Chapter 52, Episode 34: I don't...
Episode 34 "I Won't Live in Vain"
The port was submerged by a sea of police car lights, the red and blue beams swirling and alternating in the damp, cold air, like a silent yet urgent chase.
When the paramedics handed us the alcohol swabs, Mi Ershi and I were busy: one of us was sipping hot water from a paper cup, while the other was licking the water from a plastic bowl.
"Can you wipe it for me?"
I didn't take it; I just tilted my head back and exposed my neck.
The medical staff paused for a moment, then bent down and carefully wiped the bloodstains from my face and neck with a damp gauze. His collar was gently pulled open to my chest and shoulders as he wiped the back of my neck and back, searching for any abrasions or wounds.
I continued to calmly drink the warm water, listening to the soft, gurgling sounds of Mi Ershi's tongue swirling around me. Around us, sirens flashed silently, and shadowy figures moved like puppets in the bright light, making us feel like we were from a different world.
After taking statements from everyone else, Detective Lestrade came to me, the victim.
Lestrade asked, "Are you feeling alright?"
"It's okay, I'm just a little sleepy," I said calmly.
Lestrade said, "Because it's 2:50 a.m., almost 3 a.m. Do you remember what happened?"
In the last half hour before docking, Michelle pressed the muzzle of her gun firmly against the back of my head.
She was emotional and stubborn, cutting off all avenues for maneuver.
Just a hair's breadth from pulling the trigger, a gunshot ripped through the air.
The bullet struck Michelle precisely as she pulled the trigger.
The gun slipped from his hand in an instant due to the intense pain and landed on the deck.
I immediately bent down to grab it, and just managed to snatch the gun back from the spray of blood.
But Michelle seemed oblivious to the pain, and with her left hand, she pulled another fruit knife from her pocket. Her movement was so fast that in the darkness, I only saw a chilling glint, like a fleeting shooting star.
In this tense moment, the melody of a song popped into my head.
"The night is so beautiful that no matter how dangerous it is, there are always people staying up all night with dark circles under their eyes."
Because I can't sing, basically all I can think of is "la la la la".
Be serious!
I stared at the falling fruit knife, lost in thought.
"This fruit knife didn't even have a sheath. How did she put it directly into her pocket? How did she walk?"
Because the distance was so close, I could even hallucinate the subtle vibrations of metal in the air, accompanied by a violent whistling sound.
Wake up!
But this thought flashed by in an instant, and countless stories rushed into my mind like flashbacks.
Those villainous bosses who drive righteous characters to the brink of humanity or ethics ultimately do not die in the name of justice, but are killed by beings they never even glanced at, beings far more humble and weaker than themselves. Just like the arrogant extortionist in the original story, he was not ultimately punished by Holmes, but died at the hands of a woman whose life he had destroyed.
It's like a dark, closed-loop destiny, telling the allegory that "the end of evil often comes from the more thorough destruction it has cultivated itself."
My hand gripped the gun tightly.
The metallic touch came from the palm of my hand, solid and stable, carrying the cold authority unique to firearms.
A fruit knife may be sharp and capable of piercing flesh, but to truly take a life requires precise angle, sufficient force, and a touch of luck. Michelle had to wed precisely between the ribs, avoiding any bone slippage, and strike the pumping heart beneath. Any slight deviation, hesitation, or resistance could reduce the fruit knife to a pathetic toy.
But I am different.
I don't need to get close, I don't need to fight, I don't need to gamble on that minuscule "fatal spot." I just need to stay where I am and pull the trigger. The bullet will tear through the air, shatter her sternum, and blast a definitive hole in her chest.
The mathematics of life and death, in my hands, is simplified into a binary choice: fire or don't fire.
Amidst a flood of thoughts, I saw Michelle smile in front of me.
It wasn't a laugh of relief or madness, but a knowing, almost appreciative mockery, as if she had been waiting for this moment.
In the depths of her pupils, in that shrunken yet clear reflection, I saw myself.
I saw myself steadily raise the pistol toward her, the blood that had been on the trigger seeping into my fingertips.
All hesitation and all shackles evaporated in that reflection, leaving only a simple and inevitable action.
Then, I spoke calmly to her, and to my reflection in the mirror.
"Byebye."
...
Lestrade's voice rang out again.
"Mr. Milverton, are you alright?"
Lestrade rubbed his temples, his voice full of exhaustion: "Too much has happened today..."
I didn't reply, but just casually stroked Mi Er's fur with one hand. It was warm and cozy, like a little stove. It was probably sleepy, because when I pinched the back of its neck, it didn't even lick the water, but snuggled into my arms, squinted its eyes, and made soft purring sounds in its throat.
"What did Michelle say when she was arrested?" I finally asked.
