Sherlock's Deduction

Tuesday morning.

Sherlock, who had just woken up, was curled up in his rocking chair, which he used as a bed, slowly eating the sandwich that Edward had brought him, covered with a wool coat.

Sherlock has low blood sugar. If he doesn't eat something or drink some sugar water or honey water immediately after waking up, his brain won't be able to start working.

This could be an innate problem, or it could simply be that he doesn't like to eat.

If Edward hadn't brought him breakfast, he probably would have just had some honey water to tide him over today.

"You'll get a stomach ailment sooner or later if you keep going like this, Hermes."

Edward sat in the chair next to Sherlock's desk and spoke in a deep voice.

He was holding the same sandwich in his hand. Soft white bread filled with beef, onions, cheese, lettuce, and plenty of cheese sauce.

That was a portable breakfast that Edward had instructed the cook to prepare in advance last night.

Because he knew that Sherlock would definitely skip breakfast if he could.

While sandwiches for breakfast might seem a bit meager for the Moriarty Family, Sherlock would likely lose his appetite if the food were more lavish or elaborate.

Sherlock squinted and said lazily, "I usually try to keep myself as hungry as possible. That way my brain can function more actively."

Are you practicing asceticism?

"Asceticism? No, no, no..."

Sherlock chuckled, raising his head with interest. "Why would you think I'm like a monk, torturing myself in pursuit of wisdom?"

"Isn't that right?" Edward retorted.

"Of course not," Sherlock replied. "Being too concerned with something makes it easy to fall into formalities and rules. That would cause you to lose sight of the original intention of seeking wisdom."

"I acknowledge that good things are good. If I were presented with both good and bad things, and I had the opportunity to choose, I would naturally try to choose the good ones."

"But are they so bad that they're unacceptable? Not necessarily. As long as they meet my needs, I can choose either one—in other words, I don't necessarily have to choose the better one."

Sherlock said, tossing the last bite of his beef sandwich into his mouth.

He mumbled as he chewed, "Honey water and sandwiches both wake up my brain. So of course I'll eat whichever one is served to me. You can't expect me to go downstairs to buy a sandwich in that dazed state, can you? You don't know what it feels like for your brain to be like a dry, sluggish machine—that's awful."

"Then you might as well hire a maid to take care of you."

"No, no, no, then forget it. My dearest friend."

Sherlock shook his head vigorously, expressing his strong refusal. "You know, every document and file in my room has its own place. All my bottles and jars also have their own, somewhat mystical, arrangement. No one but me can put them in such a satisfactory and perfect position."

"You're quite like Iver in that respect," Edward commented, looking at the cramped, cluttered, and dimly lit room filled with books, files, and documents. "Honestly, you need someone to take care of you. Why don't you go back home? At least your cook can prepare three good meals a day for you."

"Heh, forget it."

Sherlock chuckled, leaning back in his rocking chair, which swayed slightly back and forth. "If I go back, the old man will start arranging blind dates and marriages for me again..."

"The brain becomes sluggish after overeating and numb after drinking alcohol. If you fall in love with someone, or are obsessed with fame, or desperately crave money and wealth, your mind will also become unclear."

"You know, Edward. The Path of Wisdom is a selfish path. Truth is destined to be sought alone. Marriage is too much trouble for me."

"When you say that, I thought you had come quite far on the Path of Wisdom."

Edward's calm expression remained unchanged. "The furthest path you've taken isn't authoritarianism? Besides, you're already twenty-six; it's time you got married. It's normal for Lord Arthur to be anxious about your affairs."

"... That's only temporary. Soon, my Path of Wisdom will be able to overtake them."

Sherlock brushed it off somewhat vaguely, then immediately retorted without hesitation, "And what about you? Aren't you thirty-five years old and still unmarried?"

Edward simply shook his head slightly, his voice devoid of any emotion. "I call this widowhood."

"I got married in my early twenties, but my wife died unexpectedly later."

"... I haven't heard you mention that before."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his amber eyes slightly opening with interest.

But he didn't pursue the matter further.

The major events involving Inspector Edward's deceased wife—such a prominent figure—could be easily traced. Not mentioning it now is a sign of respect for Edward, and also a display of confidence in one's own investigative abilities.

Edward didn't offer any explanation; he simply walked over and handed over this morning's Glass Staircase Newspaper.

Sherlock, who was lying in the rocking chair, got up, took the newspaper, and then lay back down.

He lay in the rocking chair, swaying back and forth, his head nodding. He looked like he was feeling sleepy after eating. He spent a long time just looking at the first version.

Edward, who had been standing to the side for a long time, finally couldn't help but ask, "Did you see that? Iver is in the newspaper again, and it's on the front page."

"I already knew yesterday."

