Chapter 15

15. "Being moved is like a fish that was once alive on the chopping board"

I really wanted Sherlock to tell me what he had called me just then.

So, as I pressed play, I naturally and casually asked in a calm voice, "Mr. Holmes, were you calling me by my Chinese name just now?"

I knew we were at a crucial point in the investigation.

The murderer was aggressive and confrontational.

We couldn't let him turn the tables on us.

Asking something like that now would really disrupt the flow, so I tried to sound casual, as if it didn't matter one way or the other.

If Sherlock hadn't heard me clearly, he could simply ignore it.

As I said it, two scenes flashed through my head—

One was "Mycroft saying I wouldn't let Sherlock call me Lanny."

At the time, I'd thought it would be strange to explain a scene that didn't matter.

I hadn't immediately contradicted Mycroft.

Because, to some extent, it was indeed something I'd said to Sherlock, though not entirely.

After all, I wasn't close to Sherlock, and he could call me whatever he liked.

As long as he let me know he was calling me, I wouldn't have minded changing my English name at any time.

The other was "Watson asking me to teach him Chinese."

That scene had taken place at breakfast.

I'd mentioned before that I had an Asian stomach, and I hadn't wanted to trouble our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, by having her make me a Chinese breakfast just to accommodate me.

Besides, before I came to England, I'd heard that London was a culinary wasteland that produced nothing but fish and chips and stargazy pie, so I'd learned to cook back home.

I'd already taken it for granted that making breakfast would be something I had to do in England.

It was my first day eating breakfast with everyone, and I hadn't wanted to make myself stand out from the group. So I'd made pan-fried potato cakes and fried egg pancakes. They were easy to fit into Mrs. Hudson's English breakfast menu.

Mrs. Hudson was a lovely lady.

She was afraid that if she didn't speak, I'd feel neglected, so she kept finding things to talk to me about the whole time. One moment she talked about shopping in Chinatown, the next she asked whether there were Chinese people who rode pandas to school. She also asked me to teach her Chinese and how to pronounce my Chinese name.

Watson had gotten up early for once.

I'd heard he didn't get up at a set time and sometimes slept in.

The original stories described that too.

Sherlock, on the other hand, got up on schedule and led a very disciplined life.

As an aside, it was quite a contrast how someone as rigorous as him became arrogant, smug, and self-centered when it came to deduction, just like a child. It was like a mature adult meeting a childhood friend and showing their true colors the moment they opened their mouth.

Watson joined the conversation and asked, "Lanny, would you prefer everyone to call you by your Chinese name or your English name?"

"My Chinese name, of course, but it's fine if you can't pronounce it."

That was what I thought.

I didn't think there was any need to change my name. Just like students from India, Sri Lanka, Africa, Vietnam, Japan, and South Korea who came to Britain, some took English names, but others used only their

own names. I was just one of them.

Watson was very eager to help.

He was willing to make an effort to fulfill other people's wishes, so he immediately asked me to teach him how to pronounce it.

He tried several times but never got it right.

I didn't know how other people handled this kind of situation.

In any case, after a while, whenever his pronunciation came close, I nodded and said he'd gotten it right.

It wasn't that I was impatient with Watson. It was just that seeing him make such an effort and still having to tell him he was wrong over and over made me feel like I was doing something cruel.

The other reason I wanted to stop was Sherlock.

After he woke up, he sat at the table, drinking black coffee and reading the newspaper.

With Watson and me so enthusiastically working on Chinese, I did think it would have been impossible to ignore us.

But Sherlock hadn't said anything.

After quite a while, Sherlock spoke. "John, you pronounce it differently every time."

Watson froze for a moment.

I felt as though I'd been brushing Watson off, and I was so embarrassed and ashamed that I called a halt.

Watson didn't think much of it, though. He just thought he hadn't learned it well enough and asked me to teach him again next time. He now remembered that the first character sounded a lot like "her," and I'd approved it, so whenever he called out "her" and something or other, I'd assume he was calling me and respond.

Those two scenes flashed through my mind in an instant.

I even had an illusion just then.

While I was teaching Watson, Sherlock had actually been silently learning alongside him.

Back at Scotland Yard.

I'd asked the question softly but clearly.

As I spoke, I looked straight at Sherlock's face.

But Sherlock didn't look at me.

His gaze moved to the red electronic time display on the video recorder. The blue light from the projection stretched his figure, casting an air of cold detachment over him. For a moment, I found myself wondering: if Watson didn't exist in this world, would he spend his whole life keeping everyone at a distance, just as he was doing now?

