The Reader in the Story (Part 1)

Ye Yan was in a foul mood today.

The reason was simple: the Beginner's Guide to Occultism had been rejected by the Bookstore.

[Erroneous knowledge requires no legacy.]

That was the Bookstore's exact reply.

Ye Yan didn't even have time to retrieve the Beginner's Guide to Occultism, which was riddled with flaws, before the indignant Bookstore reduced it to ashes with a single spark.

"Do I really have to write a book myself?"

Raindrops began to drum against the windowpane, as if mocking Ye Yan's naivety.

Perhaps he shouldn't have held any expectations from the start.

If even the most basic introductory knowledge was flawed, could he really hope for more advanced knowledge to be correct?

In a world where even the fundamental theories of occultism were still in the exploratory stage, finding books containing the truth seemed like a thankless and arduous task.

He scratched his hair, feeling troubled.

Unlike selecting a book, which simply required it to be written by himself, naming a book placed no restrictions on the author.

However, it did restrict the content.

If the book had nothing to do with "home," Ye Yan would be unable to name it.

"If that's the case..."

Ye Yan thought of Uncle Jules and Holmes.

"Perhaps I should ask Dr. Watson if he has any interest in writing a novel recording Holmes's cases?"

As it happened, for reasons unknown, Dr. Watson—who was not lacking in funds—had chosen to move into 221B Apartment on Baker Street not long ago, just like in the original work, to become Holmes's roommate.

He might be able to find an opportunity to ask the doctor.

Rainwater flowed down the eaves of 221B Apartment on Baker Street as Ye Yan put away his umbrella and knocked gently on the door.

The door opened almost immediately.

Dr. Watson's bearded face appeared in the doorway, his blue eyes sparkling with pleasant surprise.

"Newman!"

Watson gave Ye Yan a warm hug. "What a surprise! Come in quickly, the rain is far too heavy out there!"

Ye Yan stepped into the warm interior, where the fire in the hearth danced merrily, dispelling the chill peculiar to a rainy day.

He took off his damp coat and hung it on the coat rack by the door. On the coffee table in the living room lay several sheets of manuscript paper covered in writing, with a fountain pen resting casually beside an ink bottle.

"It seems I've interrupted your work, Doctor."

Ye Yan gestured toward the manuscript pages.

Watson shook his head with a smile, his beard trembling slightly with the motion. "Quite the contrary, I was just in need of some advice. How about a cup of hot tea? I just bought some excellent Darjeeling."

A sound of violin music drifted down from upstairs, the tone strange and melancholy, like some unknown Eastern melody.

Ye Yan looked up at the ceiling, and Watson followed his gaze, a knowing smile appearing at the corners of his mouth.

"Don't mind that; it's Sherlock thinking."

He tilted his head to listen as the violin music suddenly shifted into a cheerful melody. "Ah, it seems he's in a good mood today."

Watson walked toward the tea cabinet by the fireplace, preparing the tea set with deft movements. He handed a steaming cup to Ye Yan, and the fragrance of tea immediately permeated the air.

"You mentioned needing advice?"

Ye Yan sat down in an armchair near the fireplace, taking the hot tea Watson offered.

"Yes, as a matter of fact..."

He paused, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. "I am currently recording the case Sherlock just solved—the bizarre murder at Lauriston Gardens."

Ye Yan's fingers gently brushed the rim of the teacup. "The case with the word [RACHE] written in blood?"

"Exactly!"

Watson stood up excitedly and walked quickly to the coffee table to pick up the stack of manuscript pages.

"I've already written a first draft, titled A Study in Scarlet." He walked back and handed the pages to Ye Yan. "I'd like to hear your thoughts."

Ye Yan took the manuscript, the paper making a soft rustling sound in his hands. The title was written in neat script on the first page, with Watson's signature below it.

He turned to the second page and began to read.

The sound of rain outside the window gradually faded, leaving only the occasional drip, and Ye Yan became immersed in Watson's vivid narrative.

Ye Yan was captivated.

He had to admit that Watson possessed the talent of a novelist. Those exquisite turns of phrase, the perfectly timed pauses, and the masterful control over perspective shifts allowed the case to radiate astonishing power through the imagery conveyed.

Even as an outsider, Ye Yan felt as if he had personally experienced that thrilling pursuit of the killer.

It was as if he had witnessed the pale, ghastly face of the deceased with his own eyes, seeing the blood-red letters on the wall and the exquisite, unparalleled deductive process of Sherlock.

Ye Yan was certain that even if Watson did not work as a doctor and chose to become a writer instead, he could likely make a living for himself.

"What is most astonishing is that Sherlock, based solely on observation, deduced that the murderer was a middle-aged man over six feet tall who had arrived at the crime scene in a hansom cab with the victim."

Watson's voice pulled Ye Yan back from his reading to reality: "You must understand, the complexity of this case was such that Scotland Yard nearly considered requesting a priest from the Sanctum to track the culprit."

