Polar Night
Scotland Yard at night.
A cold case was solved by the duo working together, and the police officer left Sherlock to write the case notes.
“John, you should go back first, so Mrs. Hudson won’t worry. After all, older women are always prone to overthinking.” Sherlock said to Watson as he wrote rapidly with his head down.
He always tried to justify his good intentions with a few words. Watson found it somewhat amusing to watch Sherlock like this. "Okay, see you later," he said, picking up his hat and smiling as he prepared to leave.
As he was leaving, Sherlock suddenly looked up at him. At that moment, Watson looked down to get his hat, and their eyes met.
“Uh,” Sherlock, usually so eloquent, paused for a moment, then suddenly looked at his hat. “This hat…” he quickly added a word: “It’s stupid.”
Watson's hand, which was about to put on his hat, froze in mid-air. He raised an eyebrow and looked at the detective, who had already buried himself back in the case records, but whose writing speed seemed even faster than before, as he tried his best to hide his slight panic.
He knows this guy too well.
That fleeting eye contact, that rare, almost nonexistent hesitation, and that clumsy, nearly childish sarcasm… all of these combined, translated into ordinary language, are hardly criticism at all.
Watson's lips curved into a deeper smile, a knowing, gentle grin appearing on his face. Far from being angry, he spoke in an extremely pleasant tone:
"Really? I think it's very practical, and it's also very comfortable to wear."
He calmly put the hat on his head and gently pressed down the brim.
“Goodnight, Sherlock.” Watson’s tone carried a hint of teasing and a touch of warmth. “Remember to come home early, so Mrs. Hudson’s ‘concern’ has nowhere to go.”
Sherlock's pen paused on the paper for a full two seconds, then emitted a barely audible sound, somewhere between a hum and a sigh, before resuming writing even faster, as if trying to make up for those lost seconds. The smile on his lips went unnoticed even by himself.
Once outside the gate, Watson prepared to hail a carriage. He looked up at the already pitch-black night, mentally bracing himself for a thirty-minute wait on the street.
However, today seems to be a lucky day.
"Would you like a ride, sir?" Soon a carriage came from the street corner. The coachman was a strong and muscular man who looked so powerful that he seemed capable of riding a horse for thousands of miles a day.
"Yes, buddy, please take me to 221B Baker Street."
Seeing Watson's limp and noticing the cane in his hand, the coachman offered a helping hand and helped him into the carriage.
In that instant, Watson suddenly realized that there was already a strange woman in the back seat.
She wore a dark, fine wool dress, devoid of any embellishments, and clutched a black leather briefcase tightly in her hand. Her hair was neatly styled in a bun, and her expression remained devoid of any superfluous emotion.
This atmosphere made Watson feel inexplicably nervous.
The driver drove very fast, and the female passenger remained silent. Watson grew increasingly nervous and subconsciously pulled back the curtain to glance out the window.
It was pitch black, and nothing could be seen. It was normal not to see anything at night, but Baker Street was located in the heart of London, where there were lights even at midnight.
This is clearly the wilderness outside the city!
He quickly concluded: this was a kidnapping.
Calm down, calm down, calm down, he forced himself to calm down. As his rationality returned, he decided to start with the female passenger. Although she seemed more like an accomplice.
He tried to make his tone sound gentle: "What's your name?"
“Anthea”.
Is this your real name?
"no."
The atmosphere was extremely eerie, but Watson had no time to think about what to do next. The coachman had already pulled on the reins, and the carriage had stopped.
"Sir, please." He made a very elegant bow.
Watson stepped down from the carriage and was greeted by an abandoned military factory. The surroundings were empty, overgrown with weeds as tall as a person, swaying in the night wind.
His mind flashed rapidly through his entire life, but he couldn't recall any irreconcilable enemies.
“It would be perfect to kill someone here and silence them, wouldn’t it? It’s very suitable,” he said to the woman who called herself Anthea in a joking tone.
However, Anthea simply gave a standard smile and said nothing.
Prepared to die, he stepped into the factory. Waiting for him there wasn't the horde of burly men he'd imagined, but rather... a gentleman?
He was tall and slender, and the umbrella-shaped cane was not a necessity, but rather an extension of his status.
Although there was a slight smile on his lips, his eyes held neither joy nor sorrow, as calm and still as a deep pool, reflecting a cool and collected perspective accustomed to overseeing the whole situation and controlling everything.
“Please sit down, John.” The gentleman gestured with the tip of his umbrella to the chairs that had been placed in advance in the center of the factory.
Watson glanced at him suspiciously, a chill creeping into his heart. The person before him not only knew his name, but also his hidden ailment of having difficulty walking.
But he still wanted to turn the tables, or rather, to die with some dignity. "You surely know I have an email address. I mean, today's arrangements are very meticulous. But you can still write to me, and I read your letters every day."
“When one wants to avoid Sherlock Holmes’s attention, one must be absolutely certain, which is why this place exists today. Sit down, John.”
So it was all because of Sherlock. No wonder, although his peaceful life hadn't produced any real enemies, he had no idea how many people the ever-sharp-tongued Sherlock had offended.
