Chapter 29, Episode 19: I Have My Own Festival...
Episode 19 "I Have My Own Rhythm"
"I can tell, because you're cute too."
After Watson finished speaking, I readily agreed and said, "I understand. Like cat, like person."
If anyone else said that word, I would feel like they were being sarcastic or mocking.
If it were Watson speaking, I would find his words rather naive, yet also warm. Especially considering his own experiences with sibling discord and war trauma, Watson's ability to say such things is remarkable.
It's like telling others that his true nature has always been positive and kind.
I became extremely interested in him immediately.
After letting go of his hand, I asked him, "Are you free? Maybe we could have dinner together tonight? I'd like to invite you to dinner."
Watson said, "Such a sudden invitation? Do you usually invite people to dinner like this?"
I readily replied, "Yes! When I see interesting people, I want to have dinner with them. Is there any need to hesitate?"
Isn't that how meals are always eaten?
Moran stopped pretending and turned to look at me, or rather, to see how the story would unfold.
In his eyes, I was just someone who casually struck up a conversation with a blond guy on the street, and then, after a few words, I managed to get him to have dinner with me.
Watson was quite frank, saying, "I have work to do, maybe next time."
"Oh, I see!"
I looked up and stared intently at Watson, saying, "Unfortunately, there's nothing we can do about it then..."
London: "You're making it sound like you're asking, 'Isn't there any other way?' It doesn't sound like you're willing to compromise."
Because I enjoy the pleasure of instant gratification.
I also know that Watson is far more sensitive and perceptive than London, and has an extremely strong capacity for empathy.
With my strong regret, Watson took a step back and said, "You sounded like a friend of Holmes. Why don't you meet him too? It's not far from where he lives."
That was a clever way of putting it.
Although he does not harbor ill intentions towards any strangers, he also does not readily disclose his private information.
They tested my true intentions with just one sentence.
If I were truly Holmes's friend, I would certainly know where he lives, and it wouldn't be unreasonable to go and visit him. If I didn't know where Holmes lived, it would mean I had just been lying. I would inevitably back down.
He gave me dignity while also allowing himself to leave gracefully.
However, he didn't say where he lived because he had met with Sherlock Holmes and discussed renting a place, but it wasn't finalized yet.
I remember in the Sherlock storyline, Watson only decided to rent 221B Baker Street with Sherlock after "A Study in Pink" was over.
"Then I'll go with you." I patted Moran, asking him to let me out of the car.
Moran was stunned for a moment, not expecting me to make a decision as quickly as I breathed, before unlocking the door and asking, "Do I still need to pick you up?"
“No need,” I waved my hand and said, “I’m with the safest people in the world.”
Watson was amused by my words. As he watched me get out of the car, he said with a smile, "You look like the person in the family who is the sweetest-talking and knows how to please the elders the most."
Moran stared at Watson as if he'd seen a ghost, "..."
London: "He Ji".
After London called me by my full name seriously, he quickly said, "Don't talk to me in that cutesy, weird tone."
I deliberately raised my voice in response, "You're going too far! What's wrong with me talking like that?"
London: "...Never mind."
Although I appeared calm and collected on the surface, a little cat inside me was jumping for joy because London said "never mind."
Moran still hadn't fully processed my sudden decision.
After I got out of the car, he drove a few steps behind me, leaned out of the window, and said, "Mr. Milverton, I'm leaving?"
"It's nothing, it's nothing." I shooed the other person away, "You can go now."
Moran wasn't the type to worry about things. Seeing that I wasn't turning around while he was talking to him, he drove away.
I caught up with Watson at an even faster pace.
Walking on the sidewalk, the cobblestones beneath my feet were smoothed by time, and on either side stood typical Victorian or Georgian-style row houses. My gaze occasionally swept over the shops and house numbers with their brass signs. I didn't even need to turn around to feel Watson's gentle yet scrutinizing gaze, silently observing me.
To be honest, I'm not as free as I seem.
Because Moran wasn't worried, London seemed to be the one talking a lot.
"How could he just leave you out there alone like that?"
Lately, it seems like London isn't letting me go out much.
