After the Gate of Hell opened, humanity demonstrated the rare attribute of 'unity.' The world was no longer divided by nations, universally known as The Empire.
And London… was one of the few cities that retained its original name.
Naturally, it also retained its perpetually gray, hazy complexion.
Noon.
The term "blazing sun" virtually never applied here.
The entire city's sub-structure had been hollowed out to build gigantic steam pipelines and furnaces.
A group of highly esteemed, madmen from the Academy of Mechanics had dug through the River Thames, channeling its water ceaselessly deep underground to be boiled and burned day and night.
Thousands of tons of water vapor were released into the sky daily, only to return as acid rain.
According to those old men, who wore the title of 'Scientists,' this counted as "recycling." Thus, there was never any need to worry about running out of steam.
They, of course, said nothing about the steadily dwindling number of trees.
But the citizens paid no mind to this. They only knew that this was London, home to the world's largest and most advanced steam furnaces, a city wrapped in mechanical piping, where steam was productivity.
This was undoubtedly a source of pride.
If only the air could be a little fresher, it would be even better.
At this moment, Sherlock was traveling through this mechanical metropolis. He rode in a cheap, hail-and-ride carriage—five pence per kilometer. A massive valise, nearly half his height, sat by his feet, making the already cramped space even more uncomfortable.
Outside the window, the sounds of the crowd were loud, interspersed with the roaring of factory machinery and the distant tolling of a church bell.
Sometimes, he genuinely couldn't understand people's thinking.
For example, even though those mechanical creations were becoming increasingly clunky and inefficient, people still held infinite faith in them, believing that 'boiling water' could ultimately save the world.
For example, even though they clearly knew no amount of shouting would clear the road, almost everyone was urging the vehicle ahead of them to move faster!
For example, even though the man named Jack clearly understood that a killer was certain to meet a bad end, when Sherlock went to arrest him, he still yelled and swung his knife at him.
Sherlock was dirt poor; all he wanted was to catch a few murderers and earn a little money. What was he doing wrong?
But Old Jack hadn't cooperated at all, treating him with such brutish behavior.
Sherlock had been terrified. Instinctively, he had snatched the knife away and plunged the entire blade and hilt into the man's kidney.
Hmm… fortunately, humans have two kidneys. Losing one means he could still live.
At least for a while.
So, to save time getting to the police station, Sherlock specifically hailed a carriage. This also prevented the prisoner from going into shock from excessive blood loss or simply dying of pain.
He was always this considerate, even to murderers.
At half past two in the afternoon, the carriage stopped directly in front of Scotland Yard.
'Scotland Yard' was simply the common name for the London Metropolitan Police.
As to why it had this name, Sherlock didn't know and didn't care. He simply got out of the carriage, carrying the massive valise.
When paying, the carriage driver's eyes couldn't help but linger on the box again.
It was simply too large, and he couldn't imagine what was inside. It was bulging, and its weight looked like it might snap the wooden handle, yet the customer carried it without the slightest sign of strain.
"Sir… Sir?!"
"Oh!" The driver snapped out of his daze. "Apologies, that'll be 25 pence in total."
Even cheap fares accumulated into a significant expense over the distance. Sherlock reluctantly pulled out a few coins and handed them over.
"May the Holy Light bless you," the driver said out of habit, taking the money.
"The Holy Light doesn't have the time to bless me."
Sherlock replied languidly, ignoring the driver's look of surprise, and headed straight for the Police Headquarters.
His tall, thin silhouette and the box he carried created a jarring image that the driver stared at blankly. For a moment, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, as he thought he saw something inside the box shift with effort.
Inside the station, the noise and chaos were even worse than on the street.
After the Second Demon Invasion, London's public order had been consistently poor.
Murders, thefts, and robberies were rampant.
Perhaps citizens figured that even if they were law-abiding, they might still be bitten to death on the street by a small demon crawling out of a Void Rift someday. So, they might as well settle grudges and take revenge.
"Get out of the way, you bastard!"
