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Ryunosuke Naruhodo could not sleep. Insomnia had become a constant companion in Kazuma’s… absence. It had been a little over five months since he’d arrived in London, and that was the only consistency about his life. Whether it was the nauseating rocking of the S.S. Burya or the relative peace of Baker Street, most nights were spent staring at the ceiling and imagining he was back in Japan. In Japan, he could see the stars, instead of the grey London smoke. In Japan, strangers did not sneer at his appearance or treat him as some foreign oddity. In Japan, he could pretend Kazuma was alive.
But Kazuma was not alive, and Ryunosuke was not in Japan. Instead, they were separated by an ocean and a few feet of dirt. One day, Ryunosuke would visit Kazuma’s grave. Once he had proven himself as a lawyer, when he had fulfilled Kazuma’s dreams, when the ache of loss was not so deep it rotted Ryunosuke’s bones… then he would see Kazuma again. Until then, he would lie awake and imagine Japan. It had been easier when Susato was still here, but she was gone now, too. Thankfully her absence was less permanent, but the separation was difficult.
A loud meow followed by a giggle broke Ryunosuke out of his sullen spiral. Evidently, Iris wasn't sleeping either. She seemed to have a far more pleasant reason, chasing Wagahai into Susato’s room. Iris spent much of her time there now, missing Susato just as much as Ryunosuke. He wondered, briefly, if Iris was leaving things for Susato to discover when she came back. Wagahai almost certainly was. He had no way to prove it, though. He couldn’t exactly look into her room. A young maiden's private chamber was a place of bitter-sweet secrets, or so he’d been told. Iris laughed again, chirping nonsense to Wagahai. Ryunosuke smiled, just a little. Japan had many advantages, but it did not have that.
Abandoning his failed attempt at sleep for the moment, Ryunosuke hauled himself out of bed. If he was going to be awake, he might as well get tea. Unfortunately, the kettle was out of water. Ryunosuke’s eyes briefly darted to the aquarium, but he dismissed the idea immediately. “I’d rather not have my tea be fishy,” he murmured to Karuma. The sword said nothing back, though Ryunosuke could imagine its laughter. If Karuma and Kazuma had the same warm, full laugh, only the sea life could call Ryunosuke on it.
Though it felt silly to put the armband on over his sleep clothes, Ryunosuke did so. The familiar weight of it anchored him. He almost took Karuma as well, but that would’ve been harder to explain to the other residents of Baker Street. Mr. Sholmes was nosy at the best of times, and Ryunosuke couldn’t take the risk of being questioned about the blade. The eccentric ‘great detective’ never passed up an opportunity to make strange comments. Feeling deeply guilty, he set Karuma on the bed gently, fingers tangling in the ribbon tied to it. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend…
Ryunosuke drew away, feeling as though he’d been burned. Fingers flexing unconsciously, he hurried to grab the kettle instead. As he passed the small calendar on the wall, he noted the date- August 7th. A small note in Susato’s neat handwriting identified it as her father’s birthday. Briefly, Ryunosuke wondered if Professor Mikotoba had recovered enough to make plans. The fever had sounded quite serious.
He balanced the kettle carefully as he walked down the stairs. Ryunosuke would feel terribly guilty if Susato’s return was spoiled by dented kitchenware. As he descended, Iris’ laughter faded, and a new sound took its place. Mr. Sholmes was playing his violin. It was so soft Ryunosuke only began to hear it once they were on the same floor. It seemed no one in the household was getting much sleep that night.
The song wasn’t one that Ryunosuke could name, but he was familiar. Sholmes had played it once before, when they had seen Susato off. It felt more like he was playing for the ocean than for any of them. Even now, Ryunosuke felt that Sholmes was performing for some ghostly audience, longing resonating in every note. Maybe Ryunosuke was projecting.
As he fully entered the room, Ryunosuke decided he was not projecting. Sholmes had an odd look on his face, somewhere between fondness and despair. His eyes were on a chair near the fireplace, one he never let anyone sit in. It was an odd habit, but Herlock Sholmes was a man composed entirely of oddities. As Ryunosuke filled the kettle, he watched Sholmes out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge how concerned he should be. After a full eight minutes of Sholmes ignoring his presence, Ryunosuke decided on a healthy level of worry.
