In my relationship with Sherlock. In the many years that Holmes worked together, there was one case that was never disclosed, because in all cases, Sherlock only reported his client once, as a private detective, which was against conscience, and it was for this reason that Holmes quit the detective world. It had been a long time since I had decided to make the case public so that I could give an account to the world's inquirers about Holmes's whereabouts.
It was a clear morning, and I said goodbye to my wife and came to 221 Baker Street. A melodious piano sound came from the window, and I pushed open the door and said, "Man, it looks like you're in a good mood today."
"Is it?" Sherlock put down the bowstring and violin in his hand and said, "Dear Watson, don't you hear a little gloom in the sound of the piano?"
As he spoke, he pointed to the Times, which had just been published today, and said, "It's decided."
I picked up the newspaper and read it. It turned out to be a long-debated law, which was passed by Parliament. The provisions of the law are as follows:
From now on, all murderers will not be prosecuted. Murder will not be filed as a crime. It would be illegal to call the other party a murderer, no matter how well his evidence.
At the bottom of the text are statements of disgust and condemnation of the murder issued by a number of parliamentarians and organizations. At the same time, he published a comment by Lorraine, a well-known academician of social science research, saying that this is a great moral transformation and soul improvement of mankind, and from now on the whole society will put an end to murder.
"Watson, is it Holmes's fault that I track down the murderer?" Holmes said angrily.
“Oh...... Oh, God! I put my arms around my head and said, "Sherlock, my friend, let me go back to the clinic and save my life."
"Bang! bang! bang! There was a knock at the door.
"Please come in."
The voice just dropped. A middle man in a black trench coat and black courtesy flashed in. He had gold-rimmed nose-clamping glasses on the high bridge of his nose, a pair of deep eyes that revealed a trance-like gaze, and he was slender and athletic, holding a copy of the Times in his hand.
"Please ask, which one is Sherlock. Mr. Holmes? ”
"I am... Oh, and introduce this dr. Watson, please sit down. ”
"Thank you! I'm McCroft. Smith, historian, professor of history at the University of London. The man in black sat down gracefully and said, "Mr. Holmes, I have come to accuse a shameful country, and I ask you to help me obtain evidence."
Holmes perked up and said, "If it were not for the murder case, I would do my utmost to serve your excellency." His arrival changed our gloomy mood a little, so we listened quietly to him tell a long-ago story...
"A long time ago, there was a country where murderers formed an alliance and defended each other. One of their steps was to murder anyone who had ever made a confession against the murderer. Then they set up a club of murderers, admitting only those who had committed murder and had not been arrested as their members. The club was formed and became a refuge for the souls of the murderers. But the murderers were not satisfied, and the members hoped to marry the widowed rich widow and murder him after they made a will in favor of their beloved husband. ”
Hearing McCroft's novel opening made Holmes and I shake my spirits.
"The club has a special committee and the president is a person who has committed the highest murder and has not been punished by the law. The club will help the members to achieve these shameful purposes, and the committee will keep all their documents in order to extort half of the income of each murderer. The club did well, and in the end they grew wider, broad enough to decide elections and control the government. They made a law..."
At this point, he waved the Times in his hand, pointed to the headlines in the newspaper, and continued...
Holmes stood up and asked, "May I ask, which country are you talking about?"
“This is our country！” McClott said solemnly.
"Your Excellency, you are saying that I should find evidence of this country, is that not it?" Holmes paced the room, large drops of sweat oozing from his head.
"Yes."
"Mr. McCroft, I accept your commission, please leave your address, you know this matter is not easy, it is necessary to think in the long run, but as a private detective, once I accept your commission, I will do my best to find the documents of the club for you..."
Holmes took him thirty pounds and wrote down his address: Twenty-six Santan Street, Barton District.
The next day, I made an appointment at 226 Baker Street, and as soon as I pushed the door, it was as if the house was on fire, and I knew that Holmes had smoked cigars for almost the whole night. There was also a man in the room, Detective Jones of Scotland Yard.
"Watson, you've come just in time, let's go."
I, Jones, and Holmes hired a four-wheeled carriage. The carriage traveled along the bluestone road, and the sound of sparkling wheels and the sound of horses' hooves stomping intertwined, as if to reflect The Endless Eyes of Holmes.
We came to 26 Santan Street.
"You are McCroft. smith? Jones asked.
"I am."
"You've been arrested."
"What sin do I have?"
"Incitement to demagoguery."
At this time, our McCroft seemed to realize something, and he looked at me and Holmes in horror, and the look in his eyes at that time still hurt me to this day! Holmes's erect body shook as if it were a wooden house about to be destroyed by a storm. He buried his head deep behind me...
It was my friend Sherlock. Holmes, with his own hands, sent McCroft to prison—that was where he belonged.
It is also because of this incident that there is one less outstanding detective and reasoning expert in the world.
However, I often advise him that between the state and the client, the choice of the former is undoubtedly the right one.
Watson
Winter 2021