Chapter 25

25. "yue"

Only after I was sitting in the back of the car, my seat belt fastened, and saw the driver's tall, powerfully built figure in the front seat again did I finally relax.

The tension from moments ago had been like a sudden storm at sea, and now I had made it through safely. I took a deep breath, feeling my breathing gradually steady, my mood brighten, and my thoughts grow clearer.

At the same time, I couldn't help reflecting.

I had once thought that if I grew accustomed to dangerous moments like this, I wouldn't have to be so tense and frightened every time. But now that I thought about it, sensing danger and feeling afraid were actually ways of protecting myself. They allowed me to adjust my behavior in time to deal with different situations and take precautions.

It was an instinct rooted in humanity through thousands of years of natural selection.

Mycroft didn't ask many questions about what had happened to me, nor did he mention why he had come. He simply sat quietly on the other side of the back seat, attending to his own affairs on his tablet.

Even so, I couldn't imagine that one of the highest-ranking leaders of an entire country would involve himself in such a minor criminal case. If he wanted to investigate it personally, I would actually find that terrifying.

For someone like him to take time out of his precious schedule specifically to deal with something that had nothing to do with him.

How valuable would the undertaking have to be to justify him coming in person?

Even if perhaps all he had to do was say a few words.

I thought it was a very good way of handling things, not asking.

In his casual noninterference, I seemed to sense a feeling of reassurance that went without saying. Every time his fingers slid lightly across the tablet, I could feel a calming energy radiating from him.

Still, I really was curious about why he had come here.

My feelings wavered between curiosity and hesitation over whether to break the silence.

The car headed toward 221B Baker Street of its own accord. I was starting to suspect that Mycroft controlled the driver's mind. That was why Mycroft could freely control the car's direction without saying a word every time, making it comparable to the most advanced smart self-driving car.

Since Mycroft had no intention of asking questions himself, I decided to go over the people and events I had encountered today in the quiet car and put my thoughts in order.

In fact, after reading the manga, I had felt vaguely uneasy and imagined all sorts of possible scenarios.

Clearly, just as the information in the bullet comments had said, Professor Moriarty and I were in a very delicate position.

From his perspective, I didn't know Louis or Moran, so even if I suspected something about the explosion at the Workhouse, I had no way of connecting it directly to Moriarty. But he was also a cautious person, and I was afraid that as soon as I realized he was dangerous, he would very likely want to get rid of me. Only by making me disappear could he feel at ease.

In other words, the person who followed me tonight could very well have been sent by him.

After all, I seemed to have angered him when I treated him to coffee this afternoon, and it was entirely possible I had stirred up his killing intent.

If I hadn't read the manga, I would certainly have thought that Moriarty had sent someone after me tonight to kill me, or, even if they weren't there to kill me, to teach me a lesson and make me behave more cautiously in what I said and did.

After

reading the manga, I was actually willing to believe what the manga's bullet comments said. ()

Although some of their remarks were nonsensical, made purely for a moment's amusement, some key pieces of information couldn't be wrong. After all, they knew the character profiles.

The manga and its bullet comments were tools that let me get ahead of the situation, clues to the various possibilities that might occur in the future, and a link connecting me to the truth.

"Unless necessary, Professor Moriarty the Patriot won't kill innocent people indiscriminately."

Then, judging by that character profile, he definitely wouldn't be the sort of person to commit evil acts recklessly and of his own initiative.

In other words, the person who followed me today was very likely a third party connected to this case. If the matter wasn't resolved smoothly, I would very likely encounter all sorts of misfortunes over the next few days.

I was extremely glad I had met Mycroft Holmes today.

Only as we neared the apartment did Mycroft speak. "Mr. Lanny, it's been over a month since we last met. It seems you've fully settled into apartment life."

At the same time, I saw the familiar outline of our apartment and knew our conversation probably wouldn't last much longer. I nodded and gave a polite reply. "Thanks to you, Mr. Holmes."

I had barely finished speaking when I noticed Mycroft's eyebrow lift slightly.

I had only been replying politely, and by Mr. Holmes I had meant Mycroft Holmes.

But before I could explain, Mycroft put on his professional smile and said, "Sherlock certainly deserves the thanks."

