Hermione, let's start a revolution from Hogwarts!

"Malfoy, Flint, Greengrass, and Parkinson... that's all for now. Have Uncle Mycroft check if these family names appear in historical documents, the more detailed the better."

"They're from the magical world?"

"Families that believe in wizarding supremacy and bloodline theory will only benefit if the British government and the Ministry of Magic become hostile because of these cases. Besides..."

He rubbed his brow wearily.

Nietzsche's negative emotions only surfaced after Hermione left.

"You can use your Cambridge University graduate status to keep an eye on some people at Oxford University, some of whom can correspond with wizards."

The letters containing the ingredients for the potions that Sherlock found at the beginning were sent by the wizard to some of 'them', and the locations and identities of the dead were told to the dark wizard by them.

Sherlock let out a long sigh of relief, his vision suddenly clearing as he finally used his Nietzsche fan to blow away the fog before him.

"By the way, Merry Christmas, I received your gift."

Nietzsche had been preparing this "great gift" for three months, and it was finally delivered to him just now.

Chapter 53 The bustling Baker Street 221B

Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hudson!

"You too, little Nietzsche."

"Let's go upstairs and get something to eat, I'm starving."

Baker Street is a 400-meter-long street in London, and renting a room there is very expensive. Apart from Mrs. Hudson, who was just looking for some excitement, she was the only landlord who could tolerate Sherlock.

The first floor was Hudson's own room, and the second floor belonged to a retired captain... who was supposedly introduced by Watson.

“Mary and I are engaged,” Watson announced at the dinner table.

Their hands were clasped tightly together on the table, seemingly for Sherlock's benefit.

Nietzsche had more or less guessed about the Watsons' engagement; it was within his expectations. So he and Sherlock simply nodded slightly without any further comment, which made the atmosphere at the lunch very subtle.

Mary glanced awkwardly at her fiancé, then looked at her adopted son.

"Don't you... have anything to say?"

“If Sherlock doesn’t want to die alone, I might consider staying here after Watson gets married.” Nietzsche wiped his mouth and began to savor the landlady’s cookies. “Although I only come back once every four or five months.”

The engagement ring doesn't feel as cold as you might imagine.

Mary placed her palm on Nietzsche's hand. She could feel the wounds and calluses from holding a pen, and the blue ink stains under his fingernails. She was an independent yet gentle woman.

To be honest, Watson did need a safe haven to rest; his life had been dangerous enough in the first half.

“You can live with us.” Mary took this very seriously.

But Nietzsche first glanced at Sherlock, who was bowing his head and remaining silent, and then thought for a moment before answering: "He is currently investigating a case involving wizards, and I am worried that there might be a dark wizard... If anything happens to him, at least I can be there to see him off in his final moments."

Mary's smile gradually froze.

"Wait a minute, shouldn't the detective be protected in this situation?" Sherlock retorted expressionlessly.

“The other party is a dark wizard who comes and goes without a trace, and I am just a student.” Nietzsche rolled his eyes and imitated Snape’s expression, “So in this matter, at most I will leave you with a whole corpse.”

The topic naturally shifted between the two.

There are some things that only Shylock can understand... not that he can empathize with Nietzsche, but that only he knows Nietzsche's mind.

Mary was somewhat disappointed. Nietzsche's answer was unexpected. Logically, Nietzsche should have been very excited, because for an adopted child, being able to truly live with their parents is a happy thing.

"Why..."

“Oh my god, what will I do after Watson leaves?” Mrs. Hudson interrupted her.

The landlady looked worried. The thought of having to deal with Sherlock Holmes alone in the future made her feel that the future was bleak. She sat opposite Mary, shook her head slightly, and gestured for her not to ask any more questions.

Well, besides Shylock, there's an even more unexpected person who understands Nietzsche.

"Well..." Watson didn't know what to say, so he could only chuckle awkwardly, "I believe you'll get used to it."

In fact, he wasn't worried at all, because if Mrs. Hudson didn't like the tenant, she could easily find a reason to kick Sherlock out, but she didn't, because Watson knew that Hudson also liked those detective stories.

Sherlock and Nietzsche from the Holmes family always manage to break the landlord's boring daily routine.

She couldn't stand the kind of life where tomorrow and today were completely indistinguishable, as if it were no different from being dead. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't treat his landlord like an outsider at all, always letting him do whatever he wanted.

Everyone in this room, except Mary, is sick...

"It's getting late, Mrs. Hudson. Could you please prepare the wine glasses in the kitchen... and two more glasses?"

"I'm not your servant!" Despite saying this, the landlord still got up and left. "Mary, could you lend me a hand? I don't know where you hid the brandy."

Mary dragged her dejected body to the kitchen.

Who else will come today? A third Sherlock Holmes?

She tried to guess these things, to forget Nietzsche's answer. Mary used her key to open the kitchen storage room, lifted the oil paper covering the dust, took out a bottle labeled 'formalin' and smelled it.

The preservatives inside had long been replaced with alcohol, a prank by Sherlock Holmes.

“You can’t treat Nietzsche as an ordinary child.” Hudson leaned against the doorway of the storage room, blocking the way.

