Is Sherlock Holmes a Eunuch?
"Goddamn it."
For reasons I couldn't begin to explain, I had been transmigrated into a romance fantasy novel. And it happened while I was merely thinking about reading one.
"Well, that's a fresh take."
At this rate, even the desire to read might get me isekai'd. Who knew how far the transmigration criteria would expand from here?
Mm.
Anyway, sizing up my situation: I had possessed the body of an ordinary commoner's kid. Name: Ed. Thankfully, the family was middle-class, so starvation didn't seem to be on the agenda.
So what am I going to do with my life?
I deliberated for all of a moment before the answer arrived.
I'm going to be an author, obviously.
I'd been an author before the transmigration, and pivoting to a different career now would mean abandoning the dopamine that this profession fed me. Watching my adorable readers threaten to lock me in a room with nothing but fried dumplings until I delivered the next chapter — that was my pornography.
Right. And I can't give up porn either.
Which meant it was time to put pen to paper.
"Mother, I'm going to be writing from now on, so could you keep things quiet for a bit?"
"Of course, dear."
The house already had fountain pens and paper, so all that remained was the writing itself.
Hmm. What subject should I go with?
NTL was non-negotiable. I was, after all, the kind of author who simply couldn't produce a single word unless Netori was baked into the story.
Maybe I'll try a mystery.
Come to think of it, I'd wanted to write an NTL detective story since way back.
Okay, genre locked in.
Now I had to come up with a title.
Hmm...
The title was the single most important factor in pulling readers in, which meant it had to bait the hook hard.
Oh!
The moment it came to me, I transcribed it onto the paper in my neatest hand.
The premise: while Sherlock Holmes busied himself with deduction, the protagonist would be busy devouring every woman Holmes held dear.
Perfect.
For the protagonist's name, Ed. This was my debut work in the romance fantasy world, so I wanted my own name woven into it. Granted, my real name was Lee Doyun, but that hardly mattered — moving on.
Hmm.
Next, I'd sketch out a rough plot.
Checked the market already — nothing but bland titles out there.
The novels currently in vogue had titles that put me to sleep.
"Publish those in the 21st century and they'd scrape together twelve views, a single like, and rot in obscurity forever."
But in this world inside a romance fantasy, titles like those actually sold. So by that standard, The Police Detective Netoris Sherlock Holmes's Women was more than serviceable.
It does feel a little short on shock value, though.
Still, escalation had to be gradual. Go too lurid out of the gate and the existing readership might balk.
Someone once said the novels that get popular are the ones one single step ahead of the present.
And I agreed — stride too far ahead and you fail to catch on at all. Writing science fiction in an era this close to the early twentieth century had abysmal odds of landing.
Of course, if your prose is absolutely god-tier, it can still work.
But almost nobody possessed prose like that, and even those who did would score a far bigger hit simply writing within the currently trendy material.
Then chapter one goes something like this.
Feeling inspiration gush out of me in waves, I threw myself into drafting the first chapter. Three hours slipped by just like that.
"Huh? It's already ten?"
Through the window, the world outside had been swallowed whole by darkness. I let myself savor the strange, tingling thrill of that realization — then got to work reviewing the opening pages of chapter one.
Sixteen murders had occurred in London over the past month.
The detective Sherlock Holmes harbored grave doubts about these cases. For every one of the sixteen had taken place not in the slums, but in Baker Street — a district home to the middle class at the very least.
This is strange.
Truly, it was strange. Murderers in the grip of that particular hunger did not behave this way. If anything, they would simply descend upon the slums and kill orphans — victims whose deaths carried no repercussions.
But sixteen murders in Baker Street means...?
It meant this could not be dismissed as killing for pleasure alone.
"If only we had some clue to work with..."
Holmes surveyed the house the retreating police had left in disarray. And in the course of his examination, his eye fell upon a large initial scrawled across the wall beside the fireplace.
[ I ]
"'I', you say? Surely no one would leave behind a lone 'I' without reason..."
After a moment's deliberation, Holmes judged that no amount of pondering in this room would yield an answer. He resolved instead to ask his friend Ed — a police officer serving in Baker Street — what initials had been found at the other crime scenes.
And so, the following day, Sherlock Holmes met his friend Ed at a café.
"Something the matter?"
"What else would it be? A case."
"I thought as much... Very well, then. Ask away. What is it you wish to know, my friend Holmes?"
"Then I shall not decline the invitation. I hear you have seen every scene of the recent murders in Baker Street — is that correct?"
"It is true."
At his friend's words, Holmes brightened.
"Then tell me — was an initial left at the scenes? An 'I', perhaps?"
"Holmes — how on earth did you know that?"
"How would I know? Because I visited the scenes myself, of course. The initial I discovered was 'I'."
"Fair enough."
Ed folded his arms and pondered briefly, then drew a notebook from inside his coat.
"I kept a record in my notebook. I shall recite them in order."
At the look that asked are you ready, Holmes gave a solemn nod. Ed smirked faintly at the sight and began calling out the initials, one by one.
