#i live live live for wato's pov and characterization in this novel

[gludzilla]

Sachiko’s Moustache (Part II)

“...I see now.”

Wato closes the volume protected by a fabric book cover and lets out a sigh. It is night at 221B. Sherlock skulks at her desk by the window and does not spare Wato a glance. She has been in this state ever since they returned home. Wato pointedly clears her throat and stands up from her chair. Holding the open book to her chest, she approaches her roommate.

“...I’m reading Saneatsu Kishida’s biography, and I feel like I now understand why Mrs. Maibara’s husband gave that painting to her. Apparently, it was the last work he painted before dying that year of pulmonary tuberculosis. At that time, his painting weren’t selling and he lived a life of poverty. The only one who supported him to the end was his wife, Sachiko. Using her as a model, he painted Sachiko. Hey, isn’t it a beautiful story?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker to Wato before immediately turning back to her desk. Still hugging the book to her chest, Wato tries again.

“A painting full of love for his beloved wife. Hey! Isn’t it wonderful?”

“How naive. Maybe the husband had a mistress and to atone for his sin he gave her a present. Or maybe he meant it as a joke, telling his wife to be more devoted to her husband like the women in pre-war Japan,” she replies in a single breath, leaving Wato open-mouthed. She waits for Sherlock to move her face away from her microscope before firmly grasping her shoulder.

“Hey! Why do you have to be such a contrarian? Have you never felt love for someone else?”

“Emotions only get in the way of objective reasoning. And you…”

Sherlock shakes off Wato’s hand, turns in her chair, and begins observing the whole of Wato’s body. It feels like her eyes can strip her naked just by looking at her. Wato covers her face and frantically tries to escape her gaze.

“You’re observing me. Stop, hey, don’t look. Stop, stop...”

“Well, well, seems like you two are getting along,” they hear a cheerful voice say as the door opens - it is Mrs. Hatano. Holding a long tray in her hands, she looks at Wato and Sherlock’s playful bickering and smiles. The two of them abruptly look away from each other and speak simultaneously.

“Not at all.”

“Not by one millimeter.”

Her smile growing increasingly more delighted, Hatano puts down the tray on the table. On it, there is steaming black tea and a plate of golden brown castella. This castella, it has chestnuts in it!

“It’s a gift from Mrs. Maibara? Do you want some?”

“Yes!”

Wato cheerfully takes a wooden skewer in her hand, but Sherlock keeps on facing her desk and does not look away.

Hatano, still smiling, exchanges glances with Wato and turns to look at Sherlock’s back.

“So, how is the investigation progressing?”

“Accordingly.”

A short answer.

Hatano takes a sudden breath and continues, “Ever since she lost her husband, Mrs. Maibara hardly ever leaves her home. Because of her bad leg and because she has nothing to do, she just stays inside all day watching TV. I wish she would go outside and interact with people a bit more...Well then, I’ll see myself out.”

Even after Hatano leaves, Sherlock still remains glued to her desk. Wato takes a castella slice with the skewer and approaches her. She peeks at her hands. Her roommate holds a heavy mineral identification manual propped open and is comparing an amber-colored stone in a petri dish to the images in it.

“What’s that?”

“Manila copal. Fossilized plant resin. If you’re not trying to extract dinosaur DNA from it, it has one other use.”

Sherlock picks up the amber stone with a pair of tweezers and holds it in the light. She narrows her piercing eyes at the fragment. Light reflects on the fragment, and it flickers momentarily.

“This - is the clue that ties the two cases together.”

“...Wow. It’s coming off perfectly.”

An old house remodeled into a studio. While watching the art restorer Kuwabata’s hands, Wato lets out a sigh. Through an excellent procedure, the moustache drawn on Sachiko is disappearing.

“The surface was covered in varnish, so the marker’s ink didn’t penetrate the paint below.”

