Yang without Yin
Anthea's efficiency was as always. The following evening, a thin file folder appeared silently on Mycroft's mahogany desk.
"This is Eaton Smith's complete file. Just as you expected, he comes from the Calcutta garrison and has served for twelve years. He has an excellent marksmanship rating, has received three commendations, and has no disciplinary record."
Mycroft pulled out the file, his gaze quickly sweeping over the neatly printed characters. The resume was perfect—too perfect. Every step from ordinary soldier to second lieutenant was clear, compliant, and flawless. The family member section was simple and straightforward: mother died young, raised by father, who had passed away five years prior.
"His financial situation?" Mycroft asked.
"He is innocent. His income is commensurate with his military pay, there is no large inflow of funds from unknown sources, and he is not extravagant. He has no fixed address in London and is currently staying in the apartment rented by Mr. Owen."
"What about social interaction?"
"After arriving in London, aside from strolling around the streets with Mr. Owen, I attended a banquet at the manor yesterday. There were no unusual social activities."
Mycroft tapped his fingertips lightly on the table, making a clicking sound.
"An officer who served in the colonies for twelve years and experienced several minor conflicts, yet his resume is completely spotless, without a single controversial blemish? Clean, everything is too clean. Simple, and strange, isn't it?"
Anthea remained silent, knowing that her boss wasn't asking her a question, but rather organizing her thoughts.
Mycroft tossed the file back onto the table, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.
A perfect resume either means that this guy is indeed a flawless saint, or that some force has meticulously crafted this impeccable armor for him.
Who is it? What is their purpose? Is it targeting the Holmes family? Or is it targeting Rose?
Thinking of Rose, his heart felt like it had been twisted by something, a heavy, painful feeling.
At the ball last night, she wore that inappropriate, extremely plain dress and let her hair down, clearly putting her in contrast to the aristocratic ladies. When their eyes met, she was happy and smug, like someone who had successfully pulled off a childhood prank. She must have thought he was angry, which was why he deliberately looked away.
But she didn't know that he wasn't angry; he was simply infatuated. A repressed, secret, illicit, enduring, and intoxicating infatuation.
Then he watched her twirl and dance with the young man from Calcutta, her face radiating an even more dazzling light, a vibrant and free expression he had never seen on her before.
Eaton Smith, a lowly soldier. The way he looked at Rose, with that undisguised admiration, made Mycroft feel an instinctive aversion. His accent was very rustic, and he called her "Roussie," an exotic name stripped of the Holmes surname, as if deliberately emphasizing some unique connection between them that was separate from this decaying family.
He looked down at them as they strolled hand in hand through the night, talking animatedly about the stars. Her smile was radiant, but it was for another man.
He, who held immense power, could legitimately suspend anything in the empire, yet he could not interrupt this tender yet jarring scene. Without motive, without reason, he could not even find a legitimate reason to stop it.
Because he was her brother. This identity, which he himself emphasized and which he cherished so much as a family bond, had now become the strongest shackle binding him.
He also recalled his mother's dying curse on him—"I will watch from heaven as you go mad, fall, and become insane in your desperate love."
On the terrace, she held a box of cocoa cookies, her skirt stained with wet tears, yet she forced herself to remain calm, like a small animal that had stumbled into a trap but was trying its best to raise its head.
In the garden, she keenly pointed out his lack of vocabulary, and her eyes held a compassion and care he had never seen before.
In the attic, the hellish harp music nearly shattered his mental sanctuary, and the first words that replaced those hellish sounds were her pale-faced whisper: "Thank goodness you're still here."
In the inner room, the moment his mother questioned him, "What do you take Rose for?", what surged in his throat was not the rational answer he had rehearsed a thousand times, but a burning, suffocating feeling.
He never went to the terrace, the garden, the attic, or the inner room again.
Because those places held secrets he could never reveal in his lifetime.
After a long silence, Anthea finally received a response from Mycroft.
“Continue the surveillance,” Mycroft opened his eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice had regained its composure, but Anthea keenly caught a very subtle tension in it. “Highest alert level. I need to know who he meets every day, what he says, who he looks at, even if it’s just a glance on the street.”
"Yes, sir."
After Anthea left, only the soft crackling of the fireplace remained in the study. Mycroft rose and walked to the window, gazing down at London as dusk settled. The imperial capital he controlled seemed shrouded in an unsettling fog.
He recalled Rose's question to him: "What is the truth to you?" Now, a perfect truth was laid out before him, yet he could not believe it.
There must be a flaw. Eaton Smith, who is the mastermind behind all this, the one hiding behind you?
In the days that followed, Rose's life seemed to be infused with new vitality. Eaton Smith swept through her gloomy world like a tropical whirlwind.
He took her to explore corners of London she had never been before—not aristocratic salons and opera houses, but bustling markets, the docks along the Thames, and even some slightly rough but vibrant pubs.
Holding his ginger beer, he excitedly told Rose about the storms of the Indian Ocean, the mysteries of the jungle, and the life-or-death moments on the battlefield. His stories lacked the reserved nature and subdued elegance of Sherlock Holmes; they were filled only with the scorching sun, the burning sand, and intense emotions.