"T, E, E, R, S, T, R, E, K, A, B, N, O, M, A, I."
"A sentence."
"A... sentence?"
"Indeed. Of the hypotheses one might construct at present, the most probable is that of a sentence. Assemble those letters properly, and you shall know precisely what message the culprit has left behind."
"Th-then you mean it can be assembled from these sixteen letters alone?"
"Is that not self-evident?"
"Ohhh! Truly you are London's greatest detective, Holmes!"
"Heh. This much is nothing at all. The arrangement of these initials is simpler than you imagine."
"Then tell me at once! I am dying of curiosity!"
"A simple trick. One need only read the initials in reverse."
"In reverse? Then... I am on Baker Street!"
"Correct."
"Which translates to... I am on Baker Street. Such an egregiously obvious statement. Has the man gone entirely mad?"
"You may, in fact, have reaped a considerable harvest."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Those who leave such traces behind, as a rule, do so in the hope that their intent will be understood. The probability is therefore high that no lie was mixed into the cipher."
"Can you be certain of that?"
"Certain, no. But it is very likely no lie. For it seems to me the culprit is rather enjoying this little game."
"Then what follows?"
"It means, in the end, that we require more clues. Should you discover anything at the scenes, contact me at once."
"Understood, Holmes."
And with that, Holmes left the café — his ordered coffee still unfinished.
A seventeenth murder occurred.
Astonishingly, the victim this time was none other than the husband of a countess — Count Osman.
"Sob... Mr. Holmes, was it? I am told you are the greatest detective in all of London. I will pay you whatever sum you name — please, catch the man who did this!"
"I shall, my lady. Fear not. And I would counsel you — alcohol is bad for the health."
"I am quite fine. Three bottles, at least!"
Despite Holmes's protests, the countess continued to drink, until at last she was thoroughly drunk.
And in her drunkenness, the countess felt her desire begin to stir.
Mmm... what a handsome man.
It had been a full month since her husband had last touched her. For a countess only just entering her late twenties, one month was an achingly long time — long enough for desire to seize the reins of her mind.
"Mr. Holmes..."
"Speak, my lady."
"Could you... keep me company tonight?"
She had expected, of course, that he would agree. She was past her mid-twenties, yes — but she remained young, and beautiful still.
But to Holmes, wholly consumed by the case, a beautiful countess did not so much as register.
"I am afraid that would be difficult."
"Ah..."
"I shall take my leave, then. May you have a pleasant night, my lady."
And so Sherlock Holmes departed without a single moment's hesitation — leaving the countess to realize that the very first seduction she had attempted in her life had ended in failure, and to despair.
"...!"
Mm. Not a bad opening, if I say so myself?
By cracking the culprit's initials in sequence, the passage showed exactly why Holmes was London's greatest detective. And by producing his own notebook of recorded initials, Ed — his friend and the story's protagonist — proved he was no useless deadweight either.
From here, the widowed countess enters the picture. Holmes, drawn to her pitiable state, falls into longing — but the protagonist Ed strikes first, and there's your light NTL, complete.
It was an unavoidable measure. Feeding readers something too intense right out of the gate would only raise their threshold, and there were going to be plenty more women down the line.
Mm.
Still, verification was necessary. For all I knew, I was the only one enjoying this.
"I should ask Mother for her evaluation."
# 3
Early the next morning, just as the sun was cresting the horizon, I carried the manuscript to my mother's room.
"Mother, I've written a novel. Would you read it and tell me what you think?"
"Of course I can, dear. It's my own son's writing, after all."
With her approval secured, I handed over the manuscript. Having only just woken, Mother received it through bleary, sleep-heavy eyes and settled in to read it, calm and unhurried.
A seventeenth murder occurred.
Astonishingly, the victim this time was the husband of a countess — Count Osman.
"Sob... Mr. Holmes, was it? I am told you are the greatest detective in all of London. I will pay you whatever sum you name — please, catch the man who did this!"
"I shall, my lady. Fear not. And I would counsel you — alcohol is bad for the health."
"I am quite fine. Three bottles, at least!"
Despite Holmes's protests, the countess continued to drink, until at last she was thoroughly drunk. And in her drunkenness, she felt her desire begin to rise.
Mmm... what a handsome man.
It had been a full month since her husband had last touched her. For a countess only just entering her late twenties, one month was an achingly long time.
Long enough for desire to seize the reins of her mind.
"Mr. Holmes..."
"Speak, my lady."
"Could you... keep me company tonight?"
She had expected, of course, that he would agree. She was past her mid-twenties, yes — but she remained young, and beautiful still.
But to Holmes, wholly consumed by the case, a beautiful countess did not so much as register.
"I am afraid that would be difficult."
"Ah..."
"I shall take my leave, then. May you have a pleasant night, my lady."
And so Sherlock Holmes departed without a single moment's hesitation. The countess realized that the very first seduction she had attempted in her life had ended in failure — and despaired.
"...!"
# 5
"So, Mother — how was chapter one?"
"Son. Tell me — is Holmes a eunuch?"
"...?"