[Sherlock Holmes] The Legend of the Nightingale

(Nightingale's notes)

"I feel dangerous," I said to Watson back in the drawing room. "He has now refined his capricious temper to such a high degree that there seems to be nothing left but moodiness and depression. He is now as elusive as a child."

"That's exactly what I wanted to express," said the doctor despondently.

"I'm worried he has something to hide from all of us," I said. "There are some mysteries in those paintings of his, haven't you observed them carefully?"

"He didn't give me the chance. He kicked me out when I was trying to get a closer look."

"I was treated the same way."

"This is quite unnatural. You and I and Mrs. Hudson, what does Holmes have to hide from the three of us? I think we have covered all aspects of his life."

"Will he start over..." I didn't want to name any of the drugs, but Watson got it right.

"I'm sure not. Holmes is very determined to quit addiction. Besides, he does not meet these symptoms now, and I have found no trace of addictive drugs in this house so far."

"Maybe it's just that we think we've covered his whole life," I said as softly as possible. "You can't control what he thinks. There can always be a side of a person that you don't know about."

This answer was far from reassuring Watson.He got up and started pacing the living room.The man who has claimed (and deservedly so, I think) the world's best understanding of Sherlock Holmes is now at a loss as to where to start.I actually don't like this explanation myself.This shows that perhaps for many years there has been living in a corner somewhere a Holmes whom I have never known.Maybe it's something I don't love, maybe it's something that doesn't love me.

"Holmes himself said that the most difficult cases have no motive." The doctor said suddenly, "No matter how complicated and confusing things can often be attributed to a simple motive. I think that little doctor back then, still There is the famous Moriarty, who committed normal crimes, or the so-called black magic cases that were hype-like, in the final analysis, they are nothing more than murder for money."

"Doctor, what do you want to say..."

"Holmes understands this very well. He can do it without any motive at all. That's why it's so difficult."

"No, doctor, that requires further consideration. Since Holmes is a man of strict logic, he cannot be without motive. There are very few things that are truly without motive, but we have not discovered why. If I remember correctly, he Similar behavior has happened before.”

"It was because of you last time. I remember that," the doctor whispered.This caused the two of us to stare at each other in silence for a while.

"Do you have a way to get him outside for a while? You know our method. I need clues and evidence."

"It's not too difficult. After two days of his depressive symptoms have passed, he will enter a state of great spirit. At that time, it is useless to try to keep him in 221B. He can't wait to stay out all night to listen to the concert."

"He used to be like that too."

"And extremely inspired. I can guarantee that he is more than three times as effective as before."

"That's very strange. I thought Holmes was at the pinnacle of speed. Anyway," I stood up, "then at least keep him outside for an afternoon. I can only observe from where I am. He'll find out if he touches anything. And we're going to be tight-lipped about it from now on."

"It's true. I'm not very good at acting, but he's very sensitive."

Holmes did not keep us waiting long, for after a few days he recovered himself for no apparent reason, and, without our needing to say anything, jumped down the stairs--yes, jumped--yes.Given his current physical condition, it's a miracle that he landed softly and didn't fall apart.Mrs. Hudson, talking to me downstairs, was taken aback.Holmes stood up from the ground, brushed off his sleeves, and smiled at us relaxedly. Although he was very thin, he was in good spirits, and at first glance he didn't think there was any problem.Before I could say anything, he asked Watson if he was in Baker Street, and he wanted to go to a concert with the doctor today.

"You never considered asking me," I said.

"Have you considered going?"

"I can consider improving my sleep."

Holmes' hearty laughter reassured me a lot. It seemed that everything was back to normal, just like a dream before.In the evening he dragged Watson to the concert, of course it was the same as before.The poor doctor later reported their conversation to me in a serious manner, although there was really nothing to report, except that he was tossed by a half-patient in his life (he had already admitted that there was something wrong with Holmes now), and he needed it too much Talk to someone.Needless to say, the doctor was not in the mood to listen to classical music at all, but enjoyed the hypnotic effect of the string music to the fullest, and Holmes did not shake him awake until the end of the performance.

"You should pay attention to the influence of the nightingale on music taste," the detective said softly with a sneer, "this woman regards all stringed music as a lullaby, including mine."

Watson was still dazed and almost burst out laughing, but fortunately Holmes didn't ask him why.Not bad, Irene Adler was "that woman" and Angela Nightingale is now "this woman".

