Chapter 31, Episode 21: I want both...

Episode 21 "I want both"

Lestrade's purpose in coming here was remarkably simple.

While I was chatting with Watson, I overheard most of his conversation with Holmes using my other ear.

Lestrade said that following Holmes's directions, he indeed found a dumpster less than five minutes away from the crime scene last night, where he discovered the pink suitcase.

However, they did not find the deceased's cell phone.

This caused Holmes to pause for a moment to think.

When the two of them stopped talking, my voice and Watson's voices seemed much clearer in the reception room.

When Watson saw me looking in their direction, he whispered to me what had happened.

“I was supposed to come and see this house this morning to decide whether to stay in 221B,” Watson said gently. “Lestrade happened to come to me for help. Holmes knew I was a doctor, so he invited me to go to the crime scene with him.”

“We found the body of a woman wearing a pink suit there. Holmes deduced that this case is strikingly similar to the serial murders you are investigating. Someone deliberately staged a suicide.”

The following sentence reiterates that Holmes's constant questioning of me wasn't because he couldn't see the key to the case, but rather because he wanted to observe my thought process.

Watson, clearly engrossed in listening because I was paying close attention, became even more animated in his speech. He then shifted the focus, his tone unconsciously becoming more lively as well.

"The body lay face down on the wooden floor of the abandoned house, like a lingering pink shadow, vivid and chilling, unforgettable."

Holmes, who had been pondering, was interrupted by the highly dramatic description. He suddenly looked up and said calmly, "I didn't know that a military doctor who was used to seeing battlefield casualties would be so shocked by such an ordinary corpse."

Watson stopped abruptly, as if realizing he had crossed a line. His expression instantly turned serious, and he almost instinctively swallowed back the adjective that had just slipped out.

Seeing this, I interjected, as if I hadn't heard Holmes's words, and excitedly said, "Mr. Watson, why don't you write it down?"

"What?"

Watson was clearly taken aback.

“I mean,” I paused, then said with a sharp look in my eyes, “your therapist must have advised you to write down your personal experiences to relieve stress, organize your thoughts, and reaffirm your place in society.”

Before he could react, I took his arm and added, "You can even compose such vivid descriptions on the spot. If you put them on paper, they would be even more moving. So why not write them down? I'm sure many people would enjoy reading them."

I spoke so fast that I barely gave him a chance to interrupt, and I had already planned out his future.

"If you're willing to write, I can immediately help you contact a publisher and find a professional agent to handle your book publishing."

As I spoke, I became more and more fluent, my tone carrying a sense of certainty and self-assurance: "These stories shouldn't just be heard by a few of us. Once they're written down, more and more people will read them and remember them."

"I bet they'll love it."

I looked at the stunned Watson, my gaze so certain it was as if I had seen an established fact.

Watson may not care about fame, nor be interested in superficial glory. But he would certainly care about being understood, needed, and listened to attentively.

If his story can resonate with more people, that in itself is already touching enough.

"Wait a minute..." Watson's logic was shattered by my words. "Don't rush."

And in my heart, fireworks have already begun to light up the sky.

"Wow, I'm a real money-making genius! I actually stumbled upon such a huge treasure!"

London's voice abruptly poured cold water on me, its tone as indifferent as ever: "I'm sorry, but from Watson's description just now, I don't see any potential in him to become a top-tier writer."

My immediate retort was, "Spoken and written expressions are inherently different. I'm usually very good at judging people; what's wrong with that?"

London was clearly unconvinced, her tone now more scrutinizing: "What makes you trustworthy?"

That sentence completely woke me up.

Ultimately, the reason London doesn't trust me is because it has never actually seen me accomplish anything substantial.

Last time I boasted that the food show's explosive success was all thanks to my strategic planning. It pointed out that with Milverton's financial resources, even an animal documentary could break records.

The more London is convinced that Watson is unremarkable, the more secretly pleased I become.

"So, do you dare to bet with me?"

London: "What are we betting on?"

I said excitedly, "If I win, you'll have to call me 'Dear He Ji' from now on..."

London interrupted me: "Boring."

I asked it if it wanted to gamble, and persisted, "If you're afraid to gamble, it means you're prejudiced against Watson. How can your city be so stingy?"

London paused for a moment before coldly replying, "Fine, I'll take the bet. But what if you lose?"

I said with unusual delight, "Then I'll call you Dad from now on!"

London was utterly speechless, and after a long pause, he reluctantly agreed: "Only you would make such a ridiculous request of me. Others..."

London stopped there.

And I, of course, wisely refrained from pressing the matter. My intuition told me it would likely involve some unsuitable past events to delve into. I certainly couldn't offer any comfort, so I figured I might as well take the opportunity to skip away.

While my mind was racing with London, I didn't stop chatting with Watson.

It might sound a bit far-fetched, but to me it's like having several chat windows open at the same time, talking to one person while bickering with another, without interfering with each other.

Watson was clearly still stuck on the first question.

He didn't understand why I knew he had a psychologist.

So I patiently explained it to them.

When I was helping him walk, his center of gravity didn't shift noticeably, yet he was still using a cane. Plus, I knew he was a military medic who had just returned from the battlefield. And it's basic common sense for the military to provide post-war psychological support to veterans.

Based on these two points, I judged that his leg problems were more psychogenic, which is why he needed long-term psychological counseling.

After explaining this reasoning, Watson remained silent for a moment before returning to the second matter.

He politely but firmly declined, saying, "I'm not suited for writing. I've actually tried, but when I open a document, I can't write a single word..."

I don't like his sudden dejection and lack of confidence.

“I work in publishing and media,” I said, looking him straight in the eye, with absolute certainty, “and I believe you can.”

I didn't originally intend to force him to agree immediately.

