[Sherlock Holmes] The Legend of the Nightingale

(God's perspective)

No one expected that the real turning point would happen the next morning.Everything is as it was before October 1885.Just as sometimes the door of the room is inexplicably locked even after lunch time, Holmes inexplicably woke up before dawn.Watson regularly sat at the table waiting for Mrs. Hudson to set the table.The landlady was busy walking around, and the two gentlemen were lazy and silent. No one mentioned what happened last night, as if the previous two years were just a dream.After breakfast Watson began to stop Holmes from lighting his pipe again.

"Don't you think you've smoked all three days' worth of cigarettes this morning?"

"Huh? Me?" Holmes looked at the pipe, then at Watson.

"Is it still me?" Mrs. Hudson's voice came from the back room.

"Sorry. I may have been distracted just now." Holmes said, still lighting his pipe.Watson put his hand to his forehead in a sign of despair.

"Forget it, it's better than competing with that violin."

"Thanks for reminding."

As Holmes went upstairs to his room, Watson rose at once and took his coat and hat from the coat hooks.

"Going out, Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson asked casually as she came out to wipe the table.

"Yes. It feels like my clinic is going to have spider webs."

"It's too exaggerated, doctor, you still need to rest. Huh? Why did someone come so early?"

A sudden ringing of the doorbell effectively halted Watson's travel.Mrs. Hudson opened the door, and there stood a little boy, one of those run-about teens you'd find on the streets of London.

"Does Mr. Sherlock Holmes live here?"

"Yes, my child."

"Someone in the street asked me to bring this letter here to Mr. Holmes."

"What kind of gentleman is he?" Watson rushed to the door and asked.

"Er... like the other gentlemen."

"What clothes? Hair color?" Watson tried to remind him.

"Beautiful dress, brown hair, beard, nothing else."

"Where did you meet him?"

"It's at the corner of Baker Street, over there." The child pointed in the direction.Watson stepped out of the door and looked. He had obviously disappeared into the crowd.

"You don't know him?"

"never seen it."

Watson handed him some money. "If you see that person again in the future, if possible, come and tell us right away. I will reward you then."

"Thank you sir. I have nothing else to do and I will go."

After the little boy left, Watson and Mrs. Hudson closed the door and returned to the living room, staring at the letter in a daze.

"I will fetch Mr. Holmes down."

The landlady went upstairs.Watson hung up his coat again, and sat down sadly on the sofa with the letter in hand.From the time the doorbell rang to when he watched the boy with the messenger disappear down the street, there was something vaguely ominous about it, but he couldn't tell.Hearing the footsteps of Holmes and Mrs. Hudson from far to near, the doctor somehow didn't want to look back.

"Can't find anyone who wants you to see it, but I said to the kid, if you see him again, come and tell us anytime."

"Not badly done, though I doubt very much its feasibility." Holmes took the letter from Watson, inspecting the envelope as usual before opening it.

"London's local envelope, nothing special, the paper quality is a bit poor, and the ink has leaked to the back. The handwriting of a highly educated male. What is this?"

Before the letter was taken out, a note floated out of the envelope.Watson picked it up and looked at it, almost screaming.

"Angela?"

Watson showed Holmes the note, which was a piece of paper torn from a notebook.

"Angela?" Mrs. Hudson relied on women's selective sensitivity to information, and leaned forward at that time, "What's the matter?"

Holmes took a deep breath and turned the note face down. "Mrs. Hudson, you are not needed here now."

"Hey, I'm just..."

"Mrs. Hudson—" Holmes raised his voice suddenly.Seeing Mrs. Hudson's surprised eyes, he returned to his calm tone.

"Sorry, but I still don't trust your ability to keep it secret."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," said the landlady, with her hips akimbo. "This is my house, and I can stay where I like. And I like to know what happened to Angela."

"Then there is nothing I can do. Watson, let us go upstairs."

Under Mrs. Hudson's fiery gaze, Dr. Watson was dragged up the stairs by the gloomy Holmes with a helpless expression on his face.

"Is there something she is hiding from us?" Holmes closed the door of the room, stood in front of the door and listened again. After making sure that Mrs. Hudson was not outside, he said to Watson, "Although she has the right to keep it from us."

"She did mention it," replied Watson.

"Girls are like that. Is there something you haven't told me?"

"No."

This conversation has irrevocably dropped the atmosphere to freezing point.Holmes lifted the corner of the letter a little, and unfolded it like a man's death sentence, or will, into his hands.

dear sherlock,

I've never seen what it's like when you hear you've failed.However, what I will tell you next will probably make you even more unbelievable than saying "you failed".What I am saying is, you are wrong.

