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At sixteen years old, Susato Mikotoba finally understands why her father fled Japan after her mother’s death. A loss can turn a once-familiar, comforting home into a series of stinging reminders. The tree she and Kazuma-sama sat under while they studied is still there but he is not; the room where her family had once shared supper is now where she eats alone. The worst part of it is that it is too late to tell her father—she’d barely had time to say her goodbyes before the sickness claimed him, leaving another empty space. She wouldn’t have wanted to burden him with her grief, regardless.
After the funeral, she makes arrangements to return to London as soon as possible and tells herself it’s because Naruhodo-sama needs her, only to be delayed by another issue: Rei’s accused of murder, no one will take her case, and no woman is allowed to. Disguising herself seems like the only possible route, and so she does, only briefly hesitating to contact Jigoku-sama and inform him of her plot without giving him time to object.
‘Ryutaro’ is confident, masculine, and apparently devastatingly handsome; he does not think about how many people he’s lost in the last year or how much can go wrong. He fights, wins, and goes into hiding, leaving Susato missing him as she scrambles for another escape.
On the boat ride to London, she buries herself in law books and reads until she can’t keep her eyes open, puts on Ryutaro's uniform and studies her appearance, searching for the man she’d pretended to be, and pulls out her old notebooks where she’d make up stories about Mr. Sholmes, for fun and practice with English, and writes until her hands hurt. It’s odd, perhaps, to treat someone she lived with as a character in a novel, much less delve into their fictional romantic life, but she cannot bring herself to care—It soothes her, and, so long as her writing stays hers alone, it can’t hurt anyone, can it?
When she finally arrives in Britain, Naruhodo-sama greets her at the dock and helps with her luggage. Seeing as she hadn’t fully moved out of their lodgings on Baker Street, there’s not much to help with, but she appreciates him being there. He makes no mention of her father—a relief—as they return to the only place that feels like home.
She gets one week. One week of settling into her routine, occasionally helping Naruhodo-sama with his research while he’s still barred from the courts, and of relative peace before everything comes crashing down again.
Herlock Sholmes is in her bedroom, sitting casually on her bed, reading from one of her private notebooks. Instantly, her internal alarms ring—danger danger danger, man invading her space, man on her bed.
It’s fine. It’s Mr Sholmes. He’s a good man. He wouldn’t hurt her like that.
“Your prose is wonderful,” he comments, still staring at her notebook, “but your characterization could use some work.”
Oh no. Susato doesn’t keep many notebooks, nor does she write much fiction. If he’s commenting on characterization and prose then it can only be the stories she wrote about him. The ones he was never supposed to see.
She steadies herself. “Mr Sholmes,” she says, “I don’t allow men in my bedroom. Please leave.”
“Hah!” He smiles, setting down the notebook, but makes no move to leave. “I don’t believe that’s true. After all”—he catches her gaze—“it seems Ryutaro visits frequently. That’s part of why I decided to stop by, myself.”
She feels like prey. She wants to throw him out, but restrains herself. Breathe. Calm. That’d only convince him further.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she lies. Mr Sholmes is smart, but far from infallible, and half the time his intelligence appears to vacate the premises whenever she or Naruhodo-sama are involved. Perhaps she can feign ignorance and get by with only one of her secrets spilled.
Still. She closes the door. A precaution, since Iris is working on the floor below, though it’s unlikely she’d hear or listen to them. Between her focus and the sounds of the typewriter, she often won’t hear conversations in the same room as her.
“I mean you’ve secretly been dressing as a man.”
Susato’s chest squeezes, danger danger danger thrumming again, though this time even less warranted. Mr Sholmes keeps a photo of himself dressed as a woman on his mantle. Logically, that means he shouldn’t judge her for indulging herself similarly. Telling herself that does little.
As one final, futile attempt at finding something to rebuke, she asks, “Why do you think so?”
“Firstly—” he points to the trunk where she keeps the clothes that don’t fit in her wardrobe “—the lid is not fully closed, and there is a sleeve peeking out, despite the orderly state of your room, as if you’d stuffed that article of clothing in the trunk, rushing to hide it.
“Secondly, the sleeve belongs to a uniform similar to Mr Naruhodo’s, presumably belonging to Mr Ryutaro instead. There’s a matching hat on top of the trunk, which leads into point three—
“You’ve been more disheveled than usual since you returned, especially when called from your room unexpectedly. In particular, the top of your hairdo has been crooked, suggesting you were wearing a hat like this one.
“Altogether, it seems rather conclusive, don’t you think?”
Put like that, it sounds obvious, as if she was broadcasting her secrets to the whole world. There’s little point in arguing. That would only keep Mr Sholmes here longer, and she still wants him gone—wants to be alone for a moment, to let the tightness in her chest fade.
“This shouldn’t concern you,” she tells him, “nor does it explain why you felt the need to intrude on my space.”
Mr Sholmes does not take the hint. Instead, he waves his hand as if waving away her words. “I haven’t finished explaining myself yet. In fact, I suggest you sit down. This may be a long conversation.”
Susato does not sit down.
“You see, one cannot help but wonder why you’d choose to dress yourself that way.”
“Disguise,” Susato blurts before he can continue. “As you know, I would not be allowed into a courtroom in Japan as myself.”
Mr Sholmes scoffs. “If you were simply trying to practice a disguise, surely you’d want to test it, or at least get feedback from someone else. You can’t even properly look at yourself in here. Furthermore, there’d be no point in keeping it secret from Mr Naruhodo or me. There must be something deeper at play.
“I’ve also noticed you turn your head when I call for Mr Naruhodo. Interesting, isn’t it? You respond when I call for a man.
“On that note, as I previously said—” he stops to pick up her notebook again “—your characterization was off in places. In particular, when it comes to Wilson’s role in the more suggestive scenes.”
Mr Sholmes did read her erotica about him. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem upset, only amused, but she’s never going to be able to look him in the eyes—or write in English, for that matter—ever again. Suddenly, she wants nothing more than to return to Japan, and he somehow has more to say.
“Here, for example, you have him patiently wait for me to finish teasing him, rather than take the lead. Wilson would have sooner tied me up than allow me to toy with him like that.”
Susato didn’t need to know that.
“Overall, you’ve written Wilson as rather submissive and extremely polite, as if you were writing yourself into his role.
“On its own, that’s not remarkable. Together with your other habits, however, it forms a pattern. Would you like to know what I think?”
Not terribly. She can pick up the running theme enough to tell that whatever conclusion he comes to will be off the mark, and even if it was correct, she’d rather him not know. She keeps her secrets for a reason.
Mr Sholmes continues without her input. “You want to be a boy.”
She’s contemplated that notion, of course, enough to conclude that Mr Sholmes is wrong. Now, she just needs to convince Mr Sholmes of that, and he might leave her alone.
“I don’t want to be a boy,” she tells him. “I wrote Wilson that way because it was convenient, and I wore that outfit because I liked the look. You’re reading too much into it, and… and even if you were not, there’d be no point. I can’t consistently pass for a man, let alone become one.”
Mr Sholmes smirks. “That’s where you’re wrong. Given some time and my assistance, I’m certain you could become quite the dashing young man.
“At the very least, you should consider it. I’d like to help.”
With that, he finally stands up and leaves, as suddenly as he’d appeared.
Susato settles on the edge of her bed. It takes her a moment to realize that he’s taken her notebook. It doesn’t seem like there’s much she can do about that, for now, but it doesn’t stop her from worrying about what he wants it for. Hopefully, he just finds it amusing. Though, she’s had enough of his amusement—or really all of him—for a while.
Mr Sholmes hasn’t done anything particularly egregious, it’s just… needlessly invasive. It sets her on edge, even though she’s sure he means well, and is quite presumptuous besides that.
Perhaps she’d wished she were a man before. What woman hasn’t? Even with her father and Kazuma-sama’s support, getting the education needed to work as a judicial assistant was a fight, and figuring out how to use it in Japan has been another battle. Not to mention the physical inconveniences—menstruation, mostly, though she could also live without her breasts, too. Being a man seems so much easier.
At the end of the day, however, she’s comfortable as a woman. She likes ‘girl time’ with Iris, she likes how pretty she looks, and she’s good at being a woman. She would miss it if she were a man—would hardly know how to behave. Mr Sholmes is entirely off the mark.
Still, given the practical reasons to want to look like a man, it might be useful to enquire about how exactly he thought he could help her pass for a man. He does have experience disguising himself the other way, so perhaps he can give her some advice.
Susato does not ask Mr Sholmes for advice that night, but she does see him again for their usual household supper. Today, Naruhodo-sama is the last to come home, citing how he somehow got roped into organizing the collection of books on British law that he was supposed to be simply browsing. (In hindsight, it would have been better for both of them if she’d insisted on going with him that morning, but Iris had wanted Susato’s input on her manuscript immediately and Susato didn’t have the heart to tell her no, even if she’d wanted to.)
Iris and Susato had worked on the food together, a chicken dish with a side of cooked vegetables. Given their irregular work schedules along with Mr Sholmes and Iris’ habits of getting completely lost in their projects, having dinner and breakfast together was the only strict routine that stuck. Normally, Susato enjoys it.
She tries to enjoy it today. Naruhodo-sama is saying something about precedent and foxes, and Mr Sholmes keeps catching her gaze while he listens. It feels pointed. Think about what I told you, or maybe I know, the look says. Susato tries to act natural. She doesn’t want to deal with Mr Sholmes and her secrets while Iris and Naruhodo-sama are around to hear; she doesn’t want to disturb Naruhodo-sama by acting agitated.
She does find time to talk to Mr Sholmes the next day, while Naruhodo-sama is occupied with reading the books he picked up and Iris is out, hoping to cure her writer’s fatigue by chasing Gina—now, apparently a member of the Yard of all things—around.
The instant they have the ground floor to themselves, Mr Sholmes spins his chair around, ignoring whatever contraption he was tinkering with in favor of looking at her.
“My dear fellow,” he says, not my dear madam. It’s… strange, though not unpleasant. “I presume you’ve come to enquire about the assistance I offered.” Normally, when he speaks, it’s as if for an audience. Today, his volume is thankfully low.
