Chapter 42

"He's a grown man"

The departure celebration came to a smooth and uneventful end.

On the morning of our first day aboard, I still hadn't heard any news or rumors of a case.

It wasn't that I wanted to sit around waiting for something bad to happen, but I felt as though I had something unfinished, something that still hadn't materialized since the start of the holiday.

If I'd known, I wouldn't have rushed to read the preview comic.

I even looked through the forum and subtly hinted that this case might involve a wealthy businessman and his beautiful young wife, hoping to fish out more of the plot of Moriarty the Patriot. Instead, everyone thought I was looking for a story and recommended so many movies, TV shows, novels, and comics that I couldn't possibly get through them all.

There were stories where an old wealthy businessman was killed by his wife.

Others where an old wealthy businessman killed his wife.

Others where the wife was mistaken for the killer, but the real culprit was the businessman's son, grandson, secretary, doctor, or someone else.

And others where the businessman was mistaken for the killer, but the real culprit was one of the wife's siblings, close friends, or someone else.

When I ran into Albert last night, I thought I might see Professor Moriarty too. But I waited a long time without seeing him. Later, unable to contain my curiosity, I saw that Albert was about to return to his table and asked where Professor Moriarty was.

I figured that if he was also socializing at the dinner table, I could put my mind at ease. At least he wouldn't be up to anything bad.

Albert then told me that Professor Moriarty had been feeling unwell ever since boarding the ship and was resting in his cabin.

All I could think was, Yes, yes, the case is coming.

I hoped Sherlock and Professor Moriarty wouldn't run into each other like they did in the original story.

When Albert saw that I wasn't saying anything, he assumed I was worried and invited me to visit Professor Moriarty on the first day.

"If William knew you were coming, he'd be delighted."

After spending a long time in Europe and America, you were bound to get used to positive expressions like "that's great," "fantastic," and "brilliant" being used to convey agreement, encouragement, or positive thoughts. Still, you often had to consider whether the other person was merely saying something nice or being polite, or simply trying to maintain a pleasant, courteous atmosphere.

To me, that remark was a polite formality, and it also served to confirm his claim that Professor Moriarty was feeling unwell. In other words, Albert was making a simple reverse sprint.

He invited me even though he knew perfectly well I couldn't go.

So I declined. "If I went over, Professor Moriarty would have to spend time and energy receiving me, and that would only interfere with his rest. We should let him recuperate in peace."

Sure enough, Albert didn't insist.

As for Albert coming over specifically to get me out of that situation, although I didn't think he needed to help me, I thanked him again for his kindness. After that, we naturally went our separate ways.

On the morning of our first day aboard, my body clock woke me up at half past six as usual.

It was a little cold outside, the room was heated, and most of the restaurants outside hadn't opened yet, so I didn't feel like going out right away. It wasn't until seven, when the restaurant closest to me began serving its buffet, that I left my room.

My room was next to Watson's,

Mrs. Hudson's, and Sherlock's, all in a row.

Their doors were still shut when I went out.

The soundproofing was so good that I couldn't hear anything through the doors either.

Still, I had a feeling Sherlock was already up. I waited outside for two or three seconds, and when I heard no movement inside, I went downstairs alone.

First-class passengers could use most facilities free of charge, apart from some expensive, high-end restaurants and services. Yesterday, I'd already picked out a restaurant specializing in Chinese breakfast. I'd been in Britain for almost three or four months and had hardly had a proper Chinese breakfast. There was still a whole big bag of white rice unused in the apartment; normally, I just made myself some noodles.

You could order by scanning a code at the table or using the touchscreen on a standing display.

I ordered a bowl of small fresh shrimp wontons.

Personally, I didn't much like dumplings. Their wrappers were too thick, and wonton wrappers were smoother. If we hadn't gone on this cruise, Mrs. Hudson had said she would make me wontons instead of dumplings on Christmas Eve. To be honest, I was from the south and didn't have the custom of eating dumplings during holidays. But whenever people mentioned Chinese food, dumplings were the first thing they thought of.

That kind of cultural influence really was powerful.

