Seimei turned away from the windows and the fog outside. "It is almost a comfort," he observed, "to know that the weather can be as unpleasant here as it is at home. What do you do on days like this?"
Holmes tapped the open scrapbook on his knees. "Organise my newspaper clippings. Perform experiments. Wait for cases."
"What, on a day like this?"
"My dear sir," Holmes said, "London is at its worst on a day like this. Criminals plot their intrigues in the dark coils of fog, in the alleys hidden by its folds. The blackest and most unnatural murders take place on these days, when men and women believe they may act in secrecy. In the rookeries, dramas are played out that will later be resolved upon the scaffold. It is my task to excavate the roots of crimes which are seeded upon these days, and which come to flower here among the mists." His fingers twitched, and he laced his hands together. "I sit here in this tedium, this insufferable tedium, and await that moment when my services are required -- when I may once more feel the challenge of occupation, when I must exercise myself to discover the truth."
"You are more comprehensible than I had thought," Seimei said, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth curved in a faint smile.
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