Chapter 53 Everything has its birth and death, everything has its gains and losses.

Sherlock Holmes never thought that he would return to this sanatorium.

After his mother died here, he had not thought about this place for more than ten years. Of course, it was also related to the fact that he had lost a large part of his memories related to this place.

But there was always a beautiful red rose in the depths of his mind.

And now this bunch of roses is blooming in front of him.

Facing a window.

His precise memory told him that this window was the window of the ward where his mother lived.

It turned out that he had never really forgotten this period of time.

And now he stood in front of this bunch of roses, and then raised his head to look at the window. A tuberculosis patient was looking at him quietly, and seemed to be quite tolerant of him and had no intention of driving him away.

This was a woman in her thirties, obviously at the end of her life. Her eyes, like a pair of blue glass beads, were embedded in her pale face with sunken cheeks.

When his mother died, she was probably about this age.

He politely adjusted the brim of his hat to the woman, "I'm sorry, ma'am, I offended you, but the roses are so beautiful that I couldn't help but come over to take a look."

"Yes." The woman also smiled, "The roses are indeed beautiful."

"My child said he wanted to cut them for me and put them in a vase, but I stopped him." The woman said with a smile.

She is already a mother.

"Let them bloom and live well." The woman said.

Holmes had no way to refute and was unwilling to refute this kindness. He just lowered his head and stepped back politely.

Luna stood outside the garden and looked at him. The girl looked like an exquisite porcelain doll. He felt for no reason that she had some indescribable similarities with the woman just now.

Of course, they were both things that were about to end their lives.

This realization made him a little creepy.

The girl tilted her head slightly, and her heterochromatic eyes were like a pair of glass beads, flashing with inorganic brilliance and breathtaking beauty.

"Did you see the flowers?" she asked.

"Yes," Holmes replied. "Don't you like it?"

"The rose is a head made for decapitation," Luna sang.

"So what?" Holmes asked.

"I like it," Luna said. "How awesome it is to walk to the scaffold with ease."

Holmes knew what she was talking about.

She was also a head made for decapitation.

And she was proud of her divine appearance.

He noticed that the corridor where Luna was standing was the same one where he had first encountered the Lord of the End and the Beginning.

She had returned to the place where she had died the last time.

And she knew nothing about it, as if she had just happened to be standing there.

Holmes remembered that when he traveled in Tibet, he had seen many complex and ancient mantras, most of which were a disk wrapped in a centrally symmetrical pattern.

They called it a mandala.

They said it had the power to heal your universe.

Holmes tried their meditation, but he was an atheist after all, so he attributed it to the placebo effect, or some kind of physical therapy.

He did sleep better after meditation.

But he suddenly remembered those patterns, some of which he had drawn himself.

They go round and round.

They die and come back to life, they are lost and found again.

This world is round, everything is moving, annihilated in an instant and awakened in an instant.

The dying woman behind him and the weak girl in front of him were looking at him, without saying a word.

They seemed to form some subtle symbols and metaphors.

Sherlock Holmes realized something. This would be his final destination as a human being, because he encountered the gods for the first time here. In order to remember the existence of that world, he did not hesitate to leave a wound on his soul.

He rolled up his sleeves and looked at his pale arms, which were densely covered with pinholes and scars. He remembered everything about them. He had gone too deep without realizing it.

And now he is back here and has completed his circle.

Luna stood there looking at him, as if waiting for his decision.

Of course, he could completely go off track. Luna was a god with new power, and he could certainly repair all his injuries. He would have a healthy brain and body again, and he would no longer have to suffer from drugs and live like an ordinary person.

But this choice was rejected countless times by himself.

He took a step forward.

He suddenly heard a voice.

"Sherlock."

He turned around.

He saw his brother who had planned everything.

Mycroft Holmes rarely left his warm and dark office and was exposed to the sun. Sherlock suddenly realized that he had not seen his brother like this for a long time.

The relationship between the two of them seemed to have become a little distant after his mother died, and he could not remember anything about his mother.

And because of his personality, he preferred to study the details that represented the facts rather than the romantic temperaments of a person.