“That’s my child, I watched him grow up,” Mary said listlessly, as if all her strength had been drained. “And he was my first child… I… I don’t think he was adopted.”

She had a husband before she met Watson.

But it wasn't a divorce; she lost her husband.

“He has always been very sensible, Mary. You should know that he is far beyond his years, but Nietzsche is too sensible... It’s not that he has any grudge against you. Strictly speaking, he loves you far more than you love him.”

"Wh...what do you mean?"

"You and Watson will form a new family and have your own children."

Mrs. Hudson said that much, then stepped aside, went to the cupboard, took out seven cups, placed them on a plate, and carried them to the dining table.

She was a landlady, and as an elderly woman with one foot in the grave, Hudson had seen all sorts of tenants, including many couples who had remarried or remarried with children.

As Nietzsche said, nothing is immutable.

Even if Mary could repeatedly assure him, his attention would inevitably be diverted the moment his own child was born, which would be very painful for Nietzsche.

"Why did it take so long?" Watson eagerly took the bottle after seeing his fiancée come out. "You didn't mix up the real preservative with the bottle, did you... Sherlock! Didn't I tell you not to play these tricks? How childish!"

“That’s only because your way of storing wine is too unconventional,” Mary said with a forced smile.

Nietzsche was a minor, so his wine glass only contained fruit juice.

Watson, whose dosage was restricted, took advantage of Christmas to drink most of a bottle with Holmes. During the drink, Watson did most of the talking, including about the woman.

That mysterious, alluring, and quick-witted woman.

"I'm serious, maybe Eileen Adler doesn't like your type."

"None of my business!" Sherlock feigned calmness, turning his head away. "John, you're drunk, sober up."

"Come on, that... woman who tricked Sherlock Holmes." Watson laughed heartily, completely losing his gentlemanly demeanor. "If she was interested in you, why didn't she come to visit you for Christmas?"

"First, I was not fooled; second, the blame should be placed on Nietzsche."

Just then, footsteps echoed down the corridor, and Inspector Lestrade, dressed in a black trench coat, walked in through the open door. He hung his hat on the coat rack and greeted the people on the sofa one by one.

He had a brown mustache under his nose and was about the same height as Watson.

Suddenly, the detective heard a muttered something he couldn't understand, and then a glass that had been filled with brandy floated in front of him, startling him.

"Th...thank you, you knew I would come?"

"In the morning, I spoke with the police at King's Cross station and told them not to be afraid, that I already knew about the US ambassador's situation,"

“Scared? I’m not scared.” Inspector Lestrade didn’t even let the last drop of wine in his glass go, then immediately said, “What kind of trick are you playing now? Do you know something?”

He immediately put down the empty wine glass, and his eyes didn't leave it until he sat down.

“That wasn’t a trick, that was… magic.” Nietzsche waved his wand. “This case can’t be blamed on Scotland Yard’s incompetence. Fear is not shameful; in fact, it is wisdom in the face of danger.”

"Long time no see... Thank you."

Inspector Lestrade rubbed his eyes and saw the bottle come to life, pouring drinks for everyone present. Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened, and she quickly made the sign of the cross on her chest.

Magic, which is almost a joke or a trick to ordinary people, actually happened in the eyes of the detective.

"What's going on now?"

"Panic, mass panic!" The detective gulped down another mouthful of medicine, his voice tense. "Last time it was the British Chief Justice who died in his bathtub, and this time it's the American ambassador. The higher-ups have already classified this as a 'terrorist attack'."

Terrorist attacks signify the fight against terrorism, and are inherently hostile in terms of stance.

Sherlock, resting his chin on his hand, immediately understood what Nietzsche had said in the carriage—in the wizarding world, there was a group of people who did not want wizards and the British government to maintain a relatively peaceful balance of non-interference.

Think about it carefully: if the British government knew that this was the work of wizards, its attitude towards the Ministry of Magic would be completely different.

What do you know about the Four Orders?

"What is that?" Lestrade asked, completely bewildered.

“Alright, just don’t let any of this slip out later, not even a little bit,” Sherlock said. “For now, a terrorist attack will suffice. If you hear anyone talking about ‘magic,’ pretend you know nothing.”

What would happen if someone overheard?

“Your memory will be erased.” Nietzsche felt uneasy and added, “If you’re unlucky, you might even become an idiot who can’t remember anything.”

The detective suddenly wanted to carry the dog away. Why was he so stupid? Why did he have to come to Holmes' house when everything was fine today? But then he thought of the honor Sherlock left them and held back.

As expected of Lestrade! No one who can be associated with Sherlock Holmes is an ordinary person; this little danger is nothing to him!

Following closely behind Inspector Lestrade was Mycroft, who, around 5 p.m., slowly climbed up the stairs, carrying a cane.

He tossed the documents under his arm onto the table, gestured toward the group as if he were the owner of the house, then looked at Mrs. Hudson and forcefully coughed, his dry throat parched.

"Do you need a glass of water?" Hudson finally recovered from the 'trick' he had just performed.

"Excuse me."

"The kettle is right in front of you, pour it yourself."

“…” Mycroft sighed.

The landlord here is as shrewish as Sherlock Holmes, running around doing everything for you, even making you pour your own saliva.