Chapter 2 The Impossible Baker Street (Two)

  Whether in Conan Doyle's original or the BBC version that has been parodied to death, Baker Street, especially that magical little house at 221B, is arguably the most violent place in all of London.

  Ludwig thought disdainfully: This can only be a world of plot.

  If this were in the real world, with crimes, bombings and murders happening every day, Inspector Lestrade would have been fired countless times.

  Where else can you find a young leader of an elite crime-fighting unit who even develops a mysterious and intriguing romance with Mikecroft?

  It seems like people from this country have rotten genes since birth.

  Although noisy and sensational chicken broth cases often occur in Italy.

  But the corrupt people win because they are deeply corrupt and have a profound understanding of corruption.

  Moreover, they pay great attention to details, for example, in the 19th century Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes and his assistant Watson lived in the same room when they went out.

  But Ludwig seriously said that about Rastread and Maicroft, it was all told by her crazy fan of Sherlock Holmes' girlfriend.

  She's not rotten at all.

  At that time, Ludwig was truly moved to tears when he heard his best friend deduce the office romance between Inspector Lestrade and Mycroft with all sorts of meticulous reasoning.

  "Hmm... went off topic, we are pure and innocent time-traveling girls."

  His mind was a maelstrom of thoughts, but on the surface he appeared to be studying the newspaper with an air of utmost seriousness and concentration.

  But someone just had to break this peaceful illusion.

  A small piece of paper suddenly appeared on the newspaper.

  In blue ink, in a very classical handwriting - May I ask your name?

  As for why it's called classical, in English "you" isn't written as "you", but rather as "thou".

  If Ludwig hadn't been so bored in France that he read Shakespeare's sonnets, she would have never recognized it as meaning "you".

  This child born of a descendant of the Stuart royal family who doesn't even know which one is really taking himself for a Stuart...

  Will not pretending to be cool lead to pregnancy?...

  "Ludwig."

  As long as the slots provided are sufficient, allowing Lord Ludwig to forcefully spit out his complaints and improve his mood after spitting them out, it's not too much for her to ask for a name.

  The little note floated back quietly, and Ludwig continued reading the newspaper nonchalantly.

  A few minutes later, a small piece of paper floated over silently - Surname?

  "...Ludwig."

  Well, you didn't hear wrong. Miss Ludwig with the surname Ludwig also wants to know how much her French father and mother loved this not-at-all-French but very German surname.

  She even took her given name from her surname!

  Or was she mistaken, and in fact the parents of this body loved not that surname, but rather the great composer Ludwig van Beethoven?

  After all, in World War II, France was an ally, while Germany was fascist. It's hard to understand why the French would love German surnames.

  Now that I think about it, it's highly likely, her father for this lifetime isn't called Van-Rudolfi, is he?

  Brahm-Ludwig?

  Wait a minute! Did both generations of the von Breuning family deeply love Beethoven?

  What's this transcending time and space, spiritually addictive, May-December romance feeling?

  There must be something wrong with her way of thinking!

  All children who learn piano from primary school know that in the magical world of piano, the number one freak is Sebastian Bach, and the second place is none other than Ludwig van Beethoven.

  Let's not mention those pianists who are somewhat abnormal, such as Liszt, Chopin and Rachmaninoff. Next is Beethoven's high-ranking disciple, Czerny.

  Compared to these pianists, Lang Lang is really too lovely, playing lullabies and waltzes under the big sun is so comfortable~~~~

  Cough cough, anyway, back on topic, let's read the newspaper.

  The blond-haired blue-eyed classmate retrieved the note and once again disrupted Ludwig's train of thought with another piece of paper.

  This time the note was filled with words, it seemed that Ludwig's refusal had revitalized the Stuart royal descendant who had already suffered a blow.

  Question 1: Ms. Ludwig-Ludwig, may I call you Ludwig?

  Ludwig calmly checked a box on the paper with his pen.

  As long as you don't call her Sweetie XiXi or Baby XiXi like Uncle Mikala does, everything is fine.

  Question 2: What does Miss Ludwig usually like to eat?

  Ludwig... The answer is omitted.

