairs.
“Dr. Watson! You’re back!” She appeared in the doorway, holding a plate of pastries, her smile stiff, her eyes darting around, not even daring to look in Sherlock’s direction. “Is this your new roommate?”
Watson was stunned: "Mrs. Hudson?" He subconsciously repeated her name, "This is, this is Sherlock Holmes."
How could this be? How could Mrs. Hudson seem to have completely forgotten Sherlock? Although he had prepared himself mentally, he still found it hard to accept when all this absurdity unfolded before his eyes.
“Oh! Mr. Holmes!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed in an exaggerated, extremely unnatural way, as if she were hearing the name for the first time. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Are you satisfied with the room? I had it cleaned and furnished again, and I hope you, my new guest, will like it.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow slightly, a hint of interest flashing in his eyes. "Speaking of the new tenant, to be honest, I'm very curious about what kind of person the previous tenant was. Would you mind telling me?"
Mrs. Hudson's face turned pale instantly. She looked at Watson almost pleadingly, her lips trembling, "That was...that was a difficult tenant. Let's not talk about it. I'll head back now. If you need anything, feel free to come find me on the first floor!"
She hurriedly placed the pastries on the coffee table and then fled in a panic.
Sherlock frowned, and Watson remained silent; the two were silent for a moment. Finally, Sherlock broke the silence first.
"Finally out of that awful place." He took off his coat and tossed it onto the sofa, his tone deliberately light. "Now, let's see what kind of boring cases London has in store for us. I need something to get my brain working."
He walked to the window and habitually looked down at the street, searching for any possible figures of his client.
This time, however, his gaze was involuntarily drawn to his reflection in the windowpane. His face was pale and thin, his black curly hair slightly disheveled. And his gaze, no longer as sharp as sunlight, was instead filled with a gloomy, rainy atmosphere.
He decided to ask, just once in his life. As if he had made up his mind, he turned around and looked at Watson, who was packing his suitcase.
“John.”
"Hmm?" Watson responded, but didn't stop what she was doing, nor did she look up to meet his gaze. "What's wrong?"
Sherlock stared at him. “While I was in a coma, you saw your therapist. More than once. There are faint traces of tobacco on your left fingertips, and although you try to hide it, you're trying to quit because Mycroft or someone else told you it was ‘bad’ for me. Look at the new calluses on your hands; you almost never smoked before, you only recently picked up the habit, and it's quite severe. You still have nightmares about Afghanistan, but recently the scenes have changed, there's something new in them… What is it?”
John's body stiffened, and his fingers tightened slightly as he held the clothes.
“Sherlock…”
“Why?” Sherlock stepped forward, his deep blue eyes fixed on Watson, speaking rapidly: “Why do you always look at me with such a…guilt? Damn guilt! Why would someone like Mycroft send you to me? And this weird place, this landlady who’s clearly not telling the truth! What are you hiding from me? Have we met before?”
Sherlock knelt down in front of Watson, his long black trench coat trailing on the ground. He stared at the medic who was still avoiding his gaze, his voice lowering, his tone no longer sharp, but soft, even pleading: "Tell me, John, tell me everything. Please."
It turns out that the proud, childish, and somewhat stubborn Sherlock could one day tremble and say "Please." Watson's heart was almost broken.
He wanted to tell Sherlock everything more than anyone else, but how could he say it?
Tell him that he and he have known each other for many years, tell him that he has forgotten Rose who grew up with him, tell him that she is not actually his sister, tell him that his brother fell in love with her, tell him that his brother killed her lover, tell him that his sister's traces have been erased by the family, tell him that his mother did not actually die because of him, tell him that he fell into a coma because he took a knife for his brother who claimed to hate him the most, and tell him that his brother erased his memory.
Each fact alone is enough to devastate Sherlock's mental fortitude. And when these facts come together—the regrets, the guilt, the entanglements, the relationships, the past, the future—the weight of the truth will surely drive the detective, already incredibly vulnerable due to his childhood, to madness.
He had to protect Sherlock, even if it meant a lifetime of torment, even if it meant sacrificing their shared past, present, and future.
Thinking of this, the struggle in Watson's eyes receded like the tide, replaced by a bottomless weariness and despair.
“Sherlock,” his words were a form of torture for both of them, “we’ve never met before.”
“My nightmares are just lingering effects of war, but they’re a bit more severe. I smoke because of the stress.” He kept avoiding his gaze. “Mycroft entrusted you to me, and I… I’m afraid I won’t do a good job, that I’ll disappoint him, or that I’ll worsen your condition, which would be against the duty of a doctor. That’s why I feel guilty.”
Towards the end, his voice grew softer and softer, almost a soliloquy: "Everything here has been renovated, probably because Mrs. Hudson wanted to make a good impression on the new tenants. The old tenant, he was just an insignificant person, and I didn't like him either. Don't mention him again; I don't want to recall anything related to him."
Sherlock gave an utterly absurd laugh.
He pointed to the room: "It seems I've left the manor and entered a new cage."
“I thought at least you were different, John. But I was clearly wrong.”
This sentence was no less powerful than the letter opener. That knife pierced Sherlock, while Sherlock's words pierced John.
Seeing John's reaction, Sherlock felt as if an invisible hand had squeezed his heart.
I'm so angry, so helpless, so heartbroken, and I want to leave him, to leave this feeling, to leave all this hypocrisy.
But he knew he could never do it, because he could never bear to.
"Get out." Sherlock closed his eyes. "I want to be alone now."
Watson ultimately said nothing. He silently put down his book, turned and left the living room, closing the door behind him.
Sherlock was left alone in the room.
He lost a part of his past.
He may be losing John.
And he didn't even know why.
He hates him.
He can't live without him.
There's nothing he can do.
Sherlock buried his head in his knees. His long, black, curly hair was fluffy, and he looked like a young animal licking its wounds.
The blinds in room 221B were not closed, and the wind blew into the room, making my forearm feel damp and cold.
It was a crystal-clear tear, pure and clean.
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