A memory automatically surfaced in my mind: I had called Watson when I was planning to go home.

In fact, the manga's preview had left me feeling anxious.

Embarrassing as it was to admit, I still wanted someone to accompany me home. After all, I had only just come of age, I hadn't been in this unfamiliar country long, and this world was dangerous. I couldn't lift a thing or carry a load on my shoulders, either. As I came up with all sorts of excuses for myself, I invited Watson to dinner at a restaurant near my school.

It was the Italian restaurant Watson had eaten at several times when he was a student.

At the start of the school year, he had said it was a great place to go with friends: the atmosphere was comfortable, the prices were reasonable, and the food was plentiful and delicious.

I hadn't been particularly interested, so I'd never given it much thought.

But it was an excellent excuse to get Watson to pick me up on his way back.

Guys, Watson was a recently retired soldier!

He might have looked frail, but he could really fight.

Unfortunately, the excellent man had already been asked out. Watson quietly told me it was a date. If it went well, he would find a time to introduce me to Dr. Sarah, whom he had met at the clinic.

As a reader who had watched all of Sherlock, I had to tell him that he really did break up with one girlfriend per episode. There were countless reasons for the breakups, but at their core, they all had something to do with Sherlock. You could say his love life was a very rocky road. I believed that if I said I was worried there might be danger on the way home or something, Watson would come and accompany me even if he didn't understand why I was afraid, but I didn't want to become an obstacle in his love life.

Watson laughed. "Let's get together next time. There's no rush."

I replied, "Right, let's get together next time."

I thought that was the end of it, but had Mycroft Holmes come because

() of Sherlock Holmes? Had Sherlock heard my conversation with Watson, realized I might be in trouble, and asked his brother to come by for a look while he was at it?

No way.

No way...

I felt a subtle shift in my emotions.

It was as though I were standing at a crossroads, lost and unsure which way to choose.

I was actually considering the possibility that Sherlock would do something so thoughtful.

I had to be seriously overthinking things.

Mycroft explained at just the right moment. "Mrs. Hudson went on a date today, and Mr. Watson has gone on a date as well. Sherlock is the only one left at the apartment, and there's no one to make him dinner."

If anyone else had said that, I might have thought they simply didn't want me to feel indebted to them. But Holmes fit that image of a "cold" and "ruthless" rational person perfectly. I had no doubt about it, and even felt that Mycroft had tactfully spared my dignity by not continuing.

They were simply short of someone to cook for Sherlock at home.

That was Mycroft for you, a textbook brother complex. Just so his younger brother could have a hot meal, he had actually taken time out of his busy schedule to send me home to make Sherlock dinner.

For an ordinary person, that would be inconceivable.

But for the Holmes family, it wasn't impossible. I didn't think it was strange for anything to happen to them, no matter how bizarre.

Though his motive was cold, I was still grateful that he had given me a helping hand.

If he had told me beforehand, I would also have been perfectly willing to cook a meal in exchange for someone taking me home.

Sometimes, rather than looking at what someone thinks, you should look at what they do. If both sides benefit in the end, there's really no need to fight for a little more credit in words.

I had encountered some examples, both in real life and in novels.

They generally went like this: someone received help from another person, only to discover that the other person had actually been using them to further their own interests. Feeling hurt, they would make a huge fuss, demand to cut ties, and even stab the other person in the back or betray them.

Of course, these situations were often complicated and couldn't all be treated the same way. I also believed some people would disagree with me.

I simply thought that when my own interests hadn't been harmed and we could treat each other with respect and equality, whether the other person used an open and aboveboard strategy or a meticulously calculated scheme, turning on someone who had helped me the moment I had also gained something was impulsive and unwise.

I nodded. "I'll do a good job."

Mycroft was very pleased with my answer. Afterward, he gave me a slight nod. "Until we meet again, Mr. Lanny."

After watching his car leave, I looked back toward the apartment.

Sure enough, only the second floor of the 221B Apartment was lit.

Our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was a popular old lady too: gentle, lovely, and kind. She was now actively pursuing romance in her later years. Although Sherlock had discovered that her new elderly boyfriend was cheating on her, she was still full of confidence about love.

I believed that strength of hers could also be a powerful encouragement to Watson when he suffered heartbreak in the future.

