A few dozen minutes before the mysterious lady knocked at the boarding house door.
"Good evening, Mr. Hudson."
"Miss Watson. You're home quite early today."
Dr. Rachel Watson, returning to the house earlier than usual, scratched her head as she answered the question from the manager, Mr. Hudson, who greeted her.
"Yes. There weren't many patients at the hospital today."
"I can't tell whether that's something to be glad about or sad about."
"Ahaha…"
Laughing at Mr. Hudson's light joke, Watson started toward her room.
— Bang! Bang!
Then she quietly knit her brows at the sound of gunshots echoing from far off.
"What is she doing this time."
Normally, if you heard gunshots somewhere, the sensible response would be to panic first or call the police.
But at 212B Baker Street, where she lived, sense didn't apply.
"Holmes. What on earth are you doing?"
Because the person dubbed the greatest eccentric in London—Watson's roommate, several years younger than she—lived here.
"…Watson? You're early today."
When Watson opened the door and asked with an incredulous look, the girl who had draped a white lab coat over herself and was slouched in an armchair like a corpse waved a hand with a cigarette between her fingers.
"Care for an Arcadia cigarette?"
Watson let out a quiet sigh at the sight.
Her gray eyes, usually razor-bright, had gone dull and lifeless, and her straight black hair—which once shone with luster—was now dry and lackluster.
Even so, there was an inexplicable poise and allure about Holmes as she offered Watson a cigarette with a dark smile.
"Forget that. What were you doing just now."
"As you can see, decorating the room."
"Haa."
Had she not been firing a pistol into the wall in front of her to etch the shape of a penis, the scene might have been quite captivating.
"What happened to the way you usually talk—and why are you doing this idiot business?"
"Well now. A softer manner of speaking is nice once in a while, isn't it?"
Looking down at Holmes with a hopeless gaze, Watson shook her head and sighed.
The longer the days without a case, the stranger the stunts Holmes pulled seemed to become.
"Wait—were you experimenting with mana stones again?"
Thinking that, Watson headed to her spot and, spotting traces of experiments on a table in the corner of the room, frowned and spoke.
"I distinctly told you that excessive experiments can cause mana addiction, so restrain yourself."
"I'm fine, Watson."
Holmes, who had tossed the pistol onto the distant sofa, answered with a languid expression.
"For the advancement of investigative science, that level of risk is a trifling matter. And in practice I'm conducting the experiments safely…"
"Holmes. I was an army surgeon. I'm a practicing physician now. Do you think I can't tell the symptoms of mana addiction in the person right in front of me?"
At Watson's chill voice ringing out, Holmes fell silent and quietly looked away.
"Playing dumb won't help. Even you have to listen to me when it comes to this."
"Cut me some slack, Watson."
When Watson declared this with a firm expression, Holmes heaved a deep sigh, rose to her feet, and began to lament.
"If I don't at least experiment with mana stones, I might literally die of boredom."
"Then take on a case and—"
"A case. That's exactly what there isn't. There isn't a single case in London that could satisfy me, Watson."
Muttering thus, Holmes picked up a newspaper, her hand trembling slightly as she held it out to Watson.
"For months now there hasn't been anything to speak of. The so-called bizarre cases that did occur were mostly natural phenomena. The commissions that come in, and the cases in the papers, are all trifles."
"Mm…"
"I haven't used my brain for so long it feels like it's going stiff. Maybe it really is ossifying. It's truly lamentable."
After complaining for a long while, Holmes, seemingly spent, sank back down into the armchair.
"When strange incidents started cropping up all over the world, what was I like then, Watson?"
"You were brimming with life. You didn't so much as glance at those experimental contraptions that cause mana addiction."
Answering her question, Watson looked at Holmes with a faintly pained gaze.
"Right, exactly. I thought I wouldn't need to pray each night for a case to break—that grand cases to set my heart racing would be waiting to greet me."
Staring listlessly into Watson's crimson eyes as she went on, Holmes then quietly turned her gaze to the window.
"But Watson—I think I'm living in a world of fools."
At some point, London's streets had been smothered in thick fog.
"Every night for months now, a mysterious fog has been blanketing the streets, and yet not a single crime makes use of it. Truly, the criminals of London are…"
Murmuring as she stared at the scene, Holmes suddenly cut herself off.
"What is it?"
A moment later, a smile rose to her lips, and Watson tilted her head and asked the reason.
"Did you witness a crime or a bizarre incident?"
"No, not that, but…"
In Holmes's eyes as she answered, a spark of life had already returned.
"…I plan to witness one indirectly, starting now."
Because the mysterious lady knocking at the boarding house door had come into Holmes's view.
.
.
.
.
.
"Come in!"
Not long after, when a knock sounded at the door, the listlessness from earlier was nowhere to be found as Holmes called out in a lively voice.
— Creak…
Cautiously the door opened, and in stepped a client wearing a black robe and mask.
She hesitated at Holmes's gesture, then sat on the sofa; when she shed the robe, a rather luxurious-looking outfit and voluptuous figure were revealed.
"Which of you is Ms. Charlotte Holmes?"
The lady asked softly of Holmes and Watson as they quietly observed her.
"I am Charlotte Holmes."
"…I wish to speak with you alone. I apologize to your friend, but could she give us the room for a while?"
Watson started to rise at this, but Holmes stayed her with a hand and spoke.
"If she can't hear it with me, I won't hear it either."
"Mm…"
The lady bit her lip and began to ponder.
Even the part of her face peeking out from under the mask had, for some reason, gone deathly pale.
Even Watson could infer the look in the eyes hidden by her mask.
"Very well—but swear you'll never tell anyone of this until at least the day I die. It's a matter big enough to turn all Europe upside down."