He took a seat on the couch, kettle abandoned. That was enough to get Sholmes to look away from the chair, even for a moment. They looked at each other for a moment, neither commenting on the late hour or their unfittingly conscious states. Sholmes broke the silence, as he was wont to do. “You’ve forgotten your kettle, my dear fellow,” he said proudly, as if he’d solved some great mystery.
“I have not, Mr. Sholmes. I didn’t think I should bring it to sit with you. I might spill water on something important.”
Sholmes’ eyes sharpened on Ryunosuke, and he got the odd sensation that his worry for the detective went both ways. “A wise decision, really,” Sholmes said instead. “I remember how angry the landlady got at my home improvements.”
“Home improvements?” Ryunosuke echoed, immediately skeptical.
Sholmes nodded, flashing his usual bright grin. “The engravings in the wall, mainly!”
“Don’t you mean ‘on the wall’?”
Sholmes laughed, nearly doubling over. “No, Mr. Naruhodo, of course not! Bullet holes generally exist in the wall.” Ryunosuke paled, immediately concerned for an entirely separate reason. Sholmes was undeterred. “It’s quite patriotic if you think about it, permanently carving the Queen’s initials into the wall. I daresay it’s why we’re on such good terms!”
Ryunosuke quietly dismissed Sholmes’ ‘friendship’ with a queen as his usual incorrect memory. “I can see why your landlady was mad. I’m surprised you weren’t kicked out.”
Sholmes waved his hand dismissively, the violin’s bow calling extra attention to it. “My partner was able to smooth it over rather quickly. He’s quite good with people.” Strangely, Sholmes’ expression became softer and more wistful. Though Ryunosuke desperately wanted to comment on it, he resisted for the moment. With his luck, Sholmes would turn the whole thing around on him.
Instead, he asked a safer question. “Is that your favorite song?” Sholmes furrowed his brow, and Ryunosuke hurried to explain before the detective could make any more assumptions. “To play, I mean. It’s the only one I’ve ever heard you repeat.”
Sholmes took on a strange look of pride. “If you continue to stay out of the courtroom, perhaps you can find work as a detective, Mr. Naruhodo.” He shrugged, fiddling with his bow. “I don’t have a favorite song, not really. It’d be like having a favorite color, or a favorite kind of tea.”
“Aren’t those normal preferences?” Ryunosuke muttered, mostly to himself.
Sholmes either didn’t hear him or didn’t care to comment. “I do return to Mendelssohn’s Lieder, as you deduced. It happens to be the favorite of my dear doctor.”
Herlock Sholmes’ absent partner, the late Dr. John Wilson. Ryunosuke had tried to convince himself Sholmes had found out what happened to the man, but he knew it wasn’t true. Telling Sholmes felt cruel. Not telling him felt crueler. Either way, Ryunosuke had no idea how to bring the subject up.
As Sholmes started playing again, Ryunosuke spoke over the music. He could, at the very least, make idle conversation. “I hope Susato-san has a pleasant time today,” he says, hoping to spark questions for the detective.
For a moment, Sholmes looks confused. Then, he stopped playing again, and his face did something odd. A heavy yearning shadowed his eyes, but it was gone before Ryunosuke could study it. “Ah, yes, her father’s birthday!” Sholmes looked as though he wanted to say more, but for the first time since Ryunosuke met the man, he stopped himself from speaking. That did spark questions, though it was for Ryunosuke instead of Sholmes. Perching on the couch, Sholmes studied him. “You miss her.” It was not a question.
Ryunosuke’s hand rested on his armband, fingers curling around the kanji on the inside. “Yes,” he admitted softly. “I miss them both.” Sholmes watched him, head tilted slightly. Ryunosuke realized the detective was waiting for him to continue. “Susato-san sometimes felt like my only true ally in the world.” Realizing how impolite that sounded, Ryunosuke’s eyes widened. “N-Not that you and Iris aren’t great,” he stammered out. “Sorry! I-It’s just, Susato-san is, well-”
“Japanese,” Sholmes finished. Ryunosuke looked at him, surprised that he’d correctly guessed it. “You two speak a different language, you look different, and people treat you differently. It’s something no one else here, not even Iris and myself, share. London is not kind to those it thinks are outsiders.” Sholmes spoke like he had some experience with this, which Ryunosuke dismissed as ridiculous. “All of us are simply human beings. We forget that sometimes. Some want to forget it. But that failing is not yours, my dear fellow.”