  Question three is a long string: What color does Miss Ludwig like? Which writer does she like? Does she like the band Oasis? Does she like blue eyes and blonde hair?

  ……

  Ludwig scratched his pen - The answer to this question is omitted.

  Question 4: Can I go to Miss Ludwig's home to visit Miss Ludwig's parents?

  Ludwig directly threw the note back, =_=b.

  According to the customs of medieval nobility, after the parents met and were satisfied with each other, the man could pursue the woman in a perfunctory manner, and after going through the motions, they could get married directly.

  I'm so tired~~~~~

  Luckily, it's only a half-hour flight from Romania to London, and by the time they landed at Heathrow Airport, Ludwig wasn't so fed up with the royal chatter next door that he didn't want to say a word.

  Although in most cases she doesn't want to say a word to the whole world.

  What's the big deal? Whether it's a French thriller "Louvre Phantom" or a Japanese homoerotic film "Sherlock", they're just a world of plot.

  Have you ever seen a normal person watching TV series and suddenly run to greet the passerby in the play, saying "Have you eaten?"

  As I walked out of the airport, the fog was at its thickest under the gloomy and rainy sky.

  She lifted her head, the overcast April sky was neither cold nor warm, her hands were inserted in her pockets, standing still at the airport entrance, gazing at the distant streets that seemed more prosperous due to the gray sky, cow hair-like rain threads fell on her black waist-length long hair and neck.

  She has never been to London. Neither in her past life nor this life.

  In her previous life, although she studied science, from elementary school to high school, she was a piano major and also reported as an art specialty student during the college entrance examination.

  Studying music is already expensive, and the British almost never give scholarships to non-native students, so only the wealthy can come to Britain to study music.

  She just had time to fill out her application and didn't even make it into college.

  Her life, her dreams, her love.

  She also wanted to set up a few small dishes with friends under the grape arbor in the small courtyard.

  Open a bottle of aged wine under the wisteria flowers.

  There are also Mid-Autumn days when chrysanthemums are appreciated, wine is warmed and crabs are eaten.

  All of this, all of this...

  They all ended before the arrival of next spring.

  London, fog, stockings, and orphans.

  The first time I knew London from paper was when I was eight years old, and saw Dickens' depiction of London.

  The book was bought by my father.

  Next to the primary school, hidden behind thick willows and smoke trees was a small bookstore. The male owner of the bookstore was skilled at growing flowers and cooking, while the female owner, with her simple hair bun, gently arranged the bookshelves.

  It's raining, around 7 or 8 o'clock.

  An old-fashioned octagonal lantern hung from the branch, its warm yellow light shining down. On the lampshade, Zhou Wenwang's longevity was painted, printed on the leaves of a large hibiscus like a shadow play.

  And her father, still so calm and composed, walked out from the small path behind the willow tree, holding the "Tale of Two Cities" he had given her, and also carrying a basket of plum wine that the hostess had insisted on sending.

  The details are no longer clear, but some fragments can't be forgotten. Dickens described London in "A Tale of Two Cities" like this:

  "The fine rain turned into thick fog, wrapping everything more than fifty feet away in a blurry and dizzy shell. Several high-rise buildings that pierced the clouds only showed their highest floors in the fog, with rows of window holes shining out pale yellow lights like giant eyes - from a distance, it looked like a mirage floating in mid-air, without any majestic aura."

  Yes, there is no majestic London at all.

  The scene described in the book that year, through a century, through several languages, through tens of thousands of miles of land, through tens of millions of people.

  Now she has traversed two time and space, and appeared in front of her.

  ……

  It can come before her, but she can never go back again.

  She stood silently for a while, unaware of the blond-haired man quietly gazing at her from behind, keeping a distance from her, contrary to his chatty demeanor on the plane, quietly not coming forward to disturb her.

  She hailed a red cab and gave the driver an address: "Baker Street, 221b."

  Just as the car engine started, a dazzling blonde suddenly burst into London's gloomy rainy day. Stuart opened the car door and smiled brightly at Ludwig:

  "What a coincidence! I'm also going to Baker Street!"

  Ludwig: “……”

  Grass!