owlsbooks Chapter 33-35: Thumbtack...
Chapter 33-35: Thumbtack...
Chapter 33-35: Thumbtack...
"Dada" footsteps sounded behind...
Sherlock felt it was not a good idea to stare straight at the thumbtack, so he shifted his gaze to the portrait of Florence Nightingale on the wall.
The next second, the doctor named John Watson entered his field of view. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt and sat on the other side of the desk... but he didn't speak immediately.
He probably didn't want to disturb the person in front of him who was admiring the girl in the portrait.
Sherlock quickly realized this and smiled, retracting his gaze. "It seems that every doctor's office has a portrait of Florence Nightingale."
"Of course, she is an angel and deserves the admiration of all healthcare workers," Watson said, also looking at the painting for about a second or two. "But we both know that people's admiration for her is not only because of her noble character and medical skills, but also... because she is too beautiful."
...
There was no doubt about Florence Nightingale's beauty. In fact, this girl could be considered the most beautiful woman in the entire empire... so beautiful that if one day she were to be romantically involved with a certain man, the next day that man would be met with jealousy and curses from all the men in the empire.
"I appreciate beautiful things, and Florence Nightingale is the most beautiful person I can imagine," Watson spoke with sincere praise in his tone.
Sherlock nodded, acknowledging that everyone has a different definition of beauty, but when it came to the beauty of this girl, the people of the entire empire could reach a unanimous agreement.
But at the same time, he noticed a small detail:
The doctor in front of him spoke and behaved like a gentleman, but he seemed to have a peculiar habit of always keeping the index finger and thumb of his left hand together, as if gently kneading something.
"Nowadays, there are announcements posted all over the streets. In a little over a month, the esteemed Florence Nightingale will pass through London during her tour of the empire. I wonder how excited the citizens of London will be at that time."
"I guarantee that the church on that morning will be empty."
"Hahaha..."
Watson undoubtedly knew how to bridge the gap with others. He joked and then took out a paper filled with writing from the drawer:
"So, Mr. Sherlock, shall we begin the psychological evaluation?"
"Of course."
After receiving permission, Watson took out a pen and prepared to make notes.
Meanwhile, his index finger and thumb of the left hand remained together without parting.
"First question, if you encounter an imperial citizen being attacked by a demon and you have no weapon, what would you do?"
Option one: Run away.
Option two:...Updated from
The doctor enunciated clearly and maintained a serious attitude. The two of them went through three or four questions in the process.
But then...
Sherlock hesitated for a moment and murmured aimlessly:
"You're bored, aren't you?"
Watson raised his attractive eyes, startled.
"It may be a bit presumptuous to ask directly, but... do you really want to do these pointless tests?"
The doctor in front of him was handsome, professional, and had a serious work attitude. From any perspective, he was someone who would complete this psychological evaluation seriously.
But the detective suddenly asked such a question, which was quite unexpected.
Bored?
How could a person who takes their work seriously be labeled as "bored"? It seemed disrespectful to think that way.
Watson remained silent, which resulted in the two of them sitting across from each other, staring at each other for over ten seconds.
During this time, Watson's eyes first fixed on Sherlock, then gradually narrowed until they formed a beautiful curve resembling a smile, without revealing the slightest change in his pupils.
After another half-minute, he finally spoke slowly, "Indeed, it's a bit boring."
"Just as I thought." Sherlock lazily leaned back in his chair. "In fact, with a little brain activity, anyone can understand what each option represents. You should be able to see that I belong to the type of person who can use my brain a bit... So, why don't we stop here? I'll go home, and you can busy yourself with something more meaningful. Once you're done, just fill in a score you think will pass as satisfactory, how about it... brother?"
Watson's smiling expression became even more charming. He tilted his head slightly, briefly revealing a moment of cuteness. However, it could be felt that his gaze was observing the detective in front of him through the narrow slit of his narrowed eyes.
"Although it deviates from the procedure, it is indeed a good idea," he said, then hesitated for a moment.
But in the end, he responded to Sherlock's address:
"Brother..."
...
...
In fact, the word "brother" is quite strange.
Based on incomplete statistics, if the two of them did something "upstanding" together, such as planting trees or attending a Holy Light ceremony, or even catching a petty thief, their "brotherly bond" was not particularly strong.
On the contrary, if they engaged in activities together that revealed their inner depravity, even if it was just a tiny bit, their bond as brothers would become exceptionally solid.
People are such despicable creatures. When they exhibit their sense of justice or morality, their inner selves unreasonably perceive it as a form of pretense. However, once two people reveal even a tiny bit of their inner depravity to each other, it greatly enhances their mutual affinity.
Hence, morality is most likely a false product of intelligence. Human hearts always long for the dirty, lascivious, selfish, and self-interested side.
Thus, Sherlock and Watson smiled at each other, shook hands as if they shared a common understanding, and said their farewells.
"Goodbye."