Not long after I ordered and sat down, a familiar dark blue overcoat appeared in front of me. Sherlock didn't look at me as he sat down, merely surveying the style of the interior design.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes. Did you go somewhere this morning?"

The heating indoors was more than adequate, so he didn't need to wear an overcoat. Clearly, Sherlock had come in from outside. Shortly after he sat down, I could feel the chill coming off him. I poured him a cup of hot tea.

When Sherlock heard me, he raised an eyebrow slightly and said evenly, "Are you curious where I went, or are you just saying hello?"

I'd heard students who came to study in China say that their Chinese listening lessons covered greetings, and that Chinese people were accustomed to asking, "Have you eaten?" or "Where are you going?" At the time, I thought it was a stereotype. Young Chinese people nowadays didn't like asking those questions anymore. Who still asked "Have you eaten?" whenever they met someone? But now that Sherlock had pointed it out, to be honest, I really wasn't curious where he'd gone. I'd just felt a little awkward having nothing to say after "Good morning" and thought I should say a few more words.

I admitted that I really was just making conversation.

Sherlock nodded, either unwilling or too lazy to probe further. He said lightly, "What are you eating? Order me a portion too."

I wasn't sure whether to believe him, and my feet were almost reluctant to leave the floor. "Are you sure? What if what I ordered isn't to your taste?"

Sometimes, Sherlock's whims were really quite hard to deal with.

Sherlock showed obvious contempt for my concern and said with a hint of teasing, "You don't need to worry about that."

As soon as he said that, it crossed my mind that he might mean, Trust my choice. But Sherlock hadn't finished. He quickly continued without hesitation, "Of course, if it really is too hard to swallow, that would also be within my expectations. After all, given Lanny's taste in choices, he rarely manages to impress me."

Sherlock was still Sherlock today.

After placing the order,

I had only just sat back down when my portion arrived.

It was clearly Cantonese-style wonton soup, with no need for toppings or sauce. The broth was light in color and full of savory flavor. Steam rose from it, carrying its aroma in every direction.

"I ordered the same thing for you, Mr. Holmes. Go ahead and eat this one first."

Sherlock watched me push the bowl over and asked, "What's the meaning of this?"

"What do you mean, 'What's the meaning of this'? Don't you like it?"

"Are you giving it to me first out of respect for your elders?" Sherlock asked directly.

Ah... I'd only thought that, having come in from outside, he might be cold.

But after he said that, it did dawn on me that the Sherlock in front of me wasn't Holmes from the original story, that elegant older gentleman in his thirties or forties. Curious, I asked, "Mr. Holmes, may I venture to ask how old you are?"

"Twenty-seven," Sherlock said, a smile spreading across his face, though I couldn't tell what emotion lay behind it. "Do I look very old?"

"No." I shook my head twice. "Not at all. You're very young."

Only then did Sherlock's smile look a little more genuine.

I continued, "You're only nine years older than me, though you could still be in my uncle's generation. A ten-year-old once called me uncle..." I'd been upset about it for a long time.

Sherlock interrupted me. "Lanny, sometimes you really like talking nonsense."

"..."

Sherlock really did often feel that trivial pleasantries and inconsequential conversations were a waste of time.

I remembered him once saying something like, "My mind is more focused, and I'm more inclined to explore interesting questions and solve difficult problems." By now, I was gradually getting used to his pace.

After the two of us exchanged a few words, Sherlock's bowl of wonton soup arrived too.

I was just about to dig in when Sherlock tapped a finger on the table in front of me, stopping me in my food-devouring tracks. "Lanny, you've been distracted ever since the holiday started. Is something wrong?"

His words hit the nail on the head, and I asked guiltily, "Have I?"

Sherlock folded his arms and looked at me. Apparently unwilling to go back and forth over whether I had or not, he said decisively, "Tell me the truth."

I did have a lot on my mind.

Big things and small things alike.

I hesitated for a moment.

I was going to tell Mrs. Hudson, Watson, and the others anyway, so there was really no need to lie. If Sherlock helped me out, perhaps the sadness of parting would be a little less.

"I was going to tell you that after this holiday, I'm moving into the student apartments at school."

