[Sherlock Holmes] The Legend of the Nightingale

(One Year Later, Nightingale's Diary)

At 221B Baker Street, I really know what is turned upside down.

From the moment I walked into the gate of 1885B in 221, I noticed that even the air was different from the outside world.You may say that this is actually an illusion caused by the perennial smoke smell of 221B, but I am not referring to this.The landlady and the doctor are normal people in this house, yet it only takes one Holmes to drive the little world into a state of insanity.

This famous London detective is younger than I thought. He was 31 years old when I came here. He is surprisingly thoughtful, seemingly serious, and sometimes surprisingly humorous.After a year of casually calling me "Angela" by most of my acquaintances, he insisted on calling me "Nightingale".It was clear to me that he was not referring to my last name, but to a bird like a nightingale.

Sherlock Holmes is a retrograde celestial body, Hegel's owl, who sees the trajectory of the world clearly in the dark night, and enjoys the beauty that the world itself cannot appreciate.Holmes would laugh at my assessment of his being too literary.What one person thinks is the most reasonable and rich life can be downright crazy to the world.That's the case with Sherlock Holmes.

Dr. Watson was a man of very different styles.Watson's first impression is warmth and gentleness.When I first saw this blond, not tall, thin young doctor with a calm smile, I guessed that he must have a pair of slender and nimble hands to meet the professional requirements.But in fact, the military doctor who came down from the battlefield has a pair of hands holding a gun.After a year of observation, I came to the conclusion that this person with both military qualities and good personality is the glue of 221B, and it would have been hard to fight with another person.

In the year and a half since I came to Baker Street, Holmes took on several lesser-known cases. Whenever I could ask for leave from work, I followed him, completely watching.

Over the past year, I have gradually figured out one thing, which is closely related to my current environment.I call it "secret".Recently I decided to keep my secret from anyone until the time is right.

My first involvement in the case was one day in October, 1886.

There were no cases for more than half of that time, and Holmes was so bored that he was about to hit the wall.Only in this case would he uncharacteristically listen to us talk about some "boring" topics.We went from astrophysics to politics that day, from politics to freshwater corals, and finally to family issues.

"Have you really never considered... family issues?" I asked this sentence tactfully at the risk of being rejected.Sure enough, Holmes, who was sitting in front of the desk and staring out of the window absently, only moved his eyes, gave me a sideways glance, and stared out of the window again.

"No."

"When you were at Oxford, did no girl express anything to you?"

"What does it mean?"

I couldn't say such a thing directly to Holmes, so I spread my hands in a sign of despair.

"Oh, Oxford, I can't get in in my life." I said sullenly. "Oxford graduates can use this attitude against me."

Holmes still just rolled his eyes.

"What attitude? Ah..." He finally turned around and sat facing me. "If you're talking about the question just now, I really have nothing to say. I don't understand why women only have this in their minds all day long."

"Don't listen to him, Angela," Watson said suddenly.Holmes immediately turned his head to look at him. I knew he must be saying in his heart that it was not a good thing for Watson to expose his shortcomings.

"Since our dear Sherlock Holmes ground up a flower given to him by a girl at school, few girls have bothered him much."

Holmes snorted.

"Wrong? By the way, there should be none at all." Watson gracefully turned a page of the newspaper, "I shouldn't interrupt, you continue."

I smiled at Holmes, and Holmes looked sullenly at Watson, who was obviously holding back a smile.His newspaper was trembling slightly.

"Seriously, what are you grinding flowers for?" I asked.

Holmes looked at me a little strangely.

"It's just that the purple flower that just rose suddenly may also be used as an acid-base reagent."

"Did you make it?"

"Not too successful. But, Nightingale, to be honest, if she had really asked me what I used the flowers for instead of looking at me like a mental patient, the future friendship would not have been so bad."

Instead I might ask.I thought, without saying it.

"But how much time does a man have to waste in pleasing women?" went on Holmes. "The first and least pointless thing in pleasing such creatures is..."

"That's one thing you don't have." Watson seemed to be alive again suddenly.Tragically, Holmes' last words were uttered at the same time as his:

"hansome."

Holmes stared again at Watson, who again pretended to be paying attention to the paper in a nonchalant manner.I looked aside and wanted to laugh.

"When you say 'women are creatures', do you pay attention to the creature in front of you?" I said, "Not every woman is like you say. Other factors are more important than appearance, such as personality."

"That's all over," Watson said. "It's better to look at the appearance. Nightingale, I have to go to the living room to avoid it for a while. Telling the truth will kill people."

Watson went out.It seems that I can talk to Holmes alone about some things.

"Maybe it's not that bad actually," I said. "Maybe there's a woman whose ideal person is you."

We were both silent for a while.

"I'm sorry, I also feel a little crazy about this. It should be that there may be a woman who can stand you."

"You don't seem to understand one thing," Holmes said. He didn't know which corner he was staring at again, but he was not looking at me anyway. "I don't need a woman. It's just right for me without this trouble. What you just said doesn't exist. There are only two women in this world who can bear me. One is my mother and the other is Ha Mrs. Dursen, but I know she's been wanting to dump me in the street for a long time."