“Carrying an illegal weapon, attempted murder, the evidence is conclusive, plus her arrogant attitude of repeatedly shouting that she doesn’t care about taking another person’s life,” Lestrade sighed, “she will likely be sentenced to life imprisonment, with a minimum term of no less than 20 years.”
He paused, then said, “But you really didn’t see who fired the first shot? Three bullets were found at the scene: one shattered Michelle’s trigger and index finger, one was the light you broke, and the other was the same model as the first one, from the same gun, but it missed and got embedded in the steel plate of the artwork’s base.”
"Did you ask Holmes?"
Lestrade sighed heavily and said, "He said he doesn't care about this."
Upon hearing this, I immediately knew the answer in my heart.
The person who fires the first shot does not primarily aim to eliminate the gunman, but rather to eliminate the hand on the trigger.
This was no ordinary reaction. Most people, in a critical moment, would instinctively aim for the torso or head to kill. But this man was different. He could instantly determine that even if Michelle were shot and killed instantly, muscle spasms might still cause her to pull the trigger. Therefore, he chose the smallest, most difficult, yet safest target: the point where his index finger connects to the trigger.
He possessed both compassion (a reluctance to take lives outright) and surgical precision in his judgment. More importantly, the ability to make such calm decisions in the blink of an eye, coupled with a stable mindset and expert marksmanship to match those judgments, made him a man who could only be the former military doctor.
"Then let's just ignore it. No one's died anyway."
“That’s impossible,” Lestrade couldn’t help but say. “I still have to write a report.”
I shook my head. "But what does this have to do with me?"
Lestrade fell silent, then said, "..."
Before he could reply, a rough palm suddenly pressed against my back.
The hand, calloused and gentle, rubbed my back slowly, as if it were electrified. A tingling, itchy sensation shot from my tailbone to the back of my neck, making me shudder and my hair stand on end.
If I were a cat, I would be screeching and rolling around on the spot right now, and giving the culprit a fierce glare.
So I turned around abruptly.
The paramedics from before had vanished, replaced by Albert's mocking face. He was still holding his outstretched hand, his fingertips innocently dangling in mid-air.
Without thinking, I slapped his hand away: "It tickles! What are you doing?"
"Let me see how badly your delicate skin is injured." Albert raised an eyebrow. "You feel uncomfortable if I'm too gentle? Shall I use more force?"
"Have you started using such vulgar language?"
I couldn't help but add a sentence.
This matter dates back to when I had clearly caught Professor Moriarty in a compromising situation.
If he wasn't the crime consultant himself, why would he be listening to things he shouldn't know? I originally intended to use this to blackmail Professor Moriarty into becoming my collaborator.
But these two brothers were indeed kindred spirits. Even when cornered, Professor Moriarty maintained a calm, gentle smile.
"I'm afraid you'll have to ask my brother about this." He turned slightly to the side, casually tossing out the question, "I did learn about it from him."
I don't believe it.
So we turned to Albert. His eyes, beneath his thick eyebrows, listened to the whole story without blinking.
“Last night,” Albert said in a calm tone, as if reporting the weather, “I installed a camera on your cat.”
"……ah?"
“It’s a miniature wireless version, hidden inside the collar,” he continued, as if stating an ordinary daily routine. “If you insist on asking about the motive, my answer is, ‘It involves state secrets and cannot be disclosed.’”
He paused, his piercing gaze fixing on me. His voice lowered, but each word was clear: "Of course, if you don't believe this explanation, you can interpret it as 'this is just my personal quirk.'"
"As for criminal consultants?" Albert finally shook his head, his expression impeccably calm. "I've never heard of them."
This kind of behavior is no different from cheating.
That's absolutely shameless.
Therefore, he knew about the cat hair incident that Holmes mentioned from the very beginning.
The thought that I had given him a hint made him incredibly smug. The more I thought about it, the angrier I became.
But if I brought it up specifically, it would only play into his hands. So I pretended to be completely indifferent and simply asked, "So, you also know who exactly captured my Mi Er Shi?"
“Yes,” Albert nodded, his expression calm. “Michelle took the cat. Since I couldn’t figure out her intentions, I decided to hold back for now.”
Professor Moriarty said, "If she really wanted to lure Milverton out, then she probably had ulterior motives. Perhaps there's more to Professor Belfast's death than meets the eye. If this wasn't an accident, then it might have been a deliberate act by the killer."
Albert naturally skipped over the previous points and smoothly continued, "It feels too unnatural that all the clues point to 'Barton' himself."
“But if the target really is Milverton,” Professor Moriarty pondered, “then the murderer must have a grudge against him. Given that Milverton rarely makes public appearances, one thing seems particularly strange.”
