Travel between the Upper and Lower Districts required crossing a massive bridge over the Thames. The bridge was flanked by heavy, geared iron gates that, under the city's strict curfew laws, almost never opened during the night.
Of course, the regulations inscribed in London's bylaws never applied to the Holy See.
Listening to the thunderous roar of the mechanical gears turning outside the carriage, Sherlock turned his gaze toward the night. Hanging from the steel cables of the bridge was a colossal portrait of Nightingale. Rumor had it that this angelic girl, currently touring the Empire, would arrive in London in a few months. One could only wonder how many people she would bring healing and blessings to this time.
Gazing at the exquisite face depicted on the canvas, Sherlock did not display the rapturous obsession typical of the Empire's citizens. He simply sat in silence. A few rare stars had appeared in the sky above London—a sign that in the distant, deep reaches of space, massive celestial bodies were being born, or perhaps being destroyed.
He knew one thing for certain: if this wretched world still held people worthy of genuine respect, that young woman was surely one of them.
Half an hour later, after navigating several narrow lanes shrouded in steam venting from manhole covers, the carriage finally arrived at Baker Street.
It was an unremarkable street. Compared to the main arteries of the city, it was actually quite clean—at least, aside from the overflowing bins that were never emptied, the gas lamps that were never repaired, and the street urchins who stole anything not bolted down. It lacked the congestion of the markets and the constant, high-pitched hiss of leaking steam pipes.
Even murderers rarely bothered to dump bodies here; they likely considered the neighborhood beneath them.
Of course, the occasional corpse mangled by a demon would still turn up. It was unavoidable. Low-level, minor demons possessed almost no intellect; if they saw something moving, they instinctively tried to take a few bites to see if it would go down.
For Sherlock, however, this place offered a rare and precious quiet.
Entering Building 314A, a wave of musty, damp air greeted him. The building was clearly ancient; as he ascended the stairs, the wooden planks beneath his feet groaned in agonized protest. His home was on the second floor.
He stepped inside and twisted a brass knob on the wall. Gas flowed through the internal piping into a glass dome, and the light flickered to life. The dim, yellow glow filtered through the faded engravings on the lampshade, offering little warmth. Instead, it highlighted a room defined by clutter and solitude.
The living room was small enough to be taken in at a single glance. There was a haphazardly placed sofa, a rug whose original color had long since been lost to grime, and unpolished wooden cabinets. The window was tiny, facing the balding red brick wall of the building opposite.
It was a textbook example of a cheap flat.
Beyond the basics, the room was overflowing with books.
Memoirs of a Contractor's Servant, The Encyclopedia of Abyssal Organisms, Speculations on High-Level Contractor Abilities, and numerous scrapbooks filled with clippings of commoners teaming up to repel or kill demons.
These books were piled in every corner of the room, almost every one of them tattered and worn, clearly having been thumbed through countless times.
As previously established, Sherlock was a mundane man. He was not a pious believer, and he had certainly never participated in the Church's Contractor sanctification rituals. However, he wasn't exactly pining for them either; he simply enjoyed flipping through books and reading reports on Abyssal demons to occupy his restless mind.
"Phew..."
He hung up his coat and hat, walked over to a sofa, and let out a long, comfortable groan as he sat.
The sofa was ancient. The red faux-leather was a roadmap of cracks, and the internal frame had collapsed in the center, allowing him to recline at a perfect angle. It was Sherlock's favorite position.
Today had been exhausting.
First, he'd hunted a murderer, then he'd dealt with the clergy, visited the Upper District, and managed to offend an Inquisitor Sister along the way.
Ah, speaking of that Sister Catherine... Sherlock's private assessment of her was that she was quite interesting.
Through a few casual observations, he'd deduced that she was a secret sweets-addict, loved to sleep in, and never bothered to make her bed. She lived alone, drank more than she should, and likely slept while hugging a large bolster—probably a plush rabbit with long ears or something of the sort.
Tsk, tsk. Quite a departure from the cold, untouchable image she projected in public.
But it didn't matter. In this day and age, everyone had their contradictions. Even an old-school copper like Lestrade secretly enjoyed wearing T-back silk underwear that rode up his backside. Sherlock never saw anything wrong with it, so he never brought it up.
Then there was Executive Officer Baidel, the widower.
Sherlock was genuinely curious about him. As someone intimately connected to the victim and a high-ranking member of the Church's internal violence apparatus, he should have provided a wealth of data.
Yet, to Sherlock's surprise, he had been unable to glean a single scrap of information from the man. Not a hint of personality, routine, diet, physical condition, or habit. Baidel was a blank slate.
If it weren't for the man's microscopic reaction to his wife's death, Sherlock might have suspected the rumors were true: that Baidel was indeed a machine without emotion.
He let his thoughts drift aimlessly for a while before glancing at the clock on the wall.
It was 2:00 AM. Sherlock needed rest.
Outside the window, there was no light. The night had swallowed the apartment whole. There were no street vendors, no carriage traffic—only the distant, eternal tolling of the cathedral bells. He closed his eyes, preparing to sleep right there on the sofa.
And once he entered deep sleep, he could finally begin to untangle the riddles of the murder.
Yes. For Sherlock, the real deduction began only after he closed his eyes.
He relaxed his body, pouring all his exhaustion into the sagging springs of the old sofa.
Within ten minutes, a light snore filled the room.
The rhythm was slow and steady, echoing the cadence of the church bells and the distant prayers.
And simultaneously...
In a world of absolute, blinding white, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes.
He cracked his neck and stood up. He didn't look surprised by the eerie environment. With the casual air of a man entering his own office, he simply offered a wide, lingering yawn.