Rose was deeply attracted. With Eaton, she didn't need to play "Miss Sherlock Holmes"; she could laugh, run, and express her joys and sorrows. Eaton's gaze towards her was filled with a man's admiration and longing for a woman. It was simply a man and a woman, unrelated to status, position, or anything else.
This was the first time she clearly felt that she existed as an independent person, rather than someone's substitute.
“This world isn’t just about foggy London. Whether it’s the ever-flowing, endless Ganges or the scorching, boundless desert,” Eaton said, holding her hand during a walk along the river, his blue eyes shining with earnestness, “will you come with me to see it?”
Rose's heart was pounding.
She really wanted to say "okay," but she didn't have the confidence to say it.
Even after the lady's death, she only had the freedom to go out during the day, and couldn't even move out. Mycroft became increasingly distant from her, yet he still wouldn't allow her to leave the family. She couldn't understand what he was thinking, and probably no one in the world could guess what he was thinking unless he said it himself.
Eurus disappeared, and later she went to the basement of the tower, but she was no longer there. Had she successfully escaped? Or had Mycroft moved her to a safer, more secure place? The tower attic where the lady had been kept in solitary confinement was also destroyed, as if it had never existed.
And then there was Sherlock; she couldn't just abandon him. Dr. Watson understood him so well, and she was genuinely happy for him. But was Sherlock's inner sanctuary truly as peaceful as he appeared? Was he still relying on narcotics? She didn't know.
For a while, despite missing her brother dearly, she deliberately avoided seeing him, hoping to gradually get Sherlock used to life without her. Her plan was to wait until he fully realized she was dispensable before revealing the truth: I'm just a fake; your real sister is Eurus. This is the pathetic reality your mother created. Please hate me, this liar, as much as you want.
But she knew she had failed. The moment Sherlock saw her in the banquet hall, though his words were full of complaints and reproach, his expression was one of deep respect. The warmth that radiated from his eyes was exactly the same as it had been in his youth, unchanged for twenty years.
He will never get used to life without himself again, because the kinship he denies and despises is precisely what he cherishes most, to the point of self-deception.
Love drove the detective to gouge out his own eyes.
A tear rolled down Rose's cheek, like a silver river slicing through her features.
Eaton was startled and at a loss for words. "I'm sorry, did I say something wrong? I didn't mean to offend you," he tried to wipe Rose's tears, but his hand hovered in the air, not daring to touch her. "Are you alright?"
“No, it’s none of your business, Lieutenant Smith.” Rose concealed her inner turmoil. “It’s the wind. It’s getting windy, and I’m feeling a bit cold. Shall we find a tavern to sit in for a while?”
Eaton's hand, which had been hovering in the air, finally landed gently on Rose's shoulder, with a force that was slightly stiff yet trying to be gentle, characteristic of soldiers. He didn't ask any further questions, but simply said in a low voice, "Okay, let's find a warm place."
As he spoke, he took off his coat and draped it over Rose's shoulders. His clothes still carried his body heat and a faint, unfamiliar scent, not of tobacco or cologne, but of tropical plants.
Meanwhile, at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock paced restlessly in his room. A jarring experimental noise blared from the gramophone, but he seemed oblivious.
Watson looked up from behind the newspaper, giving him a helpless look: "If you keep turning this upside down, Mrs. Hudson will come up and complain. What case is bothering you so much this time? Or is it about the party last night?"
Sherlock abruptly stopped in his tracks: "John, don't you find this strange?"
"What's so strange? Because your sister danced with a young and handsome officer, though he was a bit tanned?"
These adjectives left Sherlock speechless. He rolled his eyes at Watson, as if to say, "The reason why ordinary people are mediocre is that they focus on too many trivial things," or perhaps, "Are you really not gay? Why are you focusing on these things?"
Watson knew him too well, so he desperately needed to explain: "Uh, okay, I think I need to clarify again. I know that's normal, very normal, but I'm really not that, that, uh, the one you just wronged me about."
"I don't think I'm wronging you."
Watson decided to change the subject: "Let's get back to the party. Your sister danced with that boring officer, it was just a dance, what's there to be upset about?"
“It’s not that fucking dance!” Sherlock exploded. “It’s Mycroft’s attitude! He threw a party, bringing Rose and me together, then hid on the second floor like a ghost, looking down on everything with that omniscient and disgusting gaze. He won’t let Rose work, and he won’t let her move out of that ghostly house. What is he thinking? I killed my mother, is he taking revenge on me like this? I’d rather be torn to pieces by him, but Rose shouldn’t be involved!”
Watson put down his newspaper, and just as he was about to say something, he heard footsteps in the stairwell. It was Mrs. Hudson.
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Watson said, gesturing for Sherlock to calm down as he helped Mrs. Hudson up. “We will make sure we don’t disturb your rest any longer.”
Mrs. Hudson looked surprised. "What are you doing here, children? I'm here to bring you some muffins. I usually don't get to bed until midnight since my husband passed away," she said, then lowered her voice, her tone suggestive. "You can make as much noise as you want tonight."
Watson was stunned.
Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed utterly speechless at the sight of mortals.
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