𝑯𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌 𝑯𝒐𝒍𝒎𝒆𝒔 & 𝑱𝒐𝒂𝒏 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒏 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝑺𝒆𝒆𝒌𝒆𝒓

Chapter 7

"Mon vieux... just roll the dice already!" Joan snapped, fingers drumming impatiently on the cardboard.

"Not yet, Joan... I must calculate the correct force needed for the dice to give me a six... This won’t take long..." Herlock muttered absently, rolling the dice between his fingers.

"My thumb is around 6.1 cm long... my index finger approximately 6.7 cm, and my middle finger exactly 7.6 cm... If we consider the air pressure of the room, regardless of the window being closed or not, 101.3 kPa at sea level... then the height I need to drop the dice for it to land with its six facing upwards should be... 20 centimeters above the gameboard..." he murmured, completely lost in his own mind.

The wind outside thrashed the trees like a debtor collecting payment, its wheeze seeping through the window.

This sound of wind... comforted Herlock. He enjoyed it.

For Joan, however, it only stoked her impatience, driving her to the edge. Finally, she snapped.

"YOU’VE BEEN ‘CALCULATING’ FOR THE PAST TWENTY MINUTES! IT’S LUDO FOR GOD’S SAKE! YOU’RE NOT GAMBLING YOUR LIFE!"

Her fist crashed onto the cardboard, her voice raw with impatience.

"IT’S NOT THAT SERIOUS!" she added.

"It is serious... I... can’t... lose..." Herlock replied in a low, drowning voice, wide eyes locked on the dice. "Maybe if I cut 0.2 millimeters off my index nail... it’ll balance out the height necessary..."

At that moment, Miss Hudson entered the living room holding a tray with three cups of tea.

"It’s cold outside, fellas... This’ll warm you two up!" she said, handing them cups colored orange, red, and green.

Joan quickly thanked her, grabbed the red cup, and cooled it with a gentle blow.

Herlock, still lost in calculation, took his cup absentmindedly and set it near the window with his free hand.

"Not now, Miss Hudson, I’m busy winning this game..." he muttered.

"You’re four steps behind me, andouille," Joan shot back, eyes narrowed.

Miss Hudson sat down with her own cup, sipping as though watching a stage play between two clowns.

Herlock scoffed and finally rolled the dice. It bounced a few times, both his and Joan’s eyes fixed on its erratic dance—until it settled.

It landed on 1.

"BLOODY HELL!" Herlock roared.

Joan burst into laughter. She tried to sip her tea, stumbled against her chair, and spilled a few drops on the table.

"Well, I suppose NOW you’ll agree that I’m victorious, eh? Ami?" A firm smirk tugged at Watson’s lips.

Herlock grumbled, a husky, "I guess so..." slipping from his thin lips.

"My calculations weren’t reliable this time..." he sneered, looking away from Joan’s victorious grin that only deepened his irritation.

His hand lazily reached for his cup, and he began sipping.

"Hmm... at least I can always rely on your tea, Miss Hudson. It soothes my mind... Tell me, how’s our neighbor Victoria? Last I heard, she was publishing her book."

Miss Hudson paused, squinted, then replied:

"Victoria Wittenberg? Why, I haven’t heard from her. Now that you mention it... I haven’t seen her for a few days. I used to catch her leaving for work when I went out for groceries in the morning. She’s an interesting woman... always dressed like a Victorian painter, quite ironic, really. But she’s polite, always helps me—an old woman—carry the bags when she sees me struggling on the stairs."

Miss Hudson sighed and arched a brow at Holmes. Watson frowned in confusion.

"Ugh... are you trying to strain my conscience because I rarely help you?" Holmes said, voice flat with boredom.

"That’s exactly what I’m trying to do," Miss Hudson shot back, as if expecting his answer.

Watson joined in:

"Miss Hudson, I’m afraid Holmes lacks the part of the brain responsible for basic human empathy... or to put it simply, he lacks a heart." Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

Holmes scoffed and looked through the window, not dignifying the remark with a response.

Suddenly, his flip-phone rang. His slender fingers snatched it up without checking the caller ID.

"Herlock Von Holmes, consulting detective, the best in the business—speaking," he declared with sudden spark. But the enthusiasm drained just as quickly. "Oh... it’s you. Are you sure I wasn’t adopted? It feels absurd that I’m related to someone like you... screw you too. Uh-huh..." His voice flattened, as though this call were routine.

Then his tone reignited:

"...A murder?! Cemetery...?! A rather absurd case, you say?!" Holmes repeated each word, drawing Joan’s attention. The word cemetery did not sadden her, but it stirred old ghosts in her memory.

"...I’ll be on my way. Grant me full authority over the crime scene. I don’t wish to see any of your mediocre chefs plaguing my peace with their so-called professionalism," he finished calmly before hanging up.

"What was that...?" Joan couldn’t contain her curiosity.

"It was my brother, Mycroft."

"...The Mycroft who let us go scot-free after I accidentally murdered that thug a few months ago... that Mycroft?" Joan asked, the memory coming back.

"No, the Mycroft I met while working as a barista at the local gay pub—OF COURSE it was the Mycroft who confiscated my pistol out of sheer pettiness!" Herlock sneered, voice dripping with sarcasm and sibling venom.

A flicker of a smirk lit Joan’s face, but she quickly brushed it aside to avoid his wrath.

"You may take my car if you need it, Holmes," Miss Hudson offered as she cleared the cups.

"No need. The cemetery isn’t far—I’ve taken night walks there before. Still, I admire your trust in me with your car... considering what happened last time."

"...What does he mean by that, Miss Hudson?" Joan asked.

"Oh, dear, I don’t trust him at all. Giving Herlock Holmes the car keys is free money—he’s guaranteed to wreck it and then pay double!" Miss Hudson chuckled.

Herlock’s face soured, and he rolled his eyes. "I suppose Miss Hudson has mastered the only way to make me feel guilt. Good for her," he said sarcastically, rising abruptly to grab his coat.

"Well, I’m off. A corpse is DYING to see me." He smirked, clearly waiting for laughter.

No one laughed.

"Wait," Joan said suddenly, standing after shaking off her melancholy. "...May I come with you?"

Herlock froze. Why would any sane person join him over a corpse?

"...What?" His brow arched, eyes searching hers for deception. There was none.

"You told me you’re a consulting detective, but I’ve yet to see you at a crime scene, mon vieux. Of course, that is if I can c—"

"Of course you can come," Herlock cut her short, eyes glinting with excitement.

They fell silent. Miss Hudson had already gone, leaving no snark behind. Herlock’s hazel and Joan’s blue eyes met.

"Well, I’ll get my coat," she said quickly, striding to the closet.

Herlock pulled on his boots and waited. Officers, forensics, the press... none of them mattered to him.

But a pair of blue eyes watching his every move? That sent a shiver down his spine no corpse ever could.