It seemed that the gentleman was Sherlock's enemy, and he suddenly felt angry at the man before him. This anger gave him the courage to resist: "I don't want to sit down."
The gentleman smiled: "You don't seem very scared."
"You don't look too scary."
“Yes, yes,” the gentleman laughed heartily this time, “the bravery of a warrior. Bravery is the best description of foolishness, don’t you think?”
Seeing that he remained silent, the gentleman spoke again: "What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"
The determination to protect Sherlock swirled in Watson's mind. He forced out a few words: "I barely know him. In fact, we just met recently."
"We only met recently, and in the last few days we've become so close we're solving cases together. Can I expect to receive your wedding announcement this weekend?"
Faced with this mockery, and with the person before him who seemed to know almost everything about him and Sherlock, Watson couldn't help but ask, "Who are you? Why are you investigating this?"
"Just out of interest."
"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I bet you're no friend."
His words seemed to have tickled the gentleman's funny bone again. "You live together, so you know his worrying personality. How many people do you think would willingly be friends with someone like that? But if I had to pick, I'd say I'm Sherlock Holmes's closest 'friend'."
"If we don't strictly define it, what are you to him?"
"An enemy."
"enemy?"
“In Sherlock’s mind, I am, of course, his enemy. If you ask him, he might say I am his mortal enemy. Well, he does like to dramatize everything.”
What are you doing here?
"It won't be the same as always, just caring about you."
"I have received your instructions."
"He's like a puppy with its fur standing on end," Mycroft chuckled. "Always so aggressive. Haven't you ever considered that we're on the same side?"
“Strangely enough, no,” Watson stubbornly retorted.
Will you continue to be with Sherlock?
"Perhaps not, but it's none of your business."
"It must be related to me."
"It's none of your business."
“If you insist on moving into 221B Baker Street, I’d be happy to offer you a substantial sum,” the gentleman said, glancing at his faded military overcoat, “to solve your immediate problem.”
What do you need me to do?
"information."
"About what?"
"About Sherlock. His condition." For the first time, the gentleman's tone changed slightly, no longer entirely teasing and sarcasm.
"Why?"
“I’m very worried about him, I always have.”
"What does he have to worry about?"
“The cases he’s been taking on lately have been getting increasingly dangerous, and it’s making me feel a bit… out of control. Is he eating on time? Is his sleep cycle more chaotic or more regular? How often does he use contraband?” The gentleman’s umbrella rustled across the ground of the abandoned factory. “And, there’s a dangerous person lurking in the shadows watching him. Moriarty, I believe Sherlock is aware of it, but it’s not enough. Even though he’s become capable of handling things on his own, I still can’t put my mind at ease.”
Watson glanced at the gentleman. He was a man of few words, extremely perceptive, and occasionally showed signs of impatience. But once the topic turned to Sherlock, he would speak at length, seemingly with inexhaustible patience.
Aside from close friends, there is only one other explanation for this concern—natural enemies.
Therefore, Watson's refusal was straightforward and decisive: "No."
"I haven't even mentioned the amount yet."
"No."
“You were very loyal, and very quick to refuse.” The gentleman’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he already understood why Sherlock had chosen him as his roommate. His expression didn’t seem to show anger at being rejected, but rather… satisfaction?
Watson decided to probe further: "Why me?"
“You don’t trust others but you trust Sherlock Holmes.” This was true, but it was something only he should have known. Watson stared at him, the gentleman easily regaining the upper hand.
"Who says I trust him?"
"You don't seem like the type of person who makes friends easily."
"It's not like that."
"You have already shown it."
Watson had now completely abandoned the idea of testing the gentleman. He just wanted to escape, afraid that his words and actions would reveal more about himself and Sherlock.
He leaned on his cane, preparing to leave.
A gentleman's voice came from behind: "I think someone has warned you to stay away from him, but I can tell from your left hand that you would never do that."
"Why?" Watson turned around.
"Give me your hand," the gentleman said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
He offered his hand.
"Most people in the city are just going through the motions, their eyes only on the bustling streets and the crowds. When you walk with Sherlock, you see the battlefield. You've already been on the battlefield, haven't you?"
What happened to my hand?
“Your left hand trembles intermittently, and your doctor diagnosed it as post-traumatic stress disorder. He thinks you are troubled by memories of the war.”
"Who are you? How did you know?"
“Fire her.” The gentleman looked at Watson. “She’s completely misguided. You’re under pressure right now, but your hand is as steady as a rock.”
“I think Sherlock can deduce at most that you are not actually disabled, but I can analyze much more. Dr. Watson, you are not troubled by the war, but rather—you crave the war.”
In Watson's trembling eyes, the gentleman raised his umbrella and said in a standard, elegant London accent, "Welcome back."
He left, his figure gradually disappearing from sight. Watson stood frozen in place, at a loss for what to do.
"I'll take you back."
Watson turned around and saw Anthea had appeared behind him at some point, still wearing that same predictable smile. Her presence was like that of a meticulously tuned toy: quiet, efficient, and absolutely obedient.
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