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The first time Mikotoba nearly kissed Holmes was during their adventure with the Musgrave Ritual.

Mikotoba and Holmes anticipated this would be a simple case. As of their first few investigations together, they found that it was with ease they worked, solving crimes that stumped the Yard within hours and celebrating with their handsome rewards in money and newfound fame.

This one, however, was a case that made even Holmes excited; as such, Mikotoba knew it would take them longer than usual. He sat near a window for far too long, combing through the recount of a ritual their client’s family abandoned ages ago. It was an instruction, something that Reginald Musgrave insisted was unimportant to the case, but it held the key and Holmes was sure of it. Mikotoba didn’t doubt him for a moment.

Besides, he enjoyed watching the gears turn in Holmes’s head. It was a rare sight to behold. Thoughtfully mouthing his pipe with slender, curved fingers fumbling around the bowl, furrowing his brow over wide, glimmering eyes, and rapping his foot in an inadvertent rhythm were the telltale signs of a Holmes who had finally found some stimulus, and Mikotoba knew this for sure when he snipped at Mikotoba to leave him be.

“Only when the sun has long since set, perhaps… Mm, midnight,” Holmes had said, dragging a pen across the map of the Musgrave manor, “then you may drag me to bed.” Mikotoba understood it was futile to argue, so he simply agreed, set some tea in front of his partner, and turned in to comb through his own studies for his lapsing trip.

When midnight came, Mikotoba did have to drag Holmes to bed quite literally, as the man had fallen asleep at his desk and drooled a patch on his paper. Mikotoba indulged himself in wiping the spit from his lip with a thumb and undressing Holmes of his coat and shoes before tucking him in for rest.

Of course, it only took a night’s rest before Holmes was shaking Mikotoba awake, shouting that he solved the entire case with just one more lookover of the ritual. They had to get to the manor by the late afternoon if they were to solve the mystery. Mikotoba asked what he found, but Holmes insisted it was worth seeing in person. He couldn’t tell that brightly smiling face to give him the details, so he simply nodded and said he trusted his judgment.

As they sat for breakfast -- more like Holmes pacing around the table with the Ritual and mumbling to himself while Mikotoba ate -- Mikotoba remembered fondly and painfully how dear Holmes was to him. After the passing of Ayame, this new man was a welcome breath of fresh air in an unfamiliar, stuffy London. Holmes was an eccentric man, both lost in his own world and au fait with the workings of reality. There was nobody like him, Mikotoba could claim in truth, and there would be nobody like him as long as the world spun; it wasn’t difficult for Mikotoba to, unfortunately, fall for the detective.

However, there were many plain, stale Mikotobas. The humbling fact was enough to make him lose his appetite. Even as Holmes urged him to tell what was bothering him, Mikotoba only politely smiled to his companion, explained he was just too excited for the case to finish his meal, and watched as the suspicious Holmes took the hint with a quirk of the brow and a twitch of the mouth.

By 3 PM, they donned their hats, shrugged on their coats, and were out the door to catch the first train to Sussex. The trip was normal, as was their arrival. Holmes introduced Mikotoba to Mr. Musgrave and Mikotoba was pleasantly surprised to learn they were friends during Holmes’s university days. As much as he wanted to ask more about their friendship, Holmes was urging them to move along, as they had no time to reminisce.

It began with an oak tree and a felled elm tree. Holmes barked at Mikotoba to fetch a string and a post, which Mikotoba happily retrieved.

“‘Where was the sun? Over the oak. Where was the shadow? Under the elm.’ That is what the Musgrave Ritual states, my friend,” he told Mikotoba. “Because the elm has been felled, we must use the knowledge that it was 64 feet at its peak height and mathematically compare what its shadow would have been at the time to the shadow of this post now. The sun is now over the oak tree, you see! Are you following?”

“I am,” answered Mikotoba. “The shadow of the elm tree would lead to…?”

“Where we must begin our steps in accordance with the Ritual!” Holmes was beaming, enraptured by his discovery. He was giddy with delight as he placed one end of the string in Mikotoba’s hand, ordered him to stand at the elm stump, and began to, heel to toe, count the steps it’d take to reach the end of the elm tree’s shadow. When he found himself tucked against one of the walls of the manor, Mikotoba could see his joyful shimmy, even from yards away. “Ah! Just what I expected! Your butler -- he already placed a post here, Mr. Musgrave. How did nobody discover this earlier? It’s as plain as day!”

Mikotoba was the one to throw an apologetic glance to Mr. Musgrave for Holmes’s statement, who appeared flustered that Holmes’s prediction was correct. He returned a smile to Mikotoba in thankfulness. Mikotoba began to wravel the string as he hurried towards Holmes.

The Ritual gave specific instructions. Holmes was a bit too quick for Mikotoba, trailing ahead of him as he spoke the memorized Ritual aloud. After ten by ten, five by five, two by two, and one by one steps in different directions, Holmes’s mumbled curse at seeing nothing but an undisturbed corner of the manor wall quickened Mikotoba’s heart.

“No, no,” he said, tapping around at the stone and the ground before it. “This can’t be right. Mikotoba, you see this, correct?” As he spoke, he handed the folded Ritual to Mikotoba, who opened it and combed through its contents. He paused at one line.

“How was it stepped? North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under.”

“So under,” Mikotoba hurriedly said. “You forgot ‘so under!’”

“But he did not dig,” Holmes replied. “The ground hasn’t been touched. In fact, I see nary a crack or crevice in this stone and earth. Hmm…”

While Holmes was visibly pondering his correctness, Mikotoba gazed upon the Ritual again. He thumbed the document aside to see a map, the one Holmes had scribbled crosses and locations on, behind the Ritual. There was something he noticed at the very location they stood. With a smile, he started towards a cellar door nestled against a nearby wall.

“Where are you going, Mikotoba?”

“It is true that you have omitted ‘so under,’” Mikotoba explained, opening the unlocked cellar door. “‘So under’ does not mean he dug. He found another way beneath the manor, Holmes.”

By that point, Holmes had already scurried over, nearly tripping over his own feet. He lunged for Mikotoba and grasped him firmly by the shoulders, and, again, Mikotoba felt his heart lurch when he made eye contact with a giddy Herlock Sholmes. “Mikotoba! Ever the observationalist you are! Let us solve this case, once and for all!”

Mikotoba could not stop him from grasping his hand like a vice, dragging him downwards into the cellar. It was musty, a lantern needing to be lit to shine a path through the chest-height wood storage. Save Holmes lighting the lantern, he never let go of Mikotoba’s hand, even though it was quickly growing clammy. Mikotoba felt guilt knowing it was not just nerves about the cellar, but also about the steadfast grip Holmes locked in their fingers.

“There,” Holmes said, pulling Mikotoba from his thoughts. Tucked into a wall between two stacks of wood was an unnatural boulder, pinning the end of a plaid scarf and beside it a fractured wooden post similar to the one driven in the ground above. “We have found it, my dear Mikotoba. Would you be so kind as to help me move this boulder?”

Holmes set aside the lantern, angling it so it lit the wall. Each man positioned at one side of the boulder and heaved -- it was a mighty heavy object, causing both of them to grunt with exertion -- but they rolled it out of the way enough to see the beginnings of a cavern. Mikotoba grabbed the lantern since he knew Holmes would instantly slip into the chamber without a second thought. He followed the man into the depths.

If it was damp in the cellar, it was a swamp down here, the wetness so thick in the air that Mikotoba could smell the rot of the earthy walls. The passageway stretched beyond the reaches of Mikotoba’s light, and, to his chagrin, he saw it narrowed the further his light traveled.

“Are you claustrophobic, my dear Mikotoba?”

“Somewhat,” answered Mikotoba. “Are you?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Holmes’s hand slipped into Mikotoba’s and they began forward.

Every second they crossed the threshold deeper into the darkness brought another flutter to Mikotoba’s stomach. Their bodies, slowly but surely, began to press together, until they paused roughly 20 feet in realizing they’d practically been crammed side-to-side. Mikotoba hoped dearly that the darkness hid his heated face since all he could see in the forward light was the concerned twist of Holmes’s expression and the fact that they were close enough for Mikotoba to count his eyelashes.