He would look at the soil on Mycroft's shoes to judge where he came from, and would look at what brand of cigarette powder was on his cuffs, and which restaurant he smelled from, but he rarely looked at Mycroft as a whole.

Mycroft was not young anymore and had gained some weight.

He was wearing a formal black three-piece suit, with his cane on the floor, and he panted, "Sherlock, you are here." "

You always figure out what I'm going to do." Sherlock smiled, trying to make the atmosphere seem a little more relaxed.

"He is here." Sherlock heard another voice, and Dr. Watson ran out from the back of the building. He was obviously in a hurry and didn't even notice a yellow mustard stain on his tie.

"Where can he go from here?" Watson couldn't help asking, and then he saw Luna.

"Is Mary still alive?" The girl curved her eyes and greeted easily, as if they had just met yesterday.

"She's fine." Watson said, he looked at Luna and then at Holmes. His mind had told him what might happen, but his emotions were unwilling to accept it.

"I mean." Watson stammered, "Is Luna going to go home?"

"Not yet." Luna said honestly, "It will take three days before the full moon." "

Then three days later." Watson racked his brains hoping that the wording of this sentence would not be so cruel, "You will not be here?"

"I'm not anywhere." Luna gave the most honest answer easily, "I've done everything I should do."

Watson felt his tongue curl up.

"What," the kind doctor said incoherently, "You don't have any other way?"

Luna looked at him.

Humans are indeed an animal worth pondering.

They seem to be able to feel truly sad for the fate of unrelated creatures.

No wonder they have multiplied so much and filled the entire surface world.

"Maybe." The girl said hazily.

"Maybe we will meet again." She said.

She was not sure if this was how humans gave others hope, but she saw that Watson's eyes did light up for a moment, and then returned to dimness. "Although I know you won't lie, but without using affirmative sentences, even if we never meet again, it won't be considered a lie."

"I don't know." Luna said frankly.

"I don't know if there are other ways, but I must choose the path with the highest success rate." She said seriously, "Because I am this type of creature."

Watson sighed.

"Anyway," he looked at Holmes, his long-time friend, "we have to say goodbye properly. After all, there is a high probability that we will never see each other again, right?"

"No."

Hearing the unexpected answer, Watson raised his head abruptly and looked at Holmes. The gray-eyed man looked back at the window of the sanatorium, where the red roses proudly held up their magnificent heads.

"We will meet again eventually." Holmes said calmly.

"This is not your style." Watson said, and he smiled self-deprecatingly, "Do I look so sad that you have to say such words to comfort me."

"I'm not comforting you," Holmes said, he gently reached out his hand, picked a rose, and smelled it. The fragrance of the rose was as cool as dew, refreshing.

"Our world is made up of atoms, and atoms are constantly moving. Just as the monkey locked in the typewriter room will eventually type out a complete version of Hamlet, all the atoms will eventually move back to the day we met." "

Maybe it will be as long as 100,000 times the power of 800,000," he said calmly, "but when all the atoms return to that day, we will meet again."

Watson's eyes widened.

He had never heard of this theory before, but it was logically impeccable.

Mycroft laughed out loud.

"Sherlock is right. Indeed, a monkey typing randomly can write Hamlet. With enough time and patience, all the atoms will eventually return to the position where we first met."

We will meet again.

We will meet again.

He hugged his brother, his only blood relative in the world. The window quietly reflected the sunlight behind them, as if their mother was silently watching her two sons.

They will separate today.

But they will meet again. After all, they started from the same womb and will return to the same universe.

Then Watson also hugged Holmes.

"I won't forget you." Watson whispered, "and neither will the world."

"I will write down all the stories, and then many people will read them." Watson whispered, "Even if I am forced to forget, every time they mention your name, I will think of you."

You will be mentioned again and again, so we will not be separated forever.

Luna watched quietly, she knew the weight of these words, humans are indeed a successful species, and sometimes they can really beat nature.

Watson walked in front of her.

"I hope you can return home smoothly." Watson said, he bent down to make his face the same height as the girl, "I believe you can return home."

And your hometown is like spring all year round, full of flowers.