Ye Yan knew the doctor was using such hyperbolic language to illustrate the intricacy of the case.

Mystery is mystery, and the mundane is mundane.

Since the Administration had already determined that this case had nothing to do with the mystical, it was naturally impossible for personnel from the Sanctum to intervene in the investigation.

"The detectives were at their wits' end, yet Sherlock saw through the blood-red letters as a mere ruse, subsequently orchestrating a trap to capture the true murderer, the cabman Hope."

Watson finished the final detail, his face filled with genuine admiration.

"Honestly, I feel that Sherlock's method of deduction could truly be considered an exact science!"

He listed three or four more details of the investigation, each one making the detective's reasoning talent seem all the more incredible.

A cheerful melody drifted through the floorboards; the sound of Sherlock's violin upstairs had shifted from an unknown tune to Mendelssohn's Spring Song.

Ye Yan was astonished to discover that even a cool-headed great detective could be so buoyed by the praise of a friend.

Soon, the story on the manuscript pages was finished.

"A brilliant story!" Ye Yan praised sincerely: "Your narrative brings the entire case to life; it is the first time I have witnessed such a curious case. However..."

Ye Yan hesitated for a moment.

"Please, speak your mind!" Watson leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees: "I require an objective opinion."

Upon hearing this, Ye Yan gently set down the manuscript: "Perhaps you could add some environmental descriptions? For instance, the atmosphere of the crime scene; such details would allow readers to feel more immersed in the experience."

Watson's eyes lit up, and he quickly grabbed a fountain pen to make notes on the edge of the manuscript: "Well said! I have indeed been too focused on the case itself."

"And Mr. Sherlock's expressions and movements," Ye Yan continued to suggest: "Such as how he crouches to examine a body, or the changes in his eyes when he discovers a key clue—these details would make his character more well-rounded."

These were all suggestions for improvement he had proposed based on the original content of the Sherlock Holmes Casebook.

Watson nodded repeatedly, his pen moving rapidly across the paper: "Yes, yes! Sherlock does indeed have many unique habitual gestures. When he is excited..."

As if in response to Watson's words, the violin music upstairs suddenly became more lively, the leaping notes seemingly expressing a sense of delight.

Ye Yan and Watson shared a smile.

"Doctor," he weighed his words carefully: "Have you ever considered compiling these case records into a book for publication?"

Watson blinked in surprise: "Publication? I merely wished to record these interesting cases..."

"But the public has a right to know the truth."

Ye Yan said earnestly: "Moreover, Mr. Sherlock's deductive methods deserve to be understood by more people. Think about it; this could help the police solve many more cases."

Watson fell into deep thought.

A moment later, he looked up: "You are right, Newman. But this matter still requires authorization and consent from Sherlock; after all, he is the protagonist of this book."

Upstairs, the sound of Sherlock's violin gradually faded, replaced by slow, rhythmic footsteps.

"I have just been listening to your conversation. Let me state in advance that I do not oppose the idea of publication, but I truly cannot compliment the topic you were just discussing."

Sherlock shook his head in dissatisfaction.

"Detective work should be a highly precise discipline; you should not write it as a novel. It is much like mixing a love story into abstract geometry."

A truly quintessential detective-style remark.

Ye Yan thought to himself.

An expression of disapproval immediately appeared on Watson's face, and he retorted at once: "I am writing the facts of the cases solved, and the nature of the cases themselves is already quite close to a novel's plot."

"Do not list facts in such exhaustive detail like a bookkeeper." Sherlock put down his violin and turned around: "The most brilliant part of this case should be the process of how I uncovered the truth through rigorous logical deduction and precise analysis of the facts."

Ye Yan froze in place, looking helplessly at this sudden "literary debate" unfolding before him.

Dr. Watson was waving his fountain pen excitedly, a few drops of ink splattering onto his brown-and-yellow checkered waistcoat; meanwhile, Sherlock leaned against the fireplace with his arms crossed, stating his viewpoint with a calm expression.

"Newman!"

Watson suddenly turned to him, his eyes sparkling with the anticipation of seeking support: "Who do you think is right, Sherlock or I?"

"Excellent," Sherlock raised an eyebrow: "Let us hear the high opinion of this young gentleman."

The two suddenly turned their focus toward Ye Yan in unison.

This sudden turn of events left Ye Yan momentarily stunned; he felt like a witness standing in court, being interrogated simultaneously by two opposing lawyers.

Ye Yan took a deep breath, his gaze shifting between his two unyielding friends.

There was no help for it; he would have to play the role of the mediator.

"Dr. Watson, as the author, naturally focuses on the completeness of the story; whereas Mr. Sherlock, as the protagonist, cares more about the accuracy of the deduction."

He weighed his words and continued: "And as a reader, from a reader's perspective, I believe that those deductive processes, precise as mathematical formulas, often require appropriate artistic embellishment to be better understood."

Ye Yan paused for a moment, observing their reactions.