Sorry to tell you now, Nightingale is an old schoolmate of mine.At first we were all students of mathematics, but later he was confused by chemistry and changed his career.Although I haven't been in touch for many years, he is still willing to do anything for me.I feel that his little daughter is very useful, but unfortunately she is too young to do more useful things, but after your teaching, I believe she will benefit a lot.Using a weapon is a bit too much for her.She didn't mind giving me the wind I wanted to hear every now and then, sending a telegram, opening a door for someone, mixing some spice in a drink or risking her health.Of course, the last one needs a note, I didn't tell her all the effects of the condiments in the wine with full sincerity, so she's not really that fearless.

Finally, thank you for sending my assistant back to me, along with an ex-rich lady who lacks practicality.But don't worry, no one is giving her a hard time.Although she didn't bring any benefits, she never hurt anyone's heart and shouldn't be punished.Nightingale was your excellent assistant, and a proud man should be proud of that, though she was mine - and was mine -

Nightingale

Holmes fixed his eyes on the letter in his hand, but did not know what he saw.He didn't even hear Watson's voice.

Sherlock Holmes' mind went blank temporarily.

"What happened? What did the letter say?"

Watson's voice seemed to come from afar, not real.Maybe the nightingale was real and the letter in his hand was a dream.The white paper at the fingertips felt like a needle, and Holmes frowned slightly.

"Show me the letter, Holmes," said Watson uneasily and somewhat stiffly. "Do you hear that, Holmes? There is something wrong with you."

The detective held up the letter to the doctor, and said in a cold voice before he began to read the first word:

"Moriarty. He said his assistant was Nightingale."

Watson almost dropped the letter on the floor.

Holmes turned his back on the doctor and looked out of the window.Black-topped cabs passed by on the street.Hawkers hawk from roadside stalls.People come and go from the store door.The children were chasing and running, yelling.London is still there, the bustle is still there, Baker Street is still there.If the whole day from the day she came to the present is a dream, everything can continue as before, meeting clients, solving cases, joking with Watson, playing the violin, trying to catch Moriarty, anyway, sooner or later for one day.He didn't care if there were students or not, and it wasn't his idea in the first place.Isn't one consulting detective enough in London?She got him into trouble, though she was good on a few occasions.She is a girl.She studies literature.Why does she exist?Without her, the story would have worked just fine, without a hitch.

Of course, the premise is that if there has never been her.

Holmes put his hand on the glass.

During these few seconds of confusion, the doctor has not stopped thinking, although his thinking is not the same as that of the detective.

"Holmes, I know it is ridiculous for me to say this, but—we must calm down now."

The detective stepped back and sat down, lowering his head to hide his expression.The doctor sat down beside him.

"Think with your head, Holmes! Isn't that what you always say?"

"I said it." Holmes clasped his hands together, put his fingertips on his forehead, and subconsciously expressed his thoughts. "Watson, I hope you will be quiet now..."

"She can't influence your thinking, Holmes." Watson felt that there was really nothing he could do without pulling Holmes back from the brink of a depressive episode.But the Doctor wondered what Holmes' silence meant.

All the loose details threaded into a thread.

Many years later, Moriarty would not still know Holmes.He needs channels of information.

The same paper as in her diary, the ambiguous wording, the handwriting, the black-haired woman who sent the telegram, the French fruit embroidery similar to a certain handkerchief, she got into trouble twice because of alcohol.

The Poisoner had been caught, and he was just one of Moriarty's outcasts.

At least it appears to be a line.Holmes's train of thought cannot be in any one line, he must be a bystander.

"If she was forced, cheated, and not willing to serve Moriarty, besides, we, I...Damn it, Holmes, you don't really believe that Angela would do such a thing, do you?"

Watson didn't even realize that Holmes looking up at him at this moment was a serious warning.If the doctor hadn't been in a state of anxiety, he would have known that Holmes was in a state of contemplation without needing to be reminded, and he needed absolute silence.

"Frankly speaking, there is no question of belief or disbelief here." Holmes raised a hand, flipped his fingers a bit exaggeratedly, and made a "pause" gesture to Watson with his palm, "You are disturbed, doctor , need to clean up the impurities.”

"Impurities?" The doctor stood up, walked to the window, and stared out of the window.He often suspects that what Holmes sees is different from what he sees, an idea Holmes often denies.Thinking of this, a trace of mockery flew across the doctor's face.

"I don't think we can see where she is now."

The author has something to say: what should the author say. . .Let's keep that sentence, don't jump to conclusions, the matter is not over yet. . .

The saddest thing about the author is that he has to code the text on the eve of the start of school, and he is so stuck that he wants to die, and when he is stuck, he suddenly makes up a series of good memes, which are not yet written (p_q)