"I see."
Her voice trembling slightly, she began to speak.
"It is a grave matter involving a European royal house."
"The House of Ormstein of the Kingdom of Bohemia."
"Yes, that's correct. I am here only as an agent, so although I cannot reveal this to you…"
But then she stopped and looked at Holmes.
"What did you just—"
"Your Majesty, if you wanted to conceal your identity, you shouldn't have worn such extravagant clothes."
Her pupils went wide at Holmes's words.
"To begin with, it was an error to think you could deceive me, a personage so famous the world over."
A brief silence descended over the room.
"…Very well, you speak the truth."
Trembling as she looked at Holmes, the lady tore off her mask and, with a resigned expression, spoke.
"I am the Queen of the Kingdom of Bohemia."
"Yes, I knew as You Majesty entered that you were Lilia Gotzreich Sigismund von Ormstein."
"I apologize for the farce. But I had no choice…"
"Well, there are things in this world that cannot be helped. So—would you please start telling us what exactly you've suffered."
Cutting her off, Holmes began to press—using the most courteous phrasing she could manage.
"In brief, it is this."
Frowning for a moment, the Queen covered her face with both hands and began.
"Isaac Adler. Because of that notorious boy, I stand on the brink of ruin. Do you know him?"
"Watson, check my index."
Holmes gestured toward the files in which she had cataloged countless figures—but Watson shook her head.
"No need. I know him well."
Then she explained to Holmes.
"London's greatest wastrel. A notorious rake who has ensnared countless women. A truly trash of a fellow whose hobby is to ruin women who pass through his hands—body and mind."
"…You know him in some detail?"
"The patients under my care at the hospital are his victims."
Casting a sidelong glance at Watson's visibly heated expression, Holmes turned her eyes back to the Queen and asked,
"So—what hold does this Isaac Adler have over you?"
"A letter in my own hand, um… that is… a s-slave con—"
With a mortified expression, the Queen stammered.
"…Something like a love letter, which he possesses."
When she looked away and fudged the words, Holmes scratched her head and posed more questions.
"Did you secretly marry the boy? Or did you sign some sort of contract with him, legally speaking?"
"That, I did not."
"In that case, it doesn't seem there's a problem. Handwriting can be imitated all you like, and even if there's a seal or stamp, you can claim it is forged."
Head drooping, the Queen spoke.
"He has photographs."
"Photographs of Your Majesty can be obtained in plenty—"
"Photographs of me with him."
"Oh dear. What sort of photographs, precisely?"
Face blazing red, the Queen hesitated, then stammered on.
"T-to be precise… I—I am on the floor with my belly to the ground, a collar on my neck… and the boy is… stepping on my head…"
"...…."
Holmes and Watson stared at her, aghast.
"Why on earth did you do such a thing?"
"I—I was crazed then. I was young. Even as a princess of a nation, I thought I could give him my all."
"I can't comprehend it."
"I can't comprehend it now, either. But it happened, undeniably—and starting yesterday, Isaac began using it to blackmail me."
Her ears now scarlet, the Queen pleaded to Holmes.
"In fact, I don't even have time to be doing this. My marriage is in two days. But if the boy makes those photos and that document public… my life is over."
"Mm."
"So I beg you. I know I ask something very difficult—but please, within thirty-six hours, retrieve that document and the photos."
"How do you intend to pay?"
"If you wish it, I can cut you half my kingdom."
"And the expenses needed for the work at once?"
At Holmes's upturned mouth as she asked, the Queen drew a heavy pouch from her bosom.
"As a retainer: three hundred pounds in gold coin, and seven hundred in banknotes."
"Agreed."
Tearing a slip from her notebook, Holmes wrote a receipt and handed it to the Queen, then spoke with a satisfied smile.
"Write the man's address here, and then, Your Majesty, go home and sleep in peace."
"Do you mean—"
"I'll bring you good news soon."
At last the Queen, looking slightly relieved, rose to go.
"…Be careful."
As she once more donned mask and robe, she left a low warning with Holmes, whose expression brimmed with confidence.
"Though his face is pretty and looks pure, a devil lurks inside Isaac."
And with that, the Queen quietly departed.
"I tell you, I don't understand it."
Even after she left, Holmes sat in her chair for a long while, then rose and muttered.
"Those who let themselves be ruled by that inefficient emotion called love and ruin everything."
Then, glancing at Watson, Holmes spoke again.
"I don't think I'll ever understand such people as long as I live, Watson."
Her manner of speaking had returned to normal before anyone noticed.
In truth, considering Holmes's age, the previous tone fit better.
"Well, this one will at least be a bit of a diversion."
"But isn't the timeline awfully tight? What exactly are you going to do?"
Holmes, busily readying herself to head out, answered Watson's question, eyes alight.
"I have a rather good plan."
.
.
.
.
.
The day after my first meeting with Professor Moriarty.
On the weekend, on my way to the place that would now be my home—
"Hey, you there. Hold it."
"Hand over everything you've got, and we'll spare your life."
As I entered an alley near the house, a gang of vagrants materialized from somewhere, surrounded me, and began to threaten me.
"Stop!"
As I looked at the ones waving pokers and knives with a troubled face, a voice echoed from far off.
"Stop this at once!"
A very frail-looking young nun was hurrying toward me and the vagrants.
'This is…'
And only then did I grasp the situation.
'…One hundred percent Holmes.'
That the development of "The Scandal of the Kingdom of Bohemia" was being reenacted before my eyes.
Though Holmes was dressed not as a clergyman but as a nun, in any case—
'…I'm fucked.'
As a rabid fan of the Sherlock Holmes series, I was, frankly, moved to tears.