From this lack of distance, Mikotoba shuddered at the casting of Holmes’s warm breath against his face, their noses nearly close enough to touch. Their chests were flush against one another now that they tried to shift out of the space, and Mikotoba’s shallow breaths were fast enough to feel the strain against Holmes’s calm, steady ones.

He was beautiful from this angle. Heavy lashes hung over teal eyes, rosy lips pursed in thought and humid sweat had started to form on his forehead, making for a wonderful sight to behold mere centimeters from Mikotoba’s face. Quickly, he glanced down at Holmes’s lips. He could, with ease, try for a...

“Apologies,” said Holmes, who met eyes with Mikotoba and offered an awkward smile.

Mikotoba cast his gaze down the passageway. “Ah, I -- I apologize, too, Holmes. We can --” With a few more nudges of their bodies, they eventually squeezed so that Mikotoba was in the lead and Holmes was following. Now, they had space to move, and Mikotoba turned back to his companion. “There, er… We can stay this way, or I can exchange places --”

He was cut short when Holmes’s hand came up, gripping firmly at Mikotoba’s chin. Mikotoba’s face erupted with heat, nearly pushing him to fainting as he stared at the grinning Holmes, so nonchalant in his tone as he crooned, “If you’d like, I can go ahead and you can stay behind. It’s getting rather tight, isn’t it?”

“Er -- uhm -- No, I will come with you. I’m alright.”

“Good,” Holmes said. “Just know you can turn around whenever you’d like. It seems we don’t have much further. Do you see the glint of a doorknob?”

When Mikotoba’s face was released, he glanced down the cavern and angled his lantern. Indeed, there was a faint shine of a metallic doorknob, light having bounced off the walls to reach its curvature. “Yes, I do.” He started to walk that way, glad to feel Holmes’s hand lace fingers with his own.

From there, Mikotoba could not be bothered to remember the next events. His mind was so engulfed with the closeness and intimacy, so unlike anything he felt before with another man, pushed between them in a space so narrow he could count Holmes’s freckles, that all he could do was allow Holmes to take the lead when they found the corpse of their client’s missing butler. Another case had been solved thanks to the brilliant minds of both detectives, but regardless of the pleasantries that followed, Mikotoba only felt worse.

The second time was during their adventure with the twisted-lip man.

Late on a summer evening, one of Mikotoba’s former patients arrived at the hospital in search of Mikotoba, himself, begging him to help her find her husband after unsuccessfully seeking Sherlock Holmes. She explained a bit meekly that he had been long dabbling in the company of men who experimented with drugs beyond tobacco, namely opium. There was an opium den, she said, that she feared her husband would never return from, having been gone for two days after venturing there. Usually, he would only be gone for one -- bi-daily, he would return home.

Though he was exhausted from a day of busy work, Mikotoba couldn’t bring himself to say no in the presence of such an anxious woman. He did not bother to return to 221B and instead followed her directions to eastward London, where he found himself near the London Bridge at Upper Swandam Lane.

Mikotoba was quick to messy his hair, loosen his tie, and lower his hat to blend in with the minimal crowd in the sickly, darkened alley. As Holmes had warned him, Mikotoba was an obvious man just by his race alone -- being dressed so finely would be another quirk that could be weaponized against him. He followed his client’s directions until he slipped between a slop shop and a gin shop, found the stairway to the promised opium den, and descended with a lit lamp to guide him.

Stepping inside the den, he was met with just what he expected. The air was noxious with smoke enough to make Mikotoba hold his breath, and as he gazed upon the opium den he couldn’t count the bodies of men who were drowning in their addiction, hazy in mind and breath. To respect the quietness, Mikotoba shut the eye of his lamp and began to approach the fireplace for some proper light.

His eyes passed over the crowd. The man he was looking for was stocky, tall, with a thick head of dark hair, distinct in the sense that he was much better put together than most of the consumers here. As he passed by one of the armchairs, he felt a tug at his coat’s waistband, quickly swatting the hand responsible.

The hand reeled back, and the man owning it whispered, “Ow.”

Mikotoba stopped. He gazed down at the man, whose disguise, a heavy coat that swallowed him whole and an unfamiliar cap, was not enough to hide the fact that this was Sherlock Holmes.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed, keeping his voice low albeit the fact that no man on opium would pay mind to a whisper.

“I came to find my enemy and my prey,” answered Holmes, who lifted his head and pushed up the brim of his cap. He had a pipe in his lips, and, momentarily, Mikotoba felt a surge of anxiety. Holmes seemed to notice it, quickly plucking the pipe from his mouth and waving it by the bowl. “I suppose, Mikotoba, that you imagine that I have added opium-smoking to cocaine and all the other little weaknesses on which you have favored me with your medical views.”

Mikotoba crouched next to the chair, resting a hand upon the arm of it and furrowing his brow at the words. “Why, I’m more surprised to find you here, but now that you mention it, yes.”

“To ease your worries, I have done nothing of the sort. This is just tobacco. Would you like a smoke?”

Though Mikotoba had wrinkled up his nose, readying to object, he couldn’t get the words out before Holmes had reached one of his hands and grasped his jaw firmly, his thin fingers pinching the bone until Mikotoba’s mouth was slack. Holmes took a drag, craned his neck, and, with a puff of the cheeks, he shot a stream of smoke between Mikotoba’s lips.

The burn of tobacco hit the roof of his mouth immediately, but that was drowned by the heat of his cheeks as he looked with wide eyes to his smirking companion. Holmes released Mikotoba’s jaw, in which Mikotoba took a moment of pause before finally pushing the smoke from his mouth. The detective returned the pipe to his lips and shut his eyes, content.

This was not when Mikotoba nearly kissed Holmes, for he was so charmed by the move that he could do nothing but stare. As he sat there, dazed, the taste he contemplated on his tongue was almost like one he imagined in Holmes’s mouth, itself, and not the smoke that came from it.

“I am here to investigate a case ever so foul, Mikotoba, and I feel as though I am on the trail so closely that I need but a shove from a man like you to solve it,” Holmes explained. “You see, there is a trap organized in this opium den, complex and layered with a story that has yet to be told; I was called upon by a client in search of her missing husband last spotted in the window of this establishment. However, I believe there are some details I must refresh with her, which can not be done in the confines of this wretched place.”

“Yes,” said Mikotoba, for it was the only word he could sound out with confidence. His hand was grasped from the armchair, lifting him until Mikotoba was standing parallel to his taller companion, who was patting ash off his disguise. He braced his hand against a cane, used only for the illusion as he faux-limped from the opium den with Mikotoba on his arm. Every so often, he shot a glance over his shoulder in a discreet manner. A smile curled his lips. Mikotoba asked, now having regained his confidence, “What is it?”

“That rascally Lascar, the man who owns this place, was suspicious of me,” he replied. “I am happy to have left there with you, Mikotoba, for I fear an hour longer would lead to me succumbing to the urges and being found dead by Lascar’s hand and an opium snag, just as Neville St Clair has been suspected to be!”

“Who? What?”

“I’ll explain in the cab,” insisted Holmes, hurrying them to meet with a dog-cart rearing the corner. “You’ll come with me, won’t you, Mikotoba? It’s a seven-mile trip.”

“Of course.”

Both men were soon situated in the seats of the dog-cart, side-by-side at the head. Holmes flicked his whip at the horse and they began their hurry through the somber roads towards the nearby bridge.

Though Holmes promised to explain in the cab, he instead sat in silence for the first portion of the trip. His sparkling eyes were swimming, an ocean of thoughts reflecting the moon in the pools of their teal tint. Mikotoba forced himself to look away in favor of fumbling with the brim of his hat in his lap.

“I’m sure you’re still curious about the situation at hand?”

“I am,” said Mikotoba. He saw Holmes’s smile widen, clearly excited to tell Mikotoba the story of his current case.

“Splendid,” Holmes replied. “When I first encountered this case, I thought to myself it would be absurdly simple and was nearly insulted by the audacity of Mrs. St Clair to request my services. Now, I'll state the case clearly and concisely to you, Mikotoba, and maybe you may see a spark where the case has grown cold to me. Understood?”

“Understood.”

And Holmes recounted this tale from the beginning. It was certainly an odd one. Strewn clothes with no body, a coat full of hundreds of coins by the sea, a disappearing husband after a troubling sight by the wife, the suspicious actions of Lascar, and the scarred man with a twisted lip assisting him… Unfortunately, Mikotoba could supply nothing to the case. It had begun to blend for him, especially in the wake of Mikotoba’s tired mind still wracked with the day’s busy work. When Holmes finished, he went quiet, and Mikotoba allowed the case to slip from his mind in favor of savoring the cool summer breeze of London against his shut eyes.