It doesn't matter if he doesn't want to write for the time being.

But now it involves me calling London "Dad," which is a battle for dignity.

Watson couldn't help but ask curiously, "Are you an editor?"

“Above that.” I gestured for Watson to guess.

Watson shook his head, a helpless smile in his voice: "I can't believe it, you look so young. How old are you?"

“I’m 19,” I said.

Not to mention Watson, even Lestrade was slightly taken aback and subconsciously glanced at me again. Holmes, who had been leaning casually to the side, also briefly looked at me.

London reminded me, "Milwaldton is 24 now."

I know I'm not young anymore, but I still couldn't help feeling a little unhappy, so I took the opportunity to complain: "At least four years of my life have been stolen from me. How much delicious food have I missed out on?"

But London focused on something else: "You died at 19?"

That makes me sound like an ancient ghost who's been dead for a long time.

I replied, "It's not that far. From my perspective, I've only been dead for a little over a month."

London:"……"

A subtle silence suddenly filled the air. The quiet felt like tiny ants crawling up your skin, making you uneasy. I couldn't help but laugh first, trying to break the awkward atmosphere: "So, compared to you, I'm still a baby. You have to take better care of me and not always bully me. I'm actually very fragile and sensitive."

The moment the word "baby" was uttered, London immediately reverted to its usual indifferent mode: "I don't see anything vulnerable or sensitive about you."

The disdain in those words was almost undisguised, which amused me and put me in a much better mood.

Just then, Holmes spoke slowly and deliberately, his tone flat but ruthless: "Milverton is probably not that young."

He looked at me, his gaze as if verifying a fact that had already been confirmed.

"Hands are the most honest part of the body. You can fake your face, and you can fake your voice, but few people put effort into their hands. That's why hands are the hardest to fake. The skin on the back of your hands has started to thin, and the light blue veins are faintly visible. This is a sign of reduced subcutaneous fat. This is not what you would expect at nineteen."

I then flipped my own hands over.

Indeed, for someone as pampered as Milwaukee, bulging veins are certainly not due to malnutrition.

“I was just joking,” I said with a smile. “Didn’t Mr. Holmes realize that?”

“To hear something and to correct it are two different things,” Holmes said with a serious expression.

I understand people with this kind of personality.

He wouldn't allow himself to compromise logically.

So I dropped the joke and changed the subject, saying, "So, you didn't find the deceased's phone?"

In the Sherlock storyline, the lost phone was in the killer's taxi, but the killer didn't notice.

The woman left behind the word "Rachel" as a death message, which actually pointed to the password in her email account. The victim's email account displayed the phone's GPS location, thus locking onto the killer's phone.

This interpretation of the death is completely different from the original Sherlock Holmes stories.

In the detective series, "Rachel" is taken from the German word for "revenge".

This difference actually sets the tone for the two versions.

The former Sherlock plot chose "tracking and exposé", while the original work chose "revenge and judgment".

Lestrade said, "I was wondering if it was thrown away separately from the suitcase, so I searched through all the trash cans around there, but found nothing."

I also pretended to be thinking.

After a few seconds of silence, I spoke.

"Could the deceased have actually left behind some information related to the whereabouts of the phone?" I prompted. "We can't always assume that the deceased was powerless against the murderer every time."

Lestrade followed my train of thought and asked, "What is the connection between the 'Rachel' written by the deceased and the cell phone?"

Before I could speak, Holmes said first, "If the message of death was left by the deceased, that would be the most ideal situation."

I was taken aback.

“But what if,” Holmes’ tone shifted, “that ‘Rachel’ wasn’t written by the victim, but was left by the murderer?”

He continued, “The handwriting left at the scene was structurally complete, with clear lines, and could even be described as neat. This does not fit the characteristics of a dying person writing hastily in extreme fear and pain.”

"..."

It was precisely because I believe in Sherlock Holmes that this judgment left me speechless for a moment.

Could it be that the case took a wrong turn from the very beginning?

Holmes, however, did not draw a conclusion, but added: "However, Milverton's speculation is not without basis. It is also possible that the cell phone was hidden in the killer's car by the victim before the incident."

He looked at Lestrade and said, "We can request assistance from the mobile company to pinpoint the last known location of the phone's signal. If the phone is indeed in the criminal's possession, we must obtain investigative authorization as soon as possible. Once the battery runs out and the signal is lost, the clues will be completely lost."

Lestrade got the answer he wanted and immediately got up and went out to deploy an investigation.

But I remained standing there, slowly processing this series of deductions.

Just then, Holmes' voice came down in front of me: "Milverton, now that you're here, why don't you lend a hand?"

I tilted my head instinctively: "What do you want me to do?"

Thirty minutes later, I got into a black taxi.

The smell of leather from the seats, mixed with the odor of old smoke, filled my nostrils. I was only brought back to my senses when I looked out the window at the address of 221B Baker Street, which was flashing by.

"Huh?"

How did I get to this point?

London, fearing I was being too complacent, continued, "He Ji, look where you're sitting."

The taxi turned a corner and drove into a small alley I had never seen before.

Large swathes of light were cut off by the tall buildings, and the car suddenly went dark.

At the same time, London paused, which allowed me to clearly hear my heartbeat suddenly quickening.

"You're finished."

I also felt like I was finished. "I've changed. I've become obedient. I've lost all my unique charm."

London was cold and direct, abandoning all roundabout methods: "...Can you tell me whether you prefer Watson or Holmes?"

I said confidently, "I'm an adult, I want both."

London: "Let me tell you, you haven't changed at all, you've even gotten worse."

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Author's Note: The story will definitely have a happy ending, so don't worry too much. [Hugs][Hugs]

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See you tomorrow! 20 random small red envelopes!