[Comprehensive] Mrs. Holmes Daily

……

A series of knocking sounds echoed over and over again on the wall above the desk.

"I love you more than yesterday, but not as much as tomorrow."

……

Middle school, piles of test papers and poetry collections, spread out messily on the table.

Pale light, long hours, she was lying on the desk, very tired.

"Like the sea loves the newborn sunrise, like a walking traveler loves an undecipherable dream."

"My soul is in all things, and you emerge from all things to fill my soul."

"I need you, and only you."

……

Ten years later, she can still vaguely remember that night when she flipped through the pages of the dictionary.

She found all the poetry collections on Grandpa's bookshelf, from Russia's Tsvetaeva to Chile's Pablo Neruda.

Putting it all together, deliberating and translating each word, I only want to listen to the boy she likes.

It was a spring night, the flowers in the garden were blooming beautifully, and big hydrangeas were piled up on the stones.

The spring rain wets the irises and daisies she planted in the window.

She lay on the table, one Morse code, one Morse code, and knocked on the wall the poems she had translated for several nights.

Reading poetry is a good way to do it when you can't say a confession.

Does he remember?

Does he know?

On the other side of the wall of his room, she used Morse code to slowly read a chaotic love poem to him.

……

"I want to live with you, in a small town, with endless dusks and endless bells."

Ludwig slowly read the last sentence, the poem she had prepared for Duan Anhe, her closed eyes did not open.

Until she calmed down all her emotions, until the spring when hydrangeas were in full bloom receded from her eyes like a tide.

She didn't open her eyes until she could no longer see a trace of sentimentality and nostalgia.

Then... I was taken aback.

Sherlock was sitting in front of her, face to hers, eyes to hers.

Without moving, without blinking, without blinking, he looked at her.

The tips of the noses almost touch.

And the breathing seems to be audible.

His gray gem-like deep eyes are so focused.

It was as if the person sitting in front of him was his most secret and most precious treasure.

The sky outside the window leaked a little bit of morning light, and the streets were still gray.

And that little bit of morning light fell into Sherlock's eyes, lighting up a pool of dark flames in his eyes.

"F...Mr. Holmes?"

Ludwig yelled somewhat uncertainly.

Sherlock blinked, as if awakened suddenly, feeling a little bit of recovery.

He said slowly:

"You... finished reading?"

...Mr. Holmes, has your power of observation been eaten by a dog...

Of course Ludwig wouldn't show such a rude side, so she just said:

"I finished reading, how do you feel?"

Sherlock looked at Ludwig's narrow eyebrows.

Her eyes were like dark pools, and her eyebrows were like the slender tail feathers of a dove, long and disappearing into the temples.

His expression was calm and unwavering.

There were pigeons cooing in the street, one on the east and one on the west, echoing each other in the silent street.

Sherlock paused for a while before saying in a deep voice, "...No."

Ludwig: "Really? No joy, no anticipation, no tightness in the chest to breathe, no racing heart?"

This time, he was silent for a longer period of time.

The eyes that are as transparent as gray gemstones seem to be surrounded by a thin layer of mist.

Layers of fog make it difficult for people to see clearly the words hidden behind the floating mist.

Ludwig took his silence for denial.

"Then you don't have to worry about it. You are not affected by me. The reason for your inability to concentrate is not here. This can be ruled out directly."

She stretched her waist for a long time, and her nerves, which had been highly tense, finally relaxed.

If he didn't even feel her reading love poems to him, it would be a joke to say that he loved her.

Sherlock lowered his eyes, wondering what he was thinking.

Just when Ludwig thought he would not answer, he suddenly spoke and looked at her fixedly:

"I won't be influenced by you... don't you mind?"

Ludwig was taken aback:

"No, I don't mind, I don't mind at all...why should I mind such a thing?"

He looked at her, his tone was still light, without any emotion:

"So you think it doesn't matter even if my feelings are indifferent than ordinary people?"

Ludwig realized later that there seemed to be something wrong with the conversation between her and Sherlock.

However, she couldn't tell what was wrong.

"What does it matter? You are always like this."

This sentence is true:

"Complete self-control requires an extremely strong will. This is your advantage. You will never be troubled by memories... To be honest, I envy you."

"Oh."

He responded, lowered his eyes, paused, and said:

"If it's an ordinary person, how should they react when they can't control their love? I mean, besides what you said before..."

He closed the book, threw it aside, thought for a while, and added:

"...not that I'm interested in it—just pure psychological research."

"You don't have those most basic reactions, what other reactions do you expect?"

Ludwig walked to the small kitchen bar and poured two glasses of water.

She hands Sherlock a cup:

"If the person who said these words to you is someone you like so much that you can't extricate yourself... you will really want to hug the person in front of you, crush them, and kiss them hard...forever."

She recalled, when she was young, the scene when her heart beat for the first time in her life.

She didn't notice that Sherlock was staring at her side face blankly.

His thin lips were slightly opened a few times, as if he wanted to say something, and it seemed that there were some words in his ears, and he was about to break through the shackles and blurt out.

However, his chest rose and fell slightly imperceptibly.

In the end, he pressed those unspoken words deep into his chest, and locked them in his tightly pursed lips.

...No, no more retreat.

Ludwig held the teacup:

"Of course, it's also individual, like, I like all kinds of kisses, and I'm sure if someone dares to kiss you, then..."

She paused, and shook out the bloody picture in her mind.

Inexplicably, I remembered that the kidnapper from the convenience pharmacy who was disguised as SM by Sherlock, because he swears at Sherlock, was crushed by him with a leather shoe...

Enough is enough, if anyone dares to kiss Sherlock, she will definitely give him an award for Britain's most courageous.

