Ye Yan was in a bad mood today.
The reason was simple: the Bookhouse had actually refused to accept his Beginner's Guide to Occultism.
["Incorrect knowledge shouldn't be passed down."]
Those were the Bookhouse's exact words.
Ye Yan hadn't even had time to take back the Beginner's Guide to Occultism, riddled with so many absurdities, before the furious Bookhouse set it on fire.
"How about I just write a book myself?"
Raindrops began tapping against the window, as if mocking Ye Yan's naivety.
Perhaps he shouldn't have hoped for anything in the first place.
If even the most basic beginner-level knowledge was wrong, could he really expect the more advanced knowledge to be accurate?
In a world where even the fundamentals of occultism were still being explored, finding books that contained the truth seemed like a thankless task.
He raked a hand through his hair, at a loss.
Unlike selecting a book, which simply required that he be the author, naming one placed no restrictions on who had written it.
But there was a restriction on its contents.
If a book had nothing to do with "home," Ye Yan couldn't name it.
"If that's the case..."
Ye Yan thought of Uncle Jules and Sherlock Holmes.
"Maybe I should ask Dr. Watson if he'd be interested in writing a novel about Holmes's cases?"
As it happened, for some reason, Dr. Watson—despite having no shortage of money—had recently moved into 221B Baker Street, just like in the original story, to live with Holmes.
Perhaps he could find an opportunity to ask the doctor.
Rainwater ran off the eaves of the apartment at 221B Baker Street. Ye Yan folded his umbrella and gently knocked on the door.
It opened almost immediately.
Dr. Watson's bearded face appeared in the doorway, his blue eyes alight with delight.
"Newman!"
Watson warmly embraced Ye Yan. "What a pleasant surprise! Come in quickly. The rain's coming down so hard!"
Ye Yan stepped into the warm interior. Flames danced merrily in the fireplace, driving away the chill that always accompanied rainy days.
He took off his damp coat and hung it on the coat rack by the door. A few pages covered in handwriting lay scattered across the coffee table, and a fountain pen rested beside an inkwell.
"I hope I'm not interrupting your work, Doctor."
Ye Yan pointed to the pages.
Watson shook his head with a smile, his beard twitching gently with the movement. "Quite the contrary. I could use some advice. How about a cup of hot tea? I just bought some excellent Darjeeling."
A violin sounded from upstairs, its notes strange and melancholy, like some unknown Eastern tune.
Ye Yan looked up at the ceiling. Following his gaze, Watson smiled knowingly.
"Don't mind that. Sherlock's thinking."
He listened for a moment. The tune suddenly shifted into something cheerful. "Ah, it seems he's in a good mood today."
Watson went to the tea cabinet by the fireplace and deftly prepared the tea. He handed Ye Yan a steaming cup, and its aroma soon filled the room.
"You said you needed advice?"
Ye Yan sat in an armchair near the fireplace and accepted the hot tea Watson handed him.
"Yes, actually..."
He paused, his eyes bright with excitement. "I'm writing down the details of the case Sherlock just solved—the bizarre murder on Lauriston Gardens."
Ye Yan gently rubbed the rim of his teacup. "The case with the word [RACHE] written in blood?"
"Exactly!"
Watson jumped up and hurried to the coffee table to pick up the stack of pages.
"I've already written a first draft and titled it A Study in Scarlet." He returned and handed Ye Yan the pages. "I'd like to hear what you think."
Ye Yan took the pages. They rustled softly in his hands. The title was written neatly on the first page, with Watson's name beneath it.
He turned to the second page and began reading.
The rain outside gradually eased until only the occasional drip could be heard. Ye Yan was absorbed in Watson's vivid account.
Ye Yan read intently.
He had to admit that Watson had a talent for becoming a novelist. His elegant phrasing, perfectly timed pauses, and masterful shifts in perspective gave the case astonishing force and vividness.
Even as an outsider, Ye Yan felt as if he had lived through the thrilling pursuit of the killer himself.
He could almost see the dead man's pale, grotesque face, the bloody writing on the wall, and Holmes's peerless reasoning.
Ye Yan was certain that even if Watson quit medicine to become a writer, he could probably make a living.
"Most astonishing of all, Sherlock determined from observation alone that the murderer was a middle-aged man over six feet tall who had ridden to the crime scene in a four-wheeled carriage with the victim."
Watson's voice pulled Ye Yan out of his reading and back to the present. "The case was so difficult that Scotland Yard almost considered asking a priest from the Sanctum to track him down."
Ye Yan knew the doctor was exaggerating to emphasize how complicated the case had been.
The occult was the occult, and the mundane was the mundane.
