Renault felt truly fortunate to have a friend like Luomiu. It wasn't because the man provided him with career-boosting achievements, but because Luomiu possessed a genuine, palpable sense of justice. Even though Renault often felt this sense of justice was somewhat... skewed, Luomiu was a gentle, reserved person. There was a natural, effortless comfort in his presence—provided, of course, you ignored his sharp tongue.
"Business district opposite Cambridge University. Turn left."
Renault wasn't sure if it was just a trick of his mind, but in his thirty-odd years at Scotland Yard, crime in the Greater London area had surged ever since Sherlock Holmes had burst onto the scene. Not only had the frequency increased, but the methods and complexity of the crimes had also reached new heights. Even in a prosperous place like Cambridge, the streets were deserted at night.
"Here we are."
The police carriage rolled slowly down the empty street, and Renault found the spot with practiced ease. The timing was perfect; he reached out to knock on the apartment door.
Knock. Knock.
The sound rang out, but Renault's hand hadn't even touched the wood yet. He spun around toward the source of the noise. In the soul-devouring darkness, an indescribable silhouette stood silently before a dimly lit window. For a fleeting second, he thought he saw a bleached-white goat skull slowly turning to look at him.
Damn it! Renault's hair stood on end. He quickly moved a trembling hand toward his waist, but just as he was about to draw his pistol—
"Bad evening, Renault Lux."
Light spilled out from the opening door. Startled, Renault immediately leveled his gun at the figure emerging.
"What's this? You want a piece of me?" Sherlock Holmes leaned against the doorframe with her arms crossed, giving him a cold look. "I'll wager there isn't a single bullet in that gun of yours."
She glanced toward where the sound at the window had come from. A tall man in a heavy black cloak stood there, clutching a bag. Most striking was the goat-head mask that completely obscured his face.
"What took you so long, Xiao Sa?" Sherlock beckoned him inside.
"The Mas... BOSS... told me to... deliver this... at this time." Xiao Sa's voice was raspy, his speech halting and disjointed.
I must have seen it wrong, Renault thought, letting out a breath of relief. His gaze drifted to the black leather bag in Xiao Sa's hand. There was a puddle of blood and flesh... it should have been pork, but for some reason, his scalp felt inexplicably itchy. I'm overthinking it.
He lowered his gun. "Then you'd be wrong, Holmes. A good policeman keeps his gun loaded at all times." Renault clicked open the cylinder of his revolver. "Eh?" He froze. "I distinctly remember loading it..."
"Whoops, looks like someone used a cheat code," Sherlock quipped, providing the "sound effects" for his failure. Renault knit his brows, trying to remember, but eventually attributed it to his own oversight.
He and Xiao Sa stepped through the door together, met by the fragrant aroma of ginger, garlic, and scallions. Renault flopped onto the sofa, feeling the day's exhaustion begin to ebb. He glanced sideways to see a black-clad back busy in the kitchen.
"Here is the 'pork' you bought, Mr. Luomiu," Sherlock said, handing the meat inside.
Luomiu turned around just as Renault settled in. "Good evening." He flashed a brilliant smile. "I'm preparing a grand feast for you tonight."
"I won't be picky, as long as it tastes better than canned herring," Renault sighed. The British menu was about as "rich" as American history. Having worked eighteen hours of overtime today, Renault desperately needed to recharge.
"But before that, I need to conduct a brief inquiry," he said, standing up to straighten the badge on his chest and pulling out a memo. "Are you ready, Miss Holmes?"
"Yes, yes, Officer," Sherlock replied reluctantly, sitting back down at the table.
Just as Renault was about to speak, a melodious yet strange tune began to play. Luomiu stepped away from the phonograph and returned to the kitchen. "I hope this isn't disturbing you?"
"Carry on," Renault said. He watched Luomiu expertly blanch the "pork" to remove the gaminess before slicing and stir-frying it. His movements were elegant, almost as if he were dancing through the kitchen to the rhythm of the song.
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My : https://[email protected]/AuAuMon
Stop arresting me, Miss Holmes (40 Chapters, Ongoing)
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"What is this music?" Renault asked, sensing something odd about it.
Sherlock tilted her head. "He calls it 'Hannibal's Ditty.' To be precise, it's a 0.9x speed version of Fade... his own original arrangement."
Renault was used to Luomiu's eccentric ideas. The questioning was resolved quickly, and Renault looked over at Xiao Sa, who had been sitting motionless the entire time. "And who is that?"
"Xiao Sa, Luomiu's delivery man," Sherlock answered. "Luomiu says Xiao Sa was disfigured in a fire, which is why he always wears that mask."
Renault finally let his guard down completely. Just then, the chef brought out a steaming, fragrant dish.
"Braised spare ribs. Please, enjoy," Luomiu said with a smile as he set the table.
Renault eyed the ribs—their deep, reddish glaze was enticing. He didn't hesitate to carve off a piece and pop it into his mouth. He chewed, his head bobbing in delight. "This is incredible!"
"Of course. I went to a great deal of trouble to secure such a... high-quality pig," Luomiu said meaningfully.
"Then it certainly died for a worthy cause," Renault laughed, taking another bite. "Ah, life is beautiful."
After a few more bites, Renault looked up at the woman on the sofa, who was wearing an expression of pure resentment. "Why isn't Holmes eating?"
"Because 'women aren't allowed at the table,'" Sherlock snapped, turning her head away with a scowl.
"Don't listen to her nonsense," Luomiu said, glancing at her helplessly. "Sherlock claimed she was quitting smoking. She vowed not to eat my cooking until she succeeds."
"Why aren't you eating?" Renault asked Luomiu.
"I'm not like you two; I'm a vegetarian," Luomiu smiled.
Renault didn't think twice about it and continued to happily enjoy his meal. He didn't know if it was his imagination, but he suddenly felt as though Xiao Sa, sitting nearby, had grown a bit larger, and his own body felt significantly lighter.
After the meal, Renault wiped his mouth. "The Artist got away. Also, I've decided to share some information with you." He handed over a photograph—a fragment of a letter between the Artist and a mysterious person named 'M.' It read: 'Guilt is the source of power; you must submit to the desires of your heart.'
"Interesting," Luomiu murmured, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
"Actually, I have a surprise prepared for you as well," Luomiu began, but he was cut short by the wailing of a distant siren.
An assistant's voice shouted from outside the window: "Sir! Bruce Wayne is dead!"
"Dammit!" Renault grunted, leaping to his feet. "It looks like I won't be able to receive your surprise. See you next time!" He rushed out in a frantic hurry.
"Actually, you've already received it," Luomiu shrugged.
Sherlock stifled a laugh. "Renault is going to be working until dawn again today."
"And what about us?" Luomiu winked at Sherlock.
Sherlock's face fell, though a faint blush crept into her cheeks. "Get out, get out! We have serious business tomorrow. I've contacted a professor who's willing to take us on. We're going to meet her tomorrow."