In the end, Sherlock failed to escape his tragic fate.
He was going on missions with Gojo Satoru whether he liked it or not.
Gojo grabbed him by the back of his hoodie like someone carrying an unruly kitten and hauled him straight out of Jujutsu High.
The good news was that Gojo’s workload hadn’t yet reached the horrifying level it would several years later, when the man seemed to survive on four hours of sleep and pure sugar.
The bad news?
Nine in the morning to nine at night.
Six days a week.
Sherlock’s soul nearly left his body.
Could anyone seriously imagine it?
Gojo Satoru.
Head of the Gojo clan.
Strongest sorcerer alive.
Twenty-something heir to a ridiculous fortune.
Born with a face that should’ve made employment optional.
And the bastard was working a seventy-hour week.
Sherlock couldn’t believe it.
After spending one entire day following Gojo around, the number of Flying Thunder God marks Sherlock had scattered across Japan increased dramatically.
His mental health, meanwhile, declined at roughly the same rate.
The worst part was the mission information.
Those damned higher-ups were barely even pretending to do their jobs.
Sherlock wasn’t Gojo.
If the old fossils ever sent him mission reports this useless, he’d find a way to leave Flying Thunder God marks on every last one of them.
Then, while they were sleeping peacefully at night, Sherlock would teleport straight into their bedrooms.
He’d grab them by whatever remained of their beards, shove the mission report in their faces, and demand an explanation.
Grade: unknown.
Number of curses: unknown.
Exact location: unknown.
Then what the hell did they actually know?!
The most unbelievable part was Gojo.
The idiot didn’t even seem bothered.
If anything, he looked excited.
So when Gojo dragged Sherlock out of bed again early the next morning, Sherlock finally snapped.
“My dear Gojo-sensei.” Sherlock sat at the dining table eating breakfast with the solemn expression of a labor lawyer preparing a class-action lawsuit.
“I think it’s time someone explained employment law to you.” Gojo blinked.
Sherlock continued.
“And while we’re at it, someone should probably explain child labor laws to those fossils at headquarters.” Gojo stuffed another daifuku into his mouth.
Sherlock pointed at him with his chopsticks.
“Also, Sensei, I strongly recommend continuing your education.” Gojo tilted his head.
“You shouldn’t stop at Jujutsu High.
Get a bachelor’s degree or something.” Another blink.
“Preferably in law.” Gojo stared at him with the confused expression of a cat being lectured about taxes.
Sherlock sighed.
He finished the last of his miso soup and set down the bowl.
“Sensei.” His voice turned exhausted.
“If you’d gotten a better education, maybe the higher-ups wouldn’t be exploiting you this badly.” Gojo paused.
Sherlock spread his hands.
“Forget the twelve-hour workdays for a second.” He leaned forward.
“What is this mission intelligence?” “Half the time it’s basically: Something might be somewhere.
Good luck.” Gojo stared at him for several seconds.
Then he laughed.
Sherlock frowned.
Gojo stood up and casually ruffled Sherlock’s hair.
“It’s fine.” His smile was bright and completely confident.
“Your teacher is the strongest.” Sherlock slapped his hand away.
Gojo continued anyway.
“Even when it comes to gathering information, I’m still the strongest.” While saying that, he noticed Sherlock’s hand creeping toward the soybean-cream daifuku sitting on his side of the table.
Gojo immediately smacked the offending hand away.
“Hey!” Without mercy, he grabbed the sweet and stuffed it into his own mouth.
Sherlock gave him a long, exhausted stare.
Gojo swallowed happily.
“Anyway, stop complaining.” He wiped his fingers.
“Yesterday was unusual.” Sherlock’s eyebrow rose.
“I was just letting you experience the pace.” Gojo grinned.
“Today, I’ll show you what my missions are actually like.” Sherlock paused.
“What does that mean?” What counted as Gojo’s “actual” mission?
Didn’t sorcerers just find curses and exorcise them?
Yesterday alone, Sherlock had already seen several bizarre curses, each with its own strange ability.
Was there somehow something worse than that?
Sherlock didn’t understand.
Sherlock was disturbed.
Sherlock had questions.