"No need to escort..."
"Of course."
His line of sight was captivated by two people standing in front of the apartment entrance.
One of them was dressed decently, with a trench coat open to reveal a suit jacket and paired with pinstripe trousers. He looked like those successful individuals in banks who were proficient in calculations... or perhaps the lackeys of capitalists.
As for the other person, it was easy to recognize their occupation. With a rough appearance, missing teeth, and a sunken eye, probably lost in a street fight, they wore a coarse cloth garment with three buttons undone, deliberately exposing a hideously scarred chest with poorly stitched wounds, even in such cold weather.
Sherlock instantly knew why they were there.
Debt collection...
The well-dressed individual was an accountant responsible for using more refined methods in law, finance, contracts, and more to demand funds and interest from debtors.
If the debtor didn't cooperate, they would switch to the other person.
This kind of debt collection was quite popular in the lower districts...
So Sherlock approached them and said, "Hello, may I ask what you two are doing at my doorstep?"
"My doorstep?" The accountant frowned, giving Sherlock a once-over. "As far as I know, this place belongs to a woman named 'Jeanne Redicia Hudson.'"
"Oh, she's my landlady," Sherlock replied.
The person in front nodded in understanding. "I see... Well, we've been knocking on the door for quite some time, but no one answered, so... have you seen Miss Hudson recently?"
"I haven't seen her for about a week," Sherlock replied.
"... " A moment of silence filled with a hint of frustration followed. The debtor shrugged and pulled out an envelope from the lining of his coat. "Sir, since you live here, could you please pass this debt statement to Miss Hudson if you happen to see her?"
"Of course," Sherlock said, taking the envelope.
The accountant exchanged a glance with the enforcer beside him, then turned to leave.
"Wait a moment," Sherlock suddenly said.
"Hmm?" Both individuals turned back. "Is there anything else?"
"Oh... I just wanted to ask, if the two of you were to suddenly die, would this debt still be valid?" Sherlock asked politely, his tone carrying a hint of threat or provocation.
..."
This question was met with about five seconds of silence. The fierce-looking enforcer seemed to sense a hint of threat or provocation in Sherlock's words and instinctively wanted to go over and slap the skinny guy to teach him a lesson on how to speak.
But the other person was so polite and amiable that he couldn't quite figure out if the guy was really trying to pick a fight.
"Haha, sir, we are a legitimate debt collection company, not some backstreet private loan shark. We operate under the guarantee of banks," the accountant explained with a smile, thinking that Sherlock truly didn't understand. He even took out a business card and handed it over. "If you ever need financial support, you can reach out to us."
The business card read "Crawford Capital Turnover Company."
Sherlock nodded. "Alright, I will make sure to pass this to Mrs. Hudson."
With that, he watched the two individuals leave...
Neither of them felt the need for self-congratulation. If they were operating independently instead of working for a debt collection company, there might have been two bodies floating in the Thames tonight.
Once the two were out of sight, Sherlock turned around and knocked on the landlady's door on the ground floor.
This time, the door opened quickly.
Mrs. Hudson yawned, looking as if she had just woken up, and upon seeing Sherlock outside, she seemed a bit surprised. "Oh, it's you... Haha... You must have knocked on the door for a long time. Well, I'm a heavy sleeper and sometimes I can't hear..."
She put on an apologetic expression but finally sighed weakly when she saw the envelope in Sherlock's hand and the debt collection company's business card:
"Alright... but these days, anyone can run into difficulties, right?"
"Of course, I actually dislike these debt collection companies. They may solve your immediate problems, but they will make it worse for you in the future."
After hearing Sherlock's words, Mrs. Hudson laughed sincerely. "You seem more likable than the previous tenants."
"Really? Then... the rent..."
"Not a penny less." Mrs. Hudson took the envelope but hesitated for a moment. "But if I ever cook too much for lunch, I wouldn't mind sharing it with you."
"I would be honored."
Sherlock didn't continue the conversation with Mrs. Hudson and exchanged just a few polite greetings before heading upstairs.
He was eager to get some sleep as there were many mysteries in his dreams that intrigued him.
Oh, speaking of the landlady.
When he opened the door earlier, Sherlock could clearly smell the scent of disinfectant emanating from her.
This kind of smell couldn't be acquired in a short time.
So, his landlady worked at a hospital...
Regardless, he didn't care.
...
Opening the door to the apartment, he turned on the gas lamp.
The light here was brighter than where Sherlock used to live, so he could clearly see that the small room had remained unchanged throughout the day.
Sherlock tidied up his only "formal" attire, brushed off the damp stains on his round hat, and hung it on the coat rack. Then he settled down on the sofa.
He felt a bit excited now, although he tried his best to suppress this innate desire to explore the unknown. Still, it took him a full 15 minutes to fall asleep this time.
Finally, with familiar drowsiness and a sense of falling...
He opened his eyes in that white room.
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