“Correct,” she says. There’s not anywhere good to sit that faces his desk chair (and isn’t occupied by a violin) so she settles for standing nearby. “I believe it would be helpful for when I return to Japan.”
“Very well.” He fishes through his desk while he talks. It’s incredibly untidy. “I can, of course, offer advice on disguising and dressing oneself, as well as how to act. However, the real novelty is this.” He brandishes the vial he’d been digging for with unabashed enthusiasm. “A special concoction that, if injected regularly, can trigger the effects of male puberty in any individual, regardless of their sex.”
That’s incredible. To alter the body like that… she’s not sure how many practical uses there are, but it’s fascinating. If Rei or Father were here… Susato blinks back the stab of pain. Focus.
“I believe you misunderstood me,” she says. Level. Calm. “I only want to better disguise myself. That seems too permanent.”
Mr Sholmes taps the vial, fingers drumming a pattern. “I understand what you’ve said your intentions are. That doesn’t mean I believe they’re accurate.”
“I don’t want to change my body,” she reiterates. “I only want you to teach me how to disguise myself better.”
“Hm.” Mr Sholmes narrows his eyes. “It seems you don’t trust my judgement. Perhaps we shall have to ask Mr Naruhodo to assess the facts. Though, I suspect you’d rather keep certain evidence private, would you not?”
“That won’t be necessary,” she snaps, just trying to stop that train of logic. It’s already awful enough that Mr Sholmes knows what she wrote about him, and he doesn’t seem to mind. She can’t be sure Naruhodo-sama would feel the same… if it made their relationship awkward, or worse, he didn’t want to be around her because of it, she doesn’t know what she’d do, literally or figuritively—She can’t afford to lose someone else. Can’t afford to fail as a judicial assistant.
“So you agree with my assessment?”
“No.”
“Then it sounds like it will be necessary to involve Mr Naruhodo, unless you intend to accept my help regardless. Should I consult him now?” Mr Sholmes stands up.
“Don’t,” she hisses, hands reflexively going to throw position. She doesn’t do it—that would only draw Naruhodo-sama’s attention—but her instincts scream to.
He sits back down. “Then reconsider.”
She thinks for a moment.
“You’re blackmailing me.” She suspects he’s done so to Gregson as well, to get Gina her position, but that was undeniably generous… This doesn’t feel so clear-cut.
“You may call it what you wish. I’m simply giving you a push in the right direction, until your awareness of yourself catches up to the reality.
“Most people don’t know themselves as well as they think they do, you see. Sometimes, one needs an external observer to point them to the truths they fail, or refuse, to see. As the great detective, I’m uniquely qualified for the role.
“In your case, I suspect it’s more refusal and less failure. You believe wishing to become a man will amount to nothing but needless heartbreak, so you attempt to shield yourself from that heartbreak by pretending you don’t wish at all.”
She has thought something along those lines before, though only as one of many reasons why she doesn’t truly wish to be a man. He’s not entirely off the mark, and he must mean well, even if he’s being a bit underhanded about it.
Susato doesn’t want Naruhodo-sama to find out about what she’d written about Mr Sholmes, and she could use his other assistance. From a purely practical perspective, it seems best to go along with him, at least for a while. That gives her time to find wherever he hid her notebook and burn it. If she’s fast, she doubts Mr Sholmes’ concoction will have time to leave lasting effects, and if it does, it will likely just make her a little more androgynous, which would be helpful.
Yes. She can do this.
“I accept your assistance.”
He smiles. “Smart boy.”
Though she isn’t cold, Susato shivers.
“I will have the first injection prepared shortly. It will have to go into your outer thigh, so if you have a shorter skirt or dress I recommend changing into it so there’s not as much fabric to hold back.”
That’s fast. Of course it is. Mr Sholmes never slows down.
“I can administer it here, or in either of our bedrooms if you prefer more privacy.”
The only shorter dress Susato owns is the one Iris gave her, which isn’t long enough to feel modest without something covering her legs. Even then, it often feels… uncomfortably exposing, for the way it hugs her hips and highlights her breasts. She’ll have to make do with her normal kimono.
As for their location… Susato doesn’t want to explain this to Naruhodo-sama yet, so passing him on her way to her bedroom is out of the question. She doesn’t particularly want to explain it to Iris, either, who will likely settle at her desk when she returns, which could be anytime from the next instant to a few hours. That leaves Mr Sholmes’ room, which makes her nerves prickle, but logically should be fine. Perhaps she can scout out where he might’ve hidden her notebook while she’s in there.
She tells Mr Sholmes she’d like to do it in his room, and he gestures in the correct direction, which she takes as her cue to settle in.
Susato hasn’t been in Mr Sholmes’ room before, but it’s exactly what she would have expected: cluttered, like the rest of his living space. There are notes haphazardly pinned to the walls, and a bookshelf filled with knick-knacks. The books are strewn everywhere but the bookshelf, and quite a few miscellaneous articles of clothing alongside them. She wonders how he finds anything in this mess.
He doesn’t have seating in his room besides the bed, so she settles there, perched over the edge, only to immediately stand up again so she can adjust her clothing. Finding a way to expose her thigh without exposing everything else proves difficult—she ends up holding several layers of clothing just below her hip on one side, and using her other hand to tuck them between her thighs and hold them in place so as to not expose her underwear.
That sorted out, she has a moment for it to sink in that she’s still rather exposed on a man’s bed before Mr Sholmes arrives.
“You’re already ready, I see,” he says. “Good.”
Susato steadies herself. Breathe.
“It shouldn’t hurt for long, but it will be slightly painful.”
She nods. That’s not what she’s nervous about.
Mr Sholmes puts a hand on her thigh—finding a suitable injection site, perhaps?—and Susato freezes like a terrified rabbit as something that’s not entirely fear threatens to steal her breath. It’s not difficult to imagine other scenarios where his hands might wander there. She’s fairly certain she’s written one—Wilson had gotten cut on one of their cases, so Sholmes had inspected the wound. After concluding it wasn’t serious he had continued to pretend to inspect it until he and Wilson decided to drop the pretense and make love.
Mr Sholmes is not intentionally teasing her, but her body does not care. His fingers are cold against her bare skin, yet she only feels warmer.
He settles, readying the syringe, and murmurs, “Relax.” With the way he’s bent down, his breath hits her face. “If you’d like to look away for the injection, now is your chance.”
She nods, not so much choosing to continue staring as lacking the wherewithal to look away.
“Good boy,” Mr Sholmes says when he’s done. His voice is low and he’s practically whispering into her ear, and Susato hopes she isn’t blushing as fiercely as she feels she is.
If Mr Sholmes notices, he has the discretion to ignore it, at least. He sets the syringe on his bedside table and settles beside her on the bed wordlessly, while she haphazardly tries to pull down her clothing without getting up.
“I don’t expect much immediate change,” he says. “However, I believe it would be best to inform Mr Naruhodo and Iris before it becomes apparent.
“I assume you would like to do so yourself?”
“Yes.” She’ll take her notebook back before she has to say anything.
“Very well. I’ll need to give you your next injection in three days.”
Susato stands up, adjusts her kimono and hakama so they look natural, and slips away. She feels off-kilter, somehow. As if the world she woke up to that morning and the one she’s in now are not the same.
Despite that, Naruhodo-sama is exactly where Susato left him. The sight of him poring over his notes sparks a strange pang in her chest—it feels like yesterday and yet forever ago that she had to help him through law books, explaining the terminology, while she sat by his side.
“Naruhodo-sama,” she says, “may I assist you with your research?”
He looks up at her, blinking like he’s disoriented. “Oh! Of course.” He takes a book from one of the many stacks littered across his desk, and hands it to her. “If you could read this and write down anything you find noteworthy, that would be great.”
Susato nods and settles in at her desk, grateful for something to do. This feels normal. This is normal, or at least what passes for it.
Despite her best efforts, Susato does not find her notebook the next day, or the day after. If it is in Mr Sholmes’ room, she suspects it’s in a hidden compartment somewhere, because searching his room while he was out has yielded nothing.
On the day she’s due for her next injection, she finds a note from Mr Sholmes, seemingly slipped under her door: Come see me today. The reminder is unnecessary. She couldn’t forget even if she thought it wise to.
When Susato finds time to talk to Mr Sholmes alone, after hours of anxiously listening for when Iris will be out, he leads her to his bedroom. This time, he hasn’t readied the syringe in advance, so he prepares it while sitting next to her on the bed.
“You’ve been in here,” he states, unconcerned, “unsuccessfully searching for your erotica.”
She supposed he would deduce that, but she did try to be secretive.
“I suggest writing new material instead of searching for the old. I’d be more than happy to provide feedback… What you’ve written so far really is delightful.”
“I would rather not,” Susato says. She would rather not consider anything she’s written about Mr Sholmes, let alone repeat that mistake.
“If you insist,” he sighs. He perks up only a moment later. “Have you informed our housemates?”
“Not yet.” She hopes she will never have to.
Mr Sholmes tuts disapprovingly. “You must tell me when you do. I would hate to keep pretending you’re a woman longer than necessary.”
She’s not pretending, she thinks, but holds her tongue.
As he turns to face her, syringe ready, Susato realizes she is not. Either she will have to dismiss Mr Sholmes, or he will be here when she adjusts her garments. That shouldn’t bother her, considering it would be nothing he hadn’t seen last time, and so she brushes the thought aside and sets to work.
Like last time, Mr Sholmes’ fingers are cold on her thigh. This time, it feels almost soothing.
“You feel rather warm to me,” Mr Sholmes comments. “Does it feel the same to you?”
She nods, truthfully. Without other signs of illness, she’d concluded it’s most likely nothing to worry about, but perhaps it will concern Mr Sholmes enough that he decides not to give her another injection.
“Good,” he says. His hand lingers against her, tip-tapping as if she’s a table he’s drumming his fingers against. “That’s expected.”
“It is?”
“Yes. It happened to the last person I gave this treatment, as well.”