Seeing his expression, Gojo unexpectedly became more serious.
He raised one finger.
“Yaga didn’t want you getting involved in this side of the job so soon.” Sherlock looked at him.
“But I think you’re mentally stable enough to handle it.” Sherlock’s face immediately became suspicious.
Coming from Gojo, that sounded less like praise and more like an insult.
Gojo ignored him.
“Sherlock, jujutsu sorcerers don’t only deal with curses.” His tone lost most of its usual playfulness.
“We also deal with curse users.” Sherlock’s expression settled.
“The curses you saw yesterday, the ones with unusual abilities, are actually closer to normal work.” Gojo leaned against the table.
“They get assigned to me mostly because I can clear them faster than anyone else.” “But as a Special Grade sorcerer…” His smile faded slightly.
“A lot of my real missions aren’t about curses at all.” “They’re about curse users.” He paused.
Then something darker passed through his expression.
“And sometimes…” Gojo’s voice became quieter.
“People who become monsters because ordinary human ignorance and cruelty pushed them there.” For a moment, the dining hall became unusually still.
Gojo looked troubled.
Almost as though he’d remembered something he didn’t particularly want to revisit.
Yet behind his sunglasses, those impossibly blue eyes remained fixed on Sherlock.
He was watching for a reaction.
Sherlock blinked.
Then, to Gojo’s surprise, his face filled with something closer to pity than horror.
He stood.
Walked over.
And patted Gojo on the shoulder.
“Sensei.” Gojo stared at him.
“I keep telling you.” Sherlock sighed sympathetically.
“The higher-ups are exploiting you.” Gojo’s mouth opened.
Sherlock shook his head.
“Read more books.” Then he turned around and walked away.
Gojo remained frozen for two seconds.
Then he burst out laughing.
“You little bastard!” Sherlock kept walking.
Gojo immediately switched to the nauseatingly sweet schoolgirl voice he loved using specifically because everyone hated it.
“Sherlock-kuuun~” Sherlock’s shoulders stiffened.
“Where are you going?” Gojo clasped his hands dramatically.
“Don’t abandon Gojo-chan~” Sherlock didn’t even turn around.
He simply waved over one shoulder.
“Going back to my room to grab some stuff.” A pause.
“Meet you at the school gate in ten minutes.” Then Flying Thunder God activated.
Sherlock vanished.
Gojo stared at the empty doorway.
“That brat.” He smiled helplessly.
“I told Yaga he isn’t anything like Suguru or me.” Apparently Yaga had been worrying over Sherlock’s psychological condition for nothing.
Gojo slipped his hands behind his head and strolled toward the entrance with his usual long-legged stride.
At the school gate, a black car was already waiting.
Beside it stood Kiyotaka Ijichi, recently graduated and currently assigned as Gojo’s assistant supervisor.
The moment he saw Gojo approaching, Ijichi straightened nervously.
“Gojo-senpai.” He bowed.
“Everything is ready.” Then he glanced around.
“Where is Sherlock?
Should we wait for him?” Gojo’s eyes immediately lit up with malicious amusement.
He slung an arm around the shoulders of the younger man, who instantly went rigid.
“Oh, come on, Ijichi~” Gojo deliberately raised his voice.
“What are you talking about?” Ijichi swallowed.
“Sherlock’s already sitting in the car.” “What?” Ijichi turned.
Sure enough…
Sherlock was calmly sitting in the back seat.
No one had seen him arrive.
He was leaning against the window, staring through the glass at Gojo with an expression of profound disgust.
Gojo grinned.
“You’ve gotta pay more attention, Ijichi.” He leaned closer.
“Keep spacing out like that and I might have to slap you~” Ijichi visibly jumped.
“Y-Yes!
I’m sorry!” He immediately bowed far too deeply.
Then, with impressive subtlety for a man clearly terrified for his life, he slipped out from under Gojo’s arm.
A second later, he hurried around the car toward the driver’s seat.
Sherlock watched the whole thing from the back.
His eyes rolled so hard they nearly disappeared into his skull.
He genuinely couldn’t be bothered with this white-haired bastard’s terrible sense of humor.