Even when Wato and Sherlock had suddenly dropped in unannounced, Kuwabata had shown them in without complaint. Not showing any interest in Kuwabata’s actions, Sherlock paces around the studio looking at the artworks left around on the ground. Taking one of them, still with her back to him she asks, “Did you have plans to have a solo exhibition?”

Kuwabata turns.“...Yes. How did you know?” He replies ambiguously.

“These were all done at different times, but you signed them all at once, with the same brush and paint. Other than opening a solo exhibition, I cannot think of any other reason for you to do that.”

“It was in talks, but it fell through.”

Wato sees Kuwabata advert his eyes, then turns to look at the landscape in Sherlock’s hands and the other paintings that surround them. She doesn’t quite get the finer points to them, but feels like any would look nice as decoration in any room.

“Mr. Kuwabata, do you like pastel colors?”

“More than painting things I like, I kind of end up painting whatever is popular at the moment.”

That’s harsh, thinks Wato, looking at both Sherlock and Kuwabata. Kuwabata’s ears only redden and he gives her a rueful smile.

“I need to sell paintings. It can’t be helped.”

He shakes his head, and once again Sherlock proceeds.

“The curator of the Gables Museum of Art told me that you called them just after the incident took place.”

“Ah, it’s part of the job. I get in contact with various museums periodically,” Kuwabata replies. He notices Sherlock grabbing an object from his shelves and he twitches. It is a jar full of amber stones.

“Manila copal. If you melt it down, you can use it as a type of varnish.”

“...You’re well-informed.”

“I also have one. I picked it up recently.”

Saying that, she pulls out a test tube from her pocket containing a little stone and holds it against the light. Before Kuwabata can even open his mouth, she presses him further, “It was on the roof of Mr. Yanagisawa’s office building.”

Wato takes a deep breath, but Kuwabata only tilts his head weakly. He observes the stone inside the test tube.

“Must have been hard to find such a small stone,” he says, sounding impressed.

“...Did you know Mr. Yanagisawa?”

“Of course. Everyone in the business knows him.”

“Have you been to his office?”

“A couple times, on business.”

“Where were you and what were you doing on the night of Mr. Yanagisawa’s death?”

“I was here the whole night, working. Ah, well, I went to the convenience store at some point, so I might have been recorded by the security cameras there,” he replies smoothly. Am I only imagining that he’s hiding something? Wato tries to discreetly look at Sherlock, but she says nothing and intently observes Sachiko, still on the workbench. As if perhaps an as of yet unseen clue lies hidden within it.

“...So it was a waste of time. Both Takakura and Kuwabata have alibis.”

While climbing the hill on their way back to 221B, Wato kicks a tiny pebble away. Takakura and Kuwabata keep cropping up near Sachiko. She had thought one of them might be the mastermind, but it seems like things are not quite that simple. On the other hand, Sherlock does not seem to be put down by the futile situation, but walks at her usual fast pace. She’s quite lively.

“An alibi means nothing in regards to Yanagisawa’s murder. The culprit used a timing device to kill him.”

“Huh?”

Hearing her companion’s unexpected words, Wato stops in her tracks. When she sees she’s being left behind, she quickens her pace once again, disconcerted.

“Wait, what do you mean timing device?”

“The culprit visited Yanagisawa’s office a few hours before he fell. He spiked his drink with sleeping pills, and then…”

She waves her finger, as if keeping a beat. Abruptly she retracts her hand and raises it, as if elevating something with it, and continues, “They carried him to the roof. There is a scaffolding just wide enough for a person to sleep on it beyond the roof’s railing. The culprit laid Yanagisawa on the scaffolding and fled. After a couple hours passed, the medicine wore off and Yanagisawa awoke. But he wouldn’t even dream of taking a nap in such a place. After waking up from a deep sleep, his footing would have been unsteady.”

“And so - he falls to the ground.” Wato concludes. Sherlock grins pointedly at her. Oh, are you praising me? Wato thinks, just before gasping at the picture of a dead body suddenly thrust under her nose. Even if it is something she is used to seeing, of course she would be startled by something shown to her without warning. It is a man lying face-down. His head is cracked open.

