It was a world of blinding, clinical white.
Or rather, it was a sterile, unfamiliar living room. The floor plan was slightly larger than Sherlock's current flat, featuring two tightly shut doors on either side. There was no clutter here—only a tea table, a wall cabinet, and a few chairs.
Nothing else.
Sherlock stood in the center of this ivory expanse, looking like an anomaly—a splash of color that had intruded upon a world where hue did not exist.
He was the only thing that moved. Everything else was welded into the very fabric of the space. Even the microscopic spiderwebs in the corners were frozen, immutable and indestructible.
Sherlock didn't know what this place was, nor why he was here. For nearly thirty years, every time he closed his eyes in the waking world, he opened them in this white room.
It was his prison. The doors wouldn't budge. Sound couldn't penetrate the walls. Even light seemed trapped; when he looked out the windows, he saw nothing but his own reflection staring back from the glass.
Enclosure. Silence. No escape.
Fortunately, in this room, he felt neither hunger nor fatigue. When he finally "woke up" in London, he always felt remarkably well-rested. After decades of research, he still had no explanation for the phenomenon, so he had resigned himself to labeling it a "persistent, eccentric dreamscape."
But a Detective has instincts. Sherlock could feel that this dream was more than it appeared. One day, it would change. He just didn't know into what, or when that day would come.
After finishing his yawn, Sherlock sat in one of the white chairs and began to think.
First question: The scarlet 'YES'.
Why write that specific word? The shallowest interpretation was that the word held personal significance to the killer. But under what circumstances does "YES" gain such transformative power that a man would carve it into a human heart? What was he trying to affirm?
The Church forbade the release of any personal data regarding the families of the clergy. Sherlock knew almost nothing about the beautiful victim. Trying to solve a case with nothing but a corpse was difficult, even for him.
But he didn't panic. He sat in the white silence, lazily sifting through the data.
An indeterminate amount of time passed.
A sharp noise shattered the silence of Baker Street. In the waking world, Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He glanced at the clock: 3:00 AM. He'd only been asleep for an hour.
His gaze drifted to the door.
Knock... knock... knock.
The night was as silent as a tomb.
Knock-knock-knock. Knock-knock-knock.
Who would be out there? Sherlock didn't have "friends." Even if he did, they wouldn't visit at three in the morning. And if they did, they certainly wouldn't knock politely; they'd kick the door in. Birds of a feather—anyone who could stand to be his friend wouldn't be the type to worry about manners.
Furthermore, a Corrosion Hound doesn't knock before trying to peel your scalp off.
A desperate client? That was the most likely possibility. Private Detectives did everything these days—from hunting blood-rivals to finding lost kittens. As long as the coin was good, the door stayed open.
"One moment," Sherlock called out.
He stood up, smoothed the wrinkles in his coat, and checked to ensure he didn't smell too strongly of the morgue. He walked to the door and pulled it open.
Creeeeeak—
The night wind whistled up the narrow stairwell, bringing a chill into the room. Sherlock stared at the towering silhouette in the doorway, his voice hesitating for a rare second.
"Lord Baidel? What on earth are you doing here?"
The same expressionless, cold face. The same crushing, silent pressure. An Executive Officer of the Adjudication Department standing outside a gutter-detective's flat in the Lower District was a sight beyond surreal.
For some reason, Baidel looked even larger than he had a few hours ago. His massive frame and heavy robes filled the width of the corridor, nearly touching the ceiling.
"You—" Baidel said, his eyes boring into Sherlock's. "You require assistance."
"Assistance?" Sherlock blinked.
Realizing it was beyond rude to keep a member of the Clergy standing in a drafty hallway, he stepped aside and made a "please enter" gesture.
Baidel ducked his head to avoid hitting the frame and stepped into the apartment.
As an Executive Officer, he lived in a world of solemn majesty and absolute comfort provided by the Holy See. This cheap flat had to feel like a cramped, suffocating cage to him. Yet, Baidel showed no discomfort. Like a machine without a sense of luxury, he sat directly onto the other battered sofa facing Sherlock's.
He looked like any other client broken by the hardships of life.
"I loved Karin," Baidel began slowly. "I want you to find the killer with the utmost speed."
Sherlock looked at the blood-red decree-cloth on the man's chest. He didn't exhibit the frantic piety of a commoner, nor did he bow his head in subservience. He sat in his red leather chair and steepled his fingers, his fingertips lightly touching.
It was a professional reflex. Once he was in his office, even a high-ranking Adjudicator was just a client—a troubled soul in need of help.
"You must know that meeting your original deadline is already... ambitious," Sherlock said.
"That is why I am here. You require assistance," Baidel repeated. "The personal information of clerical families is classified. It was intended for their protection. But now... disclosing Karin's history may allow the investigation to proceed more rapidly."
His voice remained toneless, but Sherlock could sense it now—the sorrow and the boiling frustration hidden deep beneath the iron shell of his composure.
This was what a man who had lost his wife was supposed to look like.