Letter from Berlin
The lady's passing was like the removal of the manor's backbone, even though she had always brought oppression rather than warmth during her lifetime. However, her departure did not take away the emptiness of the manor; in fact, it amplified it somewhat.
The magnificent curtains remained low, and the expensive furniture stood silently, with only the occasional echo of footsteps on the heavy carpet.
In this quiet stillness, a letter from Berlin was delivered to the heart of the estate. Anthea silently placed it on Mycroft's large mahogany desk; the German calligraphy and family crest on the envelope clearly identified the sender.
It was Owen, the young German man who had a brief engagement with Rose.
His letter began by expressing his grief and regret over his wife's passing. He then stated that with her death, the leadership of the Holmes family had changed, and the previous signatures had lost their legal validity. He would be traveling from Berlin to London to represent his family in reconfirming the long-standing business contracts between the two companies.
Mycroft scanned the letters, his fingertips tapping lightly on the smooth paper. He was well aware of the unfinished past between Owen and Rose, arranged by his mother, and he remembered the price he had paid for it. He had thought he would lose his job in the Mathematical Society, and his freedom for life. Later, he discovered it was more than that; it also included his mother, the only remaining elder in the world to whom he had such complex feelings.
Now that time has passed and he holds power, he carefully examines the accounts. This long-term order was originally intended as compensation to Owen for breaking off the engagement, and he had received considerable favors from him. It was already a deal that involved giving up a profit, yet the returns had been mediocre year after year, leaving him with almost no benefit.
Mycroft estimated the situation and, in his reply, pointed out in detail the shortcomings of Owen's shipbuilding process, suggesting that he quickly eliminate the conservative and outdated production techniques and switch to producing more advanced steamships.
The letter was almost entirely in a serious tone, urging the recipient to make changes as soon as possible, except at the end. Mycroft unusually added a sentence that seemed out of place with the preceding content: After Owen arrives in London, he will host a grand banquet at the manor, which the three Holmes siblings will attend.
It wasn't that Mycroft had suddenly changed his aversion to pointless socializing; rather, he needed such a banquet, a reason, a reason to gather his family under one roof. Owen was insignificant to him, merely a fleeting passerby in life, a clumsy goldfish oblivious to the tides of industry. But family—family was his treasure, the very reason his delicate heart beat.
Sherlock hadn't been back to the manor in a long time, or rather, he hadn't been back at all. He seemed to have grown to loathe the place, though that was only natural. Mycroft even regretted his decision, regretting letting him leave, yet unable to bear not letting him go.
As for Rose, every time he met her, he would upset her, even though he was the one who showed displeasure first. Reflecting on it later, he realized that when talking to her, he was probably subconsciously using this displeasure to suppress something that was about to surface, hence his unusual impatience. Gradually, he stopped seeing Rose and even began avoiding her.
However, a deeply ingrained impulse gnawed at his proud rationality day and night. He couldn't name it for a time; perhaps the relevant words had long been erased from his mental repertoire. Until one day, in his office at Buckingham Palace, a subordinate nervously requested to leave early, his reason simple and pure: his daughter, who had gone to Poland, had returned, and he had missed her dearly.
……"miss".
Ah, that thing, that impulse, the relentless, unforgettable impulse, is actually called... longing...?
At that moment, the "British government," which remained unfazed even in the face of raging storms, surprisingly showed a hint of surprise. His subordinates looked on with unease, wondering why their astute and indifferent superior had suddenly changed his expression.
He deeply regretted his hasty request for leave until his boss quickly wrote a note, generously granting him a six-month paid leave, even signing it himself—a long holiday personally bestowed by him, one that no one could question.
Preparations for the banquet proceeded smoothly under the butler's management. The long-dormant manor seemed to be infused with a kind of raw vitality, as servants polished silverware, arranged flowers, and prepared food. Everything seemed to have returned to the days when the lady was still alive, yet it was also completely different.
Rose learned about the banquet from the butler. Her first reaction was astonishment, followed by a feeling of exhaustion as if she had been dragged back to the center stage.
Owen... this name sounds like something from another world.
"Do I have to attend?" she asked the housekeeper.
The butler lowered his eyes respectfully: "Mr. Mycroft specifically instructed that you must attend, Miss."
It was Mycroft again, the increasingly autocratic and unpredictable Mycroft. She truly didn't know what had happened to him, why he had suddenly become like this. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she had ever truly understood Mycroft, even just a tiny bit?
This time, the image that appeared in her mind was no longer the one who loved desserts and would occasionally eat sandwich cookies in the middle of the night, the one who was willing to be locked up even if it meant dedicating his life to the industry he loved. Nor was it the one who stopped going to the terrace to reduce her delivery fees, the one who paused slightly at the strange notes in Sherlock's violin.
