[Detective Sherlock] Rococo who sees through everything

If one day Rococo disappears from people's memory, only Sherlock still remembers her.

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Sherlock woke up, made himself a cup of coffee, and then turned his gaze to Watson who was sitting on the sofa and reading the newspaper.

"Where is Rococo? Why didn't you see her this morning?"

"Rococo?" Watson put away the newspaper and glanced at his roommate in confusion. "You mean the French artistic expression that spread throughout Europe in the 18th century?"

Sherlock froze for a moment with his coffee-drinking head up, and his eyes fell on Watson to see what kind of joke he was making.And his roommate was looking back at him with an extremely puzzled expression.

He frowned, feeling that such jokes were not funny: "I'm talking about Rococo living on the first floor of 221B."

"Oh, poor Sherlock, he must not be awake." Mrs. Hudson stepped into the room on the second floor at some point, went into the kitchen and stuffed a few boxes into the crowded refrigerator that was already filled with all kinds of strange organs. "Only you have rented my house in the past two years. The last time I cleaned the utility room downstairs was three months ago."

Judging from the expression and demeanor alone, Watson did not speak, and Mrs. Hudson did not lie, as if they had never heard of Rococo.

Sherlock was a little flustered, and sped up his speech: "I used to live at No. 222 opposite, and I was hired by a stupid member of parliament to spy on Mycroft, but the wrong task object opened a flower shop and was my assistant. Later also raised a Shiba Inu, now 'Scotland Yard' interrogator, 21 years old, 5.3 feet tall, Rococo with zero assets for the time being."

After he finished speaking in one breath, Mrs. Hudson and Watson looked at each other in dismay.

"There's never been a flower shop across the street. Before the house was blown up, the last tenant moved out not long ago." Mrs. Hudson patted Sherlock's shoulder comfortingly, and continued: "Poor Sherlock seems to be seriously ill. Watson, you should show him, he must be under too much pressure to investigate the case. "

Watson shrugged: "I can't see this, I need a psychiatrist. Well, Sherlock, are you doing some strange case experiments again?"

Sherlock began to unilaterally block the words of Watson and Mrs. Hudson. He stood in the center of the room and looked around every corner of the room: there was no long blond hair on the back of the chair, no dog hair on the floor, and only him on the tableware. The two sets with Watson... No matter where, there is no trace of Rococo or even women except Mrs. Hudson.

The voices of the two were still noisy to him, Sherlock didn't choose to listen to a word, and went straight down the stairs, pushing away the room that should have belonged to Rococo.The oncoming dust and the debris in the room in the field of vision - this room has not been cleaned for at least half a year.

He was not in the mood to close the door, turned around and rushed up to the second floor, pushed away the two confused people who came to ask, and turned on his computer.The folder on the disk that was supposed to contain the Rococo background check disappeared.

Sherlock put a few fingers on his lips with one hand, and began to doubt himself whether Rococo really appeared.

The cell phone rang suddenly, and he had almost no friends, and only a handful of people knew his number.Without thinking about it, Sherlock pressed the answer button and put it next to his ear, and then came the voice of Detective Lestrade: "Sherlock, I have a case here and I need you..."

"Do you have a trainee police officer named Rococo who is in charge of interrogating criminals?" Sherlock interrupted him.

"Rococo? Do we have such a character here? If you want to find it, I can help you look it up... Sherlock, are you still listening? Are you still there?"

At this time, Sherlock threw the phone aside, turned his back up, and fell straight onto his sofa chair.

There is indeed such a person in his memory, and he has made a place for her in the palace of thought, and he can't go wrong.

He took a deep breath and stood up again to turn on the computer. He successively collected the contact information of several clients who worked with Rococo on the case. After dialing one after another, he got a series of replies like this: Miss Stoner: "Mr. Holmes, thank you very much for saving me from being killed by my stepfather... what? The lady next to you when you were investigating the case? You came alone, and I was a little worried for you when you asked to spend the night alone in my room Woolen cloth……"

Mrs. St. Clair: "Thank you very much for finding my husband for me... Huh? The lady who was with you when I came to entrust? I remember it was just the two of us in the room... You didn't want to listen to me at first Later, after my request, you listened to me, and you surprised me by saying that I was an intern nurse..."

Miss Morrison: "My best friend has woken up, thank you for clearing him of the crime...the lady who stood by your side at the police station? Sorry, I don't have any memory...I was too sympathetic That poor friend was worried, sorry I couldn't help you."

Jasmine: "Sherlock?! Are you looking for me... What's the matter... Hey, Rococo? I don't remember that such a person came to the forensic room with you... Was it your girlfriend? When did you... ...!"

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"Sorry, John, I can only say that your friend is very seriously ill." A psychiatrist whom Watson knew during his clinic patted Watson on the shoulder regretfully as he left, "He insisted that he had been sick for the past year. I met a lady named Rococo in half the time, but he couldn't produce a little evidence, just relying on his own imagination. He is also very stubborn and doesn't obey my persuasion, so forgive me for being helpless."

Watson walked up the stairs a little heavy. He never thought that his genius roommate would suffer from a more serious mental illness than him. He used to be a traumatic emergency after the war, but he had already simulated a girlfriend. , how sad.

"Oh, Sherlock..." He went up to the second floor and found that his roommate was reading a newspaper on his couch, and he sat across from him, "I think you have to listen to the psychiatrist If so, he..."

"Are you talking about that psychiatrist who is so stupid that he can't even tell his wife is cheating?" Sherlock didn't even look up.

Watson was a little helpless: "Sherlock, but you must admit that you are sick. There has never been a person named Rococo in your life. You must admit this."

"Oh? Then what's with the bullet marks on my chest?" Sherlock was no longer in the mood to read the newspaper, so he folded the newspaper in half and threw it on the coffee table.

"Didn't your brother tell you that it was you who sneaked into a gambling den last year to investigate a case and was shot by a drugged-up mentally insane person. You almost lost your life at that time, but luckily he arrived in time." Watson has already I don't know how to persuade his stubborn roommate, "Sherlock, why don't you find a case for yourself, don't think about it, you can always guess what you are thinking, and always give you some ideas when solving a case Rococo, you should be clear, how many people in the world can keep up with the thinking of Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock was silent for a few seconds, and said, "John, call Lestrade and tell him about the case he asked me for yesterday, and I will rush over to have a look at it later."

Watson was happy that his roommate had finally figured it out a little bit: "Okay, I'll fight right away."

Sherlock got up, went into his bedroom and changed into the woolen long coat that he usually wears when he goes out.Maybe it is true. In the past days, he used his powerful mind palace to simulate a person. He put on her all the reasonable background and characteristics that suit his own taste, because he created it by himself. Because of her own brain, she always knows what she is thinking.

After tying the scarf, his eyes fell on Mendeleev's periodic diagram of elements on the wall.With the mentality of giving it a try, after opening it, with the input of light, a small metal ball reflected a little bit of his reflection—the hair rope.

He walked out of his bedroom holding the hair rope, and immediately heard someone knock on the door knocker downstairs.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson, my name is Rococo. Excuse me, is the storage room on your floor available for rent?"