Love and hate have nowhere to go
On the stage, the scenery of Verona is laid out before you, and Romeo is reciting passionate poems to Juliet on her balcony.
Low gasps, joyful exclamations, or sighs of regret erupted from the audience downstairs from time to time.
“The stage design here is exquisite,” Rose said, looking at the stage in a low voice, as if afraid of disturbing the dreamlike scene. “I don’t know how they did it. The moonlight effect is almost indistinguishable from reality.”
Mycroft nodded. “It looks like they’re using the latest steam lamps and reflector technology. The Industrial Revolution has completely transformed London.” He turned his head to see her profile illuminated by the moonlight. “If you like, you can install the same equipment at home.”
“Okay.” Rose instinctively wanted to say “Thank you, brother” as usual, but then felt it was strange. She swallowed the words and changed the subject: “Have you been to this theater before?”
"No, I don't go to the opera often. But I've heard it's one of the best theaters in London. Do you like it here?"
"I can't say whether I like it or not. I've been here before with Sherl, when my mother occasionally allows us to go out." Rose paused, then smiled. "But we were always in the regular audience seats. I didn't even know this theater had VIP boxes."
"You can come anytime in the future."
The conversation veered back to the name they were both avoiding. "How is Sherl doing lately?" Rose finally couldn't hold back any longer.
"very good."
"How has he been lately?"
"Same as before."
Mycroft's answers were always brief, implying that he was about to end the conversation.
Rose's questioning became increasingly pointed: "Before which?"
Was it before they were children and depended on each other for survival? Was it before they moved to Baker Street? Or was it before he erased her memories?
Mycroft looked at the lovers embracing on stage, paused for two seconds, and then replied, "Before I forgot you."
The play was playing. This was the most enjoyable part of Romeo and Juliet. Mercutio chattered incessantly, cracking jokes, and the atmosphere in the audience was exceptionally relaxed, even occasionally punctuated by laughter.
However, the private room felt like the dead of winter, and neither of them spoke to each other.
Mycroft broke the silence: "Perhaps we can invite Sherlock and John to the manor for dinner in a while."
"You'd better use an invitation rather than coercion."
"You haven't seen him since he woke up, why?"
"You know why."
Mycroft fell silent.
The atmosphere became strange again. Just then, the plot moved to the point where the priest was planning a fake death drug scheme. Rose spoke up: "The priest wanted to help them. He's such a good person."
"The method is unacceptable."
"Perhaps there is no better way."
There are usually better ways.
The conversation came to an abrupt end once again.
In the end, the two simply watched the stage play in silence.
Rose abandoned all communication, immersing herself completely in the joys and sorrows on stage. She became absorbed in the drama, her fingertips unconsciously tightening as she gripped her skirt, her eyes welling up with tears, and she shed tears for the epic love story, for that fictional, resolute love and death.
Mycroft, however, was somewhat bewildered by this convoluted love epic. In his view, it was nothing more than an inevitable tragedy caused by a series of poor decisions.
His attention was mostly focused on the woman beside him who was shedding tears for the story, even though his eyes remained fixed on the stage.
He noticed her being moved by the thought of separation and death, and noticed her constantly wiping away tears. There was no trace of theatrical emotion in his gray eyes, only ripples caused by her, yet deeply hidden behind the iron curtain of reason.
As the play drew to a close, the lovers, who had committed suicide together, were reunited in death, and the audience erupted in prolonged applause. The crimson curtain of the London Opera House slowly fell.
Rose slowly came to her senses, lowered her head to wipe away her tears, and asked softly, "What did you think of the plot?"
“Plot?” Mycroft thought for a moment: “…It’s very complete.”
Rose glanced at this extremely rational person who had almost abandoned all emotion, and said nothing more.
“Then, shall I take you home?” In the dim light, Mycroft stood up and extended his arm to her.
"Hmm. Aren't you going back?" Her fingers, still wet with tears, rested on his arm.
"I'm leaving for Montreal tonight. Before that, there are a few things I need to tell my colleagues."
"I see." Rose didn't let go of his hand that was supporting her. "I wish you a safe journey."
Mycroft nodded and smiled: "Thank you."
Will a text message be sent to the manor?
Do you want that?
Why wouldn't you want that?
"meeting."
They made their way through the crowd, and he helped her into the waiting carriage. The driver cracked his whip, the horses' hooves clattered, and the wheels began to turn slowly.
As if possessed, she lifted the carriage curtain and glanced back at him.
Mycroft remained where he was, tall and imposing. The gaslights at the theater entrance cast shadows on him, giving his gray eyes a different luster than usual.
She could see the marks that time had left on him at different stages, and she could also recall the way he looked as a teenager, looking down at the newspaper at the dinner table.
Mycroft was unaware of her plans, much less knew that this farewell might be their last.
In that instant, she realized that she had developed an inappropriate lingering affection for the man who had stifled her love and destroyed her family ties.
She quickly lowered the curtain. Leaning against the carriage wall, she slowly squatted down, feeling incredibly guilty.
———
Watson returned to the past he most wanted to return to, and to the people he most wanted to protect. But some things were no longer the same as before.
All the familiar faces became politely distant, as if Sherlock were really just a tenant who had just arrived on Baker Street and replaced the unpleasant former owner of 221B.
One afternoon, a former neighbor bumped into Sherlock and Watson as they were leaving their house.
Sherlock glanced at the man before speaking in his usual rapid-fire manner: "You were on the night shift at the printing plant last night. You deliberately waited until all your colleagues left before leaving, so you could sneak out some defective paper to make calculations for your son. Your wife has no idea about this; she thinks you've been coming home late lately to hang out at the pub. By the way, you'd better clean up the dog poop on the sole of your left shoe as soon as possible; the smell is starting to spread."
The neighbor's face flushed instantly. Watson thought he would be furious, but he wasn't. He didn't even argue, didn't curse; his lips trembled, and his eyes showed only fear. He lowered his head, mumbled a reply, and practically fled from them.
Sherlock stood there, his brow furrowing slightly, a rare occurrence. "No, this isn't right. Why is he reacting like this, as if I'm some monster that's going to kill people?" His tone was as if he were stating an incomprehensible experimental phenomenon. "He's afraid. This doesn't make sense. Why would pointing out facts cause fear? And it's not just him; everyone in this community looks like this after I finish speaking."
Watson looked at his confused expression, but couldn't say a word. He wanted to say that it was because they no longer saw him as a straightforward and unreasonable oddball neighbor. They saw him as someone who was unruly but had powerful connections, someone you could avoid if you didn't want to mess with him, or rather, they no longer considered him a neighbor at all. But Watson could only manage a bitter smile.
Mrs. Hudson acted as if she had never met Sherlock. Watson truly didn't understand why she had become complicit with her, yet she felt she had no right to blame her, as she herself was also an accomplice.
She no longer complained about the violin music or the strange smell of medicine coming from upstairs with a reproachful yet helpless expression. She no longer went upstairs easily, and no longer joked with them in that mysterious tone.
She hardly ever went back to Baker Street anymore. Her son, who used to be a good-for-nothing, had suddenly opened a restaurant in the heart of the city center, and it was doing very well.
Everything is still there, yet everything seems to have vanished. To clearly remember what the past was like, and to clearly perceive what the present is like—that is the most agonizing and painful thing.
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