He’s done this before. With who? She has yet to meet any close friends of Mr Sholmes, at least ones that reside outside this house. If it’s a casual acquaintance it could be anyone—Mr Sholmes knows half of London.
(Did he hold anything over their head, or did they do it willingly? Are there people out there who would choose to undergo this process?)
Mr Sholmes settles the syringe in place. “Ready?” he asks, and gives her the injection with only a moment’s pause. It’s over quickly. Almost routine. If she’s not lucky, it will be.
The next day, Susato still feels warm and poorly-rested, but otherwise fine.
Iris, like always, waits for her to help with breakfast. She chirps a good morning when she notices Susato standing beside her, which takes a minute, since she was so focused on writing.
As usual, Susato replies, “Good morning.” Unlike usual, she and Iris both startle at the sound of her voice—a little rougher, perhaps, and noticeably deeper. Closer to how she’d pitched it down as Ryutaro than her natural voice. Like she really is sick, but her throat doesn’t feel clogged.
Susato tries to clear it as Iris tilts her head.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Susato replies. Clearing her throat did nothing. It still sounds wrong. Hopefully, it’s just disuse or dryness.
“I’ll make you something for your throat, just in case,” Iris insists. She doesn’t seem worried about catching anything, because she leads Susato towards the small kitchen that also doubles as a lab for anything that might need cooking. It still concerns Susato how often goodness-knows-what is left in proximity to their food, but after several months of living with them and no accidental poisoning she tells herself it must be safe enough.
Once breakfast is mostly done, Iris shuffles Susato out of the kitchen to go wake Naruhodo-sama before Mr Sholmes decides it pertinent to yell for him and wake the whole neighborhood. After knocking a few times and receiving a groggy I’m awake in response she returns downstairs to find food laid out and Mr Sholmes waiting on the sofa.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Good morning.” Her voice is still too deep, but he doesn’t seem surprised. Instead, he smiles and beckons her over. Her heart sinks as she complies.
“Congratulations, Mr Mikotoba,” he whispers. For the first time in several days, she feels cold. “You’re already sounding quite handsome.”
“I don’t sound right,” she states.
“I suppose it will take a while for your voice to drop enough to sound correct.”
Her fists clench. Forget throwing him. She wants to punch.
Before she can do anything rash, Iris enters the room, dropping off their breakfast plates and depositing a cup of tea for Susato a moment later. Naruhodo-sama comes down shortly after, settling on the chair, while Iris sits beside Susato on the sofa, leaving her next to Mr Sholmes but unable to really talk to him due to their company. They will have to continue their discussion later, or perhaps never.
Breakfast consists primarily of eggs Mr Sholmes got from the last person he helped with a case, with some toast on the side. Susato doesn’t feel very hungry, but forces herself to eat. The sofa isn’t really meant for three people, and Mr Sholmes brushes against her every time he moves. She feels a bit sick. She wishes she was. The tea doesn’t help.
Naruhodo-sama finishes eating first, but waits for everyone else before talking. “I was planning to be in the attic with Susato for most of the day again, unless anyone has different plans.”
“I’ll be searching for a case,” Mr Sholmes says. From experience, it seems that means bothering Scotland Yard detectives. “Anyone that would like to accompany me is free to do so.”
“I’ll be with Hurley,” Iris says.
“I’ll stay with Mr Naruhodo,” Susato says.
Naruhodo-sama shoots her a concerned look.
“I gave her something to help with her throat,” Iris explains.
He nods at that.
Before she and Mr Sholmes head out, Iris helps Susato with cleaning the dishes, then drags Susato to her bedroom, insisting there’s something she needs to show Susato with a cheerful smile on her face. The instant she closes the door, it drops.
“Has Hurley been bothering you?” she asks, wringing her hands.
Susato’s chest squeezes, out of sympathy for Iris’s anxiety and her own fear, but she tries to school her expression. “No.” It lasts only a second, as the sound of her own voice makes her flinch.
“Not even a little? You’ve seemed tense around him lately. Last night, you said you’d had a good day, I got the impression you were lying, and you glanced at Hurley.”
“I’m fine. Just a bit tired.” It’s only half a lie. She’s been sleeping better since she returned to Baker Street, even with Mr Sholmes’ meddling, but not well.
“Hurley’s been keeping you up? Or waking you in the morning?”
Susato nods. Yes. That works. It’s close enough to the truth.
Iris frowns, apparently thinking. “I’ll talk to him about it.”
“I’m sure he has good reason to be awake,” she replies. “You don’t need to.”
“I’ll tell him that as well.” Iris claps her hands together. “I’m sure we can work something out.”
“No.” Susato lets herself sigh. “I’ll talk to him myself.”
“Okay!” Iris chirps. “I’m going to hold you to it.”
“We need to talk,” Susato finally tells Mr Sholmes after dinner. It has been hours since he returned from his investigation, and she cannot tell if the day flew by or dragged on—She accomplished little since she was so occupied with figuring out how to reason with him, making it feel like she had no time and yet was fretting for an eternity.
Mr Sholmes raises an eyebrow, but leads her to his room.
Susato takes a deep breath and fixes him with her best glare. “I do not want to continue.”
“You may leave this conversation whenever you wish.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“No?” He spins his pipe in his fingers, not deigning to make eye contact as he sits on his bed.
“I don’t want any more of your injections.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” she snaps. “Despite your insistence to the contrary, I still don’t want to become a man. If you would simply listen to reason and—“
He laughs, standing up. “Mr Mikotoba, I assure you, I’m not the unreasonable one here.”
She bristles. “I am talking. At least let me finish my argument before—“
He shushes her with a finger across her lips. It has the intended effect, completely derailing any argument she’d been forming as a new wave of frustration passes over her—The gesture is too patronizing and too intimate.
“You claim you care about preserving your femininity, yet you’ve run quite a few risks with it, as evidenced by your changing voice. If it was so dear to you, I’d expect you would have at least attempted to discern how long you had until such obvious changes happened, but you didn’t. As such, it seems as though you intended to play along until you retrieved your erotica, suggesting that you valued keeping that secret more than preventing irreversible changes to your body. You’re acting out now because the reality of it has finally hit you, even though you’d already rationalized simply taking my injections for as long as necessary.
“My terms haven’t changed. You may officially call off our arrangement, at which point I will ask Mr Naruhodo for his input.”
He removes his finger and gives her a moment. Susato does not say a word.
“Furthermore, you’re being short-sighted. By your own admission, you can’t consistently pass for a man, meaning that—if you decide to refuse my help—when you and Mr Naruhodo return to your homeland you will either be unable to assist him, or will constantly risk being exposed as a woman. Short of changing the law, which would take quite a while, you have no better alternative to tackle that problem.
“You can’t honestly tell me that refusing my assistance is the most rational approach, is it?”
He waits.
The fact of the matter is that, simply put, it remains far more practical to allow Mr Sholmes to mold her into a man, even if she disregarded the blackmail. She doesn’t have any better ideas about what to do when she and Naruhodo-sama eventually return to Japan, and she would dearly miss being by his side. If she were less fortunate, she might have to worry about the consequences of telling him she wanted to be a man more than the consequences of telling him she wrote erotica about their housemate, but she thinks the former will go down easier. She’s never met someone who wants to empathize with others as much as he does—He’d likely simply ask why and accept her transformation as harmless. With the erotica, there’s a good chance he’d see it as invasive and disrespectful to Mr Sholmes… The thought makes her chest tight.
She can’t refuse Mr Sholmes.
As quietly as possible, she mutters, “No.”
“Good.”
It does not feel good. She does not feel good.
“You should inform Mr Naruhodo and Iris soon.”
She will have to.
Apparently, he noticed how lost she looks, because says, “Would you like some guidance?”
Like isn’t the correct word. Need is closer.
She nods. Tears prickle her eyes. He must notice, but Mr Sholmes offers no reprieve, only tainted attempts at comfort. He beckons for her to sit back down beside him, and she complies. She supposes he means for his arm wrapping around her back, pulling her into a sort of sideways hug, to be soothing, but her mind wars over whether it is unsettling or welcome. Ultimately, what she thinks doesn’t matter: she can’t muster the fight to shove him away. It wouldn’t be worth the effort.
Before Susato tells Naruhodo-sama, she cobbles together an explanation out of a mix of what Mr Sholmes’ analysis of her behavior, what little he offered about the person he’d done this for before, her own lies, and the bits of truth she can slip in. By the time she’s worked up the nerve, she’s polished it to a shine, in hopes that that will be enough.
“Naruhodo-sama,” she asks, standing in front of his desk, “may we talk?”
“Of course.” He looks up from his writing. “Is something wrong?”
Yes. Very.
She shakes her head. “No, there’s just something personal I’d like to tell you.”
Naruhodo-sama gives her a quizzical look, but simply listens.
“You remember how I acted as a man in order to defend Rei?”
He nods.
“During the trial, I was too worried about her and making a convincing man to contemplate how it felt. Afterwards, however, I found myself reluctant to give ‘Ryutaro’ up.
“I felt more confident as him, but more than that… It felt right. Like I’d unwittingly been pretending to be someone else as Susato, while Ryutaro was real. As much as I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling.”
She takes a deep breath, much like Naruhodo-sama would before making a bold claim.
“I thought I might keep it to myself, at first, because I wasn’t sure what to do with the feeling, but I kept cross-dressing in secret until Mr Sholmes found out.
“He encouraged me to be true to myself, and offered me a concoction to help me become more masculine, so I could pass as man if I wished. That’s why my voice sounds deeper now. To be honest, I thought it would take longer to kick in, so I could tell you before it was obvious.
“I plan on living full-time as a man in the future. I’m sorry if I worried you, and for not telling you sooner.”
He holds his typical thinking position, eyes down and hand on his chin, for a moment. Then his gaze rakes over her, as if seeing her for the first time, or looking for something.
Susato swallows the lump forming in her throat. “I know it sounds a bit mad.”
“No! I mean, it’s odd, for sure, but I don’t think it makes you insane. It’s just, you’re so… so…“ He gestures at her. “…ladylike. I have a hard time imagining you as a man.”
