The Shepherds Are Dense

Chapter 162. Yeah, I’m Missing Ch 162. Yeah, I’m Missing

When Sherlock woke as usual, slipped into his pajamas, and headed downstairs for breakfast, he froze at the sight of two familiar yet unexpected figures at the dining table.“Aiwass?”

His steps halted, voice a murmur.

Aiwass, who should’ve been wheelchair-bound and pushed by Lily, sat steadily on a chair, looking fully recovered.

Lily wasn’t behind him but beside him, their master-servant bond noticeably stronger after just a week apart.

“You’re looking better, Sherlock,” Aiwass said, turning with a smile. “Seems you’ve settled into life at the bishop’s place.”

It was early, but Sherlock seemed alert, his biological clock adjusted. Perhaps his hypoglycemia was treated—his once-sunken cheeks were fuller, his dry hair now lustrous. Maybe his prior condition stemmed from an unhealthy lifestyle.

“Indeed,” Sherlock nodded, leaning on the stair railing, lips curling. “At first, I struggled. Mr. Kent always dragged me into troublesome cases. Suddenly being free felt uncomfortable.

“But once I adjusted, I could focus on reading and research. Thanks to Mrs. Mina, I eat regularly now—she reminds me when I’d otherwise skip meals. With less work rushing me, I’m eating three meals a day, keeping a routine. My health’s improved a lot.”

Sherlock was optimistic about his condition.

Aiwass leaned back. “I bet you’d be fine at home too.”

“No, no, that won’t do,” Sherlock said, frowning. “It’s not that I dislike them—my family prefers quiet.”

He hurried down the stairs, sitting beside Aiwass before continuing. “You know Mycroft’s ‘Barrel’ Club?”

“Your brother?” Aiwass asked.

“Right,” Sherlock nodded. “Unless he’s busy, he’s there every afternoon. It’s the oddest club on Glass Island, full of weirdos.

“You know Avalonians love clubs for socializing, meeting new circles. But not everyone enjoys that. Some are reclusive, antisocial, or just don’t fit in. They don’t have to stay in the shadows, though.

“Mycroft founded the Barrel Club. You’ve met him, right?”

Aiwass nodded, recalling the man at Sherlock’s funeral—three times Sherlock’s size, mild-mannered, and sharp. “He’s very clever.”

“The club’s rule is no talking or interaction. It’s spacious, comfortable, well-lit. Members can sit in any room, drink tea, read, solve puzzles, paint, or browse papers. The club offers free tea and the latest journals—entertainment and academic. You can play chess, but no talking, no odd behavior, no loud noises, no drawing attention.”

Aiwass thought, intrigued. “That’s kind of nice.”

“The atmosphere’s decent,” Sherlock agreed. “But it attracts Glass Island’s eccentrics. For instance…” He paused. “My investigations show sculptor Lars Graham frequents it.”

A coded name only they understood: .

“I haven’t joined, though,” Sherlock added. “I can’t stay quiet long. When my thoughts stall or I’m bored, I get restless. I box, practice shooting or swordplay, or play the violin to wake my brain.

“At home, my family thinks I’m childish. There are too many rules, and only Mycroft charms them. Visiting briefly is nice for family warmth, but I don’t overstay. A day or two, then I’m back to my place—no clients visit me at home.”

Aiwass nodded, understanding.

Like a kid working or studying away, warmly welcomed home at first, only to annoy everyone after a week.

Sherlock’s chaotic schedule, skipped meals, days of seclusion, and odd-hour antics made him less favored than the mature, worldly Mycroft. No wonder he moved out—no scolding there.

His bond with Bishop Mathers wasn’t close—half-stranger, half-savior—so he minded his manners here. When Mrs. Mina called for meals, he ate, fixing his sleep cycle in a week.

Aiwass marveled.

“Why not stay here permanently?”

Mrs. Mina, serving breakfast for four, smiled at Sherlock. “You’re looking for a new place, right?”

Sherlock hesitated, sheepish. “Wouldn’t that trouble you?”

“You can pay rent,” she teased. “I worry about you living alone.”

She and Mathers had no children. Over time, she’d seen Sherlock was a good kid but unreliable with self-care. If he rented elsewhere, he’d revert to old habits within a month.

She didn’t want her efforts wasted.

“We have no kids, and this big house is half-empty. The second floor’s unused, and cooking for one more isn’t hard—just another fork and knife.”

“I’ll ask Bishop Mathers,” Sherlock said, clearly tempted. “But won’t my visitors bother you?”

“No issue, I call the shots here,” Mina said. “Your presence could draw business to my divination shop. Why not turn the second-floor living room into your office? The shop’s stairs lead right there.”

With Mina so insistent, Sherlock couldn’t refuse.

“Thank you, Mrs. Mina,” he said earnestly. “I don’t have money now, but I’ll bring rent later.”

“A good deed witnessed,” Aiwass said, smiling.

“Where’s today’s paper?” Sherlock asked. “I like reading while eating.”

During his isolation, newspapers were his only link to Avalon.

“Here, don’t mess it up,” Aiwass said, passing the he’d been reading. “Want another?”

“This’ll do,” Sherlock said, glancing at it. “You’re on the front page again… huh?”

He stared, reading the headline:

Sherlock looked from the paper to Aiwass, who’d handed it to him.

“…Now missing?” he repeated, uncertain.

“Yep,” Aiwass shrugged. “I’m missing.”

(Chapter End)