Chapter 66 The truth is just the truth. There is no difference between the truth of justice and the truth of evil.

The 20-year-old Sherlock Holmes wrapped his coat tightly. "The truth is obvious," he looked at the dirty snow-covered ground. "This young colonel, unfortunately, did not die in the battle with the enemy. He died under the gun of his comrades."

"How could it be?" Several accompanying officers were shocked, and the highest-ranking officer had a hint of joy in his eyes.

He let the detective hired by the family enter the scene. It seemed that the gamble was right. The general thought happily that he might have caught Moran's handle.

He suddenly felt as if there was a sharp gaze on him, and when he looked around hurriedly, he found that the young detective was looking at him.

The young man's eyes were very light, and his eyes looked particularly sharp.

He felt as if his soul was being cut open. He didn't even dare to look into the eyes and quickly avoided it.

The young man didn't seem to plan to say anything more, so he also moved his eyes away and focused on analyzing the crime scene.

"First of all, the wound came from his back. He was a soldier who had experienced many battles and was often praised for his bravery in the files." Holmes said, "It is very unlikely that he was shot in the back, but we cannot rule out that he died of negligence."

"What particularly concerns me is another point." Holmes said, "Why is there nothing in his pockets and wrists?"

"He didn't bring any daily necessities." Holmes pointed to the other party's empty pockets, "Generally speaking, notebooks, pens and the like, even if they were looted, they would not take them away."

"There are traces of a watch on his wrist, but the watch is gone." Holmes continued, "The temperature outside is so low now. If the watch was taken away after death, there should be some scratches on the hand, and the corpse pickers are often very rough and don't mind causing damage to the corpse." "

So this watch was most likely taken off by himself, and the pockets were emptied by himself," Holmes said, "Why? Because he was preparing to rob, and he had to make room for other people's watches on his hands."

"So I judge that this officer," he paused, his tone calm, without sympathy or mercy, just reading out the truth, "he died after the battle, when he was excited and decided to carry out a large-scale looting of this village, and was killed by friendly forces."

"Which company cooperated with him in the battle, the more suspicious that company is." The young man with gray eyes said lightly.

Then he turned around, turned up his collar and left.

This is the whole truth of what happened that day. Sherlock Holmes did not make any mistakes in reasoning.

One day a few years later, at a Christmas family gathering, in the Holmes' old house, the huge Christmas tree was hung with gifts, and the fireplace was burning warmly. In the warmth and peace, their eldest son was still busy opening and reading important telegrams and letters.

"Colonel Moran resigned." Mycroft Holmes said, "I guess he couldn't stand the general using this handle to kidnap and blackmail him endlessly."

Sherlock didn't know the bottom of this matter. He was more concerned about the fruit in the Christmas pudding and the juicy roast chicken.

"You should know that the general preserved the death scene and allowed you to investigate it for this reason." Mycroft said, he picked up a piece of chocolate cake, looked at it reluctantly, and put it down again.

"Well," Sherlock said, "I won't be so shameless as to ask everyone in the world to have any obsession with the truth." "

So your truth helps the evil, is it an evil truth?" Mycroft closed the letter and picked up another one, trying to divert his attention from the dazzling array of food. His personal doctor said that his weight was about to exceed the standard and listed a list of horrifying health risks, so he began to control his sugar intake.

"The truth is just the truth," his brother said, "there is no difference between the righteous truth and the evil truth."

Mycroft laughed.

"Okay," he said, his eyes appeared above the letter, "but you are easy to make enemies like this."

"And then be killed." He exaggeratedly scratched his neck with his hand.

"Maybe." Sherlock said, "So I'm very grateful to you."

"Ah?" Mycroft felt that the mouthful of water he had just drunk almost choked him to death.

"What?" Mycroft said, "Why do you suddenly say such things?"

"Because you are a peaceful and decent person, and you have achieved worldly success," Sherlock said calmly, "so I can die at will."

"You will take good care of our family and father, right?" he asked.

