Just awoken, Sherlock was curled up in the rocking chair he used as a bed, leisurely eating a sandwich Edward had brought him, covered with a wool coat.
Sherlock had low blood sugar. If he didn't immediately eat something or drink some sugary water or honey water upon waking, his brain couldn't start working.
It could be a congenital problem, or perhaps he just didn't like eating.
If Edward hadn't brought him breakfast, he probably would have just settled for some honey water.
"You're going to get a stomach ulcer if you keep this up, Hermes," Edward said, sitting in the chair next to Sherlock's desk, his voice grave.
He also held a similar sandwich. Soft white bread stuffed with beef, onions, cheese, lettuce, and plenty of cheese sauce.
It was the portable breakfast that Edward had instructed his house's cook to prepare in advance the night before.
Because he knew Sherlock wouldn't eat breakfast if he could help it.
Though having a sandwich for breakfast might seem a bit shabby for the Moriarty family, if the food were any richer or more complex, Sherlock would probably be even less inclined to eat.
Squinting his eyes, Sherlock said lazily, "I usually try to keep myself hungry. That way, my brain can function more actively."
"Are you practicing asceticism?"
"Asceticism? Oh, no, no, no..."
With a light chuckle, Sherlock perked up, clearly interested, "Why would you think I'm torturing myself for wisdom like a monk?"
"Isn't that the case?" Edward retorted.
"Of course not," Sherlock replied. "Caring too much about something can easily trap you in formalities and discipline. That defeats the original purpose of seeking wisdom.
"I admit that good things are indeed good. If good things and bad things are placed before me, and I have a choice, I will naturally tend to choose the better of the two.
"But does that mean the worse ones are unacceptable? Not necessarily. As long as they meet the need, it doesn't really matter which one I choose—in other words, I don't necessarily have to choose the better one."
As he spoke, Sherlock tossed the last bite of beef sandwich into his mouth.
Chewing, he mumbled, "Honey water and a sandwich can both wake up my brain. So I'll just eat whichever one ends up in my hands. You can't expect me to go downstairs to buy a sandwich looking all groggy, right? You don't know the terrible feeling of your brain grinding to a halt like a dry engine."
"Then you might as well hire a maid to take care of you."
"Oh, no, no, let's forget that idea. My dear friend,"
Sherlock shook his head vigorously, indicating a strong refusal. "You know, every document, every file in my room has its own place. All of my bottles and jars have their own, somewhat arcane way of being arranged. No one but me can place them so satisfactorily, so precisely right."
"In this regard, you're quite like Aiwass," Edward remarked, glancing at the cramped and messy room piled with various books, documents, and materials. "Honestly, you need someone to take care of your daily life. Why not just move back home? At least the cook there could make you decent meals three times a day."
"Heh, forget about it."
With a snort of laughter, Sherlock leaned back and the rocking chair began to sway gently. "If I go back home, the old man would start arranging blind dates and marriage for me again...
"The brain slows down after overeating, numb after drinking. Whether falling in love with someone, obsessing over reputation, or desperately craving money and wealth, it can also make your mind unclear.
"You know, Edward. The Path of Wisdom is a selfish one. The truth is destined to be sought alone. Marriage is just too much trouble for me."
"Hearing this makes me think you've traveled quite far on the Path of Wisdom."
Edward's calm expression didn't change. "Isn't the furthest path you've walked the one of authority? Besides, you're twenty-six, it's about time you got married. It's normal for Lord Arthur to be anxious about it."
"...That's just temporary. Soon, my Path of Wisdom will overtake it."
Sherlock responded vaguely, then quickly countered, "And what about you? Aren't you thirty-five and not yet married?"
Edward just shook his head slightly, his voice unfluctuating, "That's because I'm a widower.
"I got married in my early twenties, but then my wife passed away unexpectedly."
"...You've never mentioned that to me before."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his amber pupils slightly widening with interest.
But he did not pursue the topic here.
The late wife of Chief Inspector Edward—such significant occurrences in the lives of important figures could easily be investigated. Not bringing it up now was a sign of respect for Edward, and also confidence in his own investigative abilities.
Edward did not offer any further explanations either, but instead came over and passed over today's edition of the Glass Staircase Daily.
Lying back in his rocking chair, Sherlock sat up to take the newspaper, then lay down again.
He rocked in the chair, his head tilted slightly. He seemed to grow sleepy again after his meal, taking a long time just to get through the front page.
Edward, who had been standing by the side, had waited for a long time and finally couldn't help but ask, "Do you see it? Aiwass has made it to the newspapers again, and it's the front-page headline."
"I knew about it yesterday."
Sherlock said lazily, "The moment I walked into the club and saw His Highness, I guessed it. Come to think of it, when we were in school, didn't we also have a 'Crystal Ballet Shoes' badge?"