“This is Yaganisawa after he fell. Even though he landed face-down, his back is covered by a considerable amount of white paint.”

“I see,” Wato replies, at the same time that Sherlock’s phone vibrates. It’s Reimon. It’s not a call, it looks like a message. Sherlock checks its contents immediately.

Seeing what is displayed on the screen, Wato says, “What’s that?”

There is only an image attached. It is Shibata in a dirty suit presenting a skull-shaped earring to the camera and grinning proudly.

“...It’s one of our original works, yes.”

Inside of Silver Accessory’s studio, the tanned shopkeeper says this after seeing the picture Wato and Sherlock show him. Tattoos covering his skin peek out from beneath his loose tank top.

“We’re looking for the person who purchased this piercing. Do you know who that might be?” asks Wato, stopping Sherlock’s hand from cheerfully touching his tattoos.

Booting up a tablet next to the cash register, he replies, “It was a custom order, so I think we’ve got a picture.”

He swipes at the screen. Among the photographs of tough-looking customers, an image catches Wato’s eye. Sherlock stops the shopkeeper’s hand. It is a picture of a young man wearing a skull earring. The shopkeeper immediately reveals his name.

“That’s Kijima.”

“Do you know him?”

He looks up, thinking. Finally, he replies, “He’s the type of man who would do things from volunteer in drug trials to work as a host, he’d do anything to get money.”

“Has he worked in a museum?”

“...He said he’d worked transporting paintings a while ago.”

“Around when?”

“About a year ago. If I’m not mistaken, it was at a gallery in Ginza.”

“A gallery in Ginza - that’s the connection!” Wato exclaims. The man who had defaced Sachiko and gotten hit by a car. Yanagisawa’s gallery in Ginza where he had been killed. The two dots were beginning to connect. Yes. Sherlock had gotten Shibata to look for the earring to expose this invisible link. Slowly but surely, the hidden pattern emerges - the shopkeeper turns his head to look at Kijima’s photo, Wato, and finally Sherlock, who still stares intently at the photograph, so violently even his nose ring swings with the motion.

The smell of pizza. The smell of biryani. The smell of wonton soup. The various smells combine and permeate 221B while Wato brings an adorable nigiri sushi to her mouth. Trying to make sense of the information they had acquired, Wato begins speaking slowly.

“Kijima the freeter had a job at Yanagisawa’s gallery, and Yanagisawa had him deface Sachiko. Then, Kuwabata made a business call to the museum just when Kijima drew the moustache on Sachiko.”

“Kijima the freeter, Yanagisawa the gallery owner, and Kuwabata the art restorer are all connected behind the scenes,” Sherlock continues while taking temari sushi one by one and placing them on a plate.

“But why was Yanagisawa killed?”

They had found the relation between the three men - but that only means that Wato understood that connection. She still cannot find the pattern. But what about Sherlock? Wato looks at Sherlock expectantly as she picks only at the pastrami on the pizza. The consulting detective stuffs the stack of pastrami into her mouth and says as if giving a university lecture, “To clarify that, we need to solve the Stradivarius mystery.”

“Stradivarius?”

“There was a book on Antonio Stradivari on Yanagisawa’s desk. Stradivari was an italian string instrument maker. His violins and cellos are the best in the world.”

“So an art broker would also work buying and selling instruments?” Wato tilts her head. She still doesn’t get how how an instrument maker and paintings are related.

“He’d need to be familiar with specialists for that. It’s not an easy world to get into.”

“Well, perhaps he has an interest in classical music?”

“Judging by his office, I cannot see him as someone who has any taste for classical music.”

Then was is it? Wato pouts. This Sherlock, she doesn’t explain to others what only she seems to understand. Perhaps it is her philosophy to not reveal anything until it all ties together perfectly, but it is still vexing to wait around for her to do so. Wato leans in to say, if you have an answer already, then tell me, but before she can do so, a knock on the door interrupts her. Wato’s eyes widen.