"No one has an alibi for between three and four this afternoon. It would be better for everyone if the culprit confessed. Anyone willing to make an accusation can also step forward."

A round trip between Audley Court and Scotland Yard would take at least thirty-odd minutes.

It should have been easy to tell who had been absent during that time.

Yet none of the officers around us moved or even looked at one another. They maintained a remarkably tacit silence. It reminded me of a classroom where a teacher asked a question and every student sat as still as a mountain.

I didn't think this was a case of officials protecting one another.

They had simply worked together for too long.

They had their own sense of solidarity and collective honor.

Only if there were a truly irreconcilable grudge between them might they accuse one another. If an accusation failed, how awkward would it be for them to keep running into each other at work afterward?

The human heart was complicated.

I understood completely.

That was the end of Sherlock's "mercy."

At a glance from him, I started the recording.

The video began right at the climax.

The attacker wore a hood and had gloves on his

hands. He was swift, precise, and ruthless.

In less than thirty seconds, he had completed the killing.

It was far less stylized than violence in a film, with no blood splattering everywhere. The victim had knocked out the light while trying to escape, so all we had of the murder itself was the sound of a knife plunging into flesh, blow after blow. That was enough to create a complete picture: how the victim had struggled to escape in the dark, and how, in the end, he had lost the strength to resist and been left at the killer's mercy.

I instinctively looked at Sherlock, replaying everything that had happened, from when I'd come to give my statement and he'd asked me to deliver a letter, to our return to the station. I was calculating every step he'd taken and every move he'd arranged.

Inspector Donovan would never pass up a chance to mock Sherlock.

"Sherlock, it looks like you overestimated your abilities. You played it without even checking it yourself. Didn't expect it to backfire, did you?"

Lestrade also looked anxiously at Sherlock. "Sherlock, what do we do?"

Sherlock stared straight at the video, seemingly shocked.

I tensed at once.

Everyone, make way. Best actor Sherlock was about to put on a performance.

In both the original stories and the television series, Sherlock Holmes had used his acting skills to achieve his goals.

In the original stories, Watson had even said that when Holmes became a detective, the stage lost an excellent actor.

Why didn't this man just become a hexagonal all-round warrior?

Though he probably already was.

A thought suddenly occurred to me.

Actually, I really wanted to be sitting in the audience right now.

But I was standing beside Sherlock. It would be too conspicuous if I suddenly ran into the crowd of officers to watch the show.

Amid a chorus of jeers, Sherlock told me with utmost seriousness, "Lanny, take another careful look."

I cooperated and played it again from beginning to end.

Never mind seeing his face, the murderer's voice didn't even appear.

His figure was also concealed when the light went out unexpectedly.

This piece of evidence was a failure.

After it ended for the second time, I took the initiative and said, "There must be a detail we missed. Let's watch it again."

Lestrade could no longer bear to watch our "death throes." "Sherlock, Lanny, your deductions were wrong."

Sherlock still refused to give up. "Even without the video as evidence, the murderer must have been to Audley Court today."

Qiaosen's face was full of scorn. "Where's the evidence? Don't tell me it's something like mud from Audley Court on his shoes. Or is there a witness who saw the murderer coming and going there?"

Sherlock fixed Qiaosen with a piercing gaze. "Then did you go to Audley Court today?"

Qiaosen's face tightened at being singled out. "Are you accusing anyone who's unhappy with you now?"

Sherlock said calmly, "Where were you between three and four this afternoon? Who here can vouch for you?"

At that point, the police station's repeated lack of response began to have a positive effect.

Sherlock had repeatedly demanded a response earlier, but no one at the station had seriously engaged with him. And when Qiaosen was challenged, no one at the station stepped in either. Whether they thought there was no need to pay Sherlock any attention or believed Qiaosen could handle it himself, I didn't know. Qiaosen looked around and saw no

one helping him, so he braced himself and said, "I haven't been to Audley Court."

"No, what you should say is that you weren't at Audley Court between three and four this afternoon."

Sherlock corrected him methodically.

Qiaosen frowned. "Are you crazy? I haven't been there, so naturally I wasn't at Audley Court between three and four this afternoon either."

"One should always be precise when speaking."

There was always something intensely provocative about the way Sherlock spoke.

Even when he himself maintained a perfectly mild manner, he came across as scornful and contemptuous, as though he were trampling people underfoot.

As though determined to argue with Sherlock, Qiaosen stood before everyone and addressed his colleagues. "I haven't been to Audley Court all day. I've been at the station the whole time!"

The moment he said that, I knew Qiaosen was finished.

Sherlock's logic was far stronger than Qiaosen's.

I thought to myself.

