Emily Cavendish

Sitangna had her head down, bickering with the system, while Watson explained to Sarah why he had missed their date that evening.

Sherlock, unusually, was not looking at his phone. He simply stared at the red cross in the vehicle, lost in thought.

The laser sight seemed to have left a burn on his forehead. Again and again, images replayed in his mind: Sitangna rushing over to protect the two of them, and the boiling emotion reflected in Watson's eyes when he looked at Sherlock under threat.

How novel. People loved to dress sacrifice up as something noble, without realizing that it exposed a fatal flaw in their logical systems.

"You're a machine, Sherlock."

"Emotion is the most efficient virus."

Lestrade's and Mycroft's words echoed in his ears. The idea that he could develop "feelings" struck him as increasingly absurd, perhaps with a little shock, confusion, and a hidden stirring as well.

"How did you two end up there? And how did you know I'd be there? Don't tell me you were snatched halfway through your date."

Sherlock looked calmly at Watson, whose small gesture of pressing his fingers together on his knee betrayed his nervousness.

"And you, did you think you could outrun Bolt or move faster than a sniper rifle could fire? Two idiots showing off."

He had not even noticed a hint that he was being followed. His reproachful tone carried traces of anger and incomprehension that were hard to detect.

"I've got good eyes. I saw you while spying. Besides, didn't you sneak off to meet him alone without telling us? He brought several helpers, and you? You'd have been on the ground before you could even draw your little pistol."

Sitangna reasoned earnestly with Sherlock. Fortunately, Moriarty had not grown tired of his game and had only wanted to make his presence known to Sherlock. If he had really decided to strike, Sherlock would have been dead by then.

"I never imagined you hadn't given the memory stick to your brother. Even if it was only a copy, you were far too careless. If Moriarty had got hold of it, who knows what nasty trick he might have cooked up?"

"That's different."

Sherlock cut Watson off coldly, and the slight gravity in his voice made the two people sitting beside him tense.

"This is my business. He was after me, and it has nothing to do with either of you. You acted on your own without discussing it with me. Not only did you put yourselves in danger, you also put me in an extremely vulnerable position."

He knew his words sounded like complaints, like the angry outburst of someone who had lost a game against Moriarty. But he felt nothing about the game. All he felt was a tingling numbness and a sharp sting, as though a bullet had passed through his skull.

He did not know what exactly he was afraid of, either.

Huh? Afraid? What a joke.

Sherlock tasted a faint trace of rust on his tongue. Presumably, he had restrained his facial muscles so much that capillaries in the lining of his mouth had burst.

"..."

"..."

Sitangna and Watson said nothing. Their gazes burned so hot as they stared at him that they seemed capable of boring a hole through him.

Sherlock's body stiffened a little when he sensed the emotion filling the air. None of the three spoke again, all the way through their examinations, disinfection and treatment at the hospital, and their return home.

Watson was up early the next morning, tapping away at his keyboard. He had been too exhausted to update his blog when he got back from the hospital the previous night, but the investigations of the past two days had been so exciting that he could not wait to share the latest developments with his readers.

The same went for Sitangna. She had fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow the night before, and a full night's sleep had done her good. Now she was curled up on the fabric sofa, full of energy as she continued working on her project. Sherlock walked over to them with a cup of coffee, but after he had hovered around for quite a while, neither showed any intention of speaking to him.

At last, he could not hold it in any longer.

"Listen, what I meant yesterday wasn't that you two have nothing to do with me."

"Although I know it sounded very much like that, it wasn't what I meant. I just... good heavens, why am I explaining all this to you!"

Sherlock's habit of never dwelling on things was well worth learning from. Seeing that the two were still ignoring him, he turned around and went to take a morning shower. He came out and started ordering people around before the moisture on his body had even dried.

"Nana, sorry for the trouble, but could you bring me a plate of biscuits? And a glass of milk, thank you."

"Watson, come and put some medicine on me, thank you."

"Please! Pleeease~ please~ please! Pretty, pretty pleeease~"

He stood in front of the fireplace with his hands on his hips, his strange cries ringing throughout the apartment.

"Shut up, Sherlock!"

Three different voices rang out. Even Mrs. Hudson had grown irritated by the noise.