“What?! Another delivery?! Are you planning to eat all of what you ordered?”

“There’s obviously no way I can eat all of this. It’s just that I couldn’t decide what I wanted to eat.”

Sherlock grins while rubbing her hands together, and Wato gapes at her, exasperated. They hear the door opening, followed by Hatano’s voice, “Come on in, this way.”

A man with a large build wearing an elegant striped overcoat and clutching a handbag follows her inside. No matter how you look at it, it is not another delivery. As soon as the man with the shaved head sees Sherlock, he bursts out, “Sherlock! It’s been so long! How are you?”

He rushes over to her and Sherlock stands up to greet him, smiling. It seems like they know each other. The man waves his hand happily before letting his eyes fall on Wato, when he asks with a smile, “Oh, a friend?”

“She’s not my friend.”

“No, not at all.”

Sherlock and Wato reply at the same time. Yes. She is not her friend. She is just an intentionally oppressive, uncompromising and unforgivable simple-minded monster of a roommate.

“He says he was running an errand in the area, so...Um, how do you know each other?” Hatano asks with interest, and the man chuckles and shrugs his shoulders.

“Just call me Mickey. Four years ago, there was an incident in which a Matisse painting on display in a museum was stolen and replaced by a forgery. Sherlock had me appraise the piece.”

“Ah, then if you two hadn’t discovered it, the fake would still be on display today?”

Sherlock smiles proudly at Hatano.

Mickey nods and continues, “It happens a lot. There is a person who was arrested in London that produced more than 2,000 forgeries, and only 30 of them have been identified. The best forgers are very skillful. This one worked as an art restorer.”

“Art...restorer.”

A fake that cannot be told apart from the original. A forger. Replaced - An art restorer.

“Ah -”

Wato drops her chopsticks. Sherlock and the others look at her cocking their heads and she murmurs, “I think I just solved this case.”

In his dimly lit studio, Kuwabata faces his workbench.

He finishes polishing the picture frame, straightens, and surveys his work - it’s perfect. Even if they placed the two of them side by side, there was no way to tell. The woman’s eyes bore into him. While staring back at her vacantly, the phone sitting on the table rings. It’s Takakura. Kuwabata answers immediately.

“...Yes. It’s fine. It’s identical. Yes,” he replies softly.

Sachiko almost shines softly in the dim light. Kuwabata smiles to himself. Ah. It’s perfect. No one can notice it. He only has to hand it over to Takakura. There is no way to know what is going on inside his head. But the woman inside the picture frame’s eyes focus intently on him.

“...I wasn’t sure how it was going happen, but you saved us.”

“I’m glad that it came off. Give my regards to Mrs. Maibara,” Kuwabata replies and smiles at Yamashita, the curator of the Gables Museum of Art, while the other man breathes a sigh of relief. A courier begins to package Sachiko, which rests on top of the workbench, now back to its original state. Now they only had to take it back to Maibara. But then -

“Please wait!” Wato cries as she storms in, and everyone turns to look at her. She tugs a man with a large build inside by his hand. And behind them follows a tall and slender woman - Sherlock. Bewildered, Yamashita looks around him.

Kuwabata takes a step forward and calmly asks, “What is it?”

“The painting you are currently packaging is not an original Saneatsu. It was painted by Mr. Kuwabata, forged… it’s a fake!”

Wato points her finger at Kuwabata. Yamashita jumps, startled, and the courier’s hands inadvertently stop. Silence. Confusion. Kuwabata frowns as Wato presses him further.

“You planned to return the forgery to Mrs. Maibara and sell the restored original to Mr. Takakura from Takakura Resort Development. You could get a very high price from him,” Wato says in a single breath before glancing back at Sherlock. She says nothing, only watching the events unfold before her.

...I see. If that’s how you’re going to be, how about I prove it?