First, there was one thing that had to be made clear, the same thing Lestrade was curious about: "How did Sherlock know there was a surveillance camera in Rhodes's house?" Given that the footage was completely useless, and Sherlock was more intelligent than everyone present, with playing dumb not an option for the time being, there was only one conclusion—

"Sherlock put the surveillance camera there himself."

Sherlock had probably set everything up before giving me the letter.

Thinking about it carefully now, when Lestrade had come looking for us, Sherlock had gone to open the door at once. That wasn't like him. Most of the time, other people came to him begging for help.

Sherlock continued, "Can you drive?"

Qiaosen was growing impatient.

Inspector Donovan stepped up for Qiaosen then, her voice dripping with mockery. "Sherlock, how are you any different from a dog that bites everyone it sees? Even a cornered dog jumping over a wall should know its limits."

Oh, let me clarify something first.

People didn't actually use that many idioms and sayings. I was translating them myself after hearing what they said.

Some of the things they said weren't translated literally.

In any case, that was how they spoke in my head.

Don't ask.

Sherlock said, "What I asked was whether he can drive."

"Which officer here can't drive?"

Inspector Donovan's belief that Sherlock had something wrong with his head was practically written on her face.

Sherlock lowered his head and laughed.

Of course, he wasn't doing it as some greasy attempt to show off.

He had simply lowered his head to take out a wallet.

Sherlock showed everyone the wallet. "By the way, I caught a group of little pickpockets at Audley Court. They said they found this wallet."

Sherlock held the wallet open with his index and middle fingers. Inside was Inspector Qiaosen's driver's license.

As soon as Qiaosen saw what it was, his expression changed drastically. "You must have stolen it from me!"

Sherlock explained plainly, "The surveillance footage at Scotland Yard can be checked at any time. I didn't come into contact with you before entering this station."

Unable to find fault with Sherlock, Qiaosen turned his gaze on me and roared, **"It was you! When you bumped into me,

you stole my wallet, didn't you?"**

Even though I was at a loss for words, I still had to give him a serious explanation at a time like this. What a nuisance.

I said, "Why would I steal your wallet?"

"Because you and Holmes are in it together, trying to frame me."

Qiaosen's gaze sharpened, and he strode aggressively toward me. His imposing presence bore down on me. Before I could react, Sherlock spoke up beside me. "Get behind me."

I immediately took a big step back and moved behind Sherlock.

Without a change of expression, Sherlock said, "So you've admitted this is your wallet."

"You stole it."

Qiaosen insisted he was being framed.

Qiaosen had a police-issue gun on him.

Afraid things might turn dangerous, Lestrade stepped between us, shielding Sherlock.

If two officers came to blows, it would reflect badly on all of Scotland Yard, and the other officers had already begun to move. But precisely because of Qiaosen's thuggish behavior, most of them had unconsciously taken our side and helped hold him back.

Lestrade said to Sherlock, "Sherlock, you need more evidence to prove it."

"Of course I have more evidence," Sherlock said. "Please come in through the front door."

At those words, the officers all looked toward the front door.

In the silence, a young man dressed as a vagrant stood at the front door, holding a thin silver necklace. All the officers looked back and forth between Sherlock and Qiaosen, uncertain what to make of it.

Even without looking at his face, I could guess that he was probably Rhodes.

What surprised me most, though, was that I had seen him before.

He had even robbed me of five pounds.

When he saw me, he couldn't help looking startled too. But he didn't forget what he was there for.

Rhodes fixed his eyes on Qiaosen and said, "I'm the witness."

And just like that, the whole story came out.

I had guessed half of it, and Rhodes filled in the other half.

I had already guessed that Sherlock had set everything up.

With the camera in place, Rhodes probably hadn't died. Sherlock had gotten a corpse from somewhere to take his place. Rhodes could probably testify against the killer, but what I hadn't expected was that Sherlock had gone a step further.

When the killer left after the attack, he would have used another vehicle that could conceal his identity. So, after Qiaosen left thinking he had killed Rhodes, Sherlock and Rhodes tracked the vehicle and made it to the killer's "safe house."

Two replacement cars were parked outside. Sherlock found Rhodes's missing silver necklace in a gap in one of them. Inside the house were all the implements the killer had used to torture and murder his victims.

Knives of different kinds.

A bloodstained hacksaw.

Thick hemp rope for tying people up.

Spare plastic gloves.

There was also a stun gun and a plastic barrel in which the remaining pieces of the bodies were soaking.

Confronted with this mountain of irrefutable evidence, Qiaosen's body went limp.

I didn't know what the other officers thought, but I instinctively looked at Sherlock Holmes.

