The Shepherds Are Dense

Chapter 84: Sherlock’s Speculations

Tuesday morning.Sherlock, freshly awake, lounged in his rocking chair-turned-bed, covered with a wool coat, slowly eating a sandwich from Edward.

Sherlock had low blood sugar. Without quick food or sugary drinks like honey water, his brain wouldn’t kick in.

Maybe a natural condition, maybe he just disliked eating.

Without Edward’s breakfast, he’d have settled for honey water.

“You’ll get a stomach ulcer like this, Holmes,” Edward said gravely, sitting by Sherlock’s desk, holding an identical sandwich—white bread with beef, onions, cheese, lettuce, and heaps of cheese sauce.

He’d had his cook prepare these portable breakfasts, knowing Sherlock would skip meals otherwise.

A sandwich might seem modest for the Moriarty family, but anything fancier, and Sherlock wouldn’t bother.

Squinting lazily, Sherlock replied, “I keep myself hungry. My brain works sharper that way.”

“Practicing asceticism?”

“Asceticism? No, no…” Sherlock chuckled, looking up with interest. “Why would you think I’d torture myself like a monk for wisdom?”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing?” Edward countered.

“Of course not,” Sherlock said. “Obsessing over something traps you in rules and forms, losing the original pursuit of wisdom.

Good things are good. If faced with good and bad options, I’d naturally pick the good.

But is the bad truly unacceptable? Not necessarily. If it meets my needs, either works—I don’t the better one.”

Tossing the last sandwich bite into his mouth, he mumbled while chewing, “Honey water or a sandwich both wake my brain. I take what’s handed to me. You can’t expect me to drag myself downstairs for a sandwich with my brain creaking like a rusty machine. That’s awful.”

“Then hire a maid to look after you.”

“No way, my friend.” Sherlock shook his head vehemently. “My files, my jars—everything has its place, a bit arcane, but perfect. No one but me can arrange them just right.”

“You sound like Aiwas,” Edward said, eyeing the cramped, cluttered room filled with books and files. “You need someone to manage your daily life. Go home—your cook can make you proper meals.”

“Hah, no thanks.” Sherlock scoffed, rocking his chair. “If I go back, the old man will nag about marriage again…

Overeating dulls the brain, drinking numbs it, love clouds it, fame obsesses it, wealth consumes it.

You know, Edward, the Wisdom path is selfish. Truth is found alone. Marriage is too much hassle.”

“You talk like you’ve gone far on the Wisdom path,” Edward said, expression unchanged. “Isn’t your furthest path Authority? And you’re twenty-six—time to marry. Sir Arthur’s worry is normal.”

“…That’s temporary. Wisdom will overtake soon,” Sherlock mumbled, then struck back. “What about you? Thirty-five and unmarried?”

Edward shook his head calmly. “I’m widowed. Married in my early twenties, but my wife passed unexpectedly.”

“…Never heard that one,” Sherlock said, amber eyes glinting with interest.

He didn’t press. Edward’s late wife, a major figure’s event, was easily researched. Not asking showed respect and confidence in his investigative skills.

Edward didn’t elaborate, handing over that morning’s .

Sherlock, reclining, took it and rocked slowly, looking drowsy after eating. He lingered on the front page.

Edward, waiting, finally asked, “See it? Aiwas made the front page again.”

“I knew yesterday,” Sherlock said lazily. “The moment I saw Her Highness at the club, I guessed. Didn’t we have Crystal Slipper badges back in school?”

“Just you. I’m not into music,” Edward replied casually.

Eating his sandwich, Edward waited for Sherlock to finish the paper. “What’s your take?”

“Not good, but not bad,” Sherlock said, tossing the paper aside. “Ralph’s public assassination is bad optics, but it’s just staged tension.

The real issue is it happened near the princess, and Gordon didn’t catch the killer.”

“Gordon’s actions were correct, per our scene investigation. But sometimes, what you did matters less than what people think you did.

He let a dangerous assassin escape. It’s late November; a month until the new year. If this drags on, public opinion will turn. A loose, high-level killer is practically shouting the Inspectorate’s incompetence. Pressure might hit not just Gordon but the entire Inspectorate. Your Supervision Office has long wanted to curb their powers, right?”

“True, he failed. But punishing Gordon now would signal loss of control, causing more panic,” Edward said lowly. “So, the Inspectorate plans a big commendation for Aiwas this week to highlight his merits and divert attention.”

“Didn’t he get one for the Pelican Bar case?” Sherlock asked.

“Combining both. Thursday afternoon. No Crystal Cross this time—straight to the Holy Sword Medal.”

“Whoa,” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “For what? That’s for homeland defenders or battlefield heroes.”

“‘Single-handedly detecting and thwarting an assassin’s attempt on Princess Isabel.’”

“What? It’s now an attempted assassination? Ralph’s just collateral?”

The curly-haired youth leaned back, scoffing. “Not impossible. Let them report it that way for now.”

“…For now?” Edward caught the word. “What’d you find?”

“Not found—deduced. Fascinating case, my friend. I thought about it all night, slept at three or four.”

Sherlock pulled out his notebook. “Let’s start with the critical points.

I decoded the files—addresses and names in cipher.

You don’t care about the process, so here’s the conclusion: they’re tied to the port smuggling case.”

“The Sweater Brotherhood line?”

“Exactly. Meaning Trade Minister Droste is likely involved.

I also identified the assassin. They’re from Iris’s Eagle Eye, a remnant of the Black Eagle Duchy’s fall—mercenaries who’ll target anyone, including nobles or royals.”

Sherlock snapped his notebook shut, giving Edward a meaningful look. “What makes an Iris assassin travel far to kill a minister’s secretary tied to Star Antimony smuggling in a public setting?”

“To frame someone,” Edward answered instantly. “Ralph died holding files, back to the killer, falling from the second floor. He wasn’t taking files—he was delivering them.”

“That’s a decent guess,” Sherlock said, smirking. “But wrong. I checked the file’s notes against the Sweater Brotherhood’s shipping manifests—same writer. After cracking the cipher, it listed warehouses and their managers.

Thankfully, I had Ralph’s old signed files. Despite his careful strokes, it’s the same person.

So, I thought: someone holds leverage over Droste and wants him exposed.”

“There’s such a thing…” Edward murmured, staring at Sherlock. “Who, then?”

“From relationships, motives, capabilities, and alibis,” Sherlock paused, “I think it’s your father, Professor Moriarty.”

(Chapter End)