The Queen's Attention

Ye Yan was not at all surprised that the other party knew about the new identity he had just submitted.

Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes's older brother, a positive character who made few appearances in the original work.

The book had once hinted that Mycroft Holmes was a high-ranking official in the British government; as for how high, that was left to the reader's imagination, as Conan Doyle never explicitly wrote it down.

In this world, however, the man likely had to add another title: the newly appointed Director of the Supernatural Administration Bureau.

At this moment, Mycroft was sitting inside the carriage, his eyes filled with a faint smile as he awaited Ye Yan's reply.

A powerful and influential man of good standing was inviting him to talk.

From any perspective, he should not refuse the invitation.

If Mycroft hadn't brought Smith along, Ye Yan would have boarded the carriage without a second thought, but with that man present, he felt he needed to be a bit more cautious.

If it were a private matter, he could board.

If it were official business, he would politely decline.

A new official always brings new rules, and who knew if the man intended to use him as kindling for one of his first fires.

He retreated half a step nonchalantly, letting his boot heel rest against the gutter at the edge of the sidewalk. This position allowed for a quick retreat without appearing overly rude.

"May I ask, are you here to talk to me because of Mr. Holmes?"

Ye Yan asked tentatively, using this to judge whether the other party was seeking him out for private or official reasons.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at this, a movement that smoothed out the lines at the corners of his eyes: "You are quite right. Could it be that Sherlock has mentioned me to you?"

"No, I was merely guessing."

Having received a satisfactory answer, Ye Yan boarded the carriage.

The warm air inside the carriage was mingled with the faint scent of cedar and peppermint. Ye Yan noticed a copy of The Times resting on Mycroft's crossed legs, with the headline "Serial Horse-Belly Corpse Case Solved" printed in bold lead type on the front page.

He found an empty seat in the carriage and sat down, deliberately keeping his right hand close to his waist.

Smith was sitting quietly in the corner.

When their gazes met, the corners of the other man's mouth curled into a standard smile.

Ye Yan withdrew his gaze, feeling a sense of doubt in his heart.

So, why did Mycroft bring Smith along to talk to him?

Could these two be well-acquainted?

This character didn't seem to appear in the original work at all.

The carriage began to move, the sound of the wheels crushing over puddles acting like some sort of rhythmic lullaby.

"I am Sherlock's brother."

Mycroft took off his silk top hat and placed it on his knees. His demeanor maintained the unique air of an official—neither overly warm nor distant.

"I had assumed you and Sherlock were friends, but now it seems you may have simply wanted to save a life."

Ye Yan remained silent, offering no rebuttal.

Sometimes, a well-timed silence is more persuasive than a thousand words.

He could not explain to others the true reason that drove him to pay such a price; it was like the fog of Victorian London, destined to never truly vanish.

Since that was the case, it was better to let them guess.

People are always more willing to believe the imaginations they weave themselves than the truth others struggle to explain.

That is the magic of overthinking.

"But you do not look like a reckless young man."

Mycroft paused, then continued: "You were very guarded before boarding, even after I revealed my identity. Yet, during that previous operation, you took actions that caught everyone by surprise."

Very well.

As expected of Mycroft, he went straight to the point, identifying the logical inconsistencies in his actions.

But Ye Yan was not in the least bit flustered.

After the previous probing by Holmes, he seemed capable of thinking calmly under any unfavorable circumstances.

He adjusted his sitting posture, letting the shadows perfectly obscure the emotional fluctuations in his eyes.

"People sometimes do things that defy logic. For instance, if you were to ask me now whether I would be willing to sacrifice my life to save someone?"

As he said this, a hint of deliberate self-mockery entered Ye Yan's voice: "I would tell you with a very clear head that I am not willing. But the fact is, I chose to save them at the time."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile appeared at the corners of Mycroft's mouth; he naturally understood the subtext of the other's words.

Indeed.

The defensive posture, the cautious phrasing, and the hand that never strayed far from his weapon.

This young man was worried that I, the new Director of the Supernatural Administration Bureau, would treat him like a chess piece and demand he sacrifice himself for some "more valuable goal."