Kuwabata and Takakura are accomplices. Kuwabata planned to give the fake back to Maibara. And Sherlock had said to Wato. That they could go see. That they could take Mickey as an appraiser and inspect Sachiko in Kuwabata’s studio. Wato gulps. Maybe she could solve the mystery before Sherlock. If she did, then maybe her oppressive roommate’s self-important attitude might even become a bit more bearable!

“I verified the painting myself before it was packaged. There is no way -” Yamashita nervously objects.

Wato nudges the man she’d dragged in with her forward and declares passionately, “It’s not something you can identify with a glance. We’ve brought an appraiser with us.”

Mickey looks at Kuwabata, a little uncomfortable. Kuwabata nods calmly.

“Very well. Unpack it, please,” he says to the man that had started packaging the painting.

He pulls away the protective paper and Sachiko, back to its proper condition, is exposed.

Mickey bows his head to Kuwabata and slowly approaches the painting. He pulls out a flashlight from his pocket and intently observes Sachiko’s face, her kimono, her obi, and the signature on the lower right corner. And then.

He extinguishes the flashlight and shakes his head slowly. Wato perks up.

“So -”

“This painting is real.” He promptly replies. There is an unshakeable confidence in his words.

“Eh?!”

A laugh comes from Sherlock, who still watches everything unfold before her. Stunned, Wato glances at her before turning back to Mickey and waiting for him to continue. Yamashita and Kuwabata both stare at her. Mickey shakes his head and claps his hands lightly before explaining.

“This is an authentic Saneatsu Kishida. I’ve appraised three of his paintings before. Well done on the restoration.”

“But that’s…”

“That was troublesome,” Kuwabata says indignantly. “I’m sorry. Please, repackage the painting.” He points to the courier. Yamashita makes an unpleasant face and looks at Wato, now an intruder in their eyes, at Sherlock, and at Mickey in turn. Wato is shocked. I...I had thought that was was the truth.

“Um, I, I’m sorry, I-”

“Wait,” a clear voice cuts through the tense atmosphere.

“...Sherlock?!”

“Let me look at it too.”

Sherlock, who had just watched the events unfold before her, brushes Yamashita and the courier aside and approaches Sachiko. Her eyes focus intently on the broad strokes that make up the woman’s face, the signature on the lower right corner, the edges of the picture frame, and finally they widen.

Light dances in her eyes. Her sharp expression softens slightly and she raises her head. With a low voice, she says, “Return it to Mrs. Maibara.”

Having said that, Sherlock turns on her heel and swiftly exits Kuwabata’s studio. Wato, disconcerted, begins chasing after her. Noticing Yamashita and the others’ doubtful expressions, she bows her head deeply.

“I’m sorry - excuse me!”

Wato runs. She catches up to Sherlock and takes hold of the hem of her coat. After gracefully shaking off her hand, her roommate smiles boldly. She’s not angry - but she doesn’t look her way. Because I was impertinent. Engulfed by indescribable shame, Wato ducks her head.

“...I’m sorry for getting ahead of myself,” she says with a small voice.

Sherlock looks down at Wato, and once again her lips curl into a smile. Her expression is full of confidence. This change is clearly visible, even to Wato.

“...Did you figure something out?”

“The size is the same. For Sachiko and the painting of the dancer in Takakura’s study. Their dimensions are precisely the same.”

“Is there a connection there?”

“More than a connection, that’s where it all began. In a certain problem, if you eliminate the impossible, the truth will show itself. No matter how improbable the conclusion.”

She turns her gaze back at Wato and raises her index finger. Confidently, she declares, “We’re going to Mrs. Maibara’s place. If I can confirm something there, everything will come surely together.”

Hirotsugu Takakura looks down at the streets of Tokyo from his office and sighs deeply. Ten minutes to the time they had agreed on. Nine minutes. He had heard that Sachiko had been delivered without trouble to Mrs. Maibara - that’s fine. Eight minutes. Seven minutes. He hears a knock. He turns his head quickly and greets the person who walks inside.

“You’re here. I was waiting for you.”

“I’m sorry for taking so long.”