"Did you forget we're out of milk? Weren't you supposed to buy some? Where's the milk, big brother?"

"Uh, I'll buy it this afternoon. And I'm not your big brother."

Sherlock had no choice but to turn to Watson.

"No, I haven't got time. I'm writing my blog. Get Nana to put it on for you."

Watching Watson type with one finger was truly trying. He had been at it for nearly an hour and still had not finished updating his blog. Perhaps the investigations of the past few days had been so exciting that the words were pouring out of him. In any case, he had not budged from his seat.

"What blog? What's it about?"

Sherlock took off his bathrobe, exposing his wounds, and obediently lay on his stomach on the sofa beside Watson, facing him as he leafed through the newspaper at Watson's elbow. Sitangna, sitting on the other side, remained unmoved, as though she had not heard him.

"Please, Nana. I'm a little cold."

Sherlock looked rather comical, baring his chest and back while turning his head to ask for her help. Sitangna could not hold back a laugh. She sighed helplessly, got up, and brought over some cotton swabs and burn ointment.

"About us."

"You've typed an awful lot. Did you write about the bit where we fell into the water? I wonder if Moriarty will fly into a rage when he sees it."

"Mm-hm. Nothing he can do if he's angry. I only polished it up a little." Watson could not stop himself from feeling happy at the thought of that troublemaking villain being utterly routed by everyone's sudden assault and fleeing in disarray.

He took a moment to drink some water. He was right in the middle of writing and could not be bothered with Sherlock.

Sitangna squeezed a dollop of pink burn ointment onto a large cotton swab and carefully applied it to the wound, her touch as gentle as could be.

"Does it hurt?"

"It's cool."

"You really can take a beating."

Sherlock's injuries covered quite a large area. The burns spread outward from the center of his back, covering half of it, with quite a few purple bruises around the edges.

Fortunately, his expensive bespoke suit jacket had been made from sufficiently high-quality material to limit the spread of the flames to some extent. The area where the skin had actually broken was only the size of a palm.

Sherlock looked lean, but he was actually well-muscled and had particularly good posture. Hmm, he probably did not have any spinal problems. Sitangna, whose shoulders and neck often ached from poor posture, was envious.

The phone rang just as she finished applying the medicine. Sherlock hastily threw on his bathrobe and raced over. He was looking forward to seeing how Moriarty would counterattack after such a serious miscalculation.

The moment Sherlock heard Mycroft's voice after answering, he prepared to hang up. Fortunately, he knew his brother would not contact him for no reason. He listened patiently until he confirmed there was a new case that interested him, then hung up and grinned at the two people in the living room.

"Nana, Watson, get changed. We're going somewhere very interesting."

"I'm almost done writing."

"Where are we going?"

"You'll find out when we get there."

By the time Sherlock had changed and gone out with them, a high-end black sedan was parked outside the door. It looked as though it had only just arrived.

No matter how the two of them asked on the way, Sherlock refused to reveal their destination. It was not until the car entered an underground parking garage and they came up in the elevator that they got a clear look at the magnificent, luxurious building.

Buckingham Palace?

Sitangna was dumbfounded. Had the scandal plot come early? There should have been some more time in between, and more importantly, Sherlock was properly dressed today! She would not get to see the great detective's backside. How boring.

She discreetly sized up the properly dressed Sherlock's... backside. The glare he suddenly shot her way frightened her into quickly looking straight ahead.

Sitangna: ! I didn't do anything.

After the three were shown inside, they sat on the reception room sofa for quite a while without seeing their client. Watson asked the staff twice what they were doing there, but got no answer.

They can't keep us waiting like this.

"Never mind. This ashtray is rather pretty, though." Watson picked it up and examined it carefully.

It was clear that nothing here was ordinary. Even a small ashtray like this had been made with relatively intricate crystal-cutting techniques and sparkled in the sunlight. It was just what they were missing at home... hehe.

"Don't worry. If you like it, Sherlock will steal it for you," Sitangna joked.

"No, he won't." Mycroft walked in carrying a stack of documents. His bearing was just like that of an elegant ragdoll cat, leaving everyone looking up at the tip of his prominent nose.

"Your client today is unable to meet with you, so I was asked to deliver these documents to you. Please take a look, great detective."