When I stepped through the door, my mind was full of guesses about Sherlock. He might be reading at that moment, or concentrating

on writing his website. The website had very few views, fewer than a hundred. But Sherlock didn't care. To him, it was simply a record of his research findings. However, I smelled the aroma of food drifting down from the second floor.

Had Sherlock ordered takeout for himself?

I thought in shock.

The shocking part wasn't that Sherlock would look for food when he was hungry. It was that our Mr. Holmes was actually living a modern, twenty-first-century lifestyle. It really was a wonder to behold!

A wonder!

It had to be said twice.

After leaving my backpack in my room, I went upstairs to find Sherlock.

As soon as I reached the living room, I saw him sitting on his own sofa, silently staring at a corner of the floor. The last time I'd seen him sitting alone and motionless in the living room, he had stayed that way for at least three hours. When Watson asked him about it later, he said he had suddenly remembered a book and had simply been flipping through it and reading it there.

Although I knew he had such an impressive ability, seeing it with my own eyes still gave me the distinct feeling that I was watching someone use a superpower.

Thinking he was probably reading, I tiptoed into the kitchen to find something to eat myself.

I had barely moved when Sherlock's voice rang out.

"Mr. Lanny, you didn't even say hello to me."

That form of address was terrifying.

I hurriedly said, "I thought you were reading and didn't want to disturb you."

Sherlock loosened his shoulders and said, "I was waiting for you."

With that, he strode from the living room to the oven in the kitchen. Inside were roast meat giving off a rich aroma, along with fragrant roasted asparagus and potatoes. The fresh seasonal vegetables were sprinkled with pepper and rosemary, making it a Western meal with all the right colors, aromas, and flavors.

Guys, I was shocked.

I stood in the kitchen doorway, not daring to move a muscle.

Word had it—and this was just what I'd heard—

According to Mrs. Hudson, the most Sherlock had ever done to prepare food in her apartment was slice baguettes and make black coffee. Once, she had asked him to help heat up some prepared food: marinated steaks bought from the supermarket that only needed to be put in the oven according to the instructions before they were ready to eat. Yet Sherlock had still burned them.

Even though I had reason to suspect Sherlock simply didn't want to do anything in the kitchen and had deliberately ruined the food so people would throw him out, the fact that Sherlock couldn't cook was common knowledge throughout our apartment.

Yet, with the other two away, Sherlock had actually made a proper-looking Western meal.

I looked at the delicious food, and a flood of mixed feelings filled my heart. An unidentified, aching emotion quickly welled up inside me.

"..."

This Sherlock had finally lost patience and wanted to do away with me now.

Yes, he had waited a whole month.

I had even worked out the entire logic of the crime for Sherlock.

Sherlock also had an alibi for the time. Normally, it took me over half an hour to get home to the apartment by car, but someone had driven me today, so I had reached the apartment in less than ten minutes. As long as no one nearby saw me entering or leaving the 221B Apartment during that period, Mrs. Hudson and Mr. Watson would both think I had been killed before I got home.

Seeing that I wasn't moving, Sherlock looked at me with considerable disdain.

"Have your arms and legs degenerated to the point where they can't even move, just like your brain?"

I had to be brave and say I didn't want to die.

At the very least, I had worked so hard that I was still valuable as an employee.

After Sherlock spoke, his expression faded. Expressionless, he pulled out his chair and said two words in my direction.

"Sit" and "eat."

I supposed I had followed Sherlock's arrangements for so long and regarded him as my boss that my will to resist had weakened. When he spoke in a tone that brooked no argument, I sat down as well and picked up my knife and fork.

As I bit into the food, I considered a plan of action: as long as I ran outside and shouted for help, Sherlock would hesitate to act and wouldn't dare touch me.

Sherlock didn't pick up his knife and fork. Instead, he watched me eat and said unhurriedly, "Why were you nervous just now?"

I was at a loss for words, but now that I had a plan, I felt calmer.

"I wasn't nervous. I was just surprised you could cook."

That was a perfectly reasonable truth. Sherlock hadn't been investigating any cooking-related cases lately, nor had he read any books about seasonings.

Sherlock neither agreed nor disagreed, and didn't say whether he believed me. He merely said, "Only someone as stupid as you would make such a fuss over something so trivial."