But how could he ever choose to do such a thing?

This country is in need of young men exactly like this, rather than those decaying elements that require excision.

"In fact, I often worry about my younger brother."

Mycroft suddenly shifted the topic, saying, "Because he is the most obtuse child in our entire family."

The corners of Ye Yan's mouth twitched slightly.

Only Mycroft would have the confidence to say such a thing.

If even Holmes was considered obtuse, then what did that make him—a goldfish with a goldfish's brain?

"No, no, don't misunderstand."

Mycroft waved a hand. "I am not saying Sherlock lacks intelligence; I am saying he lacks flexibility. He is sometimes so stubborn in his own opinions that he becomes rather unlikable."

"For instance, after you saved him, he didn't even offer a word of thanks to your face, yet he specifically wrote me a letter to remind me not to overlook your contribution."

He pulled a wax-sealed letter from his inner pocket.

"As the Director of the Administration, upholding the law is my duty. But today, I am here purely in the capacity of an elder brother to express my gratitude for your actions in saving my brother."

Mycroft offered Ye Yan a smile.

"So, I would like to ask: is there anything you need?"

Ye Yan was no saint who sought no reward. He certainly hadn't dared to rashly accept the "pies" offered by the three major organizations—those treats coated in honey but hiding who-knows-what inside.

But a "steamed bun" delivered privately by Mycroft? He would absolutely devour it in one bite.

How could he possibly refuse a benefit delivered right to his doorstep?

"Does needing money count?"

Ye Yan stated his requirement with complete frankness.

Hearing this, Mycroft burst into laughter, his hand slapping his knee with such force that the carriage swayed slightly.

"Hahaha, of course, of course. How much do you need?"

"After deducting the cash from my parents' entire inheritance, how much more do I need to purchase the apartment at 222 Baker Street?"

Ye Yan asked.

"The answer is zero." Mycroft looked toward Smith, who immediately handed over a contract. "You do not need to pay a single cent; the ownership of that apartment is yours."

"Thank you."

"Do you have any other requests?"

Ye Yan shook his head.

"Very well, I understand."

Mycroft tapped the carriage wall lightly, and the vehicle began to slow down. "You can go see your new home tomorrow. Don't worry about the cultists; the surrounding area has already been thoroughly cleared."

As the carriage came to a complete stop, he added with profound meaning, "Could you do me a favor and pass a message to Sherlock? Please tell him that I have found him a rather decent neighbor."

Ye Yan could not help but sigh inwardly once more.

He truly lived up to his reputation as a high-ranking government official.

The art of his speech always managed to find a comfortable entry point to praise the other party without leaving a trace.

Once Ye Yan's footsteps vanished into the damp cobblestone street, the carriage interior fell into sudden silence.

Mycroft Holmes slowly let the smile fade from his lips. When his majestic gray eyes turned toward Smith, they were as cold as the River Thames in winter.

"This young man is smarter than you anticipated, isn't he?"

"You are correct."

Smith bowed his head slightly, his voice a few degrees lower than usual. "He knew that I intended to let him die last time. He played his part well while dealing with me earlier, nearly deceiving even me. It is just that I still cannot fathom..."

He raised his eyes, the gaze behind his lenses flickering with confusion. "Where exactly did he spot the flaw?"

Mycroft took a cigarette case from his breast pocket; the sound of it opening and closing was exceptionally crisp in the quiet carriage.

He took out a cigar in a leisurely manner but did not light it, merely holding it to his nose to inhale the scent of the tobacco.

"Actions taken will always leave a trace. The money for the apartment at 222 Baker Street will be deducted from your salary."

Smith lowered his eyes, accepting the punishment without protest.

"Think carefully about how to mend your relationship and eliminate past conflicts."

Mycroft's gaze swept over Smith's slightly trembling fingers, carrying a warning tone. "The Queen has also taken an interest in him. If you wish to climb higher, do not make too many enemies for yourself. Do you understand?"

Smith's lips moved a few times, but in the end, he merely offered a stiff, standard nod.

"Yes, Director."