Sholmes almost sounded like he was repeating something that had been said to him. Briefly, Ryunosuke wondered if he’d had this conversation before. One hand running over the fabric of the armband, he looked down. “I miss her because she’s my friend. Because she’s been my constant throughout this journey. She’s loyal, smart, and far more patient with me than I deserve.” He let out a small, wet laugh. Sholmes made a noise like he disagreed with the last point, but didn’t interrupt. “I miss her because she’s the only other person here who knew Kazuma. Without her, I’m carrying him alone.”
Sholmes’ expression was frustratingly unreadable. “Kazuma…” he repeated, like he’d forgotten.
Red-hot anger curled in Ryunosuke’s throat, and his voice came out far sharper than he intended. “Kazuma Asogi, my partner, my best friend. He’s the reason I’m here in the first place! You were on scene at his murder, it’s how we met. You accused me! On the S.S. Burya, he-”
Ryunosuke stopped, chest heavy. He curled his hand into a fist at his side, trying to stop himself from crying. It still hurt to say out loud. It hurt to think about it. Sholmes, for his part, looked strained but not guilty. He settled fully on the couch across from Ryunosuke, still sitting at an odd angle. “My dear Mr. Naruhodo, it is not a crime to long for a partner who is no longer with you. I, of all people, understand that.” He smiled at Ryunosuke, and the weight in his chest felt a little lighter. Sholmes looked away, as if brushing the moment off. “Though the situation is different, as my dear doctor still lives.”
Ryunosuke’s heart stopped, guilt crashing down. He reached a hand out to stop Sholmes, unable to look him in the eye. “S-Sorry. Mr. Sholmes, I… About your doctor,” he began, voice shaking slightly. Sholmes stilled in front of him, and Ryunosuke met his eyes.
He’d seen many sides of Herlock Sholmes over the past few months. Sholmes was mostly jovial, often inappropriately so, or inspired for a new hunt. Sometimes, he was dramatically sullen, occasionally he was serious, and very rarely he was more genuinely somber. This expression was uncharted territory. Sholmes had stopped breathing, looking somewhere between hopeless devastation and protective fury. Ryunosuke worried that Sholmes might be about to throw up, or shoot more holes in the wall. Immediately, Ryunosuke regretted his decision.
Then, Sholmes drew himself off the couch, smiling with his teeth but not his eyes. “Save that conversation for tomorrow, my dear fellow!” His voice was a bit hollow, but Sholmes was attempting his usual cheer valiantly. “For now, I shall play, and you shall tell me about the good Mr. Asogi. Nothing balms grief quite so well as remembrance.”
Ryunosuke almost argued, but he rarely got to talk about Kazuma at length. Most conversations surrounding his dear friend were about his untimely death. It would be nice to, for once, remember his life. So Ryunosuke obeyed, recounting everything about Kazuma he could put into words. He told Sholmes about Kazuma’s strength, his passion, his sharp intelligence, his work ethic, his good heart, his fierce protectiveness, his faith in others, his drive to right every wrong in the world. Ryunosuke was halfway through a story of Kazuma running on foot to the next town for an ingredient Ryunosuke’s mother had needed for somen when the warm fuzziness of sleep finally overtook him.
The next morning, he woke to Wagahai kneading his stomach and purring loudly. Drowsily, he noted that someone had given him a blanket and a pillow while he’d slept. He looked over to find a note, penned in Iris’ curling handwriting.
“Dear Runo,
Hurley and I have gone to the telegram office. He was rather insistent about getting there as soon as they opened. I’ve never seen him so frantic before. He nearly left without me, but I was able to catch him. I think he has urgent business with a foreign client! Hopefully it will make for an exciting story! I’ve left you tea on the stove, since I know you enjoy it hot, and breakfast on the table. We’ll be back soon!”
She’d signed it with a flourish and a small drawing of a flower. Ryunosuke smiled, picking Wagahai up and going to fetch his tea. Japan had many benefits, but his family was here, and he wouldn’t be anywhere else.