Though Mikotoba was growing more tired by the minute, he perked up when Holmes began to speak again, saying, “You have the grand gift of silence, Mikotoba.” Mikotoba looked at him, but Holmes did not return the gaze. He was keeping his sights on the road. “That is no insult, mind you; in fact, it makes you rather invaluable as a companion! It’s wonderful to have somebody to talk to, and know that they will listen and understand. My own thoughts as of late have not been particularly over-pleasant, you see.” For a moment, Mikotoba could see what only Mikotoba would notice; Holmes’s brow twitched and his eyes faltered, a sign of turmoil in the detective.

It was just as quickly dismissed as he continued, “Do not worry about me when I say that, my dear fellow. It’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

Mikotoba furrowed a brow in concern. How long had Holmes been hiding this? “How can I not? You’re my friend, Holmes. If you are having troubles, I will always lend an open ear. You can tell me anything.”

Holmes glanced his way this time, keeping the smile. “Ah, I knew you would say that. And I will reassure you with this: I do tell you everything. Though there are troublesome thoughts in my mind, they are impossible to vocalize. In turn, I have found that smothering them does just the trick to keep them at bay! I smother them, Mikotoba, by speaking with you. Even the busiest minds will find themselves in the quietest darkness, my friend, but your light is more than enough to nullify that.”

Mikotoba appreciated the mistral, if only for the fact it might have kept the hot blush from swarming over his skin. As he looked upon Holmes, the man looked right back, gaze flickering between Mikotoba’s eyes. Mikotoba struggled to read him, now, but he could see the melancholy that turned behind the detective’s turquoise eyes. Before he knew it, their faces had grown close, nothing but a hair-width gap between them.

In a moment, Mikotoba turned his head away and nearly mumbled an apology seeing how near their lips had become. Seemingly unphased, Holmes turned his head to the road. Mikotoba did not look at him again.

“I’m glad to hear as such,” Mikotoba whispered, “but I’m a bit low on fuel, at the moment, so your light might snuff out if there aren’t beds promised at this Mrs. St Claire’s home.”

Holmes chuckled. “If not, then I will allow you to sleep on the couch and I in the garden. How does that sound?”

Mikotoba did not like the thought of being in a room separate from Holmes, but it didn’t matter in the end. After a night’s rest in a double-bed room of Mrs. St Claire’s residence, Holmes had concocted a stay-up-all-night-going-through-tobacco plan, and with the success of Holmes’s scheme, the twisted-lip man was discovered to be the husband of both Mikotoba’s client and Mrs. St Claire.

As a career during the night, he would orchestrate a disguise, called the twisted-lip man by frequents, to earn dirty money thieving off of opium addicts, and bi-daily he was exchanging himself between Neville St Claire and Mr. Isa Whitney, the husband of Mikotoba’s client, taking on three lives with ease.

When Mrs. St Claire saw him in the window above the opium den, she had caught him in the middle of settling into his twisted-lip disguise. In turn, Neville St Claire vanished without a trace and hired Lascar to cover his tracks. It wasn’t enough, of course, for Lascar was a rotten man even to those who paid him and he turned Neville St Claire in once he learned of the circumstance.

Both women were devastated to hear of their shared husband, and they cried heartily against Mikotoba and Holmes. Mikotoba was happy to comfort Mrs. Whitney, assuring her that the unfortunate lie was none of her doing. When Mikotoba glanced at his tear-soaked partner, Holmes offered him a crooked grin, and Mikotoba feared that he saw Holmes feel discomforted by the aspect of love in itself more than he did the sorrow of his client while he tried to peel Mrs. St Claire off of him.

After they were paid and took to the streets, it was difficult for Mikotoba to celebrate the case, too busy pondering what Holmes meant by Mikotoba being his light while disliking love so much to laugh over drinks with him.

The third time was during the adventure of the three students.

To further his education, Mikotoba had to travel to one of the great university towns outside of London alongside Holmes for a brief time. There, Mikotoba spent most of his time at one of the medical universities, busying himself with a series of studies he was invited to participate in. They had taken up an inn for these last few nights, and while Mikotoba found it comforting to be in an uncluttered, cleaned room for once, Holmes was quite the opposite.

Holmes was absolutely restless. As much as he followed Mikotoba like a lost dog, there weren’t many things the man could do without exploring this town, seeing he left all of his chemistry equipment and books at home, but by the time Mikotoba returned to the inn on the first day, Holmes was pouting profusely and sitting at his desk while he mumbled about how annoying university students are and refused to continue his exploration of the town. Teasingly, Mikotoba had said Holmes only graduated a couple of years before, but it didn’t seem to lighten his mood.

It was the fourth day. Mikotoba was dressing for another day of studies, buttoning his suit as he watched Holmes in the mirror aimlessly balancing a pen on the tip of his finger from where he laid swathed in the bed.

“For once, I’m out of bed before you,” commented Mikotoba, and Holmes scoffed.

“That’s because you have somewhere to be, my dear Mikotoba. Pray tell, what should I be doing otherwise?”

Mikotoba hummed as he combed back his hair -- wild in the morning, styled like a bird according to Holmes -- then replied, “That’s true. I apologize. I will bring back lunch during the intermission, then?”

“Please. I am starving.”

“You could get breakfast, if you’d like.”

Holmes only groaned. Mikotoba grinned.

Soon, he was donning his hat and made his way to the door. When he opened it, he was met not with the hallway, but with a man looking positively pale and shaken. Mikotoba excused himself as the man shouldered into the room without care. From the bed, Holmes jolted upright, snatching the pen he dropped from the air.

“Professor Soames?” said Holmes, his formerly dull eyes alighting at the sight of a seemingly familiar face.

“Sherlock Holmes,” replied the man, who sat on Mikotoba’s bed and lowered his hat. “I must request your assistance. I know you are not here for a case, but --”

“It better be an interesting one. I doubt you could imagine the restraint at which I have placed upon myself to not chew my own arm off out of boredom.”

“I, well, yes! It’s worthy of a scandal should it reach official forces. Please. It could only be you.”

Holmes had sprung out of bed at this point, curled in his nightgown and giving Soames a mischievous glance. “That’s true, it could only be me, couldn’t it? Is it so dire? Why, seeing I am ‘off-duty at the moment, I expect to be paid handsomely. Not to mention you were the professor who threatened a scholarship of mine simply because of the fact I dreaded your monotonous lectures and fell dead asleep during one of them.”

Soames was flustering with heavy droplets of sweat coursing down his temple. “Why, I--”

“Holmes,” scolded Mikotoba. That snapped Holmes to attention, the man looking quickly towards Mikotoba. “We will discuss that after the fact, won’t we? I must leave for my studies, but I trust you are more excited about the prospect of a case than you are seeking revenge for a petty scholarship.”

“Right,” replied the detective. He waved a hand to Mikotoba. “Meet me at the University during your intermission, won’t you? And bring lunch for the three of us! I can already tell this is going to be a good one!”

Mikotoba was off. As he anticipated, that day of study was a continuation of the findings from the previous day. It was a study of psychology concerning biology, using new technologies to understand the scale of hormones and other physical reactions under the influence of emotional triggers. He was both a student and a subject, sat down for the morning, and asked many things to see the differences a separate race would bring to the study.

Coincidentally, the examiner was asking Mikotoba just the questions that would bring the highest surge of an emotional response. He began with family, a queer look on his face when he saw Mikotoba immediately flinch from the inquiry, and continued down that path for mere minutes until Mikotoba had to respectfully decline telling details about his wife. It seemed the head doctor was a merciful man, for he pulled Mikotoba aside after the study to order him gently to spend the rest of the day on his own and calm down his quickened heart.

Mikotoba thanked him with enthusiasm and set off to find lunch for himself, Holmes, and Soames. For the past few days, he’d been taking lunch from a deli nearby, and this day was no exception. With sandwiches in tow, he made his way to another wing of the very university he was studying at.

