Luomiu had always detested having cameras shoved in his face, but Sherlock was different. Actually, she didn't like it either, but she was used to it. People like her were born to stand in the spotlight; even when surrounded by a swarm of reporters, she didn't show a flicker of fear.
"I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, please leave immediately!"
Scotland Yard was doing its best to hold the journalists at bay, but they were overwhelmed by sheer numbers. The relentless, crackling snapping of shutters was enough to make one's eyes ache.
"What do they think this is, a disco?!" Inspector Renault's face was turning a mottled shade of purple-red with rage. "Get them out of here!"
"But Inspector, being a journalist is a profession even more 'feverish' than a dancer in a disco hall," the last constable replied as he was squeezed out of the perimeter by the crowd.
"Miss Holmes! I'm Stephen from The Times! From what I understand, the Artist's methods are eccentric and cruel. May I ask how you managed to save Mr. Victoria from the hands of such a heinous criminal?" Stephen had snatched a prime position at the front. He immediately spotted Luomiu, who was bleeding profusely, and Sherlock, who was supporting him.
Sherlock's fine brows knit together. "Let me emphasize this once more," she said sharply. "Luomiu is my inseparable partner and assistant. Without him, it would have been absolutely impossible for me to defeat the killer."
"Understood." Stephen lowered his head and scribbled something in his notebook.
Luomiu glanced over: [Lie or Heartfelt Truth? Sherlock Holmes bluntly states: "Luomiu is my separable partner and assistant. Without him, I could have absolutely defeated the killer by myself."]
Dammit, Luomiu thought. Sooner or later, I'm going to drag these journalism majors off to Ireland to plant potatoes.
"Mr. Victoria, Mr. Victoria..." The incessant questions were giving him a pounding headache, right until a loud crack echoed through the air: Bang!
Inspector Renault had fired several shots into the sky. "Alright, ladies and gentlemen. You can ask all the questions you want at the press conference. For now..." His expression was incredibly grim. Renault wasn't like other policemen; he was a man who had climbed to the rank of Inspector, and eventually Chief Inspector and Assistant Commissioner, through sheer merit. Consequently, the encroaching reporters quickly retreated.
The world was beautiful again.
Luomiu took a breath of fresh, reporter-free air. "Thanks, Old Rey."
Renault had long since grown accustomed to Luomiu's casual way of addressing him. "Are you alright?"
"Not great."
"Need a hospital?"
"No need, just a minor wound."
"I have to finish up here before heading back to Cambridge. You go back and wait for me," Renault said, gesturing to a nearby officer. "You, escort this gentleman and lady back to Cambridge. Go wherever he tells you."
"London isn't exactly a stone's throw away. Thanks." Luomiu and Renault were old friends who saw each other every few days. Before meeting Sherlock, Renault had been a plain, unremarkable officer. Following Sherlock always provided plenty of opportunities to pad one's record with successes.
"I hope tonight's overtime doesn't last until sunrise... Though, it would be better if I could get a taste of your cooking," Renault's weary face managed a rare smile.
"Of course." Considering the standard British fare was mostly milk and brown bread, Luomiu—a man who knew his way around Eastern cuisine—was undoubtedly the "god-tier" of chefs in this part of the world.
Vroom. The police carriage started up. The night scenery outside the glass sped away.
Sherlock was still immersed in the case. "How do you think that person managed to take you from Cambridge to London in just an hour or two?" Though the distance wasn't immense, Sherlock hadn't found any evidence of a vehicle.
"Uh..." Because the demon runs quite fast? Luomiu obviously couldn't explain it that way. Instead, he shifted his head, resting it on Sherlock's thighs and nuzzling slightly. They were cool, soft, and smooth. Luomiu let out a comfortable sigh.
Sherlock's eyes widened. "What are you doing?!" She moved her hand to push him off.
Luomiu didn't retreat; instead, he rolled over, pressing his face against her abdomen. "I'm a patient."