Since the Administration had already ruled that the case had nothing to do with the occult, personnel from the Sanctum naturally couldn't get involved in the investigation.
"The detectives were at a loss, but Sherlock saw through the fact that the bloody writing was a trap. He then devised a plan to catch the real culprit—the cabman, Hope."
Watson finished recounting the final detail, his face full of genuine admiration.
"Honestly, I think Sherlock's deductive method is practically an exact science!"
He went on to list three or four more details from the case, each one making the detective's reasoning seem even more incredible.
The cheerful melody came through the ceiling. At some point, Holmes's violin upstairs had shifted from its unfamiliar tune to Mendelssohn's Spring Song.
Ye Yan was surprised to discover that even a cool-headed great detective could grow giddy with delight when praised by a friend.
Soon, Ye Yan finished reading the entire story.
"What a wonderful story!" Ye Yan praised sincerely. "Your account brings the whole case to life. I've never encountered such a strange case before. But..."
He hesitated.
"Please, don't hold back!" Watson leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I need an objective opinion."
Ye Yan gently set down the pages. "Perhaps you could add more descriptions of the setting? The atmosphere at the crime scene, for example. Details like that could make readers feel more immersed."
Watson's eyes lit up. He quickly grabbed a fountain pen and began making notes in the margin. "Well said! I was too focused on the case itself."
"And Mr. Holmes's expressions and movements," Ye Yan continued. "For example, the way he crouched to examine the body, or the change in his eyes when he spotted a crucial clue. Those details could make him feel more fully realized."
These suggestions for improvement were based on the original Sherlock Holmes Casebook.
Watson nodded repeatedly, his pen racing across the page. "Exactly, exactly! Sherlock does have a lot of distinctive mannerisms. When he's excited..."
As if in response to Watson's words, the violin upstairs suddenly grew livelier. A few leaping notes seemed to express a certain delight.
Ye Yan and Watson exchanged a smile.
"Doctor," Ye Yan said carefully, "have you ever thought of collecting these case records into a book and publishing them?"
Watson blinked in surprise. "Publishing? I only wanted to record these interesting cases..."
"But the public has a right to know the truth."
Ye Yan spoke earnestly. "And more people deserve to learn about Mr. Holmes's methods of deduction. Think about it: this could help the police solve more cases."
Watson fell into thought.
After a moment, he looked up. "You're right, Newman. But I'll need Sherlock's permission first. After all, he's the main character in the book."
Upstairs, Holmes's violin gradually fell silent, replaced by slow, measured footsteps.
"I caught a little of your conversation just now. I should say in advance that I don't object to publishing the book, but I can't say I approve of the topic you were discussing."
Holmes shook his head in disapproval.
"Detective work should be an exact science. You shouldn't turn it into a novel. That would be like mixing a love story into abstract geometry."
That was a very detective-like thing to say.
Ye Yan thought to himself.
Watson immediately looked displeased and retorted, "I'm writing down the facts of the case, and the case itself is already quite like a story."
"Don't list every fact in tedious detail like a bookkeeper." Holmes set down the violin and turned to face them. "The most interesting part of this case should be how I used rigorous logical deduction and precise analysis to uncover the truth."
Ye Yan froze, at a loss, as he watched this sudden "literary debate" unfold before him.
Dr. Watson was excitedly waving the pen in his hand, a few drops of ink spattering onto his brown-and-yellow checked waistcoat. Holmes, meanwhile, stood by the fireplace with his arms folded, calmly stating his opinion.
"Newman!"
Watson suddenly turned to him, his eyes shining with hope for support. "Who do you think is right, me or Sherlock?"
"Very well," Holmes said, raising one eyebrow. "Let us hear this young gentleman's opinion."
The two of them abruptly turned their fire on Ye Yan.
The sudden turn of events left Ye Yan rooted to the spot. He felt like a witness in court, being cross-examined by two lawyers who were at each other's throats.
Ye Yan took a deep breath, his gaze moving between the two friends who refused to give an inch.
There was no choice. He'd have to play peacemaker.
"As the author, Dr. Watson naturally cares about the completeness of the story. Mr. Holmes is the protagonist, so he cares more about the accuracy of the deductions."
He chose his words carefully and continued, "As a reader, I think those brilliant deductions, as precise as mathematical formulas, often need a little artistic refinement to be understood more easily."
Ye Yan paused for a moment, watching their reactions.
When he saw that neither of them looked displeased, he breathed a sigh of relief and continued:
"Perhaps we can find a balance. We can preserve the rigor of the deductions while using clever storytelling to give readers the pleasure of suddenly seeing how everything fits together."
