Chapter 3

3. "Someone has their eye on your child's brain"

Actually, I didn't have much chance to examine the source or consequences of that ominous feeling.

Just thinking about my current situation was already taxing my CPU.

The man in the suit sat in the back seat with his hands clasped on his knees, looking perfectly relaxed. Up front, the driver had accelerated from a crawl to a normal speed, and the scenery outside the window was gradually becoming more and more unfamiliar. I didn't know where the car was going, but I believed he would probably take me home... right...?

Mycroft said, "You don't look like a reckless young man. At the very least, I thought you would put up a little resistance before getting in the car."

My gaze went straight to the man in black in the front passenger seat. Although I couldn't see his face clearly, from where I sat, I could see his bulging muscles stretching the neat lines of his suit.

Mycroft wasn't going to give me a chance to refuse, was he?

I sat there looking innocent and obedient, ready to hear how he intended to arrange things. I was willing to comply with my patron's demands at any time.

Mycroft didn't mind that I hadn't answered. He glanced at me, the corners of his mouth lifting. "Are you short of money?"

As expected of Sherlock's older brother, he didn't beat around the bush at all. He went straight for the bull's-eye.

I liked that kind of directness.

I had meant to nod, but then I felt I was being too eager. Besides, if he saw how cooperative I was, he might lower his offer, thinking I wasn't worth a high price. So I kept a poker face and asked a question I already knew the answer to. "How did you know I was short of money?"

Mycroft was a high-ranking government official.

For him, information on an ordinary civilian was readily available.

As long as he was curious about me, there were plenty of people around him willing to volunteer the information.

Although I knew that perfectly well, there had been too many holes in my behavior today. If I didn't patch them up properly, I might be treated as a deviant.

"Under normal circumstances, shouldn't you be asking, 'Who exactly are you?'"

Mycroft turned slightly toward me, his expression still composed. He looked at my face as if he meant to read my thoughts. I noticed his fingers tapping lightly against the back of his hand, seemingly in thought, but I believed he was controlling the situation and setting the tone for the entire conversation.

He wasn't finished. "Can I put it this way? You seem to have known all along that I would appear and what I would ask. Not to mention, you already know who I am, don't you?"

"..."

No wonder he made it into Britain's upper ranks. He could figure out most of what was going on with me just from my expressions and words.

I didn't know what response would be best suited to the situation.

Should I play dumb, or tell him the truth? I could say I had transmigrated and knew the plot and main characters of Sherlock very well. But that would be no use to him. Whether he believed me or not, it wouldn't help even if he did. Someone in his position was more concerned with the situation of the whole country. If I said I didn't know, he might instead mistakenly think I was doing it on purpose.

Distracted, I looked out the window and tried to guess which barren, deserted stretch of countryside the car was headed for. Thinking it through, if he simply dumped me by the roadside, someone like me with no wilderness survival skills would probably starve to death.

Why were ordinary people's chances of survival so low?

I couldn't help but let out

a sigh inwardly. I turned back to Mycroft. "Wait a moment." After speaking, I formed gestures with my fingers, deliberately putting on a mysterious, ritualistic smokescreen.

"You're Sherlock's brother, Mycroft Holmes. Your purpose in inviting me here this time was to investigate my identity. And if I could be of use, you might put me by your brother's side to keep an eye on him. That's what I divined."

Mycroft wouldn't ask his brother Sherlock whether he had told me his name. If he did ask, I could just pin it on Sherlock.

Unexpectedly, though, what surprised Mycroft wasn't how I knew his name. He raised an eyebrow, a meaningful look appearing in his deep-set eyes. "Sherlock? Are you and my brother really so close?"

"With two Holmes brothers, it's easier to tell you apart if I call you by your first names."

Mycroft neither agreed nor disagreed and fell silent for three or four seconds.

During those three or four seconds, I had visions of showing an essay to my Chinese teacher for the first time and showing my parents a report card after bombing an exam for the first time.

I realized I was a little nervous.

Mycroft, however, seemed to accept it. "That's good."

"..."

What was good about it?

"On your first day after coming from China, you could predict an explosion, immediately find Baker Street, where Sherlock lives, and ask to share his flat. You weren't surprised at all by my appearance or my intentions. You knew all about them."

"..."

No, I didn't know that much.

"And your explanation is that you 'divined it.' Very good."

"..."

"Then why couldn't you divine that you would be robbed and cheated out of your rent?"

"Because..." I suppressed my unease at being seen through and continued in an even tone, choosing my words. "Because I'm not talented enough. It works sometimes and not others. I don't have much use for it normally, either."

As soon as I finished speaking, Mycroft smiled and deliberately touched the back of my hand with his index finger. Goosebumps rose all over me. Smiling, he said, "Then your on-the-spot divination just now was quite accurate. You were spot-on about my identity and intentions."

The tone and wording he used to deliberately create the impression that we were close sent shivers down my spine.

"Yes, I performed exceptionally well just now."

Mycroft looked in my direction and said, "You should know there's another thing in this world called a lie detector, shouldn't you?"

In fact, I was just an ordinary person.

It wasn't as if I was going to kill anyone or set fires. If I was a danger to society, couldn't he just throw me in prison? I thought this was really unnecessary.

My tone turned cold. "Lie detector results aren't accurate anyway. Why don't you just give me sodium thiopental? You can ask me anything you want."

