[From the journal of Dr. John H. Watson]
I have long since learned that to question the methods of Mr. Sherlock Holmes is an exercise in futility. His mind operates upon a plane of logic so elevated that it is often inaccessible to a common mortal such as myself. And yet, I confess that when he announced our first subject for inquiry, I felt a profound sense of bewilderment.
For what God-forsaken reason, I wondered, had he selected what was, to my mind, the most problematic individual on the entire list? The name was Mogami Touta, and his occupation, a 'Data Security Officer,' was a title so utterly modern and incomprehensible that my brain hurt to simply think upon it. It conjured images of whirring machines and electric wires, a world of cold, impersonal facts with which neither I, nor any man of our time, could hope to grapple.
I suspect my own inability to adapt to the technological marvels of this new century is to blame for my trepidation. The concepts of 'internet' and 'servers' remain a vexing mystery to me, a ghost-like web of information that exists everywhere and nowhere at once. I could not, however, admit such a failing to Holmes. He, with his remarkable mind, seemed to absorb the principles of this new science as if he were born to it, and I would not have him think his old friend and colleague was no longer fit for purpose.
And so, it was with a heavy heart and a mind full of misgiving that I accompanied him to the apartment building where Mr. Mogami resided. It was a tall, featureless block of white concrete, a place with little to recommend it in the way of character or charm.
"A direct approach would be fruitless, Watson," Holmes remarked as we stood across the street, observing the building. "A man who guards secrets for a living is bound to be a fortress in his personal life. We must observe him in his natural habitat, unseen."
I had imagined some lengthy vigil, perhaps involving a disguise as a street peddler or the like. Holmes, however, had a more direct plan. Striding into the building's lobby, he presented our Scotland Yard credentials to the building supervisor, explaining in a tone of grave authority that we were tracking a dangerous international fugitive believed to be hiding in the building. He requested immediate, temporary use of the vacant apartment directly adjacent to Mr. Mogami's for the purpose of surveillance. The supervisor, a man clearly overwhelmed by our official bearing, agreed at once.
Within minutes, we were ensconced in an empty, dust-sheeted room, our only window looking out upon the same dreary view as the suspect's. It was here that Holmes's own finicky antics came to the fore. From a sleek case provided by Interpol, he produced a device of startling ingenuity—a slender microphone attached to a small box with an earpiece. He pressed the device against the adjoining wall, his entire body going still, his expression one of the most intense concentration I have ever witnessed.
For what felt like hours, there was nothing but silence. I began to grow restless, but Holmes remained as still as a statue.
"What can you possibly hope to hear?" I finally whispered.
"Everything," he breathed, without looking away from the wall. "The man's very soul is written in the sounds he makes, and those he does not. There is no music, Watson. No television. Only the rhythmic, almost frantic, clicking of a computer keyboard. It stops for precisely sixty seconds every twenty minutes. A break, timed to the second. This is a man of obsessive routine."
Another hour passed. The clicking continued, a maddeningly persistent rhythm. Then, it stopped, and we heard the faint sounds of a kettle boiling. Holmes's eyes gleamed.
"He is making tea," he murmured. "Listen. The clink of the cup, the pour… but no clink of a spoon. He takes no sugar. And the brand of tea is a specialty green tea, one known for its high caffeine content, favoured by those who work late into the night. He is a creature of immense discipline and singular focus."
It was then that we heard a new sound: a low, angry muttering. Mogami was speaking to himself. Holmes adjusted the device, his focus absolute. The words were faint, but audible.
"…always my work that holds the line," the voice hissed. "Do they appreciate it? No. They praise the field agents, the directors with their press conferences. But I am the wall. I keep the secrets safe. They would be nothing without me… fools…"
The muttering trailed off, replaced once more by the obsessive clicking of the keyboard.
Holmes finally pulled the device away from the wall, a thoughtful expression on his face. He began to pace the small, empty room.
"Well, Holmes?" I asked. "What have we learned?"
"We have learned the man, Watson," he replied, his voice low. "We have found a creature of immense control and simmering resentment. He is meticulous, paranoid, and possesses a deep-seated contempt for his superiors. He believes himself to be the unsung genius of the NPA." He stopped pacing and looked at me. "He has the means to be the leak. He has the access. He even has a plausible motive, that of a bitter man seeking to empower a force that punishes the society that overlooks him."
"Then you believe it is he? He is Kira?"
A thin smile played on Holmes's lips. "No, Watson. I do not. The man we heard through that wall is a small man, nursing a small grievance. He is a gatekeeper, a resentful clerk, not a messiah. He has the soul of a bureaucrat, not a god. He could be the leak, an accomplice, a pawn in the game… but he is not the king."