Two guards rushed in at the news. Seeing the scene, they rolled up their sleeves and advanced toward Morris with fierce scowls. Meanwhile, Morris—the incident’s unwitting star—lay dazed on the floor, his mind stubbornly haunted by the lingering image of bananas.

Just as the burly men reached to haul him out of the church, Sherlock hurriedly stepped between them. Facing the crowd’s bewildered stares, she muttered reluctantly, “It’s… an accident. Just an accident.”

“Miss?” one guard asked worriedly. “You look unwell.”

“No need to worry,” Miss Sherlock said, dabbing her tears with a handkerchief. She glanced down at the man beneath her, forcibly suppressing the urge to silence him forever. “As you see, I’m unharmed. Please leave. I wish to speak with him alone.”

“But…” the other guard began, his expression uneasy.

“I cried because a story moved me,” Sherlock murmured, head lowered. The guard’s eyes flicked to the book clutched in the boy’s hand on the floor—*Das Kapital*—and he wondered how their young mistress could possibly weep over *that*. “I apologize for the disturbance. I’ll confess to the gods shortly.”

Convinced by her insistence, the onlookers nodded and dispersed. Sherlock rose gracefully. Only then did Morris finally snap out of his daze—and froze. Sherlock’s face was etched with cold, threatening intent.

The sight jolted his thoughts into sharp clarity.

“Morris,” the priest sighed, shaking his head with weary resignation before slipping away. “Put the pew back. And don’t bully the young lady.”

“I told you—I’m not that kind of guy! Ow, ow, ow…” Morris clutched his throbbing skull. No wonder—it *had* been a full-body tackle, head-first.

After a weary sigh on the floor, he shakily stood—only to be yanked forward. Fair, slender hands seized his collar. A clean, lovely face filled his vision: eyes slightly red from crying, crystal-blue pupils locked fiercely onto his. She pressed her forehead to his chest and whispered, voice meant for him alone: “Come with me.”

Sherlock dragged him by the collar to the most secluded corner among the church’s ten pew rows. Desperate to shield her secret, Morris clutched the thick book like a lifeline. *Seriously—what author writes a romance as dense as “C Programming: From Beginner to Burial”?*

Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtain gap beside the window. Lips pressed tight, she whispered, “You *must*, absolutely *must*, keep this secret.”

“Don’t worry! I’ll take this secret to my grave—never breathe a word!” Morris nodded vigorously. His eagerness was almost *too* earnest, startling Sherlock. In her mind, he should’ve smirked wickedly, demanding obedience under threat of exposure…

But Morris looked… flustered? Like *he* was the one caught hiding something.

Sherlock arched a brow. His face held restraint—and a faint hint of shyness? An illusion? Most men would recoil, not empathize.

“Ugh… headache,” Miss Sherlock sighed, slumping onto the pew. “I hid this for nearly five years… and slipped up in front of a stranger.”

Morris leaned against the windowsill, head in hands. The mental and physical shock left him craving only sleep. He had zero energy to wonder how she’d read BL novels for half a decade.

She sighed again, waved him over. “Come.”

“What?” Morris mumbled dazedly.

“Sit. Use my lap.” Sherlock turned away, ears tinged pink. “Hurry. It’s my fault. Consider it an apology.”

“But… isn’t that inappropriate?” Morris stammered.

Annoyed by his hesitation, Sherlock yanked him down. Morris stiffened—then melted at the soft cushion beneath his head. Pain eased. He glanced up at the gentle curve blocking half his view… and quietly looked away.

“…I really am strange, aren’t I?” Her whisper brushed his ear. Sherlock bowed her head, voice thick with sorrow. “A girl who loves stories like this… must seem odd.”

She remembered peers—elegant, refined, devoted to art and grace. Only she’d sneak into the study for books. At thirteen, in the academy library, she’d found a novel about profound love between men. Reading it alone, the gender-transcending romance moved her to tears she couldn’t hold back.

But sharing it later brought only: “Weird.” “Disgusting.” “Why would men love men?” Replies that hollowed her out, breeding quiet self-doubt.

*Was it wrong to cherish bonds beyond gender?*

So she built a flawless mask. By night, curled under blankets with a small Arcanum lamp, she wept over pages until they blurred. Dawn demanded composure. Emotions locked deep. Years of solitude—shattered today by one boy.

*Yes… I am strange.*

“No. What’s strange about it?” Morris said.

“Eh?” Sherlock blinked.

He lifted his head, gaze meeting hers over her chest. “Isn’t it normal for girls to read these?”

*Huh?* Something fragile cracked inside her.

“Why *wouldn’t* it be normal?” Morris countered gently. “Everyone has hobbies. Mine included these too… long ago.”

Clouds parted. Sunlight flooded a sky long shadowed. Like rain-washed dawn. Like divine grace.

“M-Morris!” Sherlock’s voice trembled. She seized his hand, tears welling—

BOOM!!!

The church doors exploded inward. Screams erupted. A dozen black-robed thugs stormed in. Their leader dragged two broken men—one in each hand. Sherlock choked out, “Uncle Derlin! Uncle Usark…!”

“Hello, everyone!” the man sneered, hurling the guards aside. They crashed through pews, collapsing in splinters, murmuring, “Run, Miss…” He drew a flintlock, fired upward. Stained glass shattered. Shards rained down amid cries. Laughing wildly, he bellowed:

“BY THE LUNHAI GODS, IN THE NAME OF ISA! THIS IS A ROBBERY!!!”