That’s exactly what she thought.
“If you think this is right for you, though, I’ll try. I trust your judgement.”
“Thank you,” she murmurs. “I’m going to inform Iris now.”
She’s halfway to the stairs when he blurts, “What should I call you?”
Right. “Ryutaro when we’re at home.” They’ll both need to get used to it. “Susato in public, for now.”
She assumes he nods his agreement, but she turns around too quickly to see it.
Telling Iris is easier. She sits patiently through Susato’s explanation, nodding along, seeming only mildly surprised.
“I suppose I’ll need a new nickname for you,” she says when it’s done, as if that is the most pressing concern with everything Susato’s said. She’s tempted to question how Iris is taking this in stride, but doesn’t want to make her reconsider. “Assuming you want to change your name.”
“I do.”
“Any suggestions?”
“No.”
“I’ll figure it out later.” Iris waves her hand, as if shooing away the problem.
Come suppertime, Iris hasn’t figured that out. She has, however, adjusted to calling Susato Ryutaro rather easily. Mr Sholmes, likewise, takes every possible excuse to insist she’s a man—like when he sits beside her at dinner, resting his arm on the back of the sofa, and says, “Mr Mikotoba and Iris did a fantastic job with supper, did they not?”
She learns forward so that his arm doesn’t brush against her back and tries not to show how startling it is to hear him call her Mr Mikotoba in front of their housemates. Between all of them, she can barely follow the conversation for the rest of supper—every time someone talks to her or calls ‘her’ name, her mind all but blanks—and by the end of it she’s not really trying.
It’s been so much. She just wants to find someplace to cry where no one could possibly hear her, then sleep. She manages only the latter.
In a remarkably short span of time, and, despite Susato’s insistence that it’s unnecessary—really, ‘Ryutaro’ could get by with just a uniform, as Mr Naruhodo does—Iris makes her new clothing. She presents it to Susato with a smile on her face that Susato finds herself mirroring, even though it’s more masculine than anything she would normally wear.
“If you have a moment, I’d like you to try it on,” Iris says. “I used the same measurements I used last time, so I believe they should fit well, but they might need some minor adjustments.”
Susato nods, slips into her bedroom, and resolves to silence her trepidation as she changes. It’s nice. A black suit, a white dress shirt, a tie—formal, masculine clothing that will serve her well when Naruhodo-sama and her return to the courtroom—and a special undergarment with a note saying that it’s to make her chest appear flatter, if she wishes to use it.
Though it takes her longer than it should to get dressed because her hands keep fumbling with the buttons on the shirt, in the end she manages to put on everything but the tie.
When she emerges, she hesitantly asks, “How do I look?”
“Lovely!” Iris says.
From his desk, Naruhodo-sama agrees, “Good. Really good.” Though he appears to have been in the middle of writing something, his gaze lingers on her for a while, until he suddenly pulls himself away.
“I’m afraid I never learned how to tie a tie.” It’s clenched in her fist.
“Hurley or I can show you how,” Iris says. “Oh! And there’s a mirror in Hurley’s room so I can show you how you look, too.”
She takes off with Susato in tow, and beckons Mr Sholmes along as they pass him in the sitting room. For reasons unknown, the aforementioned mirror turns out to have been hidden underneath some fancy-looking rug. It seems sized to hang on a wall, perhaps to look at one’s face or for decoration. Iris clears off the top of the bookshelf, displacing a whole row of trinkets, in order to place it on top.
“Ah! You found it.” Mr Sholmes declares.
“Exactly where you left it,” Iris replies. She leads Susato to stand in front of the mirror.
Susato stares at her own reflection like Naruhodo-sama had stared at her. Something about having clothes made specifically for ‘Ryutaro’ is striking… Like he’s a person that could actually exist, beyond the confines of her bedroom and first appearance of court, where the only option was to don the hastily-acquired school uniform.
Someone touches her hand, tugging on the tie, and she lets it go.
Susato half-slips out of her trance when Mr Sholmes blocks her view, tie in hand. “Let me help you with this,” he says.
She should probably pay attention to what he does in order to learn, but what little of her isn’t concerned with her appearance is concerned with how close he is. His hands brush her neck as he wraps the tie around. It’s not particularly tight, yet her chest tightens as if she’s at risk of strangulation.
“There you go, my dear.” He moves back behind her, giving her a glance at her appearance with the tie, before distracting her again with his hands on her head. His nails gently scratch her scalp as he runs his fingers through her hair. “Now, all you need is a haircut.” He pauses, still touching her, then says something. She doesn’t catch anything beyond the tone, which sounds like a question she supposes she should answer.
“Sorry, what did you say?” she musters. She feels the tie against her throat as she speaks.
“I asked if you’d like me to give you a haircut today.”
She wonders if that’s really a question. She can’t ask with Iris right there, and supposes it doesn’t matter that much. If she’s going to try to pass as a man, a shorter style would help her immensely in Britain, and compared to everything else she’s already done, it’s nothing.
When she answers back a yes, still staring at her reflection, her voice doesn’t bother her quite as much. It still doesn’t quite sound like her, but it does sound like something that could match the man staring back—It could simply be a young man’s voice, not a ruined woman’s one.
Mr Sholmes leads her to the sitting room and into his desk chair.
“Have you done this before?” she asks, quietly, as he rummages for scissors. She can’t seem to get a proper lungful of air.
“Hurley does my hair,” Iris chips in from across the room, “and his own.”
She tries to imagine herself with Mr Sholmes’ hairstyle. The tousled, fluffy look is charming on him, but it’s messier than she would like for herself.
Some of her displeasure must have shown, because Mr Sholmes laughs. “Fear not, I’ve cut other men’s hair before, too. I’ll make sure yours is suitable.”
“I’ve never seen you do anyone else’s hair,” Iris says.
“It was before you were born.”
He leaves to grab a ratty blanket from his room, and drapes it over Susato. “So your suit isn’t dirtied,” he mutters to her.
“Daddy’s?” Iris asks.
He startles, then smiles softly. It’s a strange expression on him. Not bright and beaming, or smug, but more subdued. It reminds Susato of the look Father would get on the rare occasion he spoke of Mother. Wistful. “Yes. He used to complain that, between all the times he had to contribute to my part of the rent and his friends’ habits, he couldn’t afford a good barber, so I decided to learn.” He laughs. “I’m certain he regretted it the first time, but I improved.”
Mr Sholmes stares past her, then shakes himself like a dog shaking off water and sets to work.
He has to undo her current style first, and, with a pang she realizes that she might never wear it again. It’s yet another bit of familiarity slipping out her grasp. When he starts cutting, it feels physically strange as well, lighter, as more hair falls away.
She can’t tell exactly what he does after the broader, brisk cuts, and tries not to care, though she can’t stop thinking about either. There is nothing pleasant to distract herself with, and she has not yet gone numb to the feeling of him touching her, despite how… handsy he’s been lately.
“Done,” he finally says, giving her hair one last comb before stepping back. She carefully takes the blanket off and steps off the chair, trying not to get hair stuck to her—he made quite the mess—on strangely shaky legs.
“To the mirror.”
They return, and Susato once again is taken aback by her reflection, though this time for a different reason. For a split second, she sees her father—Mr Sholmes gave her the exact same hairstyle he always had—and it hits her fragile composure like a bullet. She does not want to cry. Not in front of Mr Sholmes. Not in front of anyone who’d take pity on her, either.
She catches a glimpse of him closing the door in the mirror, before coming to stand behind her. His expression is so peculiar it makes her glance at it again, transfixing her even through the tears threatening to fall. He seems absolutely gobsmacked, jaw slack and eyes wide, and doesn’t say a word until she shifts, glancing directly at his face. Then he croaks—Herlock Sholmes croaks, “Quite impressive.”
He averts his gaze, eyelashes fluttering like hers. Despite how many of his mood swings she’s witnessed, she’s never seen him cry. Part of her thought he wasn’t capable of it. Is he simply so proud of his handiwork with her that it’s brought him to the verge of tears, or is there more to it? Perhaps it reminds him of Wilson… neither she nor Naruhodo-sama got around to telling Mr Sholmes he passed away, but it sounds like they’ve been apart long enough that Mr Sholmes would have cause to miss him even if he were still alive.
He had taken the fact that she’d written him and Wilson as lovers rather in stride as well, so perhaps there was some truth to it. She’s never had a lover, only infatuation she never expected to amount to anything, but she imagines losing that level of intimacy would make separation extra difficult.
She takes a moment to further tamp down her tears before trying to leave Mr Sholmes alone. He turns around and catches her hand, wearing a smile she suspects is forced as hers, and says, “Wait.”
She does.
“We have more work to do before Ryutaro makes his debut. Specifically, you need to change your posture.”
She stands up straighter, and he laughs.
“Men typically take up more space. You should stand with your feet farther apart.”
Oh. She tries widening her stance and he nods his approval.
“You should adjust your arms as well.” He lets her hand go. “If you draw your arms across yourself without crossing them, as you usually do, it looks as though you’re trying to make yourself small.”
She forces her arms to settle at her sides. It feels wrong. She tried crossing them, but that feels worse, so she returns to her previous position.
“It’ll become natural with time,” he says. As she finally retreats upstairs, she hopes he’s right.
Despite Mr Sholmes, Iris, and Naruhodo-sama reassuring ‘him’ that ‘he’ will pass for a man just fine, the thought of going out as Ryutaro makes Susato nervous. If she were to allow herself to give in to her selfish, short-sighted desires, she would not leave the house unless absolutely necessary, but she knows that’s impractical: she won’t be able to help Naruhodo-sama, or anyone, for that matter, in court if she’s too terrified to go outside. That doesn’t mean she’s eager, so she waits until Mr Sholmes and Iris both invite her along for an investigation rather than striking out on her own.
The case in question ends up being a robbery, of some sort, at a pawn shop Mr Sholmes has visited before but doesn’t frequently use. Susato gets a few odd looks on the way there, which make her skin prickle, but they’re nothing new—people have always given her and Mr Naruhodo odd looks—and more likely a result of her status as a foreigner than anything else.