This wing was archaic. Mikotoba admired the craftwork of the architecture as he was led to Soames’s office, equally a feat of engineering in its dutifully carved interior and arching windows. The coloration was deep and royal, clearly expensive and worthy of an elite man like a university professor. Holmes was leaning against a desk, pipe in hand as he spoke with Soames and a new man Mikotoba didn’t recognize.

“Hello,” Mikotoba announced, holding his bag closely to occupy his hands and offering a habitual bow.

“This is Dr. Yuujin Mikotoba. He is my investigative partner,” said Holmes, gesturing to Mikotoba. Then, he gestured his hand to the new man; he was young and wiry looking, student-age in the face but older in the outfit. His honey eyes regarded Mikotoba under dark curls. “This is Mr. Bannister. He is an assistant to Soames.”

“Might I ask the details of this case, then?”

“Of course. You see, it’s certainly a scandal worthy of the papers if it were to be leaked. A full-ride scholarship has been offered to the students of this university by completion of an exam. The highest score is paid in full through their education. Now, as you may guess, Mikotoba, seeing the state of the room --”

Mikotoba glanced about. Indeed, there was a disturbance. Some papers appeared misplaced, a window was hung open, and there were pencil shavings on the floor at Holmes’s feet next to the desk.

“-- somebody was eager enough to sneak into the room and copy the answers, left carelessly accessible by Professor Soames. Bannister, here, left the office door open on accident after exiting the office post-cleaning, and when Soames returned, he found Bannister sitting at the chair near the fireplace so faint seeing the signs of an intruder that he'd been ruled out of the suspect list.”

“Then who are our suspects?”

“Three students, who live in the dorm just west of this office. However, I must, unfortunately, inform you that you’ve arrived too late, Mikotoba. I have already solved this case.” The detective flashed a cocky smile.

“What?” exclaimed Soames, jolting from his seat. “Impossible! Was it -- was it the Indian student, then?”

“Heavens, no! That mum man has nothing to do with this,” said Holmes. “Mind your prejudice, won’t you? I’d like you to bring me the student, Mr. Gilchrist, the golden boy. I would like to speak to him and Bannister in private, afterward, so you may excuse yourself.”

“Ah -- erm, yes, Holmes. I’ll be back posthaste.”

Soames, ever the gaudily wide man, shambled from the room, nearly knocking shoulders with Mikotoba on the way out. Once he left, Mikotoba turned to face the remaining two men. Holmes was brushing his finger back and forth over a scar carved upon the desk, his eyes lit with thought.

In the meantime, Mikotoba took his place in the chair opposite to the one Holmes said Bannister had sat at. He opened his bag. Immediately, Holmes was beside him, wrenching his sandwich from Mikotoba’s hands and hardly unfurling the wrapper before he was stuffing the thing in his mouth. Mikotoba didn’t bother to watch the animalistic nature of Sherlock Holmes, but he did offer the extra sandwich, that of Soames, to Bannister. The assistant took it and thanked him.

Eventually, Mr. Gilchrist was ushered in by Soames. He was expectedly young and had the same youthful blond charm as Holmes, but there was a worry in his light eyes. Soames shut the door, leaving the four men alone in the room.

“Now, then, why don’t you take a seat, Mr. Gilchrist?” said Holmes, and the man obliged. He sat in the remaining chair by the hearth.

Mikotoba could not read others as well as Holmes, but when he looked at Gilchrist, he could see something strange in the man. He was looking at Bannister, who was not looking at him in turn, and his eyes seemed to bore into the back of Bannister’s head, a firm tightness in his jaw that Mikotoba could sense the tension from.

Holmes pushed the pipe into his lips. “We will start from the beginning. Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are all quite alone here, and no one need ever know one word of what passes between us. We can be perfectly frank with each other. With that said, Mr. Gilchrist, you are an athlete, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You observe that the scratch on this table is slight at one side, but deepens in the direction of the closet door. That in itself is enough to show us that your jumping-shoes, cleats, as they are, with spiked soles, the ones you set on this desk in your hurry to copy answers, had been drawn in that direction, showing you took refuge in there,” said Holmes, dragging his finger across the wood and finishing the motion with a point towards the closet door. Without waiting for him to answer, he continued, “It also explains why you had a pencil -- you keep it on you to mark scores, being an athlete, correct?”

Unlike many of their other clients, Mikotoba was nonplussed to see Gilchrist lower his head and shut his eyes, softly saying, “Yes.”

“Elementary. Now, then, Mikotoba, the case has been solved, but I must admit I’m still troubled by the fact that Gilchrist, such a lovely and studious man by the words of Soames, would ever do such a heinous thing like cheating on a full-ride scholarship! Can you not clear up the last point in this mystery, and tell us the reason for your action, Mr. Gilchrist? How about why you concealed him, Mr. Bannister?”

Bannister perked up. He looked back at Gilchrist, who made steady eye contact with him, and, in a moment, Mikotoba started to understand why such would be the case.

“I… I, er, uhm,” stuttered Bannister. “He -- I --”

“You came into the room a good few yards ahead of Soames, and you saw Gilchrist floundering for cover; after he was hidden in the closet, you sat on the very chair Mr. Gilchrist is placed upon and feigned innocence with a pale face.” Regardless of the accusation, the assistant was beginning to relax, his prickly nature easing while he gazed upon a solemn Gilchrist. “Still, I must ask: why, both of you?” he exclaimed jovially. Neither man spoke. “Come on, then! We don’t have all day!”

In the study earlier that day, Mikotoba was asked many things, indeed, and the subject of his wife was touched upon not in the extension of family, but in the extension of a more tender feeling. As Mikotoba watched Gilchrist’s azure eyes lift to Bannister, the man returning his gaze with equal fondness, Mikotoba decided that his assumptions were correct. There was nothing like the fond glance of a lover, one that Mikotoba was all too familiar with.

“You love one another,” said Mikotoba, and the room went quiet. Bannister’s eyes widened and Gilchrist covered a portion of his face with a cupped palm as though he were concealing his shame. As Bannister began to blubber, Mikotoba pressed on, “Gilchrist has promised you, Bannister, a lavish life, but had to assure he received this scholarship lest he finds he’s in more financial trouble than not following his education at this university.”

Bannister dropped his sandwich in favor of crumbling to the floor beside Gilchrist’s chair and pressed his hands to his face with a sob. Immediately, Gilchrist was sinking beside him, his arms curling around Bannister’s shoulders. With the ferocity of an athlete, he pointed a finger towards Mikotoba and hissed, “Tell a soul, and you are a dead man!”

“I could not think of ever doing such a thing, Gilchrist, for I understand the vice of passion and the lengths at which a man would go to keep it fast. However, as a studying doctor myself, I must order you not to take the test, apologize truthfully to Soames, and find your own means of payment. Your father, Sir Gilchrist, if I remember correctly, is filthily rich, is he not? Why not ask him for assistance?”

Gilchrist looked away. Ah. “He knows of you two?” The student hesitated, then nodded. “Then… Well…”

Mikotoba did not look at Holmes, keeping his eyes on a flustered Gilchrist as he spoke to his companion, “If you’re still set on extravagant payment, you wouldn’t mind if the proceeds from this case go into Gilchrist’s education, would you, Holmes?”

There was no moment of pause. “Regardless of the scandal, Gilchrist has a bright future alongside Bannister. I could wish for nothing more.”

“Excellent,” said Mikotoba, and he crouched down, tugging the handkerchief from his breast pocket and handing it to Gilchrist. Gilchrist accepted it, using it to pad away at Bannister’s teary cheeks with coos of apology. Afterward, Mikotoba stood, finally crossing the room to face Holmes.

Holmes, a man normally so indifferent to emotional clients, seemed surprised. He met eyes with Mikotoba and withdrew the pipe to return it to its place on his belt. Then, like normal, a smile came across Holmes’s face and he reached for Mikotoba’s wrist, tugging him closer.

Mikotoba’s chest surged with emotion as Holmes curled his arm around his shoulders and jostled him. For a brief moment, their faces were close, and Mikotoba’s hands found Holmes’s chest to brace himself as he stayed cross-eyed to focus on Holmes. He held his breath as he caught sight of Holmes’s teeth flashing in a grin. Again, they were near enough for Mikotoba to feel the warmth of Holmes’s skin. So close, and Mikotoba could lean in without trouble...