After saying that, I didn't dare look at Sherlock. I felt as though I would see the words "ungrateful wretch" in his eyes. But Sherlock didn't speak either. The silence made me look up, and Sherlock's gaze was waiting for me across the table.

"And then?"

I'd imagined Sherlock asking me why, and I'd imagined him examining my decision from a higher-level perspective. But his "And then?" left me at a loss.

Sherlock continued, "Why are you troubled over a decision you've already made? Are you worried someone will stop you?"

His words

struck some corner of my heart, making the area behind my ears burn.

Because what Sherlock said made me realize something: I was simply reluctant to leave them.

I was the one agonizing over whether to leave. If I'd truly decided to move out of that place without looking back, I wouldn't have hesitated or been troubled. When I thought about it carefully, neither Mrs. Hudson nor Watson would stop me, and Sherlock had no reason to stop me either.

I'd been making a fool of myself the whole time.

"Could it be that you want someone to help you move and are worried because you don't know how to ask?"

As soon as Sherlock said that, I hurriedly waved my hands. "No, how could that be? I wouldn't be that shameless, no matter what."

"If you're ready to leave, I imagine you've actually got many things ready already, and you could leave the apartment at any time. Is that right?"

I hadn't even started.

Because Mycroft, who wanted me to move out, hadn't even transferred me the money, and I still hadn't found a suitable apartment.

My silence made Sherlock look at me.

"Lanny, whatever decision you're making, or whatever decision is troubling you—"

His expression wasn't as mocking as I'd imagined it would be. I also knew he wasn't good at comforting people. Even so, Sherlock said, "When you can't give a definite decision or answer, you don't have to rush yourself into giving one. You can leave everything to time instead."

"Time will answer all your questions."

Sherlock's words surprised me.

Beneath his cold exterior, I seemed to glimpse a side of him that cared for and was considerate of him.

"When the time comes, you'll know all the answers."

Sherlock's words were full of philosophical insight, and a strange sense of peace came over me. It was as though the things I cared and worried about weren't actually as momentous, disastrous, and irreparable as I'd imagined.

"If there are no other questions, let's enjoy breakfast."

Sherlock looked at the still-fragrant wonton soup in front of him and picked up the utensils beside it.

Looking at Sherlock, who had already withdrawn from the conversation, I couldn't help saying, "Mr. Holmes, thank you so much for saying all that to me."

Sherlock gave no indication either way. He wouldn't bother with pointless pleasantries, even though I meant what I said. He simply concentrated on savoring his food. He seemed to have a discerning palate and could pick out the subtle differences between every flavor. This time, I saw a look of satisfaction appear on his face.

I couldn't resist picking up my spoon too and gently taking a sip of soup. The warm, fresh, sweet broth flowed into my mouth, accompanied by the rich aroma of shrimp and the plump, springy texture of the shrimp meat, making my expression relax. The wonton soup was unexpectedly good, far more delicious than I'd imagined.

"Mr. Holmes, this wonton soup is pretty good."

Sherlock graced me with a rare word of praise. "You do occasionally make some intelligent choices."

The warm, delicious food made the atmosphere between us more relaxed too.

I also slowly reflected on Sherlock's words. Though he could be hard to read at times, what he said was genuinely illuminating and had cleared up many things I couldn't understand. My mood grew lighter, and I gradually began to focus more on the present—on how to spend Christmas aboard the ship.

No sooner had that thought appeared than another followed.

"Mr. Holmes, when we talked about exchanging gifts at the apartment, didn't we invite Mr. Mycroft?"

Sherlock's hand paused. His expression unchanged, he said unhurriedly, "There was indeed such an arrangement."

There definitely was.

Sherlock had even given me the greeting card.

"Then did you tell him we're taking a cruise and won't be at the apartment?"

I could already picture the bleak scene of Mycroft arriving at our apartment door, only to find it firmly shut.

But Sherlock wasn't worried about it at all. "Lanny, Mycroft is a grown man."

Although that answer was strange, somehow it convinced me.

As an important member of the intelligence bureau, Mycroft probably already knew we'd left London on a cruise, right?

I really was worrying over nothing.