Mr Sholmes barges into the pawn shop first, loudly announcing that he’s arrived. Instantly, several heads turn—the shop owner’s, the owner’s son’s, who had asked for their assistance, Inspector Gregson’s, and Gina’s, along with a few bobbies who immediately turned back to their work.
Inspector Gregson fixes Mr Sholmes with a glare before noticing Iris and opting to return to talking to the proprietor, while Gina sets down the bin she’d been searching through to come talk to them. She gives Susato a look-over, and says, “Who’s the Eastern cove?”
They’d decided on how to introduce Ryutaro beforehand, but Susato finds herself too caught on ‘cove’ to respond. Mr Sholmes, meanwhile, doesn’t miss a beat.
“This is Mr Mikotoba.”
Gina frowns. “You look familiar.”
“I believe you knew my cousin,” she manages. The lie rolls smooth off her tongue. “Miss Susato. She had to stay home due to a family emergency, so I’m here to be Mr Naruhodo’s judicial assistant in her stead.”
“Ah,” Gina says, before turning back to Mr Sholmes, satisfied with that explanation. “Apparently the robber dropped a somefin’-or-other that might be a clue ‘round this area, but we ‘aven’t ‘ad any luck findin’ it. I take it you’re going to be on this case as well, so if you could—”
“Find the object in question, it might give as a lead,” Mr Sholmes interrupts. “Don’t worry, I shall find it while I search the scene.”
Inspector Gregson yells a half-hearted, “Don’t disturb anything!”
While Gina looks away, Mr Sholmes pulls Susato’s arms—which she’s unwittingly held in front of herself, out of habit—apart before bolting to the opposite side of the pawn shop. Iris goes to get information out of ‘Gregsy’, and Susato follows behind a moment later.
Her chest tightens again as Inspector Gregson glares at her, but he only mutters something about a new Eastern man appearing every time he turns around before putting on his usual overly cheerful, doting act for Iris.
Even after most of a day working together, and one case solved, neither Inspector Gregson nor Gina seem to recognize Susato. It seems that her disguise works well—she does, somehow, make for a convincing enough man.
Mr Sholmes says as much when they return home, buzzing from the excitement of a mystery solved and ‘Ryutaro’s’ success. He openly reminds Susato that she’s due for an injection, so she follows him to his room. She doesn’t realize there’s a problem until she’s already sat down: the suit she’s wearing doesn’t allow her to pull up the pant leg enough to expose her thigh. Her uniform likely won’t, either. She’ll need to change to something else unless she wants to undress in front of Mr Sholmes… which she doesn’t.
“Excuse me,” she says, “I need to change.” She heads upstairs before he can protest, but can’t avoid it when she returns.
The first thing he does after she enters his bedroom, dressed in her usual kimono, is give her a look of disapproval. “It’s unseemly for a man to wear women’s clothes,” he scolds.
“Then you are rather unseemly yourself,” she retorts as she adjusts her kimono. “Given you’re inclined to crossdress.”
As if waving away the problem, he waves his hand. “That was so I could pretend to be a woman. I believe you’ve done enough of that.” He grabs the syringe and settles into position to give her the injection. “It must be uncomfortable for you to seem so feminine.” With the shot done, he leans back.
“As I’ve told you, I’m happier as a woman,” she responds as she stands up to adjust her kimono. “Being feminine is better.”
“How so?”
She should leave this conversation, but she stays. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve told me, over and over again, that you would have preferred to remain a woman, yet I cannot recall a single concrete reason why.”
“I was meant to be a woman.”
“Yes, yes, you believe that, but do you feel it?” Behind her, Mr Sholmes stands up, and puts a hand on her shoulder to guide her in front of the mirror. “Take a moment to look at yourself, then tell me if it really feels right to wear your old clothes.”
She already knows the answer. Of course her usual kimono would feel better than the masculine clothes she’s been all but forced into. Regardless, she obliges, giving her reflection a good look, intent disagreeing with Mr Sholmes after she’s fulfilled his request—
And it feels terribly wrong. She cannot describe why—it didn’t feel this wrong when she first saw herself in the suit, did it? Was she simply too overwhelmed to think about it?
“It feels better,” she says, because it should. Never mind the wrongness. That can’t be the fault of her kimono.
“You hesitated, and you don’t look happy.”
She doesn’t, but that’s explainable. “The issue is that I look like a man wearing women’s clothes, not the clothes themselves.” She does look ridiculous. That has to be it.
“You really are stubborn,” he says through laughter. She’s sick of the sound. “Too stubborn to admit what you really want.”
“I don’t want to be forced into a man.”
She sees him smile in the reflection, softer, as he kisses the crown of her head. “You’ll be grateful in time.”
“You keep saying so,” she mutters.
After half a year of banishment from British courtrooms, Naruhodo-sama, and Susato by extension, have a case… and some troubling news alongside. Susato does not particularly like Lord van Zieks, but she doesn’t wish for his death—Naruhodo-sama, meanwhile, acts with a level of concern befitting a close friend, not a near-stranger who has a suspicious habit of only appearing in court when he does. He rushes them to Lord van Zieks’ office the instant he finishes talking with Lord Stronghart.
The first thing both of them notice is the man kneeling in the corner, in front of a distinctly not Western desk.
Then, from behind, someone growls, “What are you doing here?”
Lord van Zieks is back. Despite his hostile tone, he moves in front of them, as if planning to hold a conversation. His gaze rests heavy on Susato for once, not Naruhodo-sama, despite the fact that neither of them have said a word. Instinctively, her stance changes, ready to throw—she doesn’t think he’ll try to hurt them, but she doesn’t feel safe, either.
“Who is he?”
Now she doesn’t like the way he looks at her for a different reason. She hadn’t thought to worry about Lord van Zieks recognizing her, given they’ve only interacted from across the courtroom, but the scrutiny he’s subjecting her to makes her think she’d been overconfident.
“Ryutaro Mikotoba, judicial assistant,” she introduces herself. “Mr Naruhodo was worried about your health after we heard that you had been attacked, so we decided to visit. I hope we haven’t been a nuisance.”
Lord van Zieks crosses his arms, glancing at Naruhodo-sama, then away. “I am perfectly fine.”
“Oh!” Naruhodo-sama says. “That’s good.”
Lord van Zieks huffs, then looks back to her. “You share a surname with his former assistant.”
“She’s my cousin.”
“I see.” He does not look like he sees, but he turns back to Naruhodo-sama, who asks about the strange man in the corner. There is something achingly familiar about the sight… he sits like Kazuma-sama would.
Lord van Zieks says the man is his apprentice, appointed by Lord Stronghart with a few strange conditions, and gives them some information on the case. Naruhodo-sama eagerly takes it all in, while her mind half-wanders, watching the way Lord van Zieks holds himself. She can think of no better example of British masculinity, and yet if she copied his motions Mr Sholmes would scold her for it. He holds his feet close together in what looks like a ballet stance, and half the time his crossed arms seem more defensive than angry or confident—pulling himself smaller. She supposes he can get away with it… With his body, no one could mistake him for a woman.
As the possible topics of conversation run dry, and Naruhodo-sama and Lord van Zieks’ remarks grow more stilted, the apprentice walks over and simply… stares at Naruhodo-sama, owlishly, and Susato stares at him, breath caught in her chest.
Susato has spent most of her life with Kazuma-sama, and many of her waking hours simply watching him. She knows the way he carries himself, the way he always has: flawlessly, yet easily, standing wide as if trying to brace himself for a fight. A warrior’s stance. It captivated her as a little girl, and it captivates her now as the disciple settles into it.
He’s around the right height. His mask has the Asogi family crest on it. It can’t be. She can’t believe it. His body is missing, but there are other explanations for how that could have happened. He looks at Naruhodo-sama with no recognition in his eyes.
Naruhodo-sama looks at her, wide-eyed. She meets his gaze and he opens his mouth, mutters, “He’s so much like…”
She knows how the sentence ends, yet cannot bring herself to say it.
“He has amnesia,” Lord van Zieks explains. “Even if you knew him, he doesn’t know you.”
The masked man nods. She wants, desperately, to unmask him, Lord Stronghart’s orders be damned, but settles for stepping forward.
“Kazuma-sama?” she tries.
He echoes the name back at her. It sounds like him, but he shakes his head and steps back, returning to his desk. No recognition.
She and Naruhodo-sama leave the office with new information on the case and an anxious kind of hope.
“That was him,” Naruhodo-sama says as they settle inside an omnibus on their way to visit the defendant.
“He’s dead,” she responds. “When we found the body, Mr Sholmes inspected it and said he was dead.”
“He could have been mistaken.”
“About whether or not Kazuma-sama was breathing?” She clenches her fists. She is so, so tired of Herlock Sholmes. “If that is Kazuma-sama, then he must have lied.”
In the midst of their investigation, they find time to confront Mr Sholmes. He offers no remorse or even explanation, only reminding them that he is wont to lie. She already knows that very well.
After the case concludes and Mr Harebrayne, now successfully acquitted, leaves, Lord van Zieks comes up to them and asks Mr Naruhodo to join him in the courtroom to talk. It’s… peculiar, to say the least, but Naruhodo-sama seems intrigued, and Susato doesn’t anticipate any danger. After a moment for Naruhodo-sama to collect his thoughts, they enter the courtroom together. It’s empty except for Lord van Zieks, his apprentice, and the figure of the Professor.
Lord van Zieks speaks with surprising earnestness about how the Professor impacted him, while holding them in suspense at the same time… He did seem to have a flair for the dramatic.
When the moment comes to finally, finally reveal the Professor’s face comes, Susato and Naruhodo-sama rush over. She knows the face is familiar, but can’t place it, and then the apprentice screams.
“Father,” he breathes.
She knows that voice.
He walks to the professor’s waxwork and removes the mask.
It’s him. Kazuma-sama is truly back—memories included. Naruhodo-sama calls for him first, and they look at each other as if they are the only two people in the universe. Some things never change.