"Better not to worry about it, Watson. It has nothing to do with that woman."

That is a fine hand, old friend Holmes.Watson immediately stopped laughing.

The doctor looked a little worried that he had said the wrong thing in a moment of irritability.I smiled and shook my head.It's ridiculous to say that "Angela Nightingale" has become an unfamiliar name to me. The title "Nightingale" is taken for granted by everyone, and I can't remember the last time I was "Angela Nightingale".

My scouting of the Sherlock Holmes room was not going very well.I entered his room in Mrs. Hudson's shoes, so as not to leave any inadvertent trace, and without stirring anything, only drew the curtains to light the room for viewing, and would draw them again before leaving.Holmes seldom drew, and had no time, and it was needless to say that art was of no use to him, and sketching was but a by-product of a good education.I have hardly seen him write in the past few years. Who would have thought that his skills are still so proficient.If I knew painting, I might be able to see some tricks from those messy lines, the so-called connection between the work and the author's heart.But I can't at all.I wanted to find the pair of eyes that moved my heart before, but I couldn't find that painting no matter what.I really wanted to put on my gloves and open his drawer to take a look, but finally I stopped rationally.He's put up with me once, and I'm not going to go any further.

I can only look for clues in the pictures on the wall.Maybe he hides everything that reveals his heart from our eyes, but it may also be the other way around.Holmes occasionally satirizes Edgar Allan Poe's detective Dupin, saying that the writer is too romantic, but in fact, as a loyal reader, I have noticed more than once that his behavior is actually slightly similar to what is written in the book.I've learned a long time ago about his knack for keeping the most important things out there, and this time is no different.I looked around and preliminarily determined that I didn't know what it was but a Reichenbach Falls.And the familiar eyes that I always remember, but I can't find them now.I sighed and tugged at the curtains, trying to get the light back into the room, but the damn curtain seemed to be hanging on a loop somewhere, and only half of the light was getting in.I failed to untie it several times, and I was annoyed for a while, so I turned around and leaned against the window sill through the curtain to calm down.At this time, my gaze randomly fell on a painting on the opposite wall, and I recognized a pair of eyes in the middle without any effort.The pattern painted in the half-light had a slightly unique effect, something sinister and familiar.Feeling strange, I approached and took a closer look.

How could I ignore a pair of such sharp eyes.

As if stabbed by a knife, I subconsciously straightened my body and moved a little away from it.I'll never forget them as long as I live, those are the professor's eyes.It's this expression of raising his eyes slightly and staring at people with a smile, but like a poisonous snake, it makes people feel chilly and unable to think.The whole picture suddenly became clear.Those tangled and intertwined lines outline the professor's face. He looks slightly hunched, as if he is looking up from the book to look at you who accidentally made a sound.It was like the dead Moriarty poking his head out of the wall again.

I glanced back at the half-covered curtains.Whether it is when the room is fully bright or fully dark, it is difficult to obtain such an obvious effect.This is a move never seen before or since, Holmes!

I felt a little trembling, and just as I didn't know what I was making such a fuss about, I didn't know why I was so emotional.Once a breakthrough is found, the paintings in the entire room will be revealed.Those small, old eyes belonged to Mrs. Hudson, and the whole picture was of her bustling with the tea tray every day.Those gentle herbivore-like eyes belonged to the doctor, and the bright eyes next to her were of course Merry Watson.There were even a few of the regular kids from the Baker Street squad that I recognized even though I never worked with them.The feet of these people were close to Baker Street.With a little effort, I could still make out Lestrade and Gregson of Scotland Yard. They were ridiculously placed opposite each other, as if they were separated by a desk, squinting at each other.The most ridiculous thing is that I recognized "Mr. Toby", the dog with a good sense of smell.At first, I almost gave up guessing that they were portraits because the organization of the painting disrupted the rules of composition.I stood in the middle of this messy room and laughed like a child.I seem to be standing in the middle of the streets of London, a miniature and abstract London.Holmes arranged all the people around him in this small room.Just like this, I just laughed blankly for a while, and a sudden thought froze me.

I remembered who those gentle eyes were.Under the street lights of Cable Street, he was dressed in men's clothing, with a peerless elegance.that woman.The painting was hidden by him.

I raised my head subconsciously, looking at the chandelier on the ceiling.without me.I'm not in the whole room.

The author has something to say: don't ask me what I'm doing

my logic is far away