“Of all the words to describe Doctor Yuujin Mikotoba, the last I anticipated was empathetic of love after knowing what it has done to you,” said Holmes, his eyes twinkling with delight. “You are quite a showstopper, my dear Mikotoba, and I doubt I would have ever come to the same conclusion.”

Mikotoba had withdrawn by then, dipping to grab his dropped sandwich bag before righting himself beside Holmes. “Well, you are not a lover, are you? You seem quite put-off by the concept.”

“Me? No!”

Mikotoba looked at him in surprise.

“I might not be the quickest at catching it, but I enjoy the concept and admire those who indulge in it. I, myself, have fallen for men and women plenty of times, even though I do not have the time to participate in the luxury of love! I’m sure you understand and have fallen as well, haven’t you, Mikotoba?”

Dumbfoundedly, Mikotoba nodded.

They briskly left the room after explaining to Soames the undetailed details, hand in hand, and Mikotoba was convinced that had he returned to the study after this intermission, the results of the study would prove his trepidatious heart a staggering outlier as he struggled to push down the adoration he felt for Sherlock Holmes.

The fourth time was during the adventure of the Boscombe Valley mystery.

As is characteristic of Sherlock Holmes, Mikotoba was woken in the early morning by his creaking door and Holmes hissing, “Mikotoba? Are you awake?”

Mikotoba, used to the intrusion now that they lived with one another for nearly two years, raised his head with a stuffy rub of his eyes to try and clear the sleepiness from his vision. “I am, now,” he said to his companion. “What is it?”

“Have you the rest of today to spare to assist me with the most curious of cases? The weather will be lovely, and I’m sure the hospital can do without you for a shift.” He came to Mikotoba’s bedside, holding a candle that was light enough to prove to Mikotoba that Holmes was still in his nightwear. In one of his hands was grasped a bundle of papers and Mikotoba could see his long fingers tremble with anticipation.

“I think I can tag along,” grumbled Mikotoba. He swung his legs off of the bed and crossed the room to his closet to find an outfit for the event. “What time is it?”

“It’s four o’clock,” answered Holmes. “I apologize, but this is a case that has enraptured me from the moment I laid eyes upon it! Here, Mikotoba, is a case that presents one of the most bastardly forms of evidence: circumstance! I will tell you all about it in the cab. We will depart in an hour. Is that alright?”

“Yes.” Mikotoba slipped his shirt over his shoulders and began on the buttons. Through a yawn, he continued, “I expect we will have breakfast at some time, then?”

“I never promised that, now, did I? Come, Mikotoba, and meet me downstairs when you’re ready. I’ll ensure we at least have a serving of tea to hold us over!” Without another word, Holmes was clambering down the stairs, leaving Mikotoba in the darkness of his attic room. He sighed and dressed, then took to the bathroom to begin styling himself.

As Holmes had said, he at least made tea for the two of them, which Holmes drank in earnest as he combed through his papers once more. By the time the morning sun had begun to slip over the horizons through the buildings of Baker Street, they were settled in a cab, knee-to-knee with Holmes still burying his nose in the reports.

For a moment, Mikotoba allowed himself to lean back in his seat, watching Holmes. This angle was a lovely one, and one he’d seen only a few times before; Holmes was taller than him, so seeing his face downwards this way was a subtly unique experience. Only from this angle could Mikotoba see the heaviness of his straw-colored eyelashes, the curl of crow’s feet at the corner of his happy eyes, and the shine of his hairline in the morning light. He was, and Mikotoba did not doubt this for a moment, beautiful.

“It is really very good of you to come, Mikotoba,” said Holmes. “It makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me I can trust in full. Local aid is always either worthless or biased!”

Mikotoba grinned. “I pride myself in my neutrality, Holmes, and I appreciate being told it’s kept up over these months.”

“Your neutrality is just what I need for a case like this, and I hope you can keep the neutrality regardless of the incriminating events against our client. You see, this is a murder, one that has only one suspect.” He shook his papers and looked at Mikotoba with wildly energetic eyes.
“Now, before I get too anxious, I will explain the state of things to you, as far as I have been able to understand it in a very few words. Let’s see…”

Then, Holmes explained the state of things in no fewer words than a thousand and one, and Mikotoba was happy Holmes was so enthusiastic or he would fall asleep.

The gist of it was that a father was likely murdered by his son. For simplicity’s sake, Holmes referred to the Australian father as Mr. McCarthy and the English-born son as James. Mr. McCarthy and James lived in a manor on the property of the Australian Mr. John Turner, a good friend for many years of Mr. McCarthy. A few nights before this summer morning, Mr. McCarthy was spotted wandering off to a pool by a young neighbor girl, Patience, as she was picking flowers. When she investigated, she heard a strange ‘Coooee!’ call, that of a signal, before catching sight of James -- who was wielding a pistol -- and Mr. McCarthy in the middle of an intensely heated argument. She turned and fled before she could see to the end of the event.

Just minutes later, James had rushed back to his home, blood thick on his hands as he told Mr. John Turner’s daughter, Alice Turner, that his father had been killed. He was immediately arrested once Patience confessed to her sighting of the argument, and was expected to be held in a trial a mere day from now. Mr. McCarthy was struck on the back left side of his cranium with a blunt object that killed him instantly.

Mikotoba, admittedly, could see why circumstantial evidence was the highlight of this case, for there could possibly be no other murderer than James himself.

“Now, I am so caught up in this because I received a telegram from Alice Turner begging me to see the case, for there is no possible way her friend, James, could be the culprit. What’s more intriguing is that our dear Inspector Gregson is handling the case.”

“I know you like to show off to him, Holmes, but I have to agree with the papers -- who else would be responsible for a crime like this?”

“That is what we must discover, my dear Mikotoba.” Holmes reached forward and grasped Mikotoba’s chin, shaking it from side to side like he always did when trying to keep his attention. “I hope you trust me when I say my instincts tell me there is more to this case than familicide!”

Mikotoba turned his head away from the grip, but he did offer a soft smile to his companion. “I know not to question your instincts. I can’t possibly remember a time they were wrong. Actually, there was that instinct of yours that made you believe my birthday was months away from my actual --”

“Let’s not delve into that!” Holmes exclaimed. “We’re coming upon the property! Ready yourself, my dear friend!”

After a few minutes more, they were allowed into a gated property that made Mikotoba slack-jawed by the sheer majesty of it. Settled in this crevice of the woods was what must have been dozens of acres of land. They were met first with a grim, gothic mansion taking the space of a hill, and to the other side of the cart another building just as grand, clearly newer but as expensive and alluring. The cart took them up the path straight to the door, where they circled a fountain and were met with a grandiose staircase more fitting for something like a museum than a home.

Holmes was the first one to step out, practically falling out of the cart and leaving Mikotoba to stumble out right behind him. Once both men were before the manor, they watched a young woman exit from the doorway. She was a lovely girl, flush in cheeks and fragile in stature, descending the steps with grace albeit her worrying nature.

“Oh, Sherlock Holmes! I knew I could trust you to come!” she shouted. Holmes winced when she took his hand and shook it vigorously. “Please, please, I must welcome you immediately! Inspector Gregson has even grown willing to hear your perspective, for I fear my dear James has met his match in this circumstance.”

Inspector Gregson? Willing to listen to Holmes? Mikotoba stifled a laugh. When he looked at Holmes, it appeared he was, too, his chest puffed with newfound confidence and lips pursed to keep back his chuckles.

Both of them were led into the manor, kicking off their shoes to the right of the door beside a cane stand. The room they were soon sitting in was exactly the fancifulness Mikotoba expected. Hung over the fireplace was a portrait of a father and son, who they learned were a younger McCarthy and James, the only remaining family of the McCarthys after the passing of Mrs. McCarthy years beforehand.

Inspector Gregson and Holmes were immediately busying themselves with each other’s conversation. Holmes, like usual, was nonchalant, thumbing at his chin and looking nowhere in particular while Gregson was insisting this was a waste of time and that no matter what he said, Miss Turner refused to admit it was James who killed his own father.

“I, for one, would love to entertain a world in which James is not guilty,” said Holmes. “I read his interview with the coroner in the papers, and I find it to be insulting how rude the coroner was with his lost soul.”

“A murderer is deserving of no respect,” insisted Gregson, but Holmes raised a hand.

“He is no murderer, and by two o’clock, I will prove this alongside Mikotoba.” He curled a brow as he looked at Mikotoba. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” said Mikotoba, who did not know whether to try and drag Holmes from the case before he was disappointed in his findings.