Susato runs over, calling for him, too. He looks at her strangely. Like Gina and Lord van Zieks did, clearly trying to place her.
“Who are you?” he asks.
He doesn’t recognize Ryutaro. Her lip trembles. What does she say? She needs to tell him. She didn’t think this through.
“Susato,” she whispers, in hopes Lord van Zieks won’t overhear, “formerly.”
“This is a strange time for a joke.”
“I’m not joking. The right style combined with Mr Sholmes’ inventions did a lot.”
He looks to Naruhodo-sama for confirmation, and he nods. Kazuma-sama still looks unsure, but he moves on to talking to Naruhodo-sama instead.
He doesn’t say another word solely directed to her before he leaves and barely explains himself, leaving Naruhodo-sama unsatisfied and herself even more so. She feels… unsettled, more than happy, as she returns to Baker Street, mind circling to one thought over and over: not only did Kazuma-sama not initially recognize her, she’s not sure he believed her—In the year since she lost him, she’s become unrecognizable to him. Him. The man she grew up alongside, the man she studied law for. The man she dedicated herself to until he was torn from her.
She can’t help but feel like she’s lost him again, and can only hope her distress isn’t plain on her face. When they get home, she makes it halfway upstairs before—
“Mikotoba! I need to give you your injection tonight.”
Right. She should get that over with.
Mr Sholmes prattles on about their performance in court, and Susato clenches the fabric of her kimono tightly in her fists. When the injection’s done, she moves to leave, but he presses her back into place with a hand on her still-exposed thigh.
“You’ve come along so nicely,” he says, standing up. He bends down, returning one hand back to her thigh so she’s still pinned, as he traces her jawline with his other hand. “Feel this.”
“What am I supposed to be feeling?” she asks.
“Facial hair. You don’t have much down here—“ he rubs her chin with his thumb “—but I believe you should still feel some difference.”
She could feel more of a difference if she were touching her own face rather than Mr Sholmes, but she can still feel something—perhaps a few sparse hairs on her chin being pushed around. It’s nothing remarkable for a man, but she’s certain those were not there before.
“Your moustache is coming along nicely as well.” It feels thicker to her—more hair between her skin and his, compared to on her chin, when he pets it. That ceases to apply as his thumb brushes her lip, once, twice, as if he’s feeling it out.
His gaze is distant, again, even as he leans in. Susato’s heart hammers. One of his hands burns on her thigh. The other burns her chin as he tilts it up.
“You really are handsome,” he murmurs.
Then he kisses her.
She freezes, wide-eyed. Caught.
Is this why he’s been so touchy? She should have seen this coming. She should have listened to her instincts—how long ago? An eternity?—when he first invaded her bedroom and she felt like she should run.
(Would it have made a difference if she had?)
He steps back, finally taking his hands off her, and Susato gasps for air. Leave. She should leave. Before he takes this further. If he’ll let her.
He steps between her and the doorway as she stands up. She prepares to throw. That could at least get her to the sitting room—He wouldn’t try anything in front of Iris, would he?
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he soothes, as if talking to an animal.
It’s too late. He already has.
“Given your writings, it seemed apparent you were interested in me. It seemed like a waste to allow our mutual attraction to amount to nothing, and, since you weren’t inclined to be forward, I thought I should be.”
“The idea of you is very different from the reality,” she murmurs.
“Better, I’d say.”
Far from it.
She slips past him, towards the door. He reaches for her forearm and she throws on instinct—Mr Sholmes slams hard into the floor and she bolts out of his room, breathing fast, keeping an eye on the door in case he tries anything. She’d like to collect herself so Iris doesn’t have to know… She’s too young.
The door opens before that can happen.
“Don’t touch me,” Susato hisses. “And keep your distance.”
He stays back and whispers, “I have no intention of forcing myself on you. Just… consider the possibilities.” In his first act of consideration in weeks, Mr Sholmes closes the door and leaves her to collect herself.
In the end, she feigns tiredness as an excuse to ‘nap’ in her room so she doesn’t have to talk to Naruhodo-sama or Iris until suppertime. Instead of sleeping, she curls up in her bed and hides under the covers like a little girl—can she even call herself that, now? At what point does every masculine feature haphazardly slapped onto the body they were born into combine to make it a man’s? It certainly doesn’t strike them as a woman’s anymore, not when they can put on their furisode and still see a man, but they can’t confidently call it a man’s either—if they were to undress, they wouldn’t see a man, nor a woman, but some strange mis-mash of both. Despite all of Mr Sholmes’ insistence that it will happen, neither ‘feels right’, or even nothing, either, just equally alien. Like there is Susato the woman and Ryutaro the man, and they are something else that can’t fit in either skin. All they can do is commit to one and hope that eventually it’ll fit… and Ryutaro is their only option.
They sigh. Run their, no, his—they’ll need to get used to thinking of themself that way, if they’re to make it stop feeling like a lie—fingers over the hair on his face. It hurts like splinters. They want it gone, but he will want it if he’s going to sell himself as a man.
Ryutaro drags himself out of bed for supper and tries to act normal. Mr Sholmes puts his arm behind Ryutaro on the back of the sofa, already disregarding his wish for space. Ryutaro wonders if he will have to assert that Mr Sholmes is not allowed to touch him every time they speak. Is there even a point? Mr Sholmes could simply get impatient and decide to throw that into their deal, and Ryutaro would look at everything he’s already done and decide it’s nothing. Mr Sholmes has already desecrated this body with his chemicals, and already desecrated his purity with his lips.
He focuses on the food as much as he can until he can retreat back to his room, but he can only postpone that line of thought, not erase it.
Susato hadn’t expected much out of her first romantic encounter. When she’d first met Kazuma-sama, she’d dreamed it would be him, but as she grew up it became more and more apparent that that would remain a dream. He was always respectful to her, but that seemed to be where it ended: respect, and love like a friend if he was feeling particularly warm. By the time he met Naruhodo-sama she had resigned herself to at most to marrying Kazuma-sama out of convenience; with Naruhodo-sama in the picture she thought about offering to marry Kazuma-sama simply to take suspicion off of Kazuma-sama’s obvious infatuation with his best friend. She only refrained because she knew Kazuma-sama would scoff that he shouldn’t have to hide.
Aside from Kazuma-sama, there wasn’t much. She had thought she would get married some day, but had no one in mind; the only other person who caught her fancy was the version of Mr Sholmes that only existed in the pages of the Randst Magazine, and even then it was… abstract. She didn’t intend to write Wilson as herself, and in fact preferred to stay out of that fantasy—she’d never particularly wanted sex with Kazuma-sama either, though she would have been willing to try with him. She’d figured at least her future husband would want to, so it would happen at some point.
Ryutaro has no such certainty. A man can’t marry another man, and realistically his chances of entering any long-term partnership with another man are slim: Naruhodo-sama would always choose Kazuma-sama first, Kazuma-sama would always choose Naruhodo-sama first, and finding a man he doesn’t already know who would be okay with his body seems difficult, and could put his secrets at risk. He could marry a woman, and—assuming nothing’s changed since they parted—Rei would be more than willing, but as much as he’d like to be, he isn’t in love with her. Partnering with another woman poses the same risks as other men with the added hurdle that he is either picky about his women, or simply incapable of falling in love with one.
If he wants a semblance of romance with another man, Mr Sholmes might be the closest he can get… He might have wanted that, once. He might have to content himself with it now.
The days between Kazuma-sama’s proper return and Ryutaro’s next injection are uneventful, yet simmering with tension. Ryutaro sits vigil in the sitting room, half-hoping Kazuma-sama will deign to visit them, and watches Mr Sholmes like a hawk every time he and Iris get close. Though he thinks that Mr Sholmes has gone after Ryutaro because of something about him, or Mr Sholmes’ own infatuation, and thus Iris should be safe, he can’t rest easy leaving another a girl around someone he knows could take advantage of her.
On the day he’s due for an injection, Ryutaro stays behind from shopping with Naruhodo-sama and ‘testing’ smoke guns with Iris and Gina. When the house is empty, he goes to Mr Sholmes and informs him that he’d like his shot now.
“Eager, are you?” he teases.
“I want it over with,” Ryutaro responds.
Knowing what Mr Sholmes wants of him, their once-routine contact now seems charged. Ryutaro flinches at the hand on his thigh, once again feeling vulnerable and exposed with his kimono pulled back.
“Have you reconsidered?” Mr Sholmes asks. He’s done with the shot. Still touching Ryutaro.
“Do I really have a choice? Or will you attempt to blackmail me into changing my answer if I say no?”
“I would never,” he says. It sounds like he means it. If Ryutaro didn’t know he was such a good liar, he would have been convinced. “I know my methods can be underhanded, but I aim to do good. I would never stoop to coercing anyone into sex.”
“Would you take advantage of anyone else?”
“I didn’t intend to take advantage of you.”
“I wasn’t asking about myself.” He startles, searching Ryutaro’s face for who, and Ryutaro snaps, “Iris. Would you lay a hand on her, whether you ‘intended’ to take advantage of her or not?”
He stands up dramatically, either genuinely upset or doing a good job of feigning it. “Even if I wasn’t her guardian, she’s far too young. Surely I don’t strike you as the sort of man that—“
“I’m closer to her age than yours,” Ryutaro states.
Mr Sholmes waves his hand, and returns to sitting on the bed. “You aren’t a child.”
Perhaps he isn’t. Still… “Don’t you think I’m rather… young for you?” In the midst of everything, their age difference is hardly a concern, but now that he’s thinking about it, it feels… unsettling.
“I was about your age when Wilson and I got together, and that went well. I’m not concerned about it.”
The room, and by extension the entire house, falls silent.
“Well?”
Ryutaro takes a deep breath. He could leave. Maybe. Mr Sholmes is sitting close.
“If we were to become lovers,” he says, “I would not risk pregnancy, and we would have to keep our relationship secret. Could you do that?”
“Of course.”