A shout rang out in the crowd, followed by a stumbling tramp reeking of alcohol bursting through. His hands were locked in shackles; he had clearly committed a crime.
This fellow must have also been heavily intoxicated, otherwise, he wouldn't have foolishly attempted to charge out of the police station relying solely on his fat body.
Sure enough, in the next second, a police officer tackled him, the baton in his hand viciously jamming into the drunkard's armpit. Accompanied by the sound of electricity, the criminal convulsed, and the air gained a distinct smell of urine.
This scene was standard for Scotland Yard. The surrounding officers were completely unfazed, using the opportunity to poke their own batons into nearby prisoners, signaling them to behave or face the same treatment.
"Bloody hell, what awful luck."
The officer who had tackled the drunkard got up, shaking the urine off his uniform. Seeing a decently dressed person standing nearby, he complained subconsciously:
"Apologies, sir, the prisoners haven't been very cooperative lately—"
He froze mid-sentence, however. Because he saw the giant valise the man was carrying.
He clearly recognized the box, and a flash of terror crossed his eyes, which he couldn't control. Still, hoping against hope, he lifted his gaze.
As his line of sight moved up, he saw the man's face and his eyes that looked perpetually half-asleep.
At this moment, the ferocious look he'd worn just seconds ago while electrocuting the prisoner instantly turned submissive.
"Hol… Holmes, Mr. Holmes…"
The sound was soft, just a low grunt from his throat.
But the instant the name floated out, the surrounding noise quieted significantly. Then, shhh, shhh, shhh, countless eyes turned toward them, faintly mixed with sounds of people sharply drawing breath.
Sherlock paid no attention to the unusual reaction of those around him; he was quite used to it. He merely glanced languidly at the obedient officer before him, pushing the large box forward slightly:
"Here. A murderer, caught red-handed at the crime scene. I think his name was Jack or Mike; in any case, you'll find out when you check his records."
He spoke nonchalantly. Seeing that the officer didn't dare to take it, he simply let go.
"Thud-splat!" The box slammed heavily onto the ground.
It sounded like a water-logged slab of pork. A little blood splattered out from the seams of the leather at the bottom. The nearby people collectively retreated a few steps, startled.
"Is Superintendent Lestrade in his office?" he continued to ask.
The officer before him didn't dare to hesitate and quickly nodded.
Sherlock: "Thanks."
Now that he had apprehended a criminal, he naturally needed to discuss the reward with the Superintendent.
The truth was, if anyone else had captured a criminal, there would be no need to bother the Superintendent; a simple registration at the police desk would suffice. Sherlock, however, was the exception.
He walked toward the edge of the crowd, which naturally parted to form a path for him. Suddenly, an officer seemed to remember something and quickly shouted:
"Mr. Holmes, please… please wait."
"Hmm?" He turned back.
The man bravely held his gaze without flinching and said formally, "The Superintendent is currently receiving a very important guest. You… should probably not disturb him right now."
"A very important guest?" Sherlock pondered. "Fine, I'll wait for him in the reception room."
He walked through the suddenly quiet crowd, down a deserted corridor, and stepped into the elevator.
Although this world had 'electricity,' most tools still fundamentally operated by steam power. It couldn't be helped; no matter how fashionable electricity was, its application range was still too narrow, leaving it as a mere backdrop to the era.
Just like the conservative old soldiers on the battlefield who tried to resist demons with guns and cannon.
Click~
The lighter made a soft sound. The weak flame trembled close to the cigarette, as if fearful yet unable to escape.
"Wait a moment."
Just then, a light call came from the hallway. A woman was quickening her pace toward the elevator.
She looked to be about 25, dressed in a somewhat strange nun's habit—no cumbersome long skirt or veil. Instead, the outfit was tailored into a form-fitting, active style.
Sherlock slowly exhaled a plume of smoke, wrapping his entire face in a mist.
He made no move to press the elevator button, letting the door close slowly.
"Time waits for no one, my beautiful lady."