"Only you had it. I've never been interested in music."
Edward replied offhandedly.
He was eating a sandwich on the side, waiting for Sherlock to finish reading the newspaper before he asked, "What do you think?"
"Not good. But not bad either."
Sherlock threw the Glass Staircase Daily aside carelessly, "The assassination of Secretary Raff in broad daylight has had an extremely negative impact. But that's just an intentional exaggeration of the tense atmosphere.
"What's really important is that this event took place beside Princess Isabel. And that Director Gordon ultimately failed to arrest that professional assassin."
"Although according to our investigation of the scene yesterday, Director Gordon's actions could be said to be completely correct. But many times, what you actually do is not important... the important thing is what you make people believe you've done.
"In any case, Gordon let a very dangerous assassin escape. It's already the end of November, and in a little over a month it will be the new year. If this matter is not properly resolved soon, public opinion will turn. An escaped assassin capable of murder and a high-ranking Transcendent is basically an accusation against the Supervisory Bureau of negligence. By that time not only Gordon but the entire Supervisory Bureau might be under pressure—hasn't your Supervisory Court been wanting to reduce the powers of the Supervisory Bureau for a long time now?"
"Indeed it is his incompetence. But dealing with Director Gordon now would only make people realize that the problem is out of control, causing even more panic and making the situation even more uncontrollable."
Edward said in a low voice, "Therefore, the Supervisory Bureau plans to hold a large-scale commendation ceremony for Aiwass this week to sculpt his achievements and divert the public's attention."
"Wasn't there already one commendation for the incident at the Pelican Bar last time?" Sherlock asked, puzzled.
"They've combined the two commendations into one. It's still scheduled for Thursday afternoon. This time, instead of awarding the 'Crystal Cross Medal', they are going directly for the Holy Sword Medal."
Edward said solemnly.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow: "Under what pretext? The Holy Sword Medal is generally given to warriors who have made meritorious contributions to the protection of the nation or who have earned distinctions on the battlefield, isn't it?"
"'For single-handedly discovering and thwarting a Transcendent assassin's attempt on Princess Isabel's life'."
"Ah? It's become an attempted assassination? And Secretary Raff has become an innocent bystander?"
The young man with messy curly black hair lazily reclined in a rocking chair and sneered, "That's not impossible. Let them report it that way for now."
Edward caught the implication in Sherlock's words: "What have you found?"
"It's not an investigation, but rather deduction. This is a truly interesting case, my friend. I thought about it all night yesterday, and didn't get to sleep until three or four in the morning."
Sherlock said as he pulled out his notebook, "Let's start with the most crucial parts of the case, prioritizing them by their urgency and importance.
"I have finished decoding those documents, which are written in a cipher language full of addresses and names.
"You probably don't care about the inference process in the middle. I'll go straight to the conclusion—the documents found at the scene are related to a smuggling case at the port."
"...You mean the 'Sweater Brothers Association' lead?"
"Yes. Which means Trade Minister Drost is likely involved with the smuggling case.
"And I've also identified the assassin. That one came from the Order of the Iris Flower assassins known as 'Hawkeye.' Only they would use such a special weapon. They are remnants of the Black Hawk Duchy's collapse... mercenary types. They may take on commissions from anyone, including attacks on nobles and even royal families of various countries."
At this point, Sherlock closed his notebook.
He looked meaningfully at Edward, "What circumstances, do you think, would cause an assassin from Iris Flower to travel such a long distance to brazenly kill the personal secretary of a minister directly involved with the Star Antimony Kingdom smuggling case?"
"I think it's for framing someone."
Edward responded without hesitation: "So, the deceased was positioned with the documents, facing away from the killer, and fell from the second floor to the ground. This suggests that he was more likely delivering the documents rather than fetching them."
"Oh, your theory does make some sense,"
Sherlock commented, a slight smile appearing on his lips, "But unfortunately, that possibility does not exist. Because I confirmed yesterday that the notes on these documents and the code language we intercepted from the Sweater Brothers Association's cargo manifest clearly come from the same person. After cracking the coding rule, I successfully decoded the documents and found that they list one warehouse after another and the corresponding warehouse manager.
"Thank heavens, I have documents here that Secretary Raff signed in the past. Although he controlled his stroke deliberately, I'm positive it's the same person who wrote it.
"So, I thought of a possibility. Someone in control of Minister Drost's incriminating evidence wishes to expose him."
"That's... possible..."
Edward muttered softly, looking at Sherlock, and asked in a steady, clear voice, "So who do you think it could be?"
"Analyzing from the aspects of personal connections, motives, capabilities, and alibis," Sherlock paused, "I think it might be your father, Professor Moriarty."