Meanwhile, Iver finished telling Sherlock, who was staying at the bishop's residence, everything that had happened over the past few days.
When Sherlock learned from Iver that Minister Drost was dead, he unexpectedly felt a little downcast.
"What? Got used to resting and don't want to go back?"
Seeing the melancholy look on Sherlock's face, Iver raised an eyebrow and consoled him. "Why don't you just stay dead, then? I think that'd be pretty good. The funeral's already been held, anyway."
"Even if you died, I wouldn't."
Sherlock lowered his head and continued writing. He replied coldly, "I never argue with patients. Go to sleep first. If you want to argue, I'll wait until you wake up."
Not necessarily. I think you're more likely to kick the bucket than I am.
Iver said it inwardly but didn't voice it.
He rose from his wheelchair and leaned over to see what Sherlock was writing.
Sherlock turned his head slightly and glanced at Iver. He didn't ask about his legs, nor did he cover the document in front of him.
He merely explained casually, "The same thing as before."
"You still haven't finished? The one about the one hundred and forty kinds of ash?"
"I finished it already. I'm just verifying it one more time. There can't be any mistakes in something like this. Otherwise, it'll cause huge problems."
Sherlock explained, "I originally wrote this reference book to help the Bureau of Supervision and the Inspectorates in remote regions solve difficult cases... If there are errors in it, it might instead become an obstacle to solving cases."
"So when are you planning to 'come back to life'?"
Iver said, "Your parents are very worried about you."
"No rush." Sherlock flipped through the book as he spoke. "Mycroft can handle it."
His words