Announcing the details of the case at Scotland Yard might have been a way to keep Qiaosen in check and give Rhodes more breathing room, so Qiaosen wouldn't discover that Rhodes wasn't dead. Besides, Scotland Yard was full of police officers who could restrain Qiaosen immediately, leaving him no way to slip into a crowd and take a hostage to save himself.

And perhaps Sherlock didn't want a scandal at Scotland Yard.

Those police officers might have thought about it more thoroughly and in greater detail.

I was more focused on one point.

The "reward" he had mentioned in his letter to Lestrade—did it mean I could get 500 pounds for nothing just by taking part?

After all, I'd seen everything he'd done, and there had been no room for me to do anything at all.

Even if I indulged in a little more conspiracy thinking, what kind of scheme could Sherlock possibly have drawn me into? Even if I'd agreed to investigate Rhodes, I would only have been the one to discover the "body" instead of Lestrade.

In any case, the rest was up to the police.

Qiaosen, Rhodes—the police would handle all the loose ends.

By the time we left Scotland Yard, the sky had started to darken.

Streetlights stretched one after another across the city.

I wasn't the artsy type, and Sherlock was even less of a sentimental creature. Neither of us said anything about it. But going back in such silence, as though nothing had happened...

I found it a little strange.

Just then, Rhodes came running out of the police station after us.

He thanked Sherlock again. This time, he could finally go home. His father's keepsake hung around his neck. I heard that Rhodes had been wary because he felt Scotland Yard hadn't been proactive when it opened the case concerning what had happened to him when he first came to London, so he hadn't mentioned dropping his necklace in the killer's car. It also gave him an added measure of security in London: the missing property case meant he could keep in contact with the police from time to time. He hadn't expected the necklace to end up as one of the pieces of evidence against the killer.

After saying all that, he turned to me and said, "I never expected us to cross paths like this. It's practically fate."

"I didn't expect it either." I paused, then said, "I still remember you trying to grab my phone."

Rhodes said sheepishly, "I actually just wanted to help you contact your family."

I was stunned.

No, wait.

"You also robbed me of five pounds."

Rhodes could explain the phone, but there was no getting around that.

Still, Rhodes gave me the five pounds back.

I didn't really need it anymore. He needed the money more now.

After all, from his perspective, it seemed that chasing after the five pounds had led me to the Workhouse, where I'd accidentally gotten caught up in the explosion and met Sherlock, who had then resolved Rhodes's troubles and helped him find his father's keepsake.

"I'm returning it to its rightful owner now."

Rhodes looked at me, then at Sherlock, a smile on his face.

"God will surely bless you both."

Sherlock made no comment.

I couldn't help feeling a little wistful.

After he left, I tucked the money inside my phone case.

Sherlock's voice came at just the right moment. "You happen to need money. You can use that."

I didn't think Sherlock understood this at all. "This banknote carries so much with it. It means so much now. How could I spend it? I'm planning to show it to Mr. Watson too."

Sherlock didn't usually like to smile. Even when he did, it was either a sneer or a mocking, insincere smile.

Now, after hearing what I'd said, he smiled, and it was unexpectedly warm.

He didn't say much else after that.

I didn't continue the conversation either.

Come to think of it, it wasn't until we were almost back at the apartment that it gradually sank in.

Aside from his odd habits, Sherlock was actually a pretty good person.

Whether it was Rhodes or me, he had never thought to ask for anything in return, nor had he made a show of what he'd done. On the contrary, his kindness was quiet, nourishing things without a sound.

All at once, I had the illusion that I was bathed in Sherlock's holy light.

That thought made me suddenly realize that I didn't seem to have thanked Sherlock yet.

The warm yellow light of 221B Apartment shone on us, and the peaceful, cozy atmosphere was just right.

I was about to speak when our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, saw us coming back and opened the door for us. She said to me, "Lanny, there's mail for you from the hospital."

While I was in the hospital, Sherlock had arranged for me to have a CT scan and an MRI as part of a physical examination.

The envelope probably contained the images.

Thinking about it, Sherlock really was good to me.

I'd heard MRIs were expensive.

Before I could say anything, Sherlock's cool, low voice rang out.

"Have the axial slices from the brain MRI arrived so soon?"

Brain what?

Sherlock, what did you say?

I was a little confused.

Abandoning his usual reserved manner, Sherlock strode into the house, took the envelope Mrs. Hudson handed him, and asked me as if extending an invitation, "Would you like to see your scan results now?"

I realized something—

Being moved by Sherlock really was like a fish that had once been alive on the chopping board.

After a couple of flops, it ran out of energy on its own.

"No."