[Zongyingmi] She is a princess and not sick

It was nearly midnight when Francis and Sherlock returned to Baker Street.

She said goodbye to the Holmes brothers with a smile, while Mycroft and Sherlock went to 221B to sit together. Watson had already rested, and there were only the two brothers here.

Sherlock handed Mycroft a cigarette, and he sat on the sofa where he always sat, and Mycroft sat across from him and lit the cigarette.

"How did you tell mother about Francis, Mycroft?" Sherlock lit a cigarette too.

The brothers did not smoke on the streets of London, all thanks to Mycroft always remembering the duties of the British government.

"Princess Scientist, Mom is very curious." Mycroft said quite well, but Sherlock just didn't buy it.

"Come on, even if you invite her to see the queen, mom won't buy it." Sherlock sneered and looked at his brother unhappy. He felt that Mycroft was despising his IQ.

"It won't work. Mycroft." Sherlock knew what Mycroft meant. His mother would not replace Diana, even if she could guide Francis in his studies and emotions, so what? .

Diana is not just her mother in Francis's heart, but her paranoia, the demon in her heart.

Sherlock's legs were crossed together, his eyes looked at the silent Mycroft, and he thought of his brother when he knew he was taking drugs.

"Is there nothing you can do, Mycroft?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Why don't you just tell her the truth."

"No. Who knows what she'll do if she finds out?" Mycroft said grimly.

Sherlock sneered: "You don't care about those people. You only care about Francis. After she has dealt with the people who hurt her mother, she will die. That's why you can't wait to prevent her from knowing the truth. But you can't stop She is, she is close to the truth."

"The trip to Italy must have given her something else." Mycroft was not used to Sherlock's cigarettes, the smell made him uncomfortable, and he frowned, "Close to the truth also means failure, infinitely close to zero. Brothermine .”

Sherlock sneered: "I hope you can still say that after she knows all the truth, Mycroft. She's already got a name."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and showed a politician-like smile: "I thought you made a deal with His Highness to keep what happened during the trip to Italy a secret?"

Sherlock's face changed immediately: "At that time I cut off your surveillance of Baker Street."

Mycroft nodded, and he said to his 28-year-old younger brother who was still immature like an adolescent, "Yes. But I know Your Highness better than she imagined."

Mycroft was the man who went through Francis' formative years.

He taught Francis single-handedly, even if she is now full-fledged, so what.

Sherlock frowned, remembering what Francis had said.

"Who can fool Mycroft?"

So she knew from the beginning that the transaction between them would definitely be known by McCoff, and Francis didn't care whether it would be known by McCoff.

She was ready to confront Mycroft.

Even if McCoff objected, she would still pursue it to the end.

Thinking of this, Sherlock couldn't help but bend the corner of his mouth, looked up at the politician brother with disdain and said, "You can go, Mycroft."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, reached out to pick up his black umbrella and left 221B. When he closed the door, he looked up at 221C. The lights in the room were still on, and the couple on the balcony were under the warm orange light. Small cream-colored flowers bloom in the wind.

Mycroft's expression softened, he pursed the corners of his lips, turned around and got into the car that had been waiting for a long time.

It wasn't until the car drove out of Baker Street that the slender figure of 221C came to the balcony. The night wind blew her golden hair, and her blue eyes were even more mysterious in the night.

She followed the direction where this figure left, and finally returned to the room without saying anything.

The next day, a phone call from Mycroft woke Francis up from his sleep.

"What? Afternoon? Oh, sir, let me go." Francis buried his face in the pillow and said in a low voice, "For God's sake, can't this matter be slowed down? I just came back yesterday. For the sake of me accompanying you to the drama."

"Actually, you were very satisfied with yesterday's play. For the beauty of the actors, you even went backstage to express condolences after the end. Now the whole world knows that you have returned to England."

Francis lied on the bed and retorted weakly: "I see the superb acting skills of the actors, sir." It is not Mr. Hiddleston's beauty.

"Don't keep Dr. Ford waiting after lunch this afternoon."

"Sir, can't you wait?" Francis yawned, "At least let me reverse the jet lag."

Mycroft's voice was cold and abnormal: "I think this matter is imminent."

Francis still retorted weakly: "I'm just a little bit anxious."

McCoff on the other end of the phone obviously had no patience: "I'll pick you up at lunch. Besides, you should get up, Eric, or you'll miss breakfast."

After McCoff hung up the phone, Francis ruffles her long blond hair, which was already messy, and stands up to go to the bathroom to wash up.

Francis looked at himself in the mirror, messy blond hair, heavy dark circles, bloodshot blue eyes.

Seeing herself so haggard, Francis sighed and began to brush her teeth and wash her face. The water dripped down her face and dripped from the tip of her nose onto the sink.

Francis wiped off the water droplets on her face with her hands indiscriminately, picked up a white towel to wipe off the water stains on her face, and squeezed some concealer under her eyes to cover the haggard blue-black.

She changed into a white dress, which was quite satisfactory and nothing new.

She heated a sandwich in the microwave for a while, poured a glass of milk, and after a simple breakfast, she sat in the living room reading a book, waiting for Mycroft's arrival by the way.

At noon, McCoff arrived as scheduled and took Francis to lunch, this time at a Chinese restaurant.

In Chinese restaurants, McCoff doesn't go there often because Chinese people don't have the habit of eating desserts after meals.

But they have sweet dishes.

For example, the glutinous rice balls they are enjoying now.

"Eric." Mycroft wiped his mouth after finishing his meal, and looked at the girl in front of him who was obviously distracted. His sharp eyes observed such small details as the concealer under her eyes, "What are you thinking?" ?”

Francis put the last glutinous rice ball in the wine into his mouth and shook his head: "Nothing special, sir."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes slightly, and thoughtfully didn't ask anything, but changed the subject: "I went to see Her Majesty the Queen three days ago and talked about your birthday party next month."

Francis raised his head with interest: "Where will it be held?"

"Kensington Palace."

"Can I invite my American scientist friends? If possible, Nolan must be invited too." Francis bit his spoon and thought hard, "As for the list of nobles, it's the same as usual."

Mycroft nodded, but did not say that Her Majesty the Queen had already started to arrange for suitable noble youths to attend the banquet.

After lunch, Mycroft took Francis to the therapist's studio.

After Francis got out of the car, he waved to McCoff in the car. McCoff rolled down the window and looked at Francis' green face: "When it's over, I'll ask Anthea to pick you up, Eric."

Francis nodded to show that he understood: "Then, goodbye, sir."

"Goodbye, Your Highness."

After watching McCoff leave, Francis turned and entered the building behind him, and went up to the 21st floor that McCoff said.

She walked to the front desk, and Alice, Dr. Ford's assistant, warmly received her and took her to Dr. Ford's office.

Dr. Ford, a tall woman with shoulder-length black curly hair and gold-rimmed glasses, smiled at Francis impeccably and professionally.

I don't know why Francis thinks she looks familiar.

At this moment, Dr. Ford stretched out his hand and said to her, her voice seemed to be magical: "Hello, Your Highness Francis. I am Caitlin Shirling Ford, your psychiatrist."

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