The man carrying a package, Kuwabata, bows his head deeply. Without even looking at his face, Takakura carefully reaches for the wrapped package.

“It’s finally here.”

Kuwabata quickly pulls it out of his reach and stares at Takakura, still with his arm outstretched.

“...What is it?” Takakura asks softly, as a cold light flashes in his eyes.

“I want to make sure. From now on, you’ll support my work and help me in the art industry, right?”

“Of course. I am a man of my word. I am different from that irresponsible broker, Yanagisawa.”

There is no hesitation in Takakura’s words. He just stares at Kuwabata and stretches his arm towards the package he carries. Kuwabata tightens his jaw and gives a quick nod.

“I believe you,” he says thickly.

He hands over the package. He traces the edges of the rectangular shape with his eyes and his mouth softens with contentment. His hand touches the packing material. He peels off the tape and tears off the paper, and then -

“That package, could you give it back?”

At the sudden voice, Takakura freezes.

“That does not belong to you. It belongs to Mrs. Maibara. A piece of art should go back to someone that loves it, wouldn’t you say?”

“What is this?! You can’t just come in whenever you feel like it!”

Sherlock approaches him and Wato peeks her head from behind her. Takakura glares at the two intruders, and yet, Sherlock is unaffected. She pulls a paper knife from her pocket, and with its blade glinting in the light, she faces Takakura - and the package still in his arms - and smiles boldly.

“Wha-what are you -”

“If you don’t, I’ll just take it by force.”

As the same time as she begins moving, Takakura lets out a shriek. The distance between them shortens. Something rips audibly. Wato gasps. Sherlock jumps at Takakura’s chest. Her knife stabs through the center of the package - and rips the paper covering it.

Wato, Takakura, and Kuwabata all gasp at the same time. In the middle of the square package, there is nothing. There is only a gaping empty space.

“What you actually wanted was this, right?”

Sherlock rips off the rest of the paper in one go. The object concealed by it is uncovered. A deep smell hanging over it. Painstakingly carved details. Having survived through a long, long history. A picture frame.

Takakura’s face twists into a grimace as he gnashes his teeth, while Kuwabata averts his eyes. Wato looks at it all while standing a little farther away.

Boldly, Sherlock continues, “At Mrs. Maibara’s home, we had her show us her husband’s records. He purchased this 20 years prior, at the Sothesthie’s Auction. It was made in the 18th century, in Cremona, Italy. And the maker was - Antonio Stradivari.”

Sherlock turns the picture frame around and points directly at a signature in a corner. It is a little blurry with age, but it is definitely still visible. A. Stradivari, it reads. Still looking away, Kuwabata shakes his head softly. Takakura squints his eyes and glares at Sherlock peeking at him from behind the picture frame.

“Stradivari is a renowned Italian string instrument maker, and his works can cost from tens of millions to billions of yen. How much would a picture frame fetch, I wonder?”

“I have no interest in the picture frame’s cost. Here, give it back.”

“Indeed, for the sake of that thing you wanted to take the frame back.”

Sherlock grows silent and approaches the mantlepiece positioned by the wall. She raises her eyes to the picture of the dancer resting on top of it and matches the frame to it. Their sizes match perfectly. To Wato, it seems like the painting is happy to finally be reunited with its frame.

“You had been searching for this frame for a very long time for your beloved dancer’s sake.”

Inside her dark, wooden frame, the dancer has a ceaseless smile. It is as if she had unexpectedly reunited with a lover she had missed dearly. Takakura looks tenderly at this image. Sherlock removes the frame from the painting and starts speaking once again. Her mouth curls into a confident smile.

“Originally, Stradivari made this frame as a show of love to the girl who danced to the sound of a violin. But, throughout 300 years, the picture and the frame were separated and they both walked different paths. Through the hands of very many collectors, the frame ended up with Mrs. Maibara. The painting went to you. Even when they both ended up in Japan, they never crossed paths. Until now, that is.”