Sherlock said lazily, "I guessed it the moment I walked into the club and saw that prince. Speaking of which, didn't we have ' Crystal Dance Shoes ' badges back in school?"

"Only you have it, right? I've never been interested in music."

Edward answered casually.

He ate his sandwich, waiting for Sherlock to finish reading the newspaper before asking, "What do you think?"

"It's not a good thing, but it's not bad either."

Sherlock tossed the Glass Staircase Newspaper aside. "Secretary Raff's assassination in public has had a terrible impact. But it's just a deliberately created atmosphere of tension."

"What's really important is that this happened right next to Her Highness the Princess. And Chief Gordon ultimately failed to arrest that professional killer."

"Although, based on our on-site investigation yesterday, Chief Gordon's actions can be said to have been entirely correct, many times, what you actually do is not important... what matters is that you convince people what you did."

"Regardless, Gordon has let a very dangerous assassin escape. It's already late November, and the New Year is just over a month away. If this matter isn't properly resolved soon, public opinion will be in trouble. A high-level superhuman who can kill and escape is basically pointing fingers at the Bureau of Supervision for incompetence. At that point, not only Gordon, but the entire Bureau of Supervision could be under pressure—your Inspectorate must have wanted to reduce the Bureau of Supervision's authority for a long time, right?"

"The fact is that he did a poor job. But dealing with Director Gordon at this time will only make people realize that the problem is out of control, making them more panicked and making the situation even more out of control."

Edward whispered, "Therefore, the Bureau of Supervision plans to hold a large-scale commendation ceremony for Iver this week to highlight his achievements and distract the public."

"Wasn't there an award for what happened at the Pelican Bar last time?" Sherlock asked, puzzled.

"The two awards have been combined. It's still Thursday afternoon. This time, the plan is not to award the ' Crystal Cross Medal ', but to directly award the Holy Sword Medal."

Edward said in a deep voice.

"Wow."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "In what name? The Holy Sword Medal is usually awarded to warriors who have rendered meritorious service to the country or made outstanding contributions on the battlefield."

"'Single-handedly discovered and prevented the assassination attempt on Princess Isabel by the superhuman assassins.'"

"Huh? So this turned into an attempted assassination? Secretary Raff became an innocent victim?"

A black-haired young man with messy curly hair lounged in a rocking chair and chuckled, "It's not necessarily a bad thing. Let them keep taking it as it is for now."

"...First?"

Edward caught Sherlock's question, "What did you find out?"

"It's not an investigation, it's deduction. This is truly an interesting case, my dear friend. I thought about it all night yesterday and didn't go to sleep until three or four in the morning."

Sherlock said, pulling out his notebook. "Let's start by prioritizing the most important and urgent matters, beginning with the most crucial ones."

"I have already decoded those files. They contain a large number of addresses and names written in a ciphertext."

"I'm sure you don't care about the reasoning process in between. I'll just give you the conclusion—the document found at the scene is related to Smuggling Case at the port."

"... You mean the ' Sweater Brotherhood ' line?"

"Yes. In other words, Minister of Trade Drost is probably involved in the Smuggling Case."

"And I've already found out the assassin's identity. They're from the Iris assassin society called 'Hawk Eyes.' Only they can use this special weapon. They're remnants of the Black Eagle Principality after its fall... essentially mercenaries. They might accept commissions from anyone, including attacking nobles or even royalty from various countries."

With that, Sherlock closed the notebook.

He looked at Edward meaningfully. "Under what circumstances do you think an assassin who traveled all the way from the Iris Kingdom would openly kill the minister's private secretary who is directly related to the Stibium Kingdom's Smuggling Case?"

"I think it's to frame someone."

Edward answered without hesitation, "That's why the deceased was holding documents, with his back to the murderer, and fell from the second floor to the ground. This suggests that he was most likely not there to retrieve documents, but to deliver them."

"Oh, what you said makes some sense."

Sherlock's lips curled slightly upon hearing this. "But unfortunately, that possibility doesn't exist. Because I checked the notes on this document yesterday, and the coded messages on the shipping documents we seized at the Sweater Brotherhood clearly came from the same person. After cracking the code rules, I successfully decoded the document and found that it listed warehouses and their corresponding administrators."

"Thank God, I have some documents in my files that Secretary Raff used to sign. Although he deliberately controlled his handwriting, I'm sure it was written by the same person."

"So I thought of one possibility. Someone has something on Minister Drost and wants to expose him."

"Such a thing is true..."

Edward murmured softly, gazing at Sherlock, and asked calmly and clearly, "Then who do you think it could be?"

"Analyzing from the perspectives of interpersonal relationships, motivations, abilities, and alibis," Sherlock paused for a moment, "I think it could be your father, Professor Moriarty."