Albert pressed on at the opportune moment, asking, "What?"
Professor Moriarty turned his gaze to me. "At the mathematics salon, do you remember who was the first to invite you to take a seat?"
A familiar face flashed through my mind—a smiling, proactive face that precisely walked towards me in the crowd.
“Michelle”.
“She’s just an ordinary student,” Professor Moriarty said slowly. “Why would she have crossed paths with you? And how would she recognize you?”
Albert's statement: "There are many possibilities."
They spoke in perfect harmony, their words flowing seamlessly, as if they had rehearsed countless times. But I knew that to ascertain Michelle's ultimate goal, I was the key.
She took the cat hostage, she must have been trying to lure me into her trap.
Thus, we ended up with the scene of luring the snake out of its hole. At first, I thought it was Albert who fired the shot.
Unexpectedly, it was Watson who fired the shot.
This truly delighted me.
...
"Can."
Albert pulled me back from my reverie.
He spoke calmly as always, then reached out again, this time trying to pinch the flesh on my back.
I want to fight him!
I quickly delivered a series of slaps to his hands.
“You seem to be in good spirits.” Albert grabbed my hand in return. “Think about it, you could have easily turned the tables and killed him with a gun, but you managed to smash the flashlight so the gunman wouldn’t fire a second shot. That shows you have exceptionally good judgment.”
He leaned in half a step closer, his voice pressing into my ear.
"You neither do it yourself nor let others do it for you. If that shot hadn't saved you, you would be a corpse by now."
"Milwaldton, what are you thinking?"
"Don't tell me you're some kind-hearted, soft-hearted person."
I met his gaze and said, word by word, "Because, fundamentally, there is no, need."
As I've mentioned before, I disliked the scene in the first season of Sherlock where Watson shoots and kills someone when Sherlock clearly has the victory in his grasp. From the perspective of someone directly involved, it's understandable that they might feel the situation is urgent. But from an objective standpoint, it doesn't justify putting Watson in a position of guilt.
It didn't have to end up like this.
I stared at my own reflection in his pupils, looking down at him, and said, "You just need to know that you're not the only smart person."
The air froze for half a second.
Albert suddenly smiled and said, "Thank you for your compliment."
"..."
This man has become even more shameless since he admitted to using a surveillance camera.
I said to the paramedics beside me, "I should be fine now. Can we go?"
The paramedics paused for a second before saying, "There was a minor abrasion, but it's been treated."
As soon as I finished speaking, I stood up, one hand around my collar.
I'm going to find Watson!
Before leaving, I said directly, "Take good care of Ivy's matter. She's clearly so afraid of me, yet she still had the confidence to come and talk to me. It's impossible for her to do this without someone backing her up."
Albert's pupils flickered slightly.
I leaned close to his ear and said, "I know who you are. If you want to act, I'll play along. I enjoy playing with you. I look forward to your future performances."
Albert paused for a few seconds, then raised an eyebrow slightly.
*
Watson and Holmes are not hard to find.
When I caught up with them, they were walking side by side toward the nearby train station, intending to take a train back to Baker Street. The night cast long shadows of them, and their footsteps tapped out a steady rhythm on the cobblestones.
Why didn't you ask me to come with you?
Watson, still reeling from the Cold War, avoided my gaze uncomfortably, yet couldn't help glancing at the dried bloodstains on my collar. Holmes spoke first, his tone as faint as night fog: "We don't live in the same direction."
“I can stay at your place for the night.” I turned to Watson and took a half-step closer. “Can I? Can I? Can I?” When he didn’t answer, I immediately pushed the half-asleep Mi II forward from my arms. “If you can’t, I’ll hang it on you. It’s too sleepy right now, it definitely won’t stay on properly and will slip down.”
Watson was exasperated by my absurd logic and finally couldn't help but let out a helpless smile: "There's no bed for you over there."
"I can sleep in your bed."
As we spoke, Holmes had already taken a couple of steps without making a sound, giving Watson and me space. His figure appeared exceptionally tall and straight under the streetlights, like a silent mountain.
Watson did not refuse, but asked softly, "Don't you want to say something else?"
I know perfectly well what he's angry about.
“I can be short-tempered sometimes,” I blinked. “I’m young, so please be lenient with me.”
Watson was both amused and exasperated: "You can't be that mean."
"If you treat me well, I'll definitely listen to you obediently." I pressed my advantage. "Do you think that's okay?"
Watson's smile remained unchanged: "...Okay."
Before my smile could even form, Holmes's calm voice came from ahead: "Watson, are you planning to sleep on the floor yourself so that Milverton can have your single bed all to himself?"
Watson froze upon realizing his predicament.
