[ PSL; one day we’ll reach homeostasis again ]

[retroductions]

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[retroductions]

[There is very little that Herlock Sholmes feels ill-equipped to handle these days. His career thus far as a consulting detective has been wide and varied, running the gamut of sometimes dangerous, sometimes spectacular, but always intriguing. And such circumstances require preparation, or at least a sense of assuredness, that despite what may come—never mind his attempts, occasionally, to suggest otherwise—he and his trusted partner are always confident that no problem is impossible to tackle, competent through and through. Bold and never trepidatious in their resolve, such as they can be. Such as they are.

Of course, this was before Sholmes found himself charged with taking care of a small, wailing baby. He believes now that the frailty of a mortal man has finally applied itself to him, that no manner of effort will stop her crying at every hour of day and night, and that his own deductive reasoning, or simple powers of elimination, have failed him once and for all. Because if he cannot differentiate the audible subtleties between a bored cry, a hungry cry, an agitated cry, or a “I’ve just soiled myself again because I’m a baby” cry, then what good is he as a detective? None at all! A fraud! May his despair run parallel with little Iris wailing in his arms, straight into his ear, as he tries to calm her, with all attempts to do so being in vain thus far.

What’s a man to do? Sholmes cranes his head up, closing his eyes in a deep resignation. By god, where is Mikotoba? The man had stepped out for what feels like an age, and he could use someone else to relieve him of his baby-tending shift. A rotation of the guard.

Iris’ cries escalate, changing key. All in all, very impressive, his mind supplies uselessly, but somewhere within that pitch, he hears the approach of footsteps just outside the door. He knows that stride, the tempo they abide by. Any second now, Mikotoba should waltz right into the room, and Sholmes will make certain that he has the pleasure of dealing with not one wailing, desperate entity, but two.]

Mikotobaaaaaa!

[HELP]

[softshoes]

[Some days, it's difficult for Mikotoba to believe just what's transpired over the last few weeks: the grim conclusion of the Professor case, Genshin's death, the promise he'd kept for the man in the form of the late Lady Baskerville and her newborn child. His swiftly-approaching date of departure for Japan. It's all too much, really-- for as much as he's tried, for all the time he's spent poring over the notes of the case with his partner, the questions that remain certainly can't answered in the span of the next three weeks.

So it's that much more that Mikotoba values every moment that he and Sholmes are occupied with the newest resident of 221B Baker Street. As tired as he is, he'd much rather be worn out caring for little Iris than losing sleep over... everything else. Far more than just a distraction, Iris is their light through all this. And, bless her very, very loud heart, she is doing her best to make the both of them remember it. At all hours, if she can.

But there are still matters to be settled and paperwork to be filed, chief among them the matter of Iris' formal adoption. Every day, the child is growing, and he'd made a promise to Genshin. He owes it to the girl to not only ensure her safety-- but to provide her with a home.

It's a shame, thinks Mikotoba, finally turning the key to their flat, that Britain is making that so much more difficult.]

Sorry, Sholmes, it took a bit longer than I thou--

[Ah. Both of them are yelling. Leave it to Iris to banish his train of thought, as usual.

Mikotoba shuts the door and abandons his things on the nearest surface-- Sholmes' desk, mercifully clear today-- then hurries over to his poor partner's side to take over. Judging by how red and tear-stained the baby's cheeks are by now, she's been at it for a while.

He shushes her in reassuring tones, rocking the child in his arms.] Whatever is the matter, my dear?

[He casts a bemused glance, and a faint smile, Sholmes' way.]

At least we know she'll have strong vocal cords, hm?

[retroductions]

[Mikotoba is as reliable as always, and his presence ushers in some mild relief even before he swoops in to take little Iris off his hands. Sholmes’ shoulders deflate, watching as the infant’s cries already begin to lessen — as though the man possesses some magical touch that he could not conjure up himself in the hours between then and now. He scoffs, tiredly but not without his own brand of resigned wryness, running a hand down his wrinkled waistcoat.]

I hardly think that was ever under contention, dear fellow. I think I’ll have Iris’ cries etched into my memory until the day I die, at this rate.

[Between everything that’s happened and still happening—a child under their care, the fallout of the Professor case and all it entailed—a moment of respite is rare. Sholmes takes advantage of it when he can, and he crosses the room to the far window. Along the way, he picks up his pipe from his desk, dreadfully neglected ever since the arrival of 221B’s third resident; tobacco smoke once lingered in this flat like a smog, wispy and strong-scented, but now that particular vice has been tamped down to accommodate their new circumstances.]

And how goes—

[A grunt as he slides open the window, and during his query he manages to both pack his pipe and light it with a few stray matches kept in his pocket.]

—your continuous fight against the usual slew of paperwork?

[Sholmes is determined to have his smoke, even if he has to lean out the window like a wilting houseplant on the sill. Which he does, watching the people below mill by.]

[softshoes]

[At last, calmed by Mikotoba's presence and the gentle motion of his arms, Iris quiets down to mere exhausted hiccups and whimpers. His expression softens-- bittersweet but fond memories of his own daughter circling his mind.]

Surely they won't stick for quite so long.