“Right, then.” Holmes clapped his palms. “Let us question you, Miss Turner, to understand the true scope of this murder from the inside.”

Miss Turner had important information to add. For one, Miss Turner and James were in a relationship, approved by both Mr. McCarthy and Mr. Turner by her knowledge. She said in a very solemn tone that Mr. Turner had grown ill as of late, too, fighting his diabetes and clinging to life at that very moment.

“He’s the only man I have left,” said Miss Turner, dabbing beneath her eyes with a cloth. “When Mr. Turner passes, I will be orphaned with no family left other than James, who I was hoping to marry come winter.”

“And what was James’s relationship with his father?” asked Holmes, still stroking his chin.

“Oh, it was very close,” she replied in a heartbeat. “In the way, I am dear to Mr. Turner, James was dear to Mr. McCarthy. They even had an Australian hunting call to find each other across the property -- ‘Cooee!’, it goes. I believe it is the same call Patience heard before seeing James with his father.”

When Mikotoba glanced to check the state of Holmes, he saw nothing but a smiling detective, engulfed by the words Miss Turner was providing. Was he not even fazed by the surmounting evidence? He made eye contact with Gregson, who shrugged in understanding of Mikotoba’s confusion.

“That’s lovely,” said Holmes. “Perfect. And, might I confirm before I leave, Mr. Turner and Mr. McCarthy were born and raised in Australia? I haven’t met an Australian man in many months. I’m rather excited. I hope I will get to meet your father. They have the queerest accents, don’t they?”

“Yes, they were.”

“Thank you, then, Miss Turner. That is all.” Holmes stood, then, and adjusted his deerstalker cap with enthusiasm as he called for Mikotoba to follow him. “We will be investigating the crime scene at once! I must find proof in the theory I have concocted before I speak it,” he said, and he whisked away Mikotoba to follow Inspector Gregson towards the pool.

The pool was settled at the center of the property, nearly the length of a football field and reed-height in depth. It was framed with lovely cherub statues, beautifully done stonework, and cleaned until it reflected the cloudy sky like a mirror; there was even a fence one had to open to enter the pool grounds itself. It was easy to spot the location of the crime. Although the body had long since been moved, there was a stain of blood and signs of disturbance alongside it.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he came hot across a scent like this. To those who had only met the inquisitive, reserved thinker of Baker Street, they would see the jittering man beside Mikotoba as a fraud. His eyes, normally the teal of a tide, were now the abyss of a hurricane, ignited with a flame at the prospect of a truly, unfathomably, perfect case that Holmes had solved the moment they stepped foot through the gate. The gleam of his teeth was like a predator, finally having found his prey. Then, it was his hand showcasing his excitement, which lurched to lace fingers with Mikotoba tightly.

“Stand back, Inspector Gregson,” Holmes said. “Mikotoba has a case to solve.”

Mikotoba gawked. “Me? Holmes, you --”

“Yes! You are correct in thinking I have unraveled this tale, Mikotoba! But I believe it best to see you shine, truly, as the light you are.” He whirled to face Mikotoba and grasped his other hand. Both were held to Holmes’s chest as he breathed, “You are as brilliant a mind as I. Just because you are not as quick does not mean this is untrue.”

Holmes’s foot slid, and for a moment Mikotoba thought he would fall -- however, the man swung, bringing Mikotoba stumbling alongside him. “You have been practicing tap dancing, have you not?”

“Ah! Yes? What does that have to do with this?”

“Dance with me, Mikotoba!” He stepped back and clicked his heels. “Dance with me, for the energy of movement will surely turn the cogs in your skull! From the top!”

Then, without a breath of pause, he was dancing.

Mikotoba could barely keep pace with the detective, who was not a dancer in his own right, but was a busy body so accustomed to pacing and moving that he was like water pulling Mikotoba with his wake. Mikotoba stumbled as Holmes kept one of their hands latched together, trying to drag him into a melody that Mikotoba couldn’t follow.

“Look this way, Mikotoba!” he called, and Mikotoba followed his head. Holmes had finally released his hand to twirl back, bracing himself beside the blood splatter. “First things first: The crime! Tell me, again, Mikotoba, what killed the man.” Mikotoba was about to speak, but Holmes ordered abruptly, “Keep your feet moving!”

Obeying his command, Mikotoba started slow but had begun to keep a rhythm beneath his shoes. Tap-tiki-tak-tip-tap, it went, and it soon rattled until it was similar to a snare drum against the stone. When he looked again to Holmes, his partner’s glee was palpable.

“He was killed by a blunt blow to the back left side of his skull,” said Mikotoba, tiki-taking, “which has been suspected as the handle of James’s gun.”

“Suspected, indeed! But it was not! Tell me, what, here, is the true murder weapon, my dear Mikotoba?”

Mikotoba hesitated. What would Holmes do, here, then? Was that what he was expecting?

Right. What Holmes would do is exactly what Mikotoba would do if he were alone in this case. He would observe.

Tap-tipi-tak. Mikotoba carried himself over the bloodstain, regarding its splatter and following it northwards. There were no more flecks, but he did see a patch of garden at the edge of the stonework. When he stepped closer, his eyes widened at the sight. There, in the flowerbed, was a wooden fencepost. To any other man, it would be no more than a component of the hip-height fence circling the garden, having broken off and collapsed into the flowers, but to Mikotoba and Holmes, it was a key to this crime.

Tiki-tik-tap, tiki-tap, tap-tap-tap.

“The murder weapon,” said Mikotoba, grasping the post and lifting it for Holmes and Inspector Gregson to see, “is this very post.”

With a hearty laugh, the swaying Holmes, mimicking a form of swing, shouted, “Elementary!”

With continued tik-tiki-tips, Mikotoba held the post closer to inspect the wood. There were fragments of blood splatters, he found, and, there, buried at one end of the hilt, were the shape of nails. He exchanged hands to grasp it in his left.

“What have you found, my dear friend?”

“The man who swung this,” he said, “was left-handed. This aligns with the wound suffered by Mr. McCarthy, which caved the left-hand side of his skull, yes?”

“Precisely! Yes!” Holmes snatched the post from Mikotoba and, after completing a flourish and a spin, tossed it to Inspector Gregson. The man fumbled with it and barely caught it by the tips of his fingers, caught off guard in the middle of his gaping-jawed stare. Mikotoba looked back at Holmes, whose finger knocked at his cap as he pressed on, “Excellent! Now, the game is afoot; and so was our true culprit.”

“Right.”

Taki-tak, tip-tap-tip, taki-tak. Mikotoba returned to his observations. As he combed his gaze over the stonework, he dipped his body, nearing his face towards the ground. Now, he could see the remnants of footsteps. There was the carve of Mikotoba’s tap dancing shoes, Holmes’s swinging footwear, and, now, not two, but three additional pairs of boots.

The first pair was just beside the bloodstain. Mikotoba could not guess for the life of him -- “Size eleven” -- Holmes could guess in place of Mikotoba and from this he tip-tapped towards the fence gate. There was another -- “Size ten” -- pair of boots, making multiple paths as though the owner came, left, then bolted back again. Finally, there was the last pair -- “Size fourteen” -- that trailed from another fence gate on the opposite side of the pool. These footsteps, he saw, were…

“These steps are uneven,” said Mikotoba. Tiki-tiki-tap-tip-tiki-tap. “The man wearing these boots, our true assailant, had a limp. The ones from the other gate, they belong to James, and he heard the commotion of his father’s murder, running back with such force that his footsteps are noticeably quick.”

It was a strange feeling, moving in synchrony with Holmes. As mentioned, Holmes was no dancer, but as he stepped around Mikotoba, their hands meeting in the middle of the movement, Mikotoba could not hold back his delighted giggles being spun by Holmes and released to complete a long, clattering melody strummed into the stonework beneath a silvered sole.

Now, Mikotoba understood. As they met eyes, he was sure Holmes could see it clear as day: Mikotoba, like his companion, had solved the case, and it was time to conclude once and for all.

The stage was Mikotoba’s.

Tipi-tak-tiki-tiki-tap-tip-tiki-tap-tap…

“Alice Turner, the fair lady, is entirely correct in assuming it was never James responsible for the murder,” Mikotoba started. “In fact, she is the reason it occurred in the first place!”