"..."

Sherlock had never held back when it came to putting me down, but remarks like that seemed to be optional embellishments to him. His main point was never to be missed.

"If you're not nervous, you can have a taste."

To prove that I really was calm, I cut myself a full mouthful, then slowly gave my assessment. "The seasoning is good, but the meat is a little tough."

"It's kangaroo meat, after all."

"..."

Sherlock smiled at me, a hint of interest in sharing in his eyes. "I brought it from the home of a criminal who likes collecting all kinds of game. I wanted to see what it tasted like."

The moment he finished speaking, I felt as though I had been transported to another world. In an instant, the delicious meat blossomed in my mouth, triggering a sensory shock like an earthquake. A gamey, bitter taste exploded on my tongue, as though my entire sense of taste had been activated. Although I knew very well that it might partly be psychological...

"Gag—"

Sherlock seemed to be enjoying my reaction.

I stared closely into his eyes, but I couldn't tell whether he was mocking me, playing a trick on me, or treating me as someone he found amusing.

My mood was like a flickering flame.

When I should have been angry, I felt helpless instead.

When I should have felt helpless, I found it funny instead.

He really did seem to want to share it, which left me not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

Sherlock stared at the portion in front of him, a smile appearing on his face as though he were absorbed in it. "This is for John. He'll love it."

"..."

Sherlock really was like the sort of cat that would leave a dead mouse by its owner's pillow.

No one knew what he was thinking.

Suddenly, I felt that it really was funny.

Staring at Sherlock's face, a thought suddenly occurred to me. Could I tell him about the situation at

school? Perhaps he could quickly find a way to resolve it. But just as I opened my mouth, I thought of Professor Moriarty and quickly closed it again.

If the two of them came to blows, I would be the one caught in the middle and suffering most.

I hesitated. "..."

Sherlock seemed to notice my odd behavior just now. He raised an eyebrow and asked, "What is it, Lanny?"

I quickly shook my head. "Nothing. I was just thinking about what you said."

Sherlock didn't seem satisfied with my answer, but he didn't ask any more questions. He continued to analyze the food in his hands intently, taking the opportunity to launch into a long speech about cooking, full of his personal insights.

I was soon drowned in his words, and my thoughts gradually drifted elsewhere.

Perhaps I really should consider telling Sherlock about the situation at school. He might be able to help me find a solution, or even give me some advice. Although I knew his attitude toward social matters, he was a genius, after all, and might be able to offer me a unique perspective.

However, the thought of Professor Moriarty made me shiver again. Professor Moriarty seemed even more mysterious and dangerous to me than Sherlock was now. I wasn't sure whether telling Sherlock about the situation at school would bring even greater trouble.

I really didn't dare get involved in a contest between two geniuses.

Besides, although my relationship with Professor Moriarty was complicated, I didn't want it to draw me into an even more complicated situation.

I sighed softly and decided not to tell Sherlock about the school problem for the time being.

After all, the difficulties I faced weren't enough to make me risk uncovering that mystery yet.

"Lanny, did you hear what I said?" Sherlock suddenly interrupted my thoughts, pulling me out of my reverie.

I quickly shook my head, trying to stay focused.

Sherlock gave me a look that said I really wasn't listening and started explaining again, occasionally throwing in some peculiar theories about seasoning.

After dinner, Sherlock began clearing the dishes, and I offered to help clear the table. Although spending time with him sometimes tired me out, I had to admit that the excitement and clash of ideas were a unique pleasure.

Just as we silently finished up and were happily preparing to say goodbye, Sherlock suddenly looked up and said calmly, "Lanny, if something's troubling you, you can tell me."

For some reason, in that instant, something soft inside me seemed to be touched.

His words seemed to dissolve the nameless pressure I had been carrying, letting me truly feel Sherlock's genuine regard for others beneath his eccentricity and reclusiveness.

"I was followed today. I almost didn't get away."

A look of distaste and speechlessness immediately crossed Sherlock's face. "Perhaps you should consider spending some time working on those limbs of yours, stiff as an arthropod's."

"..."

I was such an idiot to think of telling him what was bothering me.

I held back my irritation and, after finishing what I had to do, sat on the stairs by the entrance, waiting for Watson to come back from his date.