Heavenly Demon Holmes: London’s Subjugation

A phoenix is nothing more than a means for an egg to produce another egg.

• Samuel Butler -

After leaving Buckingham Palace, we took a carriage and set off for Mayfair.

With only three days left, I judged we had to begin the case as quickly as possible.

<We meet again sooner than I expected, Sherlock.>

Across from me, Mycroft looked my way with his trademark languid smile.

He was moving the black ink he always carried, spreading it over the carriage windows to block prying eyes.

But he adjusted its transparency with internal energy, so a measure of midday sunlight still filtered in, sparing us from having to speak in complete darkness.

“I half-expected it, so I can’t say I’m glad.”

Earlier, right after Her Majesty said she had arranged an assistant, just before the door opened, the first person to come to mind was Mycroft. The day I ran into Tsar Alexander III at Henry Poole & Co., the shop’s old hands mistook me for a Secret Intelligence Service agent and grew wary.

Which meant Mycroft’s men often dug up information on foreign dignitaries visiting London.

Since I already knew the new Tsar was in London, it was easy to predict Mycroft would meddle, even without knowing what had been stolen.

<Unfortunately, I anticipated that you would anticipate it.>

“And I anticipated that you would anticipate that I anticipated it.”

Mycroft, meanwhile, looked rather delighted.

In a situation where failing to recover the item in time might spark a war, the so-called Chief of the British Intelligence Butler Agency was sitting there spouting nonsense at his leisure.

As a patriot, I could only worry for Great Britain’s future.

<Referring to your elder brother with words ‘that side’ is a bad habit.>

“You haven’t changed. Whenever you start losing a battle of words, you switch tactics and complain about manners. A temperament befitting the head of a shadowy intelligence outfit.”

<Can’t you look at your brother as a person rather than a title, Sherlock? Is that too much to ask of someone born—quite unintentionally—with a slightly twisted perspective and sensibilities?>

“If you truly work in the shadows while aspiring to the light like some hero, then stop with that cowardly rhetoric. It’s disgusting.”

<You’ve never lacked for words when it comes to your brother.>

“Says the man who tries to pin his own sibling down with seniority.”

<How about it? Since we’re at it, shall we settle who’s superior?>

“I see no reason not to.”

<Good. Then, it’s a Sword Debate.>

Just as Mycroft and I prepared to draw our three-inch tongues, Watson cut in, looking thoroughly cowed.

“Um… weren’t we on our way to handle something important…?”

“How unfortunate. We nearly wasted precious time.”

Her words quietly doused the overheated mood, and instead of engaging Mycroft in a best-of-three Sword Debate, I gained the chance to discuss something more constructive.

“And Holmes. This is a request from your assistant, but—I couldn’t understand the conversation you had with Her Majesty at all… You wouldn’t say the details of anything that seemed important, so I couldn’t follow the thread. If you don’t mind, could you explain?”

Watson honestly confessed that she hadn’t properly understood a single thing at Buckingham Palace.

<It may be rude, but she doesn’t look like a particularly competent assistant.>

<If you’re aware it’s rude, then kindly shut up.>

Mycroft had been spewing nonsense via Direct Message, so I admonished him.

If Watson’s mind ran as quickly as mine, she’d be a consulting detective, not a detective’s assistant.

Her strengths lay in fields utterly different from mine, and there was no one who could replace them.

“My apologies, Watson. Earlier, Her Majesty hesitated to bring up this and that, so even when I saw you at a loss, I couldn’t explain the details. First, we must establish that the one who invoked war while demanding the recovery of the lost item was Russia’s Alexander III.”

“T-The Tsar…?!”

Watson stared as if she’d just seen a ghost.

“It’s nothing to be so shocked about. Didn’t I tell you I ran into him by chance at the tailor shop?”

“Ah. I remember. You said he looked as if he wanted to hire you, didn’t you?”

This time, it was Mycroft who reacted.

Russia was a great power competing with Britain for dominance over the Eurasian continent.

As the head of the British Intelligence Butler Agency, Mycroft could hardly be pleased at the thought his brother might be colluding with a potential enemy.

“Rest easy, Mycroft. I insist on being a freelancer. I’ve no intention of working under the Tsar, though taking a commission once or twice might be another matter.”

<Know this. Your brother has never doubted your patriotism.>

“I’m sure.”

After I needled Mycroft, Watson asked me another question.

“If the Tsar went to Buckingham Palace and spoke of war before Her Majesty… does that mean something tremendously important vanished?”