Inspector Gregson exclaimed in confusion, but it did not make Mikotoba’s smiling face falter, nor his tapping step.

“Yes!” said Holmes. He stepped broadly around Mikotoba and clicked his heels. “She and James, ever the star-crossed lovers, are deeply fond of each other, despite a wordless objection raised by none other than Mr. Turner.”

Mikotoba followed, “Mr. McCarthy and James lived rent-free on Mr. Turner’s property, and Mr. Turner was so very anxious to get rid of him. He hated the thought of Mr. McCarthy’s ancestry blood staining that of his own in the form of a union between Miss Turner and James.”

Holmes continued, “Mr. Turner is on his deathbed, Inspector Gregson! The man has nothing to lose! What better way to ensure his dear Alice would never carry James’s children --”

Tiki-tiki-tiki-tiki-tiki-tiki-tap.

Mikotoba finished, “-- than to kill Mr. McCarthy and frame James himself?”

Again, their bodies met, Mikotoba being the one to guide Holmes into a twirl this time around. Holmes, bursting with joy, turned so ferociously that he landed inches from Inspector Gregson’s pale face. Mikotoba snagged his hand and swung him back to his place seconds before he knocked jaws with Gregson.

“When we entered the manor,” said Mikotoba, “we kicked off our shoes to the right. What else was there, Holmes?”

Holmes gesticulated as he continued, “It was a cane stand! Mr. Turner, his health fading, must have a horrible limp that requires the assistance of a cane. When we entered, the cane was to our right, which means, on the way out, Mr. Turner would --” Holmes looked at Mikotoba.

Tap-tip-tiki-tap-tip-tiki.

“-- reach to his left! He is left-handed!”

Holmes was hollering, now, his laugh surely heard all the way to the manor as he pranced over the bloodstain. Mikotoba, too, was laughing, unable to contain his joy at seeing Holmes so elated by a case. The rain had begun to fall in the middle of their deduction, and Mikotoba was now kicking up puddles with every tiki-tiki of his shoes. The kicking wind was dragging raindrops across Holmes’s cheeks that shimmered when they stuck to his eyelashes and brought out the twinkle in his eye.

Tiki-tiki-tap-tiki-tip-tap.

“Finally,” said Holmes, “The ‘cooee!’”

Tap-tip-tiki-tap.

“This was the most simple, you see!”

Tipi-tap-tipi-tiki-tap.

“The alert call of, ‘cooee,’ a call between hunters unlike any other in England --”

Tip-tip-tiki-tak-tip.

“-- would be known by Mr. Turner, who is of Australian origin!”

Tiki-tap-tiki-tap -- Holmes had grabbed him, now, seizing his wrists -- tap-tip-tap-tip -- he was moving him, brandishing him to the side -- tip-tiki-tip-tap-tiki-tip-tap -- he was dipping him, knocking Mikotoba straight off his feet in favor of scooping beneath his waist and, there, the dance ended, Mikotoba’s arms curled around his companion’s neck and their bodies flush, angled against one another.

Their eyes met. The rain was cool against Mikotoba’s flaming skin, heated so quickly because, in this tight space between them, Mikotoba swore that, had Holmes held him a moment longer, he would have surged forward and kissed the charming smirk right off Holmes’s lips.

Instead, he was heaved upwards, barely capturing his hat as he was placed on his feet once again. Holmes released him once he ensured Mikotoba was steady and turned to face the stunned Inspector Gregson.

Pathetically, Gregson looked at the wooden stake in his hands, then at Mikotoba and Holmes, then back at the stake, and, soon, under his breath, he said, “There are no words to tell how much I despise and respect you, Holmes.”

“No need for flattering, Gregson. We have a poor Miss Alice Turner to spill the news to. Isn’t that right, Mikotoba?”

Mikotoba blinked his embarrassed tears away and replied, “Yes. And we have a dying Mr. Turner to question.”

They hurried back to the manor. Holmes was given just what he asked for, meeting the faint Mr. Turner as he laid, dying, his rattling breaths being the only sign of consciousness. Mikotoba and Holmes sat beside his bed, Mikotoba being the one to press questioning against him. Poor Alice Turner, with her rosy cheeks and limpid, glassy eyes, spent the last minutes of Mr. Turner’s life gripping his hand and listening to his whispered confession. Everything Holmes and Mikotoba had deduced was correct.

After being paid in full with the newfound inheritance Miss Turner possessed, Holmes and Mikotoba had returned to their cab, again knee-to-knee and watching the grandiose property fade behind the trees behind them, swathed by the fog of rain.

Mikotoba, coming to a realization, looked at Holmes and asked, “I thought you said the weather would be lovely today?”

Holmes smiled, laughed, and lied, “It is, isn’t it?”

When they returned to 221B, Holmes was again the first out of the cab, but he waited this time for Mikotoba to take his hand before hurrying inside.

The fifth time was not during an adventure at all. If it were right to call it one, then Mikotoba would never commit it to paper, for it was during a journey of the Legendary Pair no man had a right to witness.

It had been exactly three months since Mycroft Holmes, the brother of Sherlock Holmes, was found burned to ash in the remains of his restaurant.

Holmes was not an emotional man. In times of tribulation, he had already confessed to Mikotoba that he did nothing but smother the pain down until it was forgotten another day. This tribulation, the grief of loss, the only family Holmes could account for being stolen from him, was beyond smothering, and it made Mikotoba ache as he could do nothing but watch the devastation engulf Holmes whole.

Holmes told him to leave him alone. Mikotoba respected his wishes. For three months, they were solitary, did not investigate cases, and did not share meals. Mikotoba knew that Holmes could not bear the burden of Mikotoba seeing him this way, unable to understand that it was too late to hide an emotion Mikotoba knew all too well.

Today, in a cruel show of circumstance, exactly three months after the passing of Mycroft, it had been exactly three years since the passing of Ayame.

Mikotoba sat on the couch. Occupying his hands was a teacup -- which he set on the coffee table in front of him after taking a sip -- and a book, one that he could not remember the name or contents of.

He thumbed to the page he bookmarked, laid the book against his hands, and pretended to read.

Little Susato, so splendid and vibrant like her mother, was squealing with joy as her grandmother placed a wrapped gift in her little hands. After thanking her with enthusiasm, she was tearing it open, and she was in awe of the expensive puzzle her grandmother gifted her. The chiming of her giggles was innocent, for the little girl did not know how much of her life had been stolen from her the moment she was born and the moment Mikotoba decided he could never give her the love she deserved from a father.

To his left, the couch sunk. Mikotoba looked to see none other than Sherlock Holmes, who looked just as terrible as he did the day before.

The abyss had returned in his eyes, but there was no spark to match it. His lids hung heavy, his shoulders sagged, and his hands, gaunt and pale, were resting on his knees. He did not look at Mikotoba. Even if he did, Mikotoba would know the man would do nothing but stare right through him.

“It’s been three years, hasn’t it?”

Mikotoba’s breath hitched. Slowly, he nodded, and Holmes seemed to catch it in the corner of his eye. The beginnings of a feigned smile twitched his lip.

“Then what a cruel coincidence this is.”

“Yes,” agreed Mikotoba.

A silence followed. It was heavy with memory.

Mikotoba surrendered to his pain, and, hanging his head, he began to sob.

Cathartic was not a word Mikotoba used to describe crying. While he liked to think otherwise, he could not deny that he hated feeling just as much as Holmes did, and the embarrassment that soon swallowed him was no help to his already ruined mind. His hands came up to cover the hiccups that choked from his throat, and though he tried to apologize to Holmes, he couldn’t speak or see through the haze of false memory, tormented with visions of Ayame’s final moments and Susato’s first breaths.

The cushion next to him adjusted. Holmes was moving, and Mikotoba was glad to hear him, anticipating he’d leave the room. What came next was not Holmes abandoning his companion, nor Holmes scolding him for his sorrow over something from so long ago, but Holmes circling Mikotoba’s shoulders and pulling him into an embrace.

Eagerly, Mikotoba returned it, and there was nothing more humiliating yet more comforting than the warmth of Sherlock Holmes surrounding his shaking body.

“I’m sorry,” Mikotoba whispered.

“Don’t be,” said Holmes, his voice growing watery.