“...When I saw this frame with Sachiko in it at the museum, I could not believe my eyes.”

Takakura takes a sudden breath and gazes once again at the painting of the dancer. The two works who had been separated for so long. Wato, for a single second, for a mere instant, empathizes with this man’s feelings. To reunite two things he loved so much. It would be so beautiful. However, as Sherlock would say, this is not reason enough to make stealing from others okay. Of course, it is not reason enough to steal someone’s life, either.

“Mrs. Maibara did not have any intention to part with either the painting or the picture frame. Therefore, you decided to create a replacement.”

Kuwabata, who had stayed silent all this while, once again looks away. Pointing a finger at him, Sherlock continues, “Yanagisawa used you, an art restorer, to acquire the picture frame, as per Mr. Takakura’s request.”

Kuwabata frowns deeply. It is almost as if he is trying to swallow back the emotions that threaten to overflow from inside him.

Feeling a sharp pang in her chest when she sees this, Wato blurts out, “Why? Why did you go along with Mr. Yanagisawa’s plans?”

Kuwabata does not answer. Even as he keeps his mouth shut, Sherlock presses on, “An art dealer is exactly what an artist that doesn’t sell needs. When he was offered a solo exhibition, there was no way he could refuse.”

He lets out a bitter groan. Shaking his hand, he resolutely opens his mouth.

“...Having a solo exhibition has been my dream for a very long time. He knew that too, and that’s why he approached me. But, what that man said to me were nothing but lies. He never intended to let me have a solo exhibition. Whenever I asked him about it, his attitude would suddenly change -”

“And he told you he never made that promise, and that he would not give you your exhibition,” Sherlock finishes ruthlessly. Kuwabata, who had raised his head full of determination, begins to tremble. He tightens his hands into fists so tightly it seems like he is about to draw blood. His eyes are full of rage. He shakes his head.

He does not shy away from them anymore as he says, “He...he said that he never considered it, and...and he just denied what we had agreed on. And that’s not all. He said that my...my paintings...that they are incredibly boring, that they won’t ever sell, that people don’t even notice them, he shouted abuse at them...and that I have no talent. That someone with talent would have prospered a long time ago. That my painting wouldn’t sell. Even if I had a solo exhibition, not a single person would come, and he laughed, he laughed -”

Tears trickle down Kuwabata’s cheeks. Wato opens her mouth, but Sherlock interrupts her before she can speak, saying with a clear voice, “And then, you killed Yanagisawa.”

“I gave him his just desserts. To that devil, who never appreciated the arts.”

“I’ll let you in on something.”

Sherlock turns back to Takakura, who had just been observing the events unfold, and points a finger at him. To Kuwabata, who has raised his head, she says, “Once you handed over the picture frame, this man had no intention of selling your works.”

He gasps audibly. Kuwabata draws his body back. Takakura watches him, expressionless.

“Obviously,” he says, harshly.

Kuwabata sags, his strength leaving his body.

On Sherlock’s signal, a group of police officers gallantly storm into the room, but Kuwabata only stands frozen, looking into the distance. He does not resist. He just look at what happens around him as if from far away, dazed and with his spirit thoroughly broken. Sherlock looks at Kuwabata, his arms immobilized by the police.

“It’s okay to dream about being a famous painter and all,” she says to the wide-eyed man. “But shouldn’t you work on your people-reading skills a bit more?”

A little after the rest of the police squad, Reimon and Shibata enter the room. Without paying them any mind, Sherlock once again calls out to Kuwabata as he is being taken away.

“A person’s value becomes an artwork’s value. If the person can empathize with it, it’ll leave a strong impression in them, but if they’re not interested in it, they’ll just see it as junk. If a work can find a person that can be moved by it, then it’ll be able to be loved.”

Wato feels suddenly breathless. Kuwabata does not reply. When he finally disappears behind the door, Reimon says gratefully, “So it was a murder after all. I’m glad we didn’t jump to conclusions.”

