Passage between the Upper and Lower Districts required crossing a large bridge over the Thames, where heavy, toothed gates guarded either end. After night curfew, the gates almost never opened freely.
Of course, this article of London's police law would never constrain the Church.
Listening to the roar of mechanical gears turning outside the carriage window, Sherlock slowly turned his gaze towards the night sky.
A giant portrait of Nightingale was suspended from the bridge's steel cables.
Legend had it that this angelic girl, who traveled the Empire, would arrive in London in a month, and who knew how many people she would bring healing and blessings to this time.
Looking at the exquisite face presented on the canvas, Sherlock did not show the same fascination and yearning for beauty as every other citizen of the Empire.
He simply sat silently in the carriage.
Tonight, a few rare stars appeared above London. This signified the birth or death of massive celestial bodies in the distant deep void.
But he was keenly aware that if this rotten world held anyone worthy of respect, this young woman would undoubtedly be one of them.
Half an hour later, after traversing several small streets shrouded in steam venting from manholes, the carriage finally arrived at Baker Street.
This was a very unremarkable street. Compared to the main thoroughfares in the city, this place was genuinely clean.
At least, aside from the perpetually uncleared bins, the gas streetlights that were never repaired, and the stray orphans constantly stealing, there was rarely congestion, and no constant hiss of leaking pipes.
Even murderers wouldn't dump bodies here, as they might feel it beneath them.
Of course, every now and then, a corpse torn to shreds by a demon would appear on the roadside, but that was unavoidable.
Low-level small demons generally lacked intelligence; if they encountered something moving, they instinctively tried to gnaw on it and see if they could swallow it.
For Sherlock, at least, this was a rare, quiet residence.
Walking into Building 314A, a slightly mildewed smell wafted towards him.
The building was clearly very old. As he walked up the stairs, the wooden planks beneath his feet let out a groan of protest. His home was on the second floor.
Ascending and pushing open the room door, Sherlock reached out and twisted a knob on the wall.
Gas drifted from the pipe within the wall into a glass dome, and the light slowly flickered on.
The dim yellow light passing through the faded carved patterns on the lampshade did little to bring warmth to the small room; instead, it highlighted its clutter and loneliness.
The eye was met by a small living room, which could be taken in with a single glance: a haphazardly placed sofa, a carpet whose original color was indiscernible, and unpolished wooden cabinets.
The window was small, facing directly onto the bald, red-brick wall of the opposite building.
A standard cheap apartment.
Beyond that, the room was filled with books:
"Memoirs of a Contractor's Servant," "Compendium of Abyssal Creatures," "Conjectures on the Abilities of High-Tier Contractors," and numerous newspaper clippings about commoners working together to repel or even kill demons.
These books were piled chaotically in every corner of the room, almost every one of them tattered. They had clearly been read countless times.
As mentioned before, Sherlock was an ordinary person.
He was not a devout believer, nor had he participated in the Church's Contractor sealing ceremony. Yet he didn't exactly yearn for it either; he just habitually flipped through books and read briefs about Abyssal demons. It was a perfect way to entertain his idle mind.
"Hoo~~~~~"
Hanging up his coat and hat, he walked to a sofa and sat down, letting out a comfortable sigh.
The sofa was also very old; the red leather upholstery was cracked all over. The inner partition had collapsed in one spot, creating a perfect space for a person to semi-recline. Sherlock loved this posture.
He was exhausted today.
First, he caught a murderer, then he encountered Church officials, took a trip to the Upper District, and managed to offend a certain Miss Nun along the way.
Oh, speaking of that Judgment Nun named Katherine, Sherlock found her quite interesting.
Through some half-hearted observation, he could tell she had a sweet tooth, loved to sleep in, never bothered to fold her blankets! She lived alone, drank heavily, and needed to hug a large body pillow when she slept, probably a big plush rabbit with long ears.
Tsk, tsk. A bit different from the cold image she projected in public.
"I only hope your abilities are not as poor as your character."
Sherlock recalled their conversation.
"I hope you scream just as loudly when your skin is peeled off," Sherlock thought to himself.
But it didn't matter; who didn't have a few contradictions these days?
Even an old-school policeman like Lestrade secretly favored wearing thong-style underwear that rode right up his backside.
Sherlock never found anything wrong with it and never exposed him.
Returning to Executor Balthur, whose wife had been killed…
Sherlock was more interested in him.
After all, Balthur was closely related to the deceased and belonged to the Church's violent enforcement agency that controlled the Empire's interior. He warranted more of Sherlock's attention.
However, to Sherlock's surprise, he could gain absolutely zero information from this man. Whether it was personality, routine, diet, physical condition, or habits, he was a complete blank slate.
If this person hadn't shown even a tiny bit of reaction to his wife's death, Sherlock might have suspected he truly was an emotionless machine, just as the rumors claimed.
After musing aimlessly for a while, he turned his gaze to the clock on the wall.
It was already two in the morning; Sherlock needed rest.
Outside the window, there was no light; the night wrapped the entire apartment. There were no vendors or traffic outside, only the distant bell tolls echoing as usual.
He closed his eyes, preparing to fall asleep right there on the sofa.
And once he was asleep, he could take the opportunity to think about the remaining mysteries of the murder case.
Ah, yes, the deduction… happens after he falls asleep.
So, he relaxed his body, letting all the exhaustion flow into the old sofa beneath him.
In less than 10 minutes, soft snoring began.
The rhythm was gentle, slow, and prolonged, much like the bells and prayers in the churches…
And at the same time, in a world of pure white, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes.
He twisted his neck, then stood up. He showed no surprise at the bizarre environment, simply yawning as if this were completely commonplace.
——————
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