“A treasure. From the shape, I’d guess an egg-shaped craftwork adorned with jewels.”

I spoke as if uncertain for Watson’s sake, but I, who returned from the future, knew exactly what that treasure was.

A Fabergé Egg.

The name of exquisitely crafted jeweled works commissioned each year by the Russian imperial family.

It began as a lavish Easter egg crafted from precious metals and gems by Russia’s first-rate—no, supreme jeweler, Peter Carl Fabergé, under Alexander III’s command.

All Fabergé eggs, including the “Hen Egg” the Tsar gifted to Empress Feodorovna for their twentieth anniversary, shared only a similar shape; each was made from different materials.

Each precious egg opened in its own way, and the contents within varied wildly.

A golden hen figurine, a goat carving, a ship, a carriage, a train, a palace, a globe, and more.

In the world before my regression, rumors of these works holding tiny, intricate miniatures once captivated connoisseurs across Europe.

Of course, since the owners were members of the Russian imperial family, those who had truly seen them were few.

Alexander III gifted Fabergé eggs only to his own family.

So everything I knew about the missing piece amounted to rumor.

Still, in the history I knew, the first Fabergé egg was made in 1885, four years from now.

For a Fabergé egg to exist in 1881 meant the ‘egg’ of this world might be a fundamentally different object altogether.

“A craftwork… Hearing you, it does seem so. But even if it’s a priceless treasure, isn’t it unnatural to invoke war over a single object…?”

“The Trojan War began over a single golden apple. Anything can become a pretext for war.”

That was what I told Watson, but what truly bothered me was what the egg-shaped craftwork contained.

It was the Tsar’s one-sided claim, but if it was true that Irene Adler stole a Fabergé egg, I suspected some ominous secret might be hidden within.

“In any case, it’s certain it’s something precious to the Tsar.”

The three-day limit might be due to the Tsar’s fiery temperament.

But his hinting at war indicated the missing treasure’s value was not something that could be replaced by any other.

From what I saw at the tailor shop, he was not a fool enough to invoke war merely because an anniversary gift for his wife had gone missing.

Perhaps he thought that if he could not recover the treasure, war would be preferable.

Considering the differences between my original world and this one, I had to allow for the possibility that the egg’s contents surpassed my expectations by a wide margin.

A Kung-Fu manual, or an elixir.

Or perhaps something even greater.

Either way, the day it surfaced, it would be a treasure capable of turning European Murim upside down.

‘Her Majesty Victoria is weighing it as well.’

Her Majesty didn’t attach Mycroft to me merely to help.

From the standpoint of political dynamics, there was no guarantee that even if I recovered the treasure, Her Majesty would return it to the Tsar.

If they confirmed what lay inside and judged it worth risking war, Her Majesty and the British government would be willing to face Russia.

In other words, Mycroft was the insurance she had prepared.

Mycroft, who worked solely for Britain’s national interest, would take whatever I found not to the Tsar, but to Her Majesty.

As for me, unless what was inside was something dangerous like a weapon of mass destruction, I believed the egg should return to its rightful owner.

I might clash with Mycroft along the way, but that could be a problem for later.

“What matters is that we swiftly soothe the Tsar’s dissatisfaction and reduce needless sacrifice. We cannot allow the young men of Britain who love their families and their country to be wounded or die.”

I said it to probe Mycroft’s intent, but it was useless.

<My word. You’ve finally learned how to empathize with another’s pain, Sherlock.>

As always, he only gazed at me serenely, wearing a smile that revealed nothing of his thoughts.

Claridge’s was one of Mayfair’s most famous hotels.

It was a luxury inn called ‘Buckingham’s annex,’ where guests visiting the royal family stayed.

That day at the tailor shop, Alexander III told me to come here.

He said he would leave Britain three days after the ball ended, so he should still be staying here.

Fearing assassination, he would be careful not to let word leak. Unless he had pressing business, like meeting Her Majesty, he would stay inside the hotel.

Having judged so, I immediately got down with Watson and entered the hotel lobby.

Mycroft stayed in the carriage. In case of unforeseen developments, he decided to monitor us using his ink.

But thinking back, the Tsar never asked my name at the tailor shop.

If I came to the hotel, how did he intend to recognize me?

-Thud.

That was when.

A robust young man rose from a sofa and approached me.

No mistake.

The man I had seen before the tailor shop . One of the Tsar’s attendants.

“I am Ivan Petrovich Pavlov. The Tsar is waiting. This way.”