Her hand froze in mid-air.
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My : https://[email protected]/AuAuMon
Stop arresting me, Miss Holmes (40 Chapters, Ongoing)
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"Your shamelessness exceeds my expectations, Mr. Victoria," Sherlock said through gritted teeth, turning her face away in exasperation.
Glancing at Miss Holmes's blushing face, the police officer silently reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror so he couldn't see. Why do I have to work overtime AND watch this?
The night roads were empty of traffic, and they arrived in Cambridge half an hour later. Luomiu owned a two-story house near the university where they both usually stayed.
Click. Sherlock flipped the light switch and nudged Luomiu inside. "Did you see Anna?"
"No," Luomiu replied nonchalantly. "She probably escaped. Anyway, leave it to Scotland Yard."
The room was simply furnished: a sofa, a fireplace, and a desk, all in a warm, amber style. Sherlock frowned deeply. "Britain has clearly banned child labor, yet he is still arrogant enough to go to such lengths."
"I have some information." Luomiu flopped onto the sofa and pulled out a newspaper: [Outstanding British Entrepreneur: Bruce Wayne]
"Bruce Wayne?" Sherlock blinked, startled. "Batman?"
"That was just a story I made up, Miss Sherlock... And if you don't go buy some groceries right now, Inspector Renault's boot is going to find a very firm home in my backside," Luomiu said, sprawling out. "Goodbye, Great Detective Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock glared at him fiercely, but then looked worriedly at Luomiu's wound. It had stopped bleeding. "It's not deep, it's fine."
"I'll go buy you some medicine too... I should be back in about half an hour." She pushed open the door and left.
Luomiu stretched, checked the time, and took the newspaper from his pocket, tossing it toward the floor. It didn't land on the wood; instead, it fell into a pool of shadow. Shortly after, a pitch-black hand reached out from within the darkness.
Luomiu took the paper the hand offered him. Dated January 1, 1860—fifteen years ago. [New Entrepreneur Bruce Wayne Seeking Investors, Location...]
Then came a second slip of paper with a string of numbers on it. Luomiu dialed the telephone.
"Hello." A smoky male voice answered from the other end.
Luomiu looked out the window. "Hello, Mr. Wayne. I am 'Town-in-Go.' I'd like to ask you about the factory explosion the other day, and the matter of the child laborers."
"Can't you people just give it a rest?" There was a sigh on the other end, followed by a shift into an arrogant tone. "Don't you understand yet? The British unions are on my side. The courts are on my side. So what if there are child laborers? So what if there was an explosion? What if people died? Is a human life worth that much? I can afford the price."
Luomiu remained silent for a moment. "Do you not realize that the wicked eventually meet their retribution?"
"Oh, don't be naive, sir. I'm just so scared," Bruce Wayne mocked. "Why don't you come and kill me then? Use your sickles and hammers to smash down the walls of Buckingham Palace. I'll be waiting for you, you naive, stupid pig."
The call disconnected.
"Well, that's that then." Luomiu shrugged. He always tried to give people a chance; unfortunately, 99.9% of them failed to take it.
He rolled off the sofa, but he didn't hit the floor. Instead, he sank into his own shadow, as if traveling through a vast ocean.
When he opened his eyes, the River Thames was churning below like a rusty hinge. This was London—half glittering with decadence, half suffocating in desolation. Luomiu stood atop the Tower of London and closed his eyes.
A gaze was cast from the darkness. A car was nearing its destination: Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British Empire.
Luomiu pulled a telephone from the shadows. "Good evening. I am going to kill someone. This time, you have exactly twenty-eight minutes to stop me."
It was a pity Great Britain didn't have a Batman. Even if it did, he wouldn't be as rich as Luomiu.
Luomiu dropped the phone. The Shadow of the Foggy City—compared to "Town-in-Go," he much preferred the codename MI6 had given him.