"It's actually three."

"Which one is there?"

I also kind of want to dump him.

"I!"

Holmes patted his forehead lightly. "Yes, and you. But you can't compare with them."

"In what sense?"

"From..." Holmes hadn't finished speaking when the doorbell rang.He jumped up from the chair as if resurrected:

"Mrs. Hudson, open the door! Watson, we have a visitor!"

Watson's gentle voice came from outside the door: "For God's sake, Holmes, you haven't noticed that Mrs. Hudson is not at home today."

It's going to be busy again.I went to the living room to prepare tea for the guests.Watson came in with the guests.

"This is Dr. Trevelyan," he said.

I came back with the tea tray and saw the doctor.He has curly brown hair, thick eyebrows and big eyes, and he has the quiet demeanor of a doctor in every gesture.This image is quite in line with my aesthetic literary standards, maybe I can use this inspiration to write a Gothic novel or something, a beautiful doctor.

"Miss Nightingale, can I give Dr. Trevelyan some tea?"

Holmes' voice reminded me.Only then did I realize that I had been staring at the doctor. The hand holding the tea had been hanging in the air for a long time. The doctor raised one hand awkwardly, whether to accept it or not.

"Sorry, Dr. Trevelyan, I was a little distracted just now." I smiled and handed him the tea.Holmes coughed deliberately behind my back, which should have been a sign of his victory, considering the subject of women just now.I walked around in front of him viciously with his tea, and handed it to Watson.

"That's all the tea at home. Mrs. Hudson went out and bought it," I announced.Holmes paid no attention and went on with his business.I took a random book and sat next to Watson, but I didn't actually read it.

The doctor introduced himself.Percy Terry William, a student of the University of London School of Medicine, a month ago he and a Mr. Blessington jointly opened a clinic in Blessington's own residence.The doctor came because something strange happened today.

"A father and son came in the afternoon. The old man came to see epilepsy. His son was waiting in the living room. When I asked about his condition, the father suddenly became ill. I thought it was time to try my new treatment, so I went to get it. My notes, but when I came back, I found that the patient had disappeared. I went out to check, and the young man waiting in the foyer was also gone."

Watson and I looked at each other. This was the first time I heard of such a strange thing.

"Didn't the nurse see anything?" asked Watson.Often he asked some questions, and Holmes listened in silence.

"No. The nurse went to get the medicine."

"Didn't the footman see anyone going out?"

"No. When Mr. Blessington came back, he found new footprints in his room and asked me to come up and look at them. We all tried, and the footprints were bigger than our feet, so it wasn't left by ourselves. Blessington In a panic, he didn't go out all afternoon, and then asked me to ask Mr. Holmes to check the situation."

"Then there's no need to say more." Holmes glanced at his watch. "It's getting late, so we'll go now. Nightingale, are you okay now, except for that incomprehensible script written by so-and-so in your hand?"

"Medea by Euripides," I said.

"This should be a simple consultation without danger. If there is nothing wrong, it's best to go together. I pretended not to hear what you just said."

"Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Holmes," said Dr. Trevelyan thoughtfully. "In fact, I think Mr. Blessington himself is a little strange. He used to be so suspicious, and put iron bars on the windows of his bedroom. The railing is sealed, but I feel he is hiding something, but he won't admit it. There is only one thing in the world that is worth worrying about, Mr. Holmes."

"Life and death, isn't it?" said Holmes flatly.

"Yes, although it is not very noble to speculate maliciously on others, I am still worried about whether he himself..."

"There is nothing I can do about it." Holmes straightened his shirt collar in the mirror. "Mr. Blessington must tell the truth if he wants my help."

It was raining outside and we took a taxi to Brook Street, where the clinic is located.Holmes paid great attention to his appearance when he was out, and I couldn't help staring at him for a long time after he got into the carriage.Sitting next to you is a classic gentleman in a black suit, top hat, long fingers and white gloves, with the grace of a theatrical stage, and it's impossible not to stare at him.

"Beethoven? Or Mozart? Sorry, I don't know anything about music."

"What did you say?" Holmes gave me a look in his eyes that reminded me of a hawk, or some other shrewd predator.

"I said what are you thinking right now."

"Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D major," he said. "It seems that you have learned well over the past year. Is it deduction?"

"Anyway, I didn't guess it. You've been practicing this piece recently, and just subconsciously tapped it with a cane. And the reason I know you're tapping it is because your taps are all on my feet .”

"Not bad. I am sorry about the cane." Holmes moved the cane away.

Brook Street has arrived.The house was recognizable at a glance, because it was the only one in the whole street with no lights on, and it was completely dark.I can already feel the breath of danger is close at hand.

The author has something to say: This case looks familiar, but it will be different later.The image of Watson is completely different from the original book, because this is actually Watson in my own mind.And, tomorrow is very busy, and there is another defense, which is expected to be suspended for another day, let me tell you in advance...