Holmes casually plucked at the violin strings, producing a few scattered notes. "Indeed. I overlooked one important point: the reader's intelligence isn't equal to mine."
"Revise it according to his suggestions, Watson."
He rested the violin on his lap. "But before the book is published, I'll need to see the complete final proof."
Holmes added one last remark.
Watson's eyes immediately lit up with delight. He hurried over and took Ye Yan's hand.
"Your advice is invaluable! If you're willing, I'd like you to keep being my first reader and continue offering such professional opinions."
"It would be my pleasure."
Ye Yan smiled, then casually made a reasonable request.
"Dr. Watson, could I keep the draft of A Study in Scarlet as your first reader?"
He had finally revealed his true intentions.
Ye Yan's real purpose in visiting Watson was to obtain the manuscript of the Sherlock Holmes Casebook, so he could name the work.
"Of course."
Watson agreed readily.
"Actually, I also wrote down the strange case of the bodies hidden inside a horse's belly that we solved together, and titled it Seal of the Four-Colored Horse. But..."
The doctor lowered his voice slightly.
"Since the case involved the occult, I'd originally planned to keep the account private as a memento. If you need it, I'd be happy to give you that manuscript too."
"Thank you so much, Dr. Watson! That's exactly what I need!" Ye Yan could barely contain his excitement.
Watson nodded warmly.
"Just a moment."
He turned toward his room, intending to fetch the drafts he had saved for Ye Yan.
Just as Ye Yan was congratulating himself, Watson suddenly turned back and added, "Oh, there's one more thing."
He handed Ye Yan a yellowed newspaper clipping.
"Lestrade recently took on a new case: the disappearance of a young noblewoman many years ago. He needs your help. Are you interested?"
Watson asked because Ye Yan was now something of an outside consultant for Scotland Yard.
He hadn't joined any organization.
Instead, following Sherlock's example, he had registered with Scotland Yard as a consulting detective.
Ye Yan had his reasons for choosing to become a consulting detective.
First, he knew perfectly well that he couldn't become a consulting detective in the same way Holmes had.
Although the occult knowledge he possessed might be closer to the truth than the knowledge of this world, he was still an unknown with no reputation and lacked the necessary authority.
Second, and more practically:
Working as a consulting detective to help solve cases came with a generous fee. For Ye Yan, who urgently needed money, it was undoubtedly the most practical choice.
Ye Yan took the clipping Watson handed him and looked at the headline. "Is Mr. Holmes not interested in the case?"
A soft snort came from beside the fireplace.
Holmes put away his violin. His gray eyes were half-hidden behind the fringe of hair falling over his forehead.
"A simple case, full of lies from the powerful and mysticism. The difficulty isn't solving it, but seeing through the fog to find the evidence the powerful have hidden."
He suddenly looked up, his sharp gaze drilling into Ye Yan.
"And when it comes to seeing through the fog, apart from the Sanctum's Light Servants, you're the best person for the job."
Ye Yan silently studied the date on the clipping.
Twenty years ago?
His fingers unconsciously tightened around the edge of the paper. A memory suddenly surfaced in his mind.
The words beneath Detective Lestrade's mark!
[When I was young, I once betrayed a child's trust, leaving behind nothing but a rotten red apple.]
Lestrade was about ten years older than Holmes. Twenty years ago, he would have been a teenager.
The coincidence made Ye Yan furrow his brow.
There could be no mistake.
The old case Detective Lestrade was investigating was very likely the regret mentioned in his mark. And the "rotten red apple" in the inscription was probably an oblique allusion to the missing noblewoman.
With that thought, Ye Yan didn't hesitate any longer.
When he had first arrived in this world, Detective Lestrade had given him his first hope of finding a way home.
Now it was his turn to repay that kindness.
As for the possibility of offending the powerful?
Ye Yan secretly scoffed. Could even the most illustrious noble wield more authority than the director of the Supernatural Administration Bureau?
Since Holmes hadn't objected, that meant the case was worth a try.
He could take it on!
More importantly, the case might let him start another diary. Right now, he really needed more chances to name books.
"I'll get in touch with Inspector Lestrade."
Ye Yan nodded with a smile, feeling a long-missed sense of anticipation rise within him.
When he said goodbye to Watson and Holmes and stepped out of 221B, the skies over London had completely cleared.
Sunlight fell across the damp streets.
Ye Yan took a deep breath of fresh air, the manuscript Watson had given him in hand, feeling utterly delighted.
Perhaps the truth wasn't always hidden in occult tomes, Ye Yan thought. Sometimes, it lay in a detective's deductions, a doctor's notes, or a discussion between two friends about a book.
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