[Soon, he nearly says, you'll wish you could recall the sound of Iris' cries. It's certainly difficult for him to remember what an infant Susato sounds like, after these many years away. But instead he's silent, keeping his distance away from the smoke of Sholmes' pipe and taking a seat on the settee as Iris finally calms.]

Terribly.

[It'll be his problem again, instead. Because the fact of the matter is this: returning to the daughter he left behind necessitates leaving behind this little one instead. Iris' tiny fists hang in the air as she stares up at Mikotoba's face, eyes still too young to linger for very long. His warm expression flickers into something more melancholy, looking away to watch Sholmes at the windowsill.

The pipe smoke unfurling in the air; the sights and sounds of London rushing by on Baker Street below; that familiar head of messy blonde hair, just waiting to look back over his shoulder. A photograph alone couldn't preserve the moment-- like six years of their lives distilled down entirely.]

If I didn't know otherwise, I'd think they wished to keep me in London if only through the inconvenience.

[With his gaze fixed on Sholmes, pensive and wistful, he commits the sight of him there to memory. Always in 221B's window, and always just about to turn around.]

[retroductions]

[Sholmes listens, busying himself with watching people pass by on the street and sidewalk below as they go about their daily lives. A man with a slight limp, whose wife is either away or neglectful. A hansom cab whose driver is but on the second day of the job, and whose passenger exhibits clear anxiety. A pair of children dashing down the opposite side, playing a trick on an unseen third. His pipe exudes smoke like an indolent dragon, lazily carried past 221B's window, his elbows propped up on the sill.]

With any luck, you should remain in London through no inconvenience at all.

[That things would not have become so complicated, upending life as they knew it for these many years. A sea change is upon them, and there is little Sholmes can do about it, but it still wrenches at his insides, knowing the days of their great adventures are soon behind them. Knowing that this flat shall soon be a much emptier place.

Still, when Sholmes turns just enough to straighten and rest his hip against the window--leaning aside just enough so that the breeze catches his smoke--the look he gives his partner is a faint smile, no less fond of the sight of the man cradling an infant in his arms. Somehow, despite its improbability, Mikotoba is rather suited to the role, he thinks.]

But that will not do, will it? You must return, and this child must have a caretaker. And what will happen when these two prerogatives continue to clash? Do you have a plan for that?

[softshoes]

[Mikotoba chuckles lightly. He's getting ahead of himself feeling so nostalgic already, but the thought of remaining, for just a little longer... he can't help himself. The bundle of infant he carries pulls her hands back towards her small body, cooing softly.]

I did, until today. That was what all the hold-up was about: I was hoping to bring her back to Japan. As my own daughter.

[Susato would've loved a sister, in some world where this had all gone according to plan. Even so, looking into the clear blue of her eyes, he still sees only the mother who'd left the girl behind.]

You see... it's her parentage, Sholmes.

[He mirrors Sholmes' smile back at him across their familiar quarters-- the expression small, a bit sad, on his face.]

They won't accept my adoption unless I can prove her identity. [Mikotoba's gaze falls back down to Iris, drifting off into an exhausted nap at long last. So young, and so unawares of the strange circumstances surrounding her birth; a part of him hopes she'll always be blessed with that ignorance, whatever happens to her.] I'm sure you're aware of the problem with that.

[And to do it illegally by smuggling her onto the ship? Well. He can't imagine a Japanese man stealing an English baby would go particularly well-- no matter that her alternative would be the orphanage.

But perhaps not her only alternative.]

Sholmes... Will you be finding another flatmate once I've left?

[retroductions]

[Even as Mikotoba speaks, Sholmes is assessing the options in his mind, knowing that they are left with very little. Prospects become less prospective as the days pass; hopes of bringing Iris to Japan under the man's care start to wane under the weight of legal rules and regulations, and the precarious exercise of balancing optics, else international diplomacy implode under its own laborious (yet easily-incensed) weight.

How insipid politics are, he thinks to himself, taking a particularly long drag of his pipe. Crafting so delicate a situation that no one benefits from its baleful complexities, that a child may be without a proper caretaker, lost in the shuffle of conspiracy. Should he consider it overlong—as he has already done; long nights with his Stradivarius in hand, wailing aggravated notes—he should find himself in a dour mood.

Yet there are alternatives. The child has options still remaining, those henceforth unspoken, and he thinks to give them a voice — until Mikotoba's question has him huffing the collection of smoke his lungs had plied away, caught somewhere between disbelieving and offended.]

Another flatmate? And why would I want something like that?

[Logically, of course, he should want something like that so he could rub two pennies together; able to pay the rent with more monthly certainty, rather than scrambling to make ends meet at the last moment like he had before he met Yujin. Reasonably, he should want to seek similar accommodations again.

Yet for Sholmes, this does not fall into those manageable bounds of reason. He cannot imagine another man in place of Mikotoba, someone else who would understand him half as well, someone who he could trust half as much. He is the only one in the world he can call a true friend, and to replace him as though he were just a mannequin made of plaster is a terrible, inconceivable thought.

Having a stranger in their flat—for that is all it would amount to, a stranger here, an intrusion of their space—would throw into stark contrast all he would miss about Mikotoba, all his little mannerisms and remarks, and jokes and scoldings, and he cannot bear to even consider it. The man's not even left the premises yet.]