Instead, it was he who saw through her fake identity from the very beginning; it was he who said "Let me do it" without any expression when the lady had the servant force Sherlock to binge eat; it was he who inexplicably resigned from the mathematics board to plunge into the quagmire of politics and quickly rose to a high position; it was he who bluntly told her "emotions are the appendix of personality" after the lady's funeral.
He doesn't love her, and he won't fall in love with anyone else.
Something within Rose died completely. At the same time, something new, sharp, and rebellious, something that had already quietly sprouted, was growing stronger and stronger.
That evening at the banquet, the maid dressed Rose in the deep blue velvet gown that the lady had commissioned for her years before, the hem adorned with tiny pearls, elegant yet heavy. As the sash tightened, Rose mustered her courage and, for the first time, pushed the maid's hand away: "Please don't." She removed the heavy gown and untied her meticulously styled hair.
Then she took a simple dress from the closet, unadorned and utterly plain, pure white without any extra beads. She had bought it during a half-day she and Sherlock were once allowed to leave the manor, but the lady of the house never allowed her to wear it, saying it was too unbecoming. Then she threw her untied hairband on the ground, letting her hair fall loose, no longer bound by any unnecessary restraint.
“If the lady were still alive, she would be furious. She once said that only milkmaids dressed like that.” Rose chuckled at the maid. “Mycroft would be furious too. I really want to see his expression.”
The maid stared at her mistress, who was already somewhat delirious, without saying a word.
Mycroft had Anthea write to the mailbox at 221B Baker Street, but Sherlock didn't reply. However, he did come to the party. He wasn't alone; he was accompanied by Dr. John H. Watson.
“Good evening,” Watson said, shaking hands with Mycroft first, unlike Sherlock who viewed traditional etiquette as hypocrisy. “Thank you for the invitation. The banquet is very, well, very grand.” He struggled to find the right words.
“It would be an honor.” Mycroft’s response carried his characteristic aloofness, a half-smile.
Sherlock impatiently interrupted the hypocritical pleasantries: "Enough already? This boring, worldly drama." He then gave Mycroft a cold glance: "I'm not in the mood for your brotherly games. You wanted me here, so what?"
“You’re wrong, Sherlock. I’m the one who’s making things right for you, aren’t I? I’ve given you a reason, a legitimate reason, to see Rose. Shouldn’t you be grateful?”
A tense atmosphere spread between the Holmes brothers, and Watson, the easygoing one, tried to smooth things over: "Rose, wait, which Rose? Your sister? Good heavens, just the two of you together are enough to be... 'extraordinary.' I'm really curious what kind of person your sister must be."
"She is different from us!" The Holmes brothers almost unanimously declared that their sister was an elegant and dignified young woman, not some kind of cunning, eccentric, or strange oddball.
Watson raised an eyebrow, giving off a "whatever makes you happy" look.
When Rose entered the hall, the first thing she saw was Mycroft. He was dressed in a finely tailored black tuxedo, his posture upright, and his expression as composed as ever. Next, she saw Sherlock, dressed casually in a high-necked trench coat, and even wearing a somewhat comical hat he'd bought from who-knows-where. He was increasingly resembling a detective, she thought to herself, pleased for him.
Beside Sherlock stood a tanned man of average height, but with refined features and impeccable attire, exuding a natural sense of approachability and trustworthiness. This must be his roommate, Dr. Watson. Should she call him "doctor" or "soldier"? Rose pondered.
Mycroft saw her first. Rose thought of her outfit: a plain white dress, her hair loose and disheveled, and felt a sense of satisfaction at having pulled off a prank. But the expression she imagined Mycroft would have was not there. He still had the same expression, neither angry nor happy, and simply walked a little closer to her: "You've come."
In that instant, Sherlock's gaze shifted to her. "I never thought I'd see you again in my lifetime," he said, the word "bastard" stuck in his throat, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. "Damn it, why don't you ever go to 221B Baker Street?"
At the same time, Watson looked at her. Her face was neither like Sherlock nor Mycroft, but equally sharp and handsome like a Greek painting. Her dress was so simple that it was out of place among the guests of the banquet, and her hair was completely unbecoming of etiquette.
A series of emotions flashed through those gentle eyes: surprise, doubt, contemplation, and sudden realization, as if to say, "I knew it! She must be a genius who is also out of step with the world. What were you trying to cover up just now?"
It was only then that Sherlock noticed Rose's clothes and attire. He couldn't help but laugh: "Quite original, Mother must be furious." He suddenly realized that his wife was no longer there, and his expression instantly fell. "Oh, I forgot, she's dead, I drove her to her death. Looks like you'll never achieve that."
Watson listened to this shocking family conversation, opened his mouth, but ultimately wisely chose to remain silent.
The strange scene was broken by the arrival of the butler, who bowed to the four of them and then walked to Mycroft's side, whispering in his ear, "Master, Mr. Owen has arrived, and he seems to have brought a friend with him."
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