Every time I go out, it starts muttering to itself. This has made me start watching the news, wondering if some teenagers are causing trouble somewhere, or if there's been a horrific shooting on the street.
I glanced instinctively at Watson beside me, whose steps were slow but steady. His leg injury at the moment was psychogenic, a unique feature of Sherlock.
Judging from his cane, I knew that the case of "A Study in Pink" had arrived.
The key point is that the case will be closed today, so there's nothing to worry about.
That said, the script for Sherlock's first case is quite basic; it's all about the character designs and daily life.
Because in 21st-century criminal investigation cases, when authors want to introduce unexpected murderers, they often fall into a limited number of categories: taxi drivers shuttling on the outskirts of the city, the overlooked cameraman off-camera, or deliverymen who have quietly entered the new era of detective novels with the rise of food delivery and express delivery platforms.
They have both legal access to multiple venues and the tools and time.
Even if their behavior is abnormal, it is easily masked by professional justification.
In this case, the mystery that "the murderer was the taxi driver" was not surprising at all.
Furthermore, his methods of killing were quite simple and brutal.
The killer will give you two pills: one is a normal pill with no problems, and the other is a pill containing a deadly poison.
In the Sherlock storyline, he tells Sherlock that he has mastered a method to make prisoners automatically take suicide pills.
This immediately piqued people's curiosity.
I remember being intrigued at the time, wondering what kind of psychological game this was.
In reality, he was simply forcing the other person at gunpoint to play a game similar to Russian roulette, but with an extreme choice between two options. The other person had no choice but to take the drug.
I've forgotten the details, but the fact that the murderer survived four separate incidents suggests that both bottles contained poison.
I think the story setting isn't as vivid and engaging as the original work.
Even if the murderer's methods in the original work were crude, he still had a motive, a goal, and ambition, making him a respectable figure.
However, in Sherlock, the driver's targets are extremely random.
The murderer targeted anyone who was alone, picking on the weak and showing no backbone or pride whatsoever. Most importantly, his motive was simply that he was dying and needed to leave some money for his family, so he obeyed Moriarty's demands to kill for money.
It is important to know that "righteousness" is highly valued in Chinese civilization.
Although Moriarty is a bad person, he did give you money and help you solve your life's difficulties. You're just saying that the name of your helper.
How can you be so shameless?
I don't understand.
I ran into this guy, and I could tell he had an artery that burst due to high blood pressure.
Of course. Of course.
I know it's all for the sake of the plot.
The setting of marginalized individuals "killing randomly" can increase the danger and excitement of living in London, making it feel like living in Gotham.
The killer driver was simply trying to draw out Moriarty's existence.
Does the plot become more tense?
Have the relationships between the characters become more cohesive?
However, I think we could try a different way of stating it.
For example, even if the driver dies, Sherlock Holmes or the Scotland Yard discover that the driver still has connections with a mysterious figure, and Sherlock spells out the name "Moriarty," instead of being killed off.
Just like in the second case of the first season, the relationship between the criminal organization and Moriarty was only revealed at the end, isn't that a good thing?
However, the second case, a criminal investigation story set in China, was also not written satisfactorily.
In short, I pulled my thoughts back from criticizing the script to reality. While others were afraid of this mysterious taxi killer, I looked down on this ordinary person who bullied the weak and feared the strong, and had no professional ethics, so I couldn't feel any real fear.
However, despite not being afraid, I still dislike being bothered by such trivial troubles while walking the streets of London, so I try to avoid direct confrontations with taxi drivers.
Just like cockroaches, I'm a grown man and I'm definitely not afraid of them, but I still hate them.
...
Watson walked slowly, also testing whether I was on the right track.
I didn't realize that I was walking slightly ahead of Watson, and even headed straight for the 221B address.
At the entrance, I saw a young man wearing a long black coat openly using a wire to pick the lock in broad daylight. His technique was skillful, and his behavior was so strange that it seemed he had gone very far down the path of thievery.
"He can't be a locksmith, can he?" I couldn't help but turn around and ask.
Watson looked over as well, his expression turning strange for a moment before he called out loudly, "Sherlock Holmes."
