"I am certain that I cannot let Holmes discover my secret—that body. All my secrets are contained within that corpse."
"I've hidden it well. Holmes, you're finished!"
In the dimly lit room, the killer let out a sinister, low-pitched chuckle.
Click. The friction between the striker wheel and the flint ignited the cotton wick. The killer flipped open the diary beside him, the faint flame illuminating only the bottom half of the page. Under the personal profile section, he wrote with a sense of triumphant pride:
[I shall be the first killer in human history to defeat Holmes. No one in the criminal world shall surpass me, and those wretched journalists—heh, I'll show them the meaning of pain.]
With his conspiracy nearly complete, the killer prepared to stand and draw the curtains. But at that exact moment, a streak of sunset, red as molten iron, pierced the room and stung his eyes. A split second later, a thunderous, indignant female voice reached his ears:
"You had better give me an explanation!"
In that instant, the killer knew he was doomed.
He turned his head stiffly. His gaze traveled upward, starting from the woman's polished black leather boots, moving past her brown stockings and checkered overcoat, and finally settling on that exquisite yet frigid face.
She was truly beautiful.
Involuntarily, Lomeu found himself captivated once again by Miss Holmes' features. He noted the dainty silhouette of her toes within the leather shoes, the slender yet firm grace of her legs wrapped in brown stockings, and that face—which usually viewed everyone as little more than rubbish—now flushed a faint pink with indignation under his stare.
"Lomeu Victoria!"
Sherlock Holmes roared again, her azure eyes flashing with a sharp glint of annoyance.
Lomeu snapped back to his senses, only then realizing that the woman was clutching a small cat plushie in her left hand. It was in a sorry state—missing a leg, with large clumps of cotton stuffing bursting from its seams.
"How did you find it?" Exposed and mortified, Lomeu groaned. "I was sure I'd hidden it perfectly."
Sherlock gave a cold, knowing smirk. "There is nothing these eyes of mine cannot see through. Your clumsy attempts at concealment were transparent from the start."
"The quality was just poor; the seams burst on their own," Lomeu defended himself. "It has nothing to do with me. I definitely didn't break it."
"Is that so?" Sherlock sneered again. "This is attempted murder, Mr. Lomeu."
"No, it's just a stuffed toy."
"And what if someone saw that protruding cotton and fainted from the shock?"
"How could anyone possibly faint from seeing cott—... oh."
Lomeu had a sudden realization and looked at her with a gaze full of helpless exasperation.
The curtains were pulled back, revealing a spacious classroom. The setting sun dispelled the shadows on the upper half of the diary, where three lines were written:
[Lomeu, twenty-two, transmigrator. Background: Classified.] [Miss Holmes' childhood friend, ultimate partner, inventor of hundreds of patents including the telephone and telegraph. A Great Inventor.] [Currently a senior at Cambridge University, nearing graduation.]
This girl had been following him around since she was six years old, and now, she was even more eccentric than he was.
"Fine, Miss Holmes. I yield. You win this round."
He admitted defeat, crossing out the "Defeated Holmes" entry in his profile, though he left the words "wretched journalists" untouched.
Lomeu glanced at the newspaper on the desk. The headline read: "Genius Detective Holmes Solves Case in Five Minutes Yet Again." There was a black-and-white photograph accompanying the article showing two figures: a woman speaking with an air of high-born arrogance, and a young man standing silently beside her.
Lomeu was the only person in the entire interview who wasn't smiling. With his dark hair, dark eyes, and a perfectly tailored suit topped with a black silk hat, his arrival always prompted the journalists to laugh.
Some would jeer, "Mr. Victoria, are you riding Miss Holmes' coattails again?"
Others were even more direct, shouting, "Holmes got the MVP! Lomeu is just there to be carried!"
Even though Lomeu had achieved legendary status in other fields, Sherlock insisted on including his name in every case she solved. Over time, it had become a running joke: "Holmes and I have solved ninety-one cases together."
Lomeu would fume at them: "Do you even know how many ways there are to wire a telephone exchange?"
"Hahahahaha!"