“I am honored to contribute to raising your arrest-rate, Inspector. Make sure Mrs. Maibara gets her frame back.”

Sherlock pushes the frame into Shibata’s arms. He staggers in surprise but still holds it securely. He hums and shrugs his shoulders.

“Stradivari, huh. It doesn’t seem all that valuable to me.”

“To you, that is. Well then.”

And with that short farewell, Sherlock begins walking away at a brisk pace. Hurrying after her, Wato thinks about the meaning of her earlier words. A person’s value becomes an artwork’s value. If a work can find a person that can be moved by it, then it’ll be able to be loved. Were they meant as encouragement for the unrecognized Kuwabata? Were they directed to the dancer and her picture frame, separated again? Love, Wato whispers to herself, her mouth softening. Perhaps I could grow to like this simple-minded monster of a person a little.

In the midday light, the low, lamenting sound of a cello is heard.

Listening to the music from beyond the door, Kimie Hatano waits for the last note to fade away before knocking. She enters the room without waiting for a response and says to Sherlock as she carefully puts her cello away, “Oh? Where’s Wato?”

“Counseling.”

Sherlock gives her a short answer and throws a look at the chair that has already become exclusively Wato’s. Hatano laughs.

Slowly, she continues, “Mrs. Maibara called a short while ago. She said she loaned Sachiko to the museum again.”

“Again? Why?”

“Because of this case, she realized that it is best when a work of art is shared with everybody, and that the work itself will be happier because of it.”

“Would be nice if it wasn’t vandalized again, though.”

“It’ll be fine. Mrs. Maibara herself will be guarding the painting. She sounded happy to have found something to do. Saneatsu’s and Sachiko’s love. Mrs. Maibara’s and her husband’s love. Stradivari’s and the painting of the dancer’s love. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“...Is it now?” Sherlock replies with a tone of voice that says that she cannot not comprehend that at all, and shrugs her shoulders. Looking at her cheeky expression, Hatano lets out another small laugh.

“Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon. I’ve dropped in for a chat, as you suggested, doctor.”

Inside the brightly lit room, Wato shrugs her shoulders in a childish manner. Irikawa cheerfully shows Wato in when she appears without an appointment. She offers her a cup of amber-colored herbal tea and smiles softly.

“I’ve been waiting for you. We can talk about whatever you feel like.”

“Hmm...then, let me tell you about the story of Sachiko’s moustache.”

“Moustache? Ha ha, what do you mean?”

“It’s a very interesting story that happened recently. First of all…”

Gesturing from time to time, Wato begins speaking as a warmth spreads inside of her. The things she and Sherlock had learned. The case unfolding before her eyes. Telling all of this to someone, how much of it is pleasant and how much of it is anxiety-inducing? Wato continues her tale even if she is still not sure.

Notes

Fabric book cover: In many Japanese book stores, when you buy a book, they’ll give it to you with a paper book cover with the store’s branding, but some people also get reusable fabric covers, maybe to protect their book from the elements, maybe to keep the title from prying eyes in the train (or probably a bit of both).

Playful bickering: as @legacy-of-the-westside-prince had already mentioned in their own translation, the word used here is じゃれあう (jareau) which usually means “messing around” but which also seems to imply flirting in some circumstances (here’s the source they found), and the author emphasized the word so there’s that. (tl;dr: the author ships watolock) 

Castella: A Japanese sponge cake brought over by the Portuguese in the 16th century.

Wooden skewers: Kuromoji (or kuromonji?) are wooden skewers made from a plant called Lindera umbellata, usually used to eat traditional Japanese sweets.

Freeter: A person who is not employed full-time (excluding housewives and students) or underemployed. They earn money from part-time or temporary jobs. I thought about translating it, but it has a Wikipedia page, so it sounded kinda legit (plus it’s fun to learn new things).

Sothesthie’s Auction: Totally sounded like a reference to me, so I googled it. The only thing I found was this person on Twitter who suggested it is a combination of Sotheby’s and Christie’s.

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