The river never turns back
"...Take me to see him."
Watson took Mycroft's hand.
"Okay. We—"
Just then, Mycroft's response was interrupted by a slight turning sound from the hidden door hinge.
A hidden door next to the bookshelf slid open silently, and Rose stumbled out.
An hour earlier, when Mycroft calmly told her, "Sherlock has woken up, but your past is forever asleep," she frantically grabbed his shoulders. It was at that moment that she realized that when a person is extremely angry, they can't even utter a single word.
Mycroft then said that Watson would soon end his vacation early and return to London, and that he would definitely become his accomplice to build a new world for Sherlock without pain, sorrow, or the past, a new world where Sherlock would always be happy.
She screamed shrilly, she cursed bitterly, and she made a solemn bet that Dr. Watson would never lie to Mycroft. They had lived together for many years, faced countless life-and-death situations together, and their feelings for each other were deeply ingrained.
But Mycroft remained calm. He simply looked at her, his eyes showing no weariness or fatigue, but rather a strange tenderness.
"It is precisely because of emotion, Rose. It is this deep-seated emotion that would make a military doctor who upholds his promises throughout his life deceive the person who trusts him the most."
Then Mycroft brought her here, to the secret chamber of the "heart." There was a red glass door that allowed a one-way view to the outside, and in that blood-red hue, she was like a pitiful ghost, witnessing everything that had just happened.
She stood there, trembling, her gaze initially fixed on Mycroft, then slowly sweeping over the shocked Watson and their still-unreleased hands, the result of their dirty deal.
“Liars, you’re all liars,” she said hoarsely. “One used power to erase the past, and the other used silence to condone violence. Sherl is so lucky to have such a good brother and good friend!”
Watson jerked his hand back as if burned, his face drained of color. He looked at Rose, shame, pain, and a persistent pang of conscience making it almost impossible for him to stand.
Compared to Watson, Mycroft was much more self-assured. "I told you long ago that Watson would definitely agree, but you didn't believe me and insisted on seeing it with your own eyes. Making Sherlock forget about you and Eurus is undoubtedly the best solution. Watson has already figured it out, and you will understand someday."
Watson could no longer take it.
"Please excuse me, I think I need to calm down." He didn't even take his hair cap, and staggered away, only whispering as he passed Rose, "I'm so sorry, Miss Rose."
Looking at Watson's pained farewell and then at Mycroft's self-righteous demeanor, Rose felt a surge of immense absurdity.
She suddenly laughed, a shrill and broken laugh.
“The optimal solution, haha, the optimal solution, so all of us have to be buried with you, the optimal solution, right? Sherlock lost his memory, Dr. Watson carried a lifetime of lies and guilt, and me,” she pointed to herself, her voice growing more and more choked, tears streaming down her face, “I’m the imposter, I’m the counterfeit, I don’t even deserve to be remembered by him as his sister.”
“I can’t even hate you, Mycroft, because in this optimal solution, even my hatred is taken into account, becoming one of the reasons that Sherlock lost his memory, right?”
“You’re right, you’ve won. Now we’re all trapped in your tight, impenetrable web, held captive by you for life. But you’re really pitiful, because you seem to have everything, but you actually have nothing, and it’s been like this since you were a child.”
“Shut up, Rose!” Mycroft had almost never been so agitated: “Stop talking nonsense.”
“From childhood to adulthood, you’ve always been jealous of the complete trust and mutual protection between Sherlock and me, and you could never truly be a part of us. You watched us cry together, laugh together, and run wildly through London during the half-days our mother granted us. These are experiences you’ve never had in your entire life.”
"Jealousy is like a faint will-o'-the-wisp, burning day and night in your already repressed mental sanctuary. As a result, your emotions have become corrupted; you no longer yearn to be part of us, but rather to possess us exclusively."
"It drove you to kill Eaton, and now it's haunting you again, forcing Sherlock to forget me. The eighteen years I spent with him, sharing life and death, seem like a dream, no, it wasn't even a dream. When you wake up from a dream, there are traces to follow, but now all I can think of is one word: annihilation."
"So you really are cruel, Mycroft. Rationality is your backbone, indifference is your outward appearance, and paranoia is your true nature. Of course, how could someone who claims to love his brother hire someone to monitor his apartment day and night, and even repeatedly raise the 'security level'? Does that even deserve to be called 'love'?"
Mycroft's forehead veins throbbed slightly: "I said shut up. Do you know what you're saying? Stop with your unrealistic fantasies, Rose. I've said it before, and I'll repeat it one last time: making Sherlock lose some of his memories is the only optimal solution."
"You're incredibly clever! The only solution? Ha! You even have a Plan B for reenacting the Coventry incident, how could there be only one solution to this? Yet you chose this one, the most unfair to me and Sherlock, the one that will most completely destroy our family relationship, and you even gave it a high-sounding excuse!"
"Let me tell you why you chose this 'only optimal solution.' First, it's jealousy, the desire to possess your younger siblings! Second, it's your guilt, the guilt of being the eldest brother! Because you killed Eaton, all this tragedy happened. Sherlock was injured because of you, and you can't face him after he regains his senses and has his memories! Finally, it's to punish me! Because I fell in love with Eaton, and you... you killed Eaton, and then you killed Sherlock's memories. You made everyone who cares about me unable to feel me anymore!"
"The shadow of your mother is poisoning her children. You are older, and to outsiders you may seem to be the least affected and the most normal one, but in fact you are the most severely affected! Your views on family, kinship, and love have long been completely pathological!"
"You are her most disappointing copy, and also her most successful creation! You are tougher, more obsessive, more proactive, and more invincible!"
"And now you've done it completely, you're so proud of yourself! We all have to depend on you, please you, and live at your mercy! I can't go anywhere, I'm turned away as soon as I get close to the gate! And Sherlock, his life, the life that has been modified, tailored, and woven, will all revolve around you, his only family in this world!"
As Rose delivered her impassioned speech, the iceberg in Mycroft's eyes grew increasingly turbulent and shaky.
At this very moment, the iceberg finally collapsed completely, unleashing a devastating torrent and a sharp tsunami that stretched for thousands of miles, never to return.
The veins on his forehead stopped throbbing. His expression grew increasingly calm. The corners of his mouth even curved upwards.
"The only family member? What a beautiful word. If it were used to describe you and me, Sherlock and me at this moment, it would be quite fitting. Rose, your language skills are becoming more and more... amazing."
“But there’s one thing you’re wrong about. You said I’m pitiful and have nothing? Well, I’ll show you now what I have.”
Mycroft took a step forward, his steps elegant and slow. Rose instinctively stepped back, but her back bumped against the red glass of the secret chamber.
He reached out and shielded her from the hard wall behind her. She instinctively turned her head to dodge, but the back of her neck fell into his palm, which was already waiting there.
She tried to struggle, but in the face of such an absolute disparity in strength, she was like a pebble thrown into the deep sea, not even causing a ripple.
However, the force was not rough; it even carried a strange, almost precious gentleness.
She smelled a crisp scent, with a faint aroma of parchment and winter cedar.
Then I felt a slightly cold, not warm, touch on my lips.
The sound of his own blood rushing through his ears, surging and clamoring, mixed with his breath, which was so close it was almost inaudible.
He was not in a hurry to conquer cities and seize territories, but instead repeatedly depicted and outlined them, as if to appease, or as if to silently declare sovereignty.
The world is fading, fading away, and then collapsing into a tiny space.
She didn't know how much time had passed when she heard Mycroft's usual calm voice in her ear. But this time, there was something different in his voice:
"They all say I have a sweet tooth. I admit it."
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