The crowd would erupt in laughter. That day, the entire press conference had been filled with a "joyful atmosphere."
Sherlock Holmes had entered Cambridge at the age of twenty. In just two years, she had become the most renowned detective in Britain. No criminal she set her sights on could ever escape; with a single glance, she could dissect exactly what you had been doing the previous week.
She's got the mechanics and the stats. You're too overpowered, Holmes. How is anyone supposed to play against this without a nerf? Lomeu cursed the "developer"—God—once again.
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My : https://[email protected]/AuAuMon
Stop arresting me, Miss Holmes (40 Chapters, Ongoing)
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Closing his diary, he looked at the girl standing by Sherlock's right side. She was blonde, wearing overalls, and looked a bit disheveled, but her eyes were beautiful—bright blue, like sweet hard candy. She had been incredibly well-behaved, not uttering a single word.
"Who is this?" Lomeu stepped forward and patted the girl's head.
"My name is Anna, sir," the girl said sweetly, handing him a white rose. "This is for you."
"Ah, thank you." Lomeu accepted it with a smile. It was made of paper, but the craftsmanship was so delicate it was hard to distinguish from a real flower. He pinned the rose to his lapel.
Sherlock carefully tucked the cat plushie away, giving him another stern look. "This is why I came to find you. Because of the cat... and because of her."
"Her? What happened?"
"This child secretly worked in a sweatshop for a month, and the owner refused to pay her a single cent. So, she came to me," Sherlock sighed. "There are many other children like Anna under his thumb."
"I thought you were only interested in 'challenging' cases... What do you think of the recent 'Clown Murders'?"
"I'm keeping an eye on it."
"..."
Lomeu fell silent, turning his gaze back to the girl, his expression softening. "Why did you come to Miss Holmes?"
The girl stared back with clear, innocent eyes. "Because Miss Holmes is a very powerful detective. No bad person can beat her."
Indeed, when facing criminals, Sherlock Holmes was invincible.
"I tried to ask him for my wages, but he threw me out. The courts won't take the case either."
The problem was that a factory owner withholding wages wasn't strictly a criminal matter for the police. Sherlock was at a loss. "Is there any way we can help her?"
Lomeu didn't answer immediately. He knelt down. "Where are your parents?"
Anna looked into his eyes and shook her head. "Papa and Mama are gone."
"Her mother is a Baron's daughter; her father was an ordinary laborer. They divorced not long ago," Sherlock explained.
Anna lowered her head sadly. "Mama loved Papa very much, and I love Papa too, but Papa didn't like Mama at all... Anna doesn't know why, but Papa always wanted to be an artist. So, Anna saved up money to help Papa become one."
The girl clearly believed that once he succeeded, the family would be back together.
Lomeu ruffled her hair. "I'll think of something."
"Good." Sherlock took the girl's hand to leave. As they reached the classroom door, she paused and looked back. "What about our graduation tutor?"
Graduation was approaching, and Cambridge required a tutor's approval. But because Lomeu and Holmes were a package deal, and the great detective had made far too many enemies, no professor dared to take them on.
"How should I know? If it comes to it, we just won't graduate. A degree isn't exactly vital for someone like you."
"True." Miss Holmes considered this for a moment and left, satisfied.
The classroom was empty once more. Lomeu intended to look over the details of the Clown Murders, but the campus security guard pushed the door open.
"Mr. Victoria, is that strangely dressed man downstairs a friend of yours?"
Lomeu looked up. "A friend? Who?"
"The one below. Dressed like a clown. He's been staring at you and Miss Holmes for quite a while."
"?"
Lomeu turned toward the window with a start. A few students were walking past, laughing and chatting. Lomeu breathed a sigh of relief and was about to ask for more details when the telephone rang.
He froze for a second before picking up.
"Good evening, Mr. Victoria."
The voice on the other end was low and muffled. "Miss Holmes and the little girl are with me now. I suggest you do exactly as I say—blindfold yourself, do not make a sound, and wait for me downstairs."
"Go to hell."
Lomeu slammed the phone down and sprinted out the door.