[Comprehensive] Mrs. Holmes Daily

"It's too late, Mycroft."

Sherlock's cold voice interrupted him, so indifferent that he didn't seem to be talking about himself at all.

Mycroft slowly released his clasped hands:

"what do you mean……"

"I mean, I know all about the problems you mentioned, but it's too late for what you want to recover."

Sherlock's pale fingers gently caressed the fine satin armrest lining on the armrest sofa from the East.

Caressing the smooth satin is like stroking the black satin shirt on her body.

And under the shirt, it has a silkier touch than satin.

Her breath in the alley still lingered on her fingertips.

When she was wearing a long black dress, she held his arm.

The aroma of white evening cherry blossoms that spread from the depths of the corridor finally penetrated into his chest bit by bit at this moment.

"Too late, Mycroft..."

He raised his eyes with clear eyes:

"By the time I start to think about why I can put up with her confining my life, pampering her to decide whether I drink coffee or milk for breakfast, and not even resenting such interference, it's already...too late."

Mycroft watched him silently for a long while:

"You're doing it to yourself."

Sherlock smiled softly: "That's not necessarily the case."

"I say this because there's a bigger problem with you than the ones we've discussed before."

Mycroft shook his head:

"That is, no matter how much you love her, even if you are willing to shake your belief for her... she doesn't love you either."

His eyes were full of pity:

"She doesn't love you, Sherlock... she doesn't love you, don't tell me you don't see it."

Sherlock sat there quietly.

The clouds have parted, revealing a few sparse stars in the sky.

After a long time, he slowly raised the corners of his mouth:

"Obviously, you re-watched the video of the part where we established our relationship... oh, is the British government so quiet?"

"Obviously, if you say that, you have already discovered the problem... When I rewatched it, I gradually realized that we know too little about relationships. It lacks a subject at the end."

Mycroft sighed:

"It's kind of stuffy, isn't it? A man can handle a government, he can cut the hardest diamond in the world...but he can't handle a woman."

Having said that, he smiled and clasped his hands:

"By the way, how did you hollow out that diamond? It's the hardest thing in the world."

"Mycroft, your expression is like a fox seeing a chicken... Do you want to use the high temperature resistance of diamonds to resist the temperature generated by nuclear reactions?"

There was a slight sarcasm in Sherlock's tone:

"Obviously your chemical knowledge grows inversely proportional to the fat on your body... Diamonds are just tetrahedrons of carbon atoms formed under high temperature and high pressure. The chemical bonds are full and very stable. Cutting is useless, but in an environment of extremely low temperature and low pressure will break down into carbon."

Mycroft's tone was subtle: "You mean, you decomposed the middle part of the 'African Star' into... carbon?"

"Of course not, I just took it out...the middle part has better luster and can be made into a whole diamond ring."

Sherlock did not continue this topic, looked at the wall clock again, stood up and walked towards the door:

"There are 3 minutes left, if these are the questions you want to ask..."

"Sit down, Sherlock, digression time doesn't count."

Mycroft had his usual faint smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"She doesn't love you at all, and being with you is just to fulfill your poor self-esteem... Even so, you still have to stick to your stupid and self-righteous love and tie her to you?"

Sherlock walked to the door and paused.

"Self-righteous love? Mycroft, Vichy is right, you really don't know anything about love."

When he turned around, his tone was irrefutable and firm:

"You misjudged, she loves me."

Mycroft remained motionless:

"I thought we had reached a consensus on this point... Her confession to you was nothing more than a misunderstanding, and her feelings for you other than friends were nothing more than wishful thinking on your part."

"Oh, Mycroft."

Sherlock smiled slightly:

"Confession is not the only way to express love... She always wants to keep a distance from me, I know this very well, only she herself naively thinks that she is not obvious enough..."

He raised the corners of his mouth happily, as if recalling something interesting:

"But when I am ridiculed, she will lose her judgment, especially when you appear... She is not afraid of death, even if a gun is pointed at her, she can think wildly..."

Mycroft said nothing, watching his brother's usually calm and reserved face with tenderness.

Although this silk is gentle, it is so subtle that it is difficult to detect.

"Besides, when I was just being held to the neck with a knife, she was so nervous that she couldn't even hold the phone steady... Doesn't all this explain the problem?"

His tone was light, but so determined.

"She loves me. Her words and deeds have confessed to me more than once, and she almost expresses it in words...and I don't care about this little difference."

Mycroft sat in a chair, and Sherlock stood opposite him, with the oak table between them.

Their conversation, forever.

When Sherlock was born, he was already an awkward and blunt baby who was not good at smiling or crying.