"Good day, Mr. Watson, Miss Sitangna."

Watson and Sitangna nodded in greeting, while Sherlock ignored the thick stack on the table.

"I must know who the client is. I can allow one end to be a mystery, but not both."

"You only need to know that he holds a prominent position and is exceptionally distinguished," Mycroft said in a tone that admitted no argument.

"Emily Cavendish, the illegitimate daughter of a senior government official." Sherlock read the words from the file aloud.

"Stop, Sherlock. Those are confidential files for you to read. Don't shout them out." Mycroft tapped the floor twice with the tip of his umbrella, the two thumps hinting at his displeasure.

"If there's nothing else, send us back. This isn't a convenient place to discuss the case, and my back still hurts."

Sherlock closed the file and made to leave, but Mycroft barred his way with his umbrella.

"Wait a moment. Someone will be here shortly to give you some details that aren't in the file."

"I told you I don't like riddles. This is very dull, Mycroft. It could make me lose interest in the case altogether."

Click, click, click.

"Let them in."

The crisp sound of high heels came from the inner room. A door in the shadows opened from the inside, and a beautiful woman leaned against the doorframe, a cigarette hanging loosely from her hand. Smoke swallowed her slender eyeliner and red lips.

Damn! A character I've never seen before.

Sitangna's brain stalled. Wasn't this supposed to be the case about Irene Adler and the Belgravia scandal? Where was the dominatrix who moved Sherlock? Had someone beaten her to it?

"Since I'm asking for your help, I'll introduce myself first. Emily Cavendish, a minor employee of the British government, a famous socialite, and the only daughter of a certain senior official, as well as his illegitimate daughter."

Another cloud of smoke drifted out as she spoke. Fortunately, she had finished smoking. After she stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray on top of the bin, they followed her inside.

"Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective."

"John Watson, a retired army doctor. Uh, currently also working part-time as Sherlock's assistant."

"Sitangna, a university student. Add one more part-time assistant for Sherlock."

Mycroft did not follow them inside. Once he saw that things had settled down, he returned to his office, closing the door behind him as he left.

Sherlock was speechless. Was there any need to be so anxious?

In fact, Sherlock could tell from Emily's file just how deeply the senior official protected her. Sitangna and Watson were still huddled together, hurrying through the documents, because Sherlock, who could take in ten lines at a glance, had finished reading them long ago.

"This kidnapper threatened that if I didn't hand over the key evidence I possess in a transnational money-laundering case before the end of tomorrow, he would make sure a bomb blew me to pieces."

She had been threatened many times since birth and had never been afraid, but this time the other party had slipped straight into her confidential residence, known to very few people, and silently left a threatening letter with a knife stuck through it under the watch of a hundred guards.

Her father had flown into a rage but was helpless. None of the guards' advanced electronic equipment could detect any trace left by the intruder. It seemed this was a high-tech kidnapper who would be extremely difficult to deal with.

"Was anything in the house unusual?"

Sherlock had not examined the scene and could not yet deduce anything from the few words he had heard, but he was certain of one thing: no one could be present without leaving a trace.

"As long as he really was there, he couldn't have left no trace. It simply hasn't been found yet."

That was what his many years of investigative experience had taught him, and the cases in his mind palace also seemed to be proving something to him.

"Unusual..." When Emily had written her account of the case, she had noted that nothing was unusual. But now, prompted by Sherlock, she could not help thinking it over again.

"Does a smell count? I have a lot of skincare products and cosmetics on my dressing table, so the fragrance sometimes changes."

"But I haven't changed products during this period. From yesterday through to when I put on my makeup this morning, I noticed a faint smell that didn't fit with my cosmetics at all."

Emily racked her brains and came up with the only thing she thought was unusual.

"What kind of smell was it? Can you describe it?"

Sherlock was much more patient when gathering information about a case than he was normally. His ever-changing eyes drew Emily in so deeply that she found herself slipping back into the memory.

"Fragrant or foul, or impossible to describe?"

"A little foul, like the smell of a dead animal."

"A mammal or a marine animal?"

"I know, it was fish! A fishy smell, but very, very faint. Maybe I'd been in there too long. I could only catch a whiff when I first went over. You know, women always have to spend a great deal of time on looking after themselves..."