He doesn’t want to do this, but it feels futile to resist. Mr Sholmes always gets what he wants, and what he clearly wants is to fuck Ryutaro. It would be better to do it on his own terms, surely, than to let Mr Sholmes creep closer and closer until it’s too late for him to even try negotiating. A relief compared to living in dread that each time they talk will be the time Mr Sholmes forces himself on Ryutaro again.
“I’ve reconsidered,” he sighs.
Mr Sholmes presses a kiss to the side of his head. “Wise choice. Shall we resume where we left off?”
Ryutaro stands up so he can face Mr Sholmes and lean down to kiss him, trying his best to seem like he knows what he’s doing when he really, really doesn’t. Mr Sholmes guides him through it—a hand on his back, pulling him closer, his tongue in Ryutaro’s mouth. It’s… strange, and invasive. Makes him want to back out, to bite, but he only swallows the bile in his throat and endures until they pull apart.
Mr Sholmes looks him over and licks his lips, settling a hand on his obi. “May I help you remove this?”
Now he asks for permission.
Ryutaro nods and sets to work undressing Mr Sholmes in return, starting with unbuttoning his vest. His hands linger on the ribbon around Mr Sholmes’ neck as he undoes it, wondering what it would be like to just pull until he chokes. Ryutaro would never do that, so he simply proceeds to unbutton Mr Sholmes’ shirt as his obi comes undone—Mr Sholmes leaves it to fall on the floor, and Ryutaro glares at him as he picks it up.
“You aren’t going to need that anymore,” Mr Sholmes says while shedding the rest of his clothes.
“I like to take care of my belongings.” For the time being, he sets the obi on the bed, beside Mr Sholmes. Though Ryutaro barely glances at his face in the process, the hunger in Mr Sholmes’ gaze is striking.
Ryutaro shudders as he forces himself to finish undressing, focusing on where he’s going to put everything instead of the eyes boring into his skin. He’d elected not to wear his hakama, since it only seemed to get in the way for his injections, but that still leaves him with a nice kimono and obi he’d rather keep in good condition in case he passes them along someday, and his undergarments.
He settles for clearing a few books off of the bedside table, then folding his clothes and placing them there.
By the time he’s done, Mr Sholmes has long since successfully removed his clothing. He’s fine-looking, Ryutaro supposes. Nothing that makes him want to stare like Mr Sholmes is staring at him, or triggers that spark of lust he’s supposed to have, just creeping discomfort.
Mr Sholmes steps forward. Runs a finger along the shoulder strap of the undergarment Iris had made for Ryutaro, the one piece of clothing he hadn’t removed, with an eyebrow raised.
“That stays on,” he says, trying to sound assertive. It doesn’t quite work.
“It’s rather late for modesty,” Mr Sholmes murmurs.
“I know.”
“You don’t like seeing your breasts.”
“I thought we were going to have sex,” Ryutaro retorts, “not stand here and talk.”
“We can do both at the same time, but I see your point.” He crawls across the bed to grab a small bottle of lubricant from the other bedside table—was that always there, or did he just set it out recently?—and Ryutaro takes in the room’s clutter as Mr Sholmes uses it to prepare himself.
“Lie down on the bed,” he commands, “and try to relax. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Ryutaro does as he’s told, vaguely grateful he doesn’t have to do much. It’s easier this way. Less need to be present. He traces the patterns on the bedsheets and tries to breathe steadily as Mr Sholmes adjusts his legs, then sticks his fingers in his anus. Steady. This is fine. He’s fine. It doesn’t feel that bad. Mr Sholmes tries to prepare him adequately and Ryutaro tries not to be so tense, but it still hurts when sinks in. Ryutaro doesn’t cry out.
When Mr Sholmes is done with his body, Ryutaro stirs, pushing himself to sit upright as Mr Sholmes steps back. He feels so heavy. There’s cum stuck to his skin and he’s cold, but he can’t bring himself to do anything about either issue.
Mr Sholmes is unconcerned. He presses a kiss to Ryutaro’s forehead in some mockery of affection, uncaring of how he slightly turns away from the gesture. Thankfully, having achieved his climax, he seems satisfied to pursue nothing further for the time being.
Ryutaro should dress himself. He does not want to stay with Mr Sholmes, bare, any longer than he has to, yet he sits there shivering for several minutes until finally flailing for his clothes and clumsily putting them on. Mr Sholmes spends the same amount of time fumbling for where he put his shirt, and when Ryutaro stumbles away he’s too absorbed in that to say a word.
Everyone else is still gone, so it doesn’t matter if he stops to brace himself halfway up the stairs, or can’t muster more than a grimace. He’ll survive, and no one will know.
The tension Ryutaro feels at home breaks, or at least becomes a secondary concern, with the whirlwind of Inspector Gregon’s murder and the subsequent investigation and trial. There’s no time to waste with an ever-expanding case to solve and Lord van Zieks’s life on the line followed by a long day at court, so Ryutaro and Naruhodo-sama avoid lingering at Baker Street when they can.
They can’t avoid it after Toby knocks Naruhodo-sama out during their second investigation day, and Naruhodo-sama needs to be taken back home to recover. After he wakes, they get caught up in unraveling Iris’s secret—the stolen autopsy report, authored by her father—which is almost enough to keep Ryutaro focused on the case until he sees the handwriting.
He doesn’t want to deal with this. He doesn’t want more, but if he doesn’t pursue this line of evidence it’ll drive him mad.
The second Iris leaves the room, Ryutaro pounces. “That was my father’s handwriting.”
Mr Sholmes acts unaffected. “So it is.”
“If my father wrote that report, and the author of the report is Iris’s father, then… then my father is also Iris’s.” Could his father have done that? Could he have had another child he never told Ryutaro about? A year ago he might have said never, but now he doesn’t know… If Kazuma-sama and Mr Sholmes and his father could all so easily hide something from her, what’s to say he hadn’t hidden this, too? At the very least he must have hidden that he and Mr Sholmes worked together.
“Correct, if both conditions are true.”
Naruhodo-sama clears his throat, and Ryutaro and Mr Sholmes both turn to look at him, having almost forgotten he was there. “Do you mean to say that one of them isn’t?”
“Correct again!”
“I know that’s my father’s handwriting,” Ryutaro says. “So it must be that the person who wrote it isn’t Iris’s father, which means you lied to her—and let her believe that your partner was Dr Wilson when it really was my father?”
Mr Sholmes nods along. “I did.”
“Why?”
“A question for another time. I’m afraid I have a mission to embark upon. If you’d like to come along, I would appreciate the help,” he says to Ryutaro.
He’d rather not be alone with Mr Sholmes, and frankly his sudden need to leave is suspicious. However, if whatever Mr Sholmes intends to do is important, which it probably is, it’d be better if there was a second opinion.
“Would you mind if I accompanied Mr Sholmes?” he asks Naruhodo-sama. He doesn’t really want to leave Naruhodo-sama alone, either—he’s by no means an amazing assistant, but he might be able to help Naruhodo-sama somewhat if he was there.
“Not at all,” he says. “Go ahead.”
With that settled, Ryutaro and Mr Sholmes grab their things, then hurry outside to the carriage Mr Sholmes had already called.
It’s empty except for them. Mr Sholmes sits on one side and Ryutaro sits on the other.
“You told me you and Wilson were lovers,” he starts. Takes a deep breath. “But ‘Wilson’ is who Iris thought my father was. Were you and the real Wilson lovers, or was it… was it you and my father?”
“Your father. We started living together shortly after he arrived in London in order to cover the rent, and we quickly started working together as well. From there it was only a matter of time until he confessed to me, and we became a couple—In secret, of course.
“There’s no need to make that face,” he says. Ryutaro hadn’t realized he was making one.
“How long is ‘a matter of time?’”
“A few months, perhaps?”
That would make it, what? About half a year since Susato’s mother passed away, and Father left Susato behind because he was so overcome by grief. The thought that he would choose another so quickly, as if he were over her mother already, sparks a bolt of something—jelousy? Frustration?—that he can’t help. He doesn’t like resenting his father, doesn’t like the way it curls around him and sours his grief, doesn’t like that it has nowhere to go.
He has a much easier time resenting Mr Sholmes, and this new information has given him even more reason to do so. “You were with my father when I was barely born, and yet you see no issue with trying to be together?”
“It doesn’t change anything.”
“You could have been my stepfather,” Ryutaro snaps back.
“We couldn’t have married,” he corrects.
“That’s not the point. Surely you can see how that makes you sound far too old for me.”
“Like I said, I was about your age—only a couple of years older, I think—when your father and I got together, and nothing bad came of it. Quite the opposite, in fact. Mikotoba and I were both in much better spirits.”
“Mikotoba,” Ryutaro repeats. His father.
Oh.
Oh no.
Mr Sholmes calls Ryutaro the same thing he called his father. He hadn’t done that before Ryutaro went to Japan—before his father passed away—and he hadn’t ‘deduced’ Ryutaro wanted to be a man beforehand, either. He gave Ryutaro a haircut just like his father’s.
When Mr Sholmes looked in the mirror that day, did he see Ryutaro’s father? Did he mean to? It sounds absurd, but this entire mess with Mr Sholmes has been nothing but one absurdity after another, and so he can’t help but think…
“You’re trying to make me into a replacement for my father.”
“Mikotoba.” Ryutaro flinches. “I meant nothing of the sort. You’re brilliant, and a fantastic partner in your own right.”
His fists are clenched. “You don’t think that. You don’t even trust my opinions on my body, and you laugh at me like I’m just too stupid for even having them.”
“You have a few blind spots. That’s all.”
“Stop lying to me.”
“I wasn’t.”
He kicks Mr Sholmes in the shin.
Mr Sholmes yelps, but otherwise stays still. He looks at Ryutaro, while Ryutaro’s heart pounds. He doesn’t want to fight, and some part of his brain doesn’t want to hurt Mr Sholmes. He just wants quiet.
Mr Sholmes looks away. He’s not smiling. Ryutaro isn’t, either. Neither of them say a word.
