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爆発の女性 (Woman of Explosions)

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All the way back to the police car Wato chased after Sherlock, waving the woman's spike-heeled shoes. The tall woman's socks were filthy from running shoeless on the pavement, but she didn't seem to notice, throwing herself into the back seat of the vehicle as though escaping an explosion.

No that wasn't quite right. Not escaping an explosion, chasing it. Perhaps becoming it.

"Quickly, quickly!" Sherlock called, shutting the back door. Wato waved the woman's shoes again with a quiet sound of frustration as she rounded the car. At the passenger side doors, Reimon Keibu met Wato's eyes briefly with a small tired smile, inclining his head in understanding and commiseration as they both got into the car.

Once in, Wato pushed the spike-heeled shoes towards Sherlock, who took them and put them on without looking at or acknowledging Wato, the shoes, or the state of her stockings. Instead she rattled off the location in Shinagawa to Shibata, who was trailing behind in getting into the driver's seat. Sherlock

Sherlock was a woman made of explosions. She barged in without tact or consideration, disrupted everything, and changed it forever. She had no sense of propriety. None at all. Running into a stranger's house without taking her shoes off in the entryway, when even a child would know better.

The way she met Wato's eyes directly for so long after she'd asked to be included in finding her Sensei's murderer, a tilt of amusement set in her mouth. The way she'd asked the new widow of Wato's Sensei such impertinent and personal questions literally over the corpse of her dead husband. The way Sherlock had stood on the step below her on the staircase at the police station and leaned in far too close, sniffing Wato's neck.

Sherlock had said she smelled of explosives.

Wato knew she herself was not a woman made of explosions. Far from it. The bomb in Syria had revealed that. After failing at her duty when she was needed most, she wasn't sure what she was made of anymore.

She had thought returning to Tokyo would bring some clarity to her thinking, help her see what she was better suited for than medical practice. She'd looked forward to having a good, long, in-person conversation with her mentor about what she'd experienced, about her doubts and fears, and that he would guide her to what she needed to do in that wise, unaware way he had always shown her.

Instead, he'd exploded. Not in the way Sherlock did, but in the way that left a faint mist of blood on his letters and left Wato fruitlessly trying to save her Sensei's life on an airport floor.

Well then. Nothing to be done about that, except finding the truth and bringing his murderer to justice.

A bomb had brought Wato back to Tokyo from her volunteer medical service in Syria. A bomb took the life of her Sensei right before her eyes. And now a bomb had brought her into the orbit of Sherlock, an odd woman with an odd name. She had a feeling that the explosions in her life were far from over.


(That's it)