Mycroft has long been accustomed to Sherlock's sharp words.

Of course, he has long known that this brother is extraordinary.

I am very grateful to you. Although the timing and tone of this sentence are very strange, Mycroft knows that this is Sherlock's true words.

This brother also has his own delicate side.

"I'm glad that you didn't become a prisoner of cake again tonight." Sherlock said.

Mycroft smiled. If it were usual, he would definitely have a few witty remarks waiting, but today he didn't want to say them.

"I won't be a prisoner." Mycroft laughed, "My self-esteem won't allow it."

"None of us will be prisoners of anything," Mycroft suddenly added, "including fate."

Sherlock also laughed.

"Including fate," he repeated.

But life is often like Sisyphus, who can only keep pushing the boulder up the mountain. Mycroft is well aware of this absurdity.

He sat in the office, looking at the photo on the desk. This was taken many years ago. After their mother was diagnosed, they wanted to leave a little memory for the family, so the four of them took this family photo together.

He knew that it would be almost impossible for him to see Sherlock again in the future.

He would forget, and forget the appearance and voice of the person who was closest to him in the world.

But he didn't have time to be sad now, because they had all made a vow.

They would not be prisoners of fate, nor would they be forced by fate to go to a place they didn't like, and he was even more so.

He was now the helmsman of Britain.

He could do something, and he should do something.

McCoff was waiting for a letter with a list of James Moriarty's accomplices and a list of his assets.

He knew he would receive the information today.

Tomorrow at the latest he would uncover the biggest criminal gang in history and try to catch them all.

McCoff looked out the window. The weather in London was the same as always. Thick fog covered everything. There were a few black masts on the Thames. He wondered if everything would disappear after the sun rose. Everything would be bright and clear.

Sisyphus might be able to push the stone to the top of the mountain one day.

But he would never have a brother again.

Looking at the bright side, maybe after that night, he wouldn't even be sure that he had a brother.

A bitter smile appeared on his lips.

Anyway, Mycroft thought, he suddenly felt that he seemed to be grateful to Sherlock.

His unique younger brother, he thought, it was suddenly difficult for him to imagine what kind of person he would become without Sherlock. He was surrounded by cunning old foxes, and he was used to it.

For politicians, the most important thing is to be sociable.

The truth is not important. For them, there is indeed a distinction between the so-called righteous truth and the evil truth.

In other words, there is a beneficial truth and a harmful truth.

Mycroft flipped through the case files. From a certain perspective, Moriarty and Moran were both villains raised by Britain. If there is a need to hold them accountable, Britain can certainly take the main responsibility.

This is a filthy environment where evil people live better, so don't blame the evil people for growing stronger.

Will the future be good?

What will the new world look like?

No one knows, Sherlock Holmes thought, even Luna, who is in charge of the new life, doesn't know.

But she didn't seem to be afraid of this.

"The world will always be reborn from the ashes," she said, "I will give my best to the new world."

Perhaps James Moriarty was thinking, I will grab the best part of the new world before others, Holmes thought, he stood in front of the window sill, letting his shadow cast on the curtains.

He knew Moran was watching him.

Moran was figuring out his daily activities and scouting for Moriarty to kill him.

It seems that he should be more grateful for his military career. Holmes lit a cigarette for himself. Moran's high-intensity scouting and surveillance meant that Moriarty was coming to find him.

This was in his plan, but the arrival of this day even made him a little nervous.

As long as Moriarty died, it would be considered a win. He thought, it didn't matter whether he died or not.

However, for Moriarty, he had to die and he lived to win.

In this way, it seemed that his task was less difficult.

"Your telegram." The waiter knocked on his door. The gray-eyed young man smiled briefly and politely, then took the paper from the brass tray.

It was Luna's telegram, and the content was clear and simple.

Help Mirabeau and Sean kill Moran before Moriarty arrives.

This is certainly better, Holmes thought, he walked back to the window quietly and looked back at Moran.