The important mission turns out to be a trip to the true scene of the crime, according to Mr Sholmes, who didn’t bother telling Ryutaro that information until they stepped foot aboard the SS Grouse. After an incredibly uncomfortable investigation, complete with a stilted Dance of Deduction in which Ryutaro seems more a hindrance than a help, they find Jigoku-sama. He staggers to his feet as if light-headed from his time in the trunk, but insists he’s fine enough to rush back to London after Mr Sholmes presents the subpoena to him.
By the time Ryutaro and Mr Sholmes make it back home, it’s late, but there’s still more to be done. Naruhodo-sama and Iris catch Ryutaro and Mr Sholmes up on the trial, they eat, and Mr Sholmes finally explains why he lied about Kazuma-sama’s ‘death.’ Ryutaro thinks he should give Mr Sholmes grace for it now, knowing he was trying to save Kazuma-sama’s life, but he can’t bring himself to. At this point, it seems Mr Sholmes is a habitual liar. Kazuma-sama might be too. He hid that he was taking Naruhodo-sama to London with him, he hid the truth about his father, and he hid that he was supposed to be an assassin.
Is that what being a man is? Lying and lying and lying, like Father and Mr Sholmes and Kazuma-sama? Like he’s been doing, even with the best of intentions, to Naruhodo-sama and Iris, as he tries to keep his own secrets and struggles to himself.
He’s past due for his shot, Mr Sholmes says, and Ryutaro doesn’t care, but lets himself be led along to Mr Sholmes’ room. He can’t be bothered to change, so he simply removes his trousers. It wouldn’t be anything Mr Sholmes hadn’t seen before.
“I wish you and Mr Naruhodo the best of luck tomorrow," Mr Sholmes says after he finishes the injection. His hand strokes Ryutaro’s thigh. Anyone with an ounce of consideration could conclude it’s unwanted, let alone the oh-so-clever Great Detective.
“If you want something, just take it,” Ryutaro mutters. “Don’t waste time pretending you care about my feelings.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You don’t care enough to avoid it.”
Mr Sholmes keeps touching Ryutaro. He does not ask when he moves to kiss his ‘partner’, and he pays no heed to the way Ryutaro freezes in response, or sits still like a doll as he prepares for more.
Jigoku-sama killed Inspector Gregson. Jigoku-sama shot Kazuma-sama’s father.
A couple of weeks after the dust settles on the Reaper and Professor cases, Naruhodo-sama says he’s considering returning to Japan, at Kazuma-sama’s encouragement.
“I don’t expect you to come with me,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “but I thought you should know.”
“Thank you,” Ryutaro responds. “I’m considering returning as well.” He wants to go home, if Mr Sholmes will let him go.
“I want to return to Japan,” he tells Mr Sholmes the next time they’re alone. Waits, as he prepares the shot.
“I’ll miss you dearly,” he replies, “and I suppose I’ll have to teach you to do this yourself.”
“So you’ll let me?”
“I told you it would be helpful if you were a man when you returned to Japan, did I not?”
Maybe he did. It feels like forever ago.
At least it seems Mr Sholmes has no intention of forcing Ryutaro to stay. That’s better than expected. All that remains is to round up his things, inform people of his plans, find a boat, and leave. Freedom, if he can call it that. It doesn’t make him happy like it should, but he does feel relief.
The first place Ryutaro goes in his quest to talk to Kazuma-sama is the Prosecutor’s Office. It’s midday and he hadn’t heard of any in-progress cases Kazuma-sama was on, so he would likely be there, working on paperwork or being instructed by Lord van Zieks.
Kazuma-sama is not there. Lord van Zieks looks up from the model he’s constructing to inform Ryutaro that Kazuma-sama is out fetching an autopsy report for the case they’re working on together, but Ryutaro’s welcome to wait for him to come back.
“I want to talk with you as well,” Lord van Zieks concludes.
Ryutaro closes the door behind himself, and nods. Lord van Zieks stands up and steps away from the model, keeping a careful distance as if he’s afraid to startle Ryutaro.
“You don’t have to answer anything I ask you, honestly or at all.” He glances away. “It’s just personal curiosity.”
About what?
“You and Miss Mikotoba aren’t cousins, are you?”
Oh.
“Why do you ask?”
“I believe we’re the same.”
Surely he can’t mean to imply… Mr Sholmes did say he’d helped someone with this before, and it seemed he and Lord van Zieks had known each other for some time. It’s not inconceivable.
“You were Miss Mikotoba,” he concludes.
Ryutaro could lie. It seems a bit late for that. “Yes.”
Lord van Zieks looks toward him now. “I happen to know a surgeon and a good tailor that I’d be willing to commission on your behalf, if you believe either would be of assistance.”
“Thank you for the offer,” he says, “but I’m afraid I can’t accept.”
“It would be no trouble to me. I have more than enough money to spare.”
“There wouldn’t be time. I’m returning to Japan soon.”
“I see.” He returns to his model, and Ryutaro hesitantly steps forward to look at it himself. “I wish you safe travels, then.”
Lord van Zieks appears to have run out of things to say or patience for conversation, and Ryutaro has nothing he can ask without hinting at his own aches—Does Lord van Zieks feel comfortable in his skin?—so he does not speak, either.
When Kazuma-sama arrives, the silence is broken by the sound of his footsteps against the floor as he enters the room and Lord van Zieks’ footsteps as he leaves it.
Kazuma-sama stares at Ryutaro the same way Ryutaro had looked at him when he was nothing but Lord van Zieks’ amnesiac apprentice, searching for something. Maybe the girl he had been, when they thought they knew each other? Maybe the traces of his transformation, the cracks in his facade?
“Judicial Assistant Mikotoba,” he hazards, like he’s searching for confirmation.
“Yes?”
No response. They haven’t talked apart from Naruhodo-sama since before Kazuma-sama ‘died’, and he’s not sure how to do it now, but he has to try.
“While you were lost, Father fell gravely ill, so he called me back to Japan. I barely made it back before he passed away.”
Simple. Easy.
Kazuma-sama takes the information in. Nods. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, like a stranger’s supposed to. Like Father didn’t raise him, too. (He was always so distant, wasn’t he?) Perhaps he will grieve in private later. Perhaps he will not.
“I’m returning to Japan with Naruhodo-sama,” Ryutaro says, “so I thought I should inform you in advance.”
“Look after him for me, will you?”
“Of course.”
They have nothing more to say to each other. Ryutaro leaves.
The day before he and Naruhodo-sama are set to return to Japan, Ryutaro finds the notebook Mr Sholmes stole sitting open on his bed.
Incredulous, he flips through it. The pages are all marked up as if Mr Sholmes were trying to give him corrections—changing Mr Sholmes’ lines to sound more like himself, fixing a few misspellings and commenting on the pacing—but also compliments, from the more articulate to the more vulgar on the parts he apparently found particularly arousing. The audacity of it would have been astounding if Ryutaro hadn’t spent long enough with Mr Sholmes to expect it.
No, the real startling part is that Mr Sholmes left the supplies for Ryutaro to handle his own injections alongside the notebook he’d been keeping to coerce him into them. There’d be nothing to stop Ryutaro from ridding himself of both.
He burns the notebook. The supplies go in his luggage.
Naruhodo-sama ends up with a nice room for their trip back, courtesy of Lord van Zieks, so, like on their ride to London, they spend most of their time together, in his room. On the return trip, there’s no need to frantically teach Naruhodo-sama the ins and outs of law, so they spend more time reading and playing games than studying. That’s nice. Ryutaro’s nerves, not so much.
It happens, again and again. Ryutaro will be sitting, or standing, and Naruhodo-sama will get close for some innocent reason—to read over his shoulder, to simply sit beside him, to reach for a pen he left on the desk—and Ryutaro will flinch, chest tight, danger danger danger ringing in his head. That didn’t happen before. It’s irrational, probably. Most likely, Naruhodo-sama isn’t going to do anything, he tells himself. Naruhodo-sama’s trustworthy.
(He thought that about Mr Sholmes, and look how that turned out.)
“Are you alright?” Naruhodo-sama asks, after what must be the hundredth time. He’d sat down beside Ryutaro to glance at what part of the novel he’s at, and Ryutaro had nearly dropped the book when he noticed.
“I’m fine.” He’s not. Naruhodo-sama can tell.
“Something’s troubling you,” he says. “If there’s anything I can do to help, will you at least tell me what to do?” He looks so worried.
Ryutaro can’t stand it. He wishes there was something he could say to make Naruhodo-sama feel better, but he can no more hide his reflexes than he could hide his voice. There’s no lie he can tell to make it seem normal, but he can’t tell the whole truth, either.
He settles for the easiest part of it. “Finding out Jigoku-sama killed Kazuma-sama’s father was quite a shock. I suppose that’s why my nerves are a bit overactive.”
Naruhodo-sama seems to accept that answer. Good. “Do you want me to give you more space?”
He wants to feel safe again. He wants to curl up against Naruhodo-sama and have it be comforting, not terrifying. “I think that’s for the best.”
Naruhodo-sama nods and slides away on the bed. Ryutaro tries to flash a grateful smile; he thinks he frowns instead.
At seventeen years old, Ryutaro Mikotoba steps foot in Susato’s childhood home. Too many revelations and his own changes have turned even the ghosts that haunt it unfamiliar, like his own body and mind. The bones are the same but the coating is different.
That evening, he tries to slip back into Susato’s skin. Her kimono fits yet it brings no escape from himself, only the crushing feeling of losing someone else. He can put on his old clothes and sit where her family ate supper, but the little girl who looked at them with pure adoration is dead; he can sit where she cried simply over her father and Kazuma-sama’s deaths, but the woman who could think of them without resentment is gone.
He misses both of them. He misses trusting easily; he misses grieving easily; he misses when he was five years old and his world had no men in it, just Susato and her grandmother, and he knew nothing of law or London, but there is nothing he can do to go back.
The next day he visits Rei, inviting her to the milk bar. She looks at him with stars in her eyes, blushing. Did he look at Kazuma-sama like that, once? Will he hurt her? Ryutaro feels sick. He pushes it down and tries to return her affections: lying, like all the men before him.