Mikotoba fastened his arms around Holmes’s neck. He was desperate to find a hold to reality, the man before him being the nearest yet furthest thing from Ayame and bringing more sobs from Mikotoba by the minute. He didn’t realize how tightly he was gripping at the back of Holmes’s untidy hair or how fast he was holding the back of his robe, as though letting him go would mean this darkness would never end.

In this embrace, Mikotoba saw nothing but Ayame. He saw her, betrayal etched on her dying face, and the words that came from her mouth were unintelligible but scalding against the coldness of the depths.

He couldn’t stop crying. It was growing worse and worse, not better regardless of the comfort. Holmes was not shaking him out of this swarm and Mikotoba was unable to force himself out of it. His voice was rasping with his wails; through the gasps, he could hear Holmes’s own sniffles and mewls, so unlike him that it only crushed Mikotoba further. As he was lulled deeper into a frenzy, he could only mumble apologies into Holmes’s throat.

Mikotoba wasn’t sure how long it took, but the windows had grown dark and the fireplace was long blackened by the time they finally calmed to whimpers. With fingers latched onto one another, heads pressed at their sides, and legs tangled on the couch, the men woke from their dizzying episode to find themselves wrapped together. They laid there as their breaths slowed, slowed, then, finally, evened. Mikotoba’s arms were aching from their awkwardly crooked position and his back was beginning to feel a twinge.

In turn, Mikotoba was the first to move, dragging himself off of Holmes. “I’m sorry,” he said again, raw in voice.

This time, Holmes did not reassure him with words, but he nodded, too busy pushing his palms against his wet cheeks to respond.

They sat there for a minute. Soon, Mikotoba reached and grabbed his teacup. When he had a drink of his cold tea, he offered it to Holmes, who accepted it kindly and finished it off. The teacup was settled again on the coffee table and forgotten just as quickly.

In the company of each other, now understanding and fond, the silence was not so deafening.

“I’m sorry.” It was Holmes’s turn to apologize. The detective was smiling, instinctual at best and forced at worst with darkened eyes gazing low. His own voice was rasping and pitched lower than his normally jovial tone. As Mikotoba looked at him, he saw the creases of concern in Holmes’s expression, saying through a tightened jaw, “I should have stopped us before we began.”

Furrowing his brow, Mikotoba responded, “What are you sorry for? You did nothing but comfort me. I should thank you.”

Holmes sniffled. “Then I will thank you, too, Mikotoba.”

Mikotoba genuinely grinned. Holmes’s smile became a bit more alive.

Mikotoba looked down at Holmes’s hand, which moved and laced fingers with Mikotoba’s. Mikotoba never noticed the difference in size -- Holmes had longer fingers, dainty like that of a pianist’s and calloused with years of work, while Mikotoba’s hands were wide, strong, but elegant. Together, they slotted perfectly into one another. He blinked away the memory of Ayame’s delicate hands.

“Mycroft was not the kindest brother one could ask for,” Holmes began. Mikotoba raised his gaze, but Holmes was focused on something far away. “He was like me, in the fact that he was unbearably stubborn. His witty mind was as fast to deduce as my own, too, but by God, he was lazy. He did nothing but lumber around, that brute, and name every single mistake I made while parading no successes of his own. By the time he died, I am frustrated to say we were distant, but… I have accepted it was no fault of mine or his. Simply… our differences. Perhaps, if things went another way...”

“You couldn’t have known it would happen, Holmes. It’s not your fault.”

Holmes dipped his head. “I know that, Mikotoba. Perhaps, just this once, you can equate me to the common man, because I am reminiscing over a time that will never exist. I am doing it in the presence of company that frustrates me, as well.”

Mikotoba blinked. Though he tried to slip his hand away, Holmes squeezed it. “I… I apologize, what do you mean by ‘frustrate’? Do I frustrate you?”

Then, suddenly, Holmes roared to life.

“Yes! You do! Mikotoba, my dear, you are the most frustrating man I have ever met.” Holmes finally met eyes with Mikotoba. Familiarly, there was a flame within his gaze, but it was not lit by the thrill of a case. “I am ashamed of the way I sit before you, basking in darkness albeit being in the presence of your blinding light. I am frustrated I can not grant you the honor of bringing me to the surface of this Godforsaken surge!”

Holmes’s free hand had come up to his forehead, grasping against his curls. Again, tears welled in his eyes, thickening into beads that hung on his eyelashes and carved down his cheeks. “I am -- I am frustrated, so frustrated, that you can’t save me, and I am too pathetic to be saved!”

When Ayame passed, the time that lapsed beforehand was something Mikotoba blocked from his memory. None of it was celebratory of the birth of their daughter, and none of it was reassuring. Instead, her death was agonizing, her screams were deafening, and Mikotoba was sure his heart would grow forever cold in the wake of her unsuccessful delivery by Mikotoba’s bloodied hands.

Along came Sherlock Holmes.

As a foreigner, Yuujin Mikotoba was ready to be rejected by London and returned to Japan within days. However, to his surprise, an upbeat, charming graduate was eager to make his acquaintance. With a firm handshake, the sharing of names, and the exchange of smiles, Mikotoba and Holmes had become inseparable.

A warmth, so timid in the depths of Mikotoba’s soul, bloomed. On days Mikotoba felt they were close enough to kiss, the heat of Holmes’s breath was like a bellow that stoked the fires. Between the contact of their bodies, the friction ignited his heart. And, now, as Mikotoba was privy to witness the tears cascading from Holmes’s dewy eyes, the wetness did nothing to dampen the flame.

The man who had saved him, who claimed Mikotoba to be his light albeit being brighter than the sun, was crying, finally voicing his worries only because of the death of his brother. It took him this long to say aloud what he dreaded the most. No -- he never would, if it were anybody but Mikotoba to be on the listening end.

Holmes thought himself to be pathetic. He didn’t know that Mikotoba was in love with him.

His own free hand slipped beneath the grasp of Holmes’s on his head. It traced the curve of his skull, delved its fingertips through his hair, and when he had a firm hold on his nape, it pulled Holmes downwards.

With the passion of an inferno, Mikotoba kissed him.

The hiss of Holmes’s breath through his nose was the last sound his companion made before he was repositioning his hand to Mikotoba’s jaw, where he touched him so tenderly it made Mikotoba part his lips to sigh against Holmes’s mouth. In kind, Holmes pushed himself closer, nose burying itself against Mikotoba’s cheek while their mouths met in earnest.

Holmes was just what Mikotoba anticipated he’d taste like; tobacco, surprisingly savory in Holmes’s mouth, blended with their shared tea was a welcome flavor that Mikotoba savored. Mikotoba felt like he heard the roar of his blood urging him on like an animal.

Soon, they were laying, Mikotoba propped on top of Holmes. They were still kissing and they were still holding each other, one hand grasping the other and the other hands against their hair. Their chests were flush against one another. Somewhere, the book fell, but Mikotoba couldn’t be bothered to retrieve it while he was so enveloped by Holmes.

Between their mouths, their unspoken words forged into plays of the tongue that struck chords of memory. With strength, Mikotoba forced this memory not to replace those of the past, but to carve new ones of the present.

It was many minutes before, mutually, they parted.

When Mikotoba opened his eyes, Holmes had already done so, gazing through glassy eyes at Mikotoba and resting his mouth in a half-smile. Mikotoba was quick to return it.

Many things could be saidatn this time. Mikotoba could speak against Holmes’s self-deprecation. Holmes could listen to Mikotoba’s own turmoil, seeing the doctor had plenty to unpack and the time to do so. Instead, however, all Holmes did was cup the back of Mikotoba’s head, and all Mikotoba did was lay his face in the center of Holmes’s chest, listening to the strumming of his heart.

“Thank you,” mumbled the detective. Mikotoba pecked his sternum.

A calmness finally settled in his grieving soul, and when he paid attention, he thought he could hear the same calmness in Holmes’s shallow breaths.

In the past, Mikotoba had tried to kiss Holmes because he was selfish and yearned to stupify the overconfident detective. This circumstance, though, where Mikotoba kissed him so soundly that Holmes was lulling to a peaceful sleep within moments, was the most favorable outcome Mikotoba could dream of. He did it to their mutual benefit.

Satisfied and quelled, he closed his eyes, reminding himself that no matter the strife they faced, Mikotoba and Holmes would remain the Legendary Pair, for the blaze they shared was inextinguishable.