Seeing that neither of their expressions betrayed any displeasure, he let out a sigh of relief and continued:

"Perhaps we can find a balance—retaining the rigor of the deduction while using clever narrative techniques to grant the reader the pleasure of a sudden, enlightened realization."

Sherlock plucked at his violin strings, producing a few scattered notes: "Indeed, I overlooked a very important point: the reader's intelligence is not equal to my own."

"Modify it according to his ideas, Watson."

He rested the violin on his knees: "But before the book is published, I must see the complete set of proofs."

Sherlock added this final instruction.

Upon hearing this, a light of joy immediately bloomed in Watson's eyes, and he stepped forward quickly to shake Ye Yan's hand.

"Your suggestion is simply invaluable! If possible, I hope you will always be my first reader and continue to provide such professional opinions."

"My pleasure."

Ye Yan said with a smile, then spoke as if casually, putting forward a reasonable request.

"Dr. Watson, could you let me, your first reader, keep the draft of A Study in Scarlet?"

This was his moment of revealing his true intentions.

The real purpose of Ye Yan's visit to Watson was precisely to obtain the manuscripts of the Sherlock Holmes Casebook so that he could name the work.

"Of course."

Watson agreed readily.

"Actually, I have also compiled the bizarre case we solved involving the serial corpses hidden in horse bellies into writing, titled The Seal of the Four-Colored Horse. However..."

The doctor's voice lowered slightly.

"Since this case involves the occult, I originally only intended to keep it as a private record. If you need it, I would be more than happy to give you this manuscript as well."

"Thank you so much, Dr. Watson! This is exactly what I need!" Ye Yan could not hide his excitement.

Watson nodded gently.

"Wait a moment."

He turned and walked toward his room, preparing to fetch the drafts he had kept for Ye Yan.

Just as Ye Yan was secretly rejoicing, Watson suddenly turned back and added: "Oh, right, there is one more thing."

He handed over a yellowed newspaper clipping.

"Lestrade has recently taken on a new case regarding the disappearance of a noble lady from many years ago. He needs your help; are you interested in this case?"

Watson asked this because Ye Yan was now considered an external associate of Scotland Yard.

The other party had chosen not to join any organization.

Instead, he imitated Sherlock's role as a consultant, registering at Scotland Yard as a consulting detective.

Ye Yan had his own reasons for choosing to be a consulting detective.

First, he knew full well that he could not become a consultant like Sherlock.

Although the occult knowledge he possessed might be closer to the truth than that of this world, as an unknown nobody, he lacked the necessary authority.

Secondly, there was the most practical consideration.

Assisting in solving cases as a consulting detective provided generous remuneration, which was undoubtedly the most practical choice for Ye Yan, who was in urgent need of funds.

Ye Yan took the clipping from Watson and looked at the front-page headline: "Is Mr. Sherlock not interested in this case?"

A soft snort came from beside the fireplace.

Sherlock put away his violin, his gray eyes half-hidden behind his falling bangs.

"A simple case filled with the lies of the powerful and mysticism. The difficulty is not in the investigation itself, but in how to see through the fog to find the evidence the powerful have hidden."

He suddenly raised his eyes, his sharp gaze piercing straight at Ye Yan.

"And when it comes to piercing through the fog, apart from the Light Servants of the Sanctum, you are the only one most adept at it."

Ye Yan stared silently at the date on the clipping.

Twenty years ago?

His fingertips unconsciously tightened on the edge of the clipping as a certain memory suddenly surfaced in his mind.

It was the text under the detective's mark!

[In my youth, I once betrayed the trust of a child, leaving behind only a rotten red apple.]

Lestrade was about ten years older than Sherlock; twenty years ago, he would have been in his teens.

The coincidence of this timing made Ye Yan frown.

There was no mistake.

The cold case Detective Lestrade was investigating was highly likely the very regret mentioned in his mark. And the "rotten red apple" on the mark was likely a cryptic metaphor for the missing noble lady.

Thinking of this, Ye Yan no longer hesitated.

When he first arrived in this world, it was the detective who 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 chuckled to himself; could even the most illustrious aristocrat hold more power than the Director of the Supernatural Administration Bureau?

Since Holmes had not stopped him, it meant this case was worth a try.

He could take it!

More importantly, this case might allow him to start a new diary entry. As it stood, he was in urgent need of more book-naming qualifications.

"I will contact Detective Lestrade."

Ye Yan nodded with a smile, feeling a long-lost sense of anticipation rising within him.

When he bid farewell to Watson and Holmes and stepped out of 221B, the sky over London had completely cleared.

Sunlight shone upon the damp streets.

Ye Yan took a deep breath of the fresh air, clutching the manuscript Watson had given him, his mood exceptionally buoyant.

Perhaps truth is not always hidden in the tomes of occultism, Ye Yan thought; sometimes, it exists within a detective's deduction, a doctor's record, or the discussion between two friends about a book.