He looked at his brother through the stroller, and his eyes were closed... From that moment on, he has been living in his own world.

This sentence is not derogatory, he has this power to maintain the balance of his own world.

Now, this balance is broken.

In the world that his brother had never been able to enter, there was an extra woman named Ludwig.

Mycroft lowered his eyes:

"This is just your judgment, feelings are not your area, and this is not a case you usually encounter, Sherlock, if the reasoning is wrong, it will be beyond redemption."

"Then let's take a step back."

Sherlock held the doorknob and looked up at the time on the wall clock.

"Assuming she doesn't love me... Oh, this assumption is ridiculous. Let's say she doesn't love me as much as I deduce... although this is also unlikely."

He frowned:

"Both hypotheses are too far-fetched, but let's just assume... what does it matter? I've already chosen her, so she has no choice."

"I thought the relationship was a decision between two people."

Sherlock looked at him and was silent for a moment before saying:

"I'm surprised that you have such an idea... Before you start a war, you will ask the attacked country 'are you willing to be attacked'?"

The smile on Mycroft's face faded a bit:

"Believe me, a person's thinking is far more complicated than a country composed of countless individuals, and the uncertainty is also greater... Sherlock, war and emotion are different."

"War is nothing more than the outbreak of many people's feelings at the same time, the essence is the same."

Sherlock is noncommittal:

"Since you don't like this metaphor, let's change it—you are also a hunter. You should understand that only the hunter has the right to choose the prey, and the prey has no right to choose the hunter."

His tone was calm, and he didn't feel that what he was deciding was the fate of another woman with an independent personality:

"Similarly, once I choose her, she has no right to refuse, because any thought of her rejecting me will eventually be suppressed by me... Then why should I care about her struggle?"

Mycroft stroked his chin.

He uses this position only on the rare occasions when he is confronted with a difficult problem:

"This analogy is even more absurd. If you plan to regard Miss Ludwig as the prey you hunt, as the item you want to plunder, and think that she has no right to resist... then, I can only say that you are very wrong Very wrong."

Sherlock turned around disapprovingly, with his slender body facing away from Mycroft:

"Every conclusion needs to be supported by evidence, Mycroft... and so far, I haven't found any problem with my thinking."

Mycroft looked at his back:

"I work in the government, I deal with all kinds of goldfish, and I live seven years longer than you...All these make me understand the physiological mechanism of "emotion" better than you, although I also It didn't fully penetrate."

He sat behind a large oak desk like a king, with heavy mountains behind him and wide valleys beyond.

A lonely, high-ranking king.

"But I can tell you that if you insist on treating Ms. Ludwig as an object, a prey, and occupying feelings by plundering and possessing...then, I can only wish you good luck, brother."

He raised his eyes, as if he had already seen the final ending of the master of the figure from the haughty figure opposite him.

"Anyone must swallow the bitter pill of self-righteousness... You are the same, and I am very much looking forward to that day."

"I look forward to it as much as you do, Mycroft."

Sherlock turned the doorknob, and the curtains were raised by his movement.

"If she can do this when she only loves me a little bit-then I can only look forward to the day when she gives all her love."

He smiled slightly, and his figure was submerged in the dark corridor:

"Tell me, what would all Ludwig-Ludwig's love look like?"

When Sherlock entered the room, Ludwig was sitting on the edge of the bed, with his back turned to him, flipping through a photo album.

The milky light poured over her head like a solid, flowing stream, flowing from under her slender ankles, forming a small circle of light, like a small pool.

That was his puddle, his valley, his Colorado Canyon.

It is also where his river will eventually flow.

He quietly walked behind her, bent down, approached her face, kissed her very naturally, and put his hand on her shoulder:

"What are you looking at?"

Ludwig's fingers that turned the page paused, ignoring Sherlock's increasingly familiar and intimate movements:

"Your family photo album."

The page that was opened was a group photo of Holmes' family 15 years ago.

In the photo, the drowsy old Mr. Holmes was forced to hold the hand of Mrs. Herras, the garden, the puppy, five-year-old Sherlock and 12-year-old Mycroft wearing identical overalls, expressionlessly stare at each other.

The author has something to say: Spring leek is a stone slag. I once bought plastic as beeswax wishful beads in Xinjiang, and bought it back like a treasure.

Therefore, regarding the issue of diamond cutting, I was reminded by everyone that I made up a method of cutting diamonds.

Super unreliable, junior high school chemistry knowledge is fed to dogs

So, light spray

In addition, Wei Xi will not leave Xiao Xia just because he finds Xiao Xia's love, leaving, there must be more important things