Sherlock fell back on the sofa, facing Ludwig sideways:

"is it?"

Ludwig poked Sherlock in the back.

"Hey, everyone has their own aspirations, please, don't make your contemptuous eyes so obvious."

He was curled up on the sofa, his back arched, his soft black hair brushing against the sofa cushions like a giant cat.

"When I was 12 years old, I still thought that between lovers, kisses should be used instead of all phrases."

She unloaded a big stone in her heart, and she was very relaxed, and said with a smile:

"Like, hi, bye, I'm busy, please don't bother me, thank you, where are you, I miss you, I love you, I'm sorry...things like that."

Sherlock leaned on the other end of the sofa for a long time before he heard:

"is it?"

"But this is too naive, I don't think so anymore..."

She yawned, and her heart, which had been frightened by Sherlock since three o'clock in the morning, finally calmed down completely.

Sherlock doesn't love her... It's the most normal thing that's happened this year.

She walked to the window, supported the window frame with both hands, and looked at the small European-style building opposite.

In Erice's coffee shop, small white magnolias and vanilla are planted at the door, and purple flowers bloom lushly on the coffee shop signboard.

Summer is almost here.

Another spring is about to pass.

She looked at the little purple flowers and said softly:

"When you can't say a confession, reciting poems is a good way."

"back?"

Sherlock sat up suddenly, turned his head from the sofa to look at her back, with an unbelievable expression:

"Those words just now...didn't you say it?"

"The first line is from Spain, the second line is from Lokhvitstaya, the third line and the fourth line are from Tsvetaeva... I have always liked modern Russian poetry."

Ludwig raised his eyebrows:

"Isn't that obvious? Do you think I wrote it myself?"

Sherlock looked at her fixedly: "I think."

"If it was written by me, I can directly publish a collection of poems now, do I still need to worry about exams?"

Ludwig didn't look back:

"But you're not at a loss. These are what I prepared for Firstlove. The essence of each sentence is enough for you to experience a literary baptism."

Her fingers tapped unconsciously on the window frame.

Sherlock stared at her fingers.

The order in which her fingers changed, the length of each pause, and the method of each finger change.

All of these are reflected in his eyes like frames of unprocessed RAW pictures.

Sherlock grabbed the water glass on the coffee table and took a sip, the cold liquid flowed down his throat and across his chest:

"First love?"

"Ah."

He put down the water glass and changed his sitting position again, speaking calmly:

"It seems to have a long history."

Because among the people she has come into contact with all over the world in recent years, there is no such one person.

From the information in his hands, she spent a lot of time traveling all over Europe without staying or leaving her name, and she had no time and opportunity to develop a long-term and stable relationship.This first love must have happened earlier.

"Ah."

Although she was talking to Sherlock, her thoughts had already flown far away from the warm grass and trees to the other side of the ocean.

In winter, a layer of frost flowers formed under the eaves.

In the bookstore by the roadside, the orchid grass is covered with snow, and the same purple flowers are under the white snow. There is a pair of couplets pasted on the porch.

She didn't notice, An He saw it first, turned around, smiled and told her to close her eyes.

She closed her eyes inexplicably, and heard An He's voice softly and slowly speaking in the ice-like winter air:

"When will the spring stream and the moon be together, and a boat with a willow and a leaf will hang down the bank."

……

Poplars hang down like smoke on the embankment.

When can we go boating on the spring stream together with the moon and spring wine?

To her ears, such a distant artistic conception was like a confession, earth-shattering.

At that moment, all her perceptions started to spin rapidly, as if they were all being wound up.

The blood is clamoring, the heartbeat is clamoring.

The snow is white and the promenade is black.

And he, just so simply, stood in a piece of black and white ink, smiling from a distance, as if he would never grow old.

……

"What are you thinking?"

Sherlock couldn't help breaking her trance - it was like being in another world he'd never get to, damn trance.

Ludwig turned her head back, the light was blurred behind her, her hair was blown by the wind, and there was golden dust floating around her ear pinna.

She rolled her eyes and smiled.

She laughed a lot, but Sherlock had never seen her smile like this.

It was as if the light of the whole spring was shattered in her eyes, and even the smile lines at the corners of her mouth smelled of the fragrance of roses.

She is in her own world, she is so happy when she smiles.

Ludwig leaned against the window, holding water, casually:

"Now that the poems have been read, let's think about Firstlove by the way."

Because of her blunt answer, Sherlock forgot for a second what he had put on his tongue.

...this situation where the brain is completely overwhelmed by hormones...

Allow it again, and the next one will not be an example.

"It's surprising, I thought you'd been through a lot of battles, in bars and nightclubs all over the world..."

He mocked coldly:

"I didn't expect to retain such affection... So, when you drank with those men in the bar before, who did you think they were?"

"I'd take that as a compliment, battle-hardened...in a way, that's true."

Ludwig raised his eyebrows, shook his head regretfully, and avoided the serious:

"Now I feel a little regretful that I can't influence you... Otherwise, I can see Sherlock Holmes getting jealous right now."

"Jealousness is the sign of a loser, and I will never be able to feel that way."

His eyes were calm, but his jaw was tense, slightly raised:

"I'm sorry for your deep feelings—because it's obvious that the person you once loved either abandoned you or died. How did you die? Sick? No..."

... Who the hell is dead!

"Mr. Holmes."

Ludwig interrupted him, coming over and putting an index finger against Sherlock's razor-sharp lips.

"Don't say that... I'm going to hate you."

She said softly, leaning down.

The sun was shining through the window, and her face was as flawless as snow.

Sherlock looked at the girl who was close at hand, and saw his own shadow reflected in the girl's obsidian eyes.

There was heat coming from her cold eyes, like burning.