But I immediately agreed, picked up the cat and took two steps forward: "Then I'll sleep with Holmes. He must have a big bed."
Holmes paused almost imperceptibly.
"..."
Ha ha.
London's voice rang out: "You were so angry before, and now you've become so obsequious? Were you just acting when you were angry before?"
"What do you mean by flattery?" I felt London really didn't understand me. "Someone's been so good to me, how could I not take advantage of it? Especially since that person is Watson!"
London: "You've only survived today's crisis. There are still many people in London who would love for you to die."
"But I have friends now."
Not to mention, Watson is Holmes' weakness. If I capture Watson, it's the same as capturing Sherlock Holmes' weakness. Similarly, if I capture Holmes, I also capture Mycroft Holmes' weakness.
You could say that I did act out a part of it.
My emotions probably only lasted a few minutes.
Because the past has never truly been a burden to me, much less my entire life.
I once said, "If anyone treats me badly, I will erase them from my heart completely."
I don't need their approval or agreement at all.
How they see me is none of my concern. As long as I live more freely and unrestrainedly than they do, I've already achieved a complete victory. In my eyes, those who betrayed me are no different from the dead. The thought that they might suffer because of my success gives me even more motivation to live.
But I will still continue acting.
Watson's compassion is like a fledgling hatched in my palm. It is so warm, so fragile, fluttering its neck in the nest I have carefully woven.
Pure emotions are worthless.
Only "favoritism" that has been tempered and mixed with guilt and responsibility is an unbreakable shackle.
Therefore, simply letting the ship incident pass by uneventfully wouldn't actually deepen the bond between Watson and me. Since I'm going to experience life and death, I want to use this event to stir Watson's emotions.
Besides, if he really doesn't like me, there's no need for me to associate with him.
This can be considered a test, and also a selection process.
And now I have achieved the best possible outcome.
Even though he saw all my flaws, he still fired the bullet at my enemy without hesitation.
I have a firm grip on Watson.
I said, "You don't know, I've already achieved what I set out to do at Baker Street Bank. This is just the first step." I'm now certain I'm out of the woods and there's no longer any chance of being killed by Sherlock.
London uttered a puzzled "Hmm?"
"Anyway, from now on, you can rely on me as much as you want."
London: "I've asked you this many times before, who exactly are you?"
I strode forward into the night wind, the wind filling my clothes, my footsteps shattering the shadows cast by the streetlights: "I used to be a patient, now I'm healthy. That's how you should understand it."
London: "?"
I know.
I will definitely live better than everyone else.
Better than those who have abandoned me, better than those who have pitied me, and even better than those who have tried to see through me.
My path leads me deeper into the night and brighter among the stars of Baker Street.
The thought that this is just the beginning of the story excites me.
I certainly won't live in vain.
—End of main text
-----------------------
Author's Note: At this point...
Watson's favorability rating: 100
Albert Moriarty: 100
The reason I mentioned before that it had a happy ending is because He Ji is a brave and optimistic person. Although he might be unhappy occasionally, someone like that is definitely not prone to suffering.
He is very stubborn about small things.
He was always very clear-headed when it came to important matters. For example, he had realized long ago that Watson and Holmes had been in contact with Blackwell, but he repeatedly made excuses for them, something Holmes had noticed. So it was impossible for him to really break ties with Watson because of emotions.
His quick reconciliation with London reflects his true attitude towards these unpleasant situations; he is very good at comforting people, but he also knows what not to say.
In short, I'd like to share a quote I once saw with the readers—
May everyone who bravely forges ahead in the pursuit of life have a bright future ahead of them!
*
Um.
Let me explain why this piece is a short story, not a long one.
Because 2025 was too tiring. Not to mention the amount of work I had, just the sheer volume of words I wrote last year alone was 1.4 million words.
I originally didn't plan to make it a paid service; I just wanted to take a break. But I didn't expect so many people to want to watch it, so I gritted my teeth and went ahead with it anyway.
I plan to write shorter pieces this year.
Last year, I originally intended to write 400,000 words for that Western fantasy novel next door, but I couldn't stop the story from going, and it ended up being more than 1 million words.
This terrifies me. I don't want to write that much anymore. T_T
As for the new article, let's meet again sometime.
Because I'm not sure what I want to write (although I've written a lot of J and T characters as protagonists, I'm essentially a P and F person, and I don't like to plan things out).
If I'm not satisfied with what I've written, I'll revise it myself.
I always have a lot of creative ideas. Rather than waiting, it's more interesting to open an interesting article one day and find out it's my new work.
come on! ! ! !
I hope you find reading this book enjoyable, and I wish you happiness every day! Thank you for reading! You can receive a small red envelope for leaving a comment on this chapter!
Baishatang 2026/01/12
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