As soon as he finished speaking, the black-haired youth opposite him also straightened up.
He was unusually thin, with sharp eyes that possessed a sickly elegance. His face, when he met ours, had prominent cheekbones and sharp, cold lines, and his eyes were like an icy lake under a gloomy sky, indifferent and aloof.
I paused for a moment, then noticed that his hair wasn't curly, and my gaze returned to his face: "..."
Watson said, "Are you trying to pry open the door? Why don't you use a key?"
Holmes replied calmly, "I don't have my keys with me."
Watson said, "You look like a dangerous thief."
Holmes calmly accepted Watson's assessment and continued, "If I were truly a thief, I would have finished a cup of coffee before the police knocked on the door."
After saying that, he looked in my direction again.
"Milverton".
Just one simple word seemed to unleash me from where I was.
How did he know who I was?
The instant that thought flashed through my mind, I almost wanted to applaud him.
Me: "Wow!!!!!!!!!"
London: "Is this person really that exciting for you?"
He's the Sherlock Holmes from the 1984 version!
My goodness, this bookish smell is amazing! I bet you can smell the mixture of old book pages and chemical reagents if you get close. It's a genuine Victorian limited edition.
Upon hearing this, Watson breathed a sigh of relief. "I met your friend on the way. Since it wasn't far from 221B, we walked together."
When Holmes heard the word "friend," he seemed to be subtly pondering its deeper meaning, but he didn't say anything more. "Come in."
As soon as I said that, I was the first to rush into apartment 221B.
I'm number one!
I want to sit in Holmes' chair, to see if there are body parts in his refrigerator, and to look at the bullet holes in the wall.
After Holmes leisurely entered the apartment, Watson was still walking slowly with a limp, leaning on his cane.
He actually has no problems with his hands and feet, but due to post-war trauma, he has a psychological barrier that makes him feel like he needs crutches.
I quickly put away his extra cane and helped him walk inside.
"Watson, hurry up."
"My legs are weak..." Watson realized I wasn't listening, so he could only look at me with a wry smile, letting me drag him along, saying repeatedly, "I can walk by myself, don't rush, don't rush."
London said in a deep voice, "You're behaving very strangely today."
It cautioned, "Sherlock Holmes is not your friend. Don't be so wishful."
Me: "London, I have my own rhythm. Today is a crucial day. I won't waste such a good opportunity."
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A note from the author: Thank you all for liking this cow cat!
20 random small red envelopes!!
I'd like to recommend my friend [Zhu Mi]'s upcoming sweet romance novel, "After Being Accused of Being Hit by the Cold School Prince's Cat." The synopsis is below (I've read the outline, and it's a really cute and sweet story).
Copywriting:
My friend had something come up and asked Yu Ran to help pick up her puppy from the pet hospital for a bath.
Yu Ran had never owned a pet before. As soon as she stepped into the hospital lobby, she looked around blankly when she saw the corner examination room being violently pushed open. Immediately afterwards, a fluffy black shadow rushed straight towards her.
The fluffy ball leaped and landed on Yu Ran's shoes, rolling over to reveal its belly covered in soft fur. Its paws tugged at her trouser leg as it let out a long, sweet meow.
The owner, his face ashen, followed closely behind, his gaze towards his feline overlord a mixture of speechlessness and exasperation.
Hey, isn't that Zhou Qiyu, the school heartthrob known for his aloofness and unapproachability at Yu Ran's school?
Yu Ran was shocked and felt extremely uncomfortable.
When the cat's attempts to pull at Yu Ran's trouser leg went unanswered, it went even further, raising its front paws and placing them on Yu Ran's legs, then casually stretching.
...Its fingernails got caught on Yu Ran's jeans, and it struggled, meowing.
Yu Ran felt ashamed and quickly bent down to help the kitten free its paw.
She didn't forget to awkwardly smooth things over for Zhou Qiyu: "...Haha, cats are quite cute, huh?"
Unfortunately, the owner wasn't very appreciative. Upon hearing this, he curled his lips into a forced smile and asked, "Would you like it if I gave it to you?"
"..."
Can I have her?
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