Sodium thiopental was the main ingredient in truth serum. It had initially been used as a sleeping drug, but its side effects later proved too severe. Because it could act on multiple regions of the brain at once, some people used it extensively to make others speak uncontrollably. There was no guarantee that what they said would be objective, but it was still useful to some extent, at least more effective than a lie detector.

I glanced out the car window and said to Mycroft, "If you want an excuse to get rid of me, there's no need to go to so much trouble. Have the driver speed up to over 180 kilometers an hour now, and I can jump out immediately. You won't even have to deal with the body."

Of course, if I really was forced to jump out,

I would drag Mycroft down with me.

As soon as I said that, Mycroft quickly raised a hand. "I was only joking."

"..."

I didn't agree.

"If I really wanted to harm you, there would have been no need to meet you. Think about it: if you were injured, the loss would outweigh the gain."

"..."

Mycroft continued with a smile, "We've already gained a preliminary understanding of each other's personalities and identities. There will be opportunities for us to work together in the future, so there's no need for such hostility."

"..."

In a soothing tone, he changed the subject. "I personally reviewed all the written documents in your application to enter Britain. It was clear that you're an upright, honest, hardworking, and down-to-earth young student. May I ask whether you'll return home in the future?"

"Mm, I'll go back after I finish my studies. I'm just here to get a degree." To prove that I really was a law-abiding citizen, I decided to cooperate. "Besides, it was a university here that invited me."

I didn't know what Mycroft was thinking. His eyes shifted, though not like the cartoon foxes who "shift their eyes extremely slyly" when they were hatching a bad idea. Even so, my instincts told me that was exactly what he was doing.

Mycroft smiled. "Then I hope you and my brother get along."

As soon as he said that, the driver, as if he could read Mycroft's mind, made a wide turn and headed straight back the way we had come. The car's sound system was switched on, playing a French chanson. I had never studied French, but I had heard the song before. It was Edith Piaf's "Non, je ne regrette rien."

"No, absolutely not, never."

"The good, I gladly accept."

"The bad, I face calmly."

Normally, I had only listened in passing and hadn't paid it much attention. But hearing it now gave me tremendous strength.

A barefoot person had nothing to fear from someone wearing shoes.

I had already died once. What did I have left to fear?

The good, of course I would gladly accept.

The bad, I would bravely face.

It wasn't until we returned to a familiar neighborhood that Mycroft spoke to me again. "We'll have opportunities to meet again. Until then, I wish you all the best."

Before getting out of the car, I remembered I still hadn't received any money. "Don't you want me to keep an eye on your brother?"

"No need." Mycroft smiled. "Actually, it was my brother who asked me for information about you. That made me curious, so I came to see you myself. Since you've now presented yourself to him for observation, I have a feeling the two of you will get along well. There's no need for me to do anything more."

Was he serious? Or was he deliberately trying to drive a wedge between us?

Deep down, I thought Sherlock was a good person, so I didn't quite believe Mycroft's account. But I also thought there was nothing strange about Sherlock being curious about someone's identity and asking his brother for information. Especially when his brother was a senior government official, who would have more comprehensive information.

I frowned slightly. "...Then why did you ask if I was short of money?"

"One needs a good conversation topic," Mycroft continued, his eyes curved in a smile. "Or would you be willing to watch Sherlock and betray his whereabouts for money, Mr. Lanny?" Before he had even finished speaking, the man in black in the front seat had raised a gun, its dark muzzle aimed at my chest.

I was sure that the moment I said yes, the man in black in the front seat would shoot me dead on the spot.

"...No."

Mycroft smiled. "I like your answer very much."

After getting out, I really wanted to slam the car door in anger, but on closer inspection, it was a Maserati. If I broke the door, I would have to pay tens of thousands of pounds, so in the end, I chose to close it carefully.

The luxury car drove away, leaving me standing alone in the wind.

I replayed our conversation in my head, checking it for holes so I could prepare in advance for our next meeting.

Still, to be honest, Mycroft had been far too calm in both his questions and answers. He was thinking at every moment, keenly noticing every reaction and change in my emotions, shifting his position at the right time and choosing his words flexibly.

Was this what a mature member of society was like?

How scary.

But when I thought about how he had handled people in the car, I still couldn't help muttering—

"...He really is so annoying."

As soon as the words left my mouth, a deep voice sounded beside me. "I wholeheartedly agree."

I instinctively turned around. It was Cumberbatch, who had appeared at some point without my noticing. With a blue scarf around his neck, he exuded the air of a British gentleman: tall and lean, courteous and graceful. At that moment, his deep-set eyes were looking in my direction. For an instant, it made me feel that Sherlock, who shared my sentiment, was both warm and friendly, with a touch of Schrödinger's humanity about him.

It wasn't hard to recall that Cumberbatch's Sherlock in Sherlock actually had a high EQ. He was simply too lazy to show it, or sometimes disdained to show ordinary people his kind side. Yet when necessary, he was also very good at moving people, and could even manipulate them quite easily.

Just as I was reflecting on how I had come to think of him as "the friendly Sherlock," my gaze drifted down and landed on the translucent book bag Sherlock was carrying. He had bought quite a few books. Their covers pressed against the bag, allowing the titles to show through.

I saw only the book at the very front, and the warmth welling up in my heart instantly cooled—

"Rhoton's Cranial Anatomy and Surgical Approaches."

Mom, someone had their eye on your child's brain!!