"Ben, don't say it… I love you too, Ifi."
The girl named Ifi spoke softly, her voice a gentle melody in the quiet room. Sherlock, whose vision had been hazy until now, blinked rapidly, forcing his eyes to adjust. As the blur cleared, he saw a slender young woman, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six, sitting gracefully before him. On her hand gleamed a green gemstone ring that caught the dim light, casting faint reflections across her fair, yellowish skin. Her eyes were long, deep, and alert—without the faintest shadow of fatigue.
Her hair, black and silky, fell in simple straight strands, reaching down to her mid-back. Brown eyes framed by smooth eyelids, a delicate nose, a poised posture… she was ordinary in a sense, yet extraordinary. The corners of her lips hinted at a subtle sweetness, a warmth that contrasted sharply with the coldness of Sherlock's recent experiences. Yet, he couldn't help but notice, her presence stirred something deep within him—a strange blend of awe and cautious curiosity.
Ben‑ten or whatever… my brother clearly has excellent taste, Sherlock thought quietly. Where does one find a girl like this? Flawless from every angle. And yet… here I am, married once to a hapless soul who couldn't even let me enjoy the small things, not even watch a cat…
Clearing his throat, Sherlock finally spoke, his words hesitant. "Ben… Who is Ben? Where am I? And… what do you mean by love?"
Although Sherlock didn't intend to manipulate the situation, a flicker of curiosity compelled him to probe further. He needed to understand the truth of this world he had woken into.
Ifi, noticing his confusion, reached out with both hands, gently holding Sherlock's face and drawing him closer. "You are our future son's father, Nico Ben. And I am your wife, Nico Ifi."
Sherlock had half-expected such an answer, yet hearing it aloud anchored him strangely in reality. Everything around him felt alien—the air, the faint scent of wood and damp stone, even the gentle creak of the floor beneath the wheelchair. This was not Earth. His gaze wandered beyond the morgue window, and there it was—the moon, or rather, the moons.
"Moon! Moon!" he exclaimed, eyes wide with disbelief. "Why four moons? And the middle one… broken at the edge?"
Ifi tilted her head, a trace of amusement in her expression. "You blame the moon because you've forgotten me and everyone else? Your mind isn't entirely clear yet. The moons are fine, just as they are."
Sherlock gripped his head with both hands. "So… this isn't a dream? I'm really here? I died… and now I've come back to life?"
Ifi lowered her hands and spoke calmly, "Come now. You need rest. I've handled the hospital matters. We'll take you home. A carriage has been arranged."
She waved a nurse over and gestured for her to assist Sherlock outside. With formalities complete, Ifi stepped away briefly.
Sherlock, seated in a wooden wheelchair for the first time in his life, took in his surroundings. The simple construction of the chair—oak and steel—felt both antiquated and sturdy. This world… it's strange, he thought, and Diablo… how do I contact him here?
A faint whisper appeared in his mind. Yes, Master. How shall I assist you now?
Sherlock smirked internally. No help needed. I just want to talk, to hear you.
Lost in communication with Diablo, Sherlock barely noticed the carriage rolling beneath him. Outside, a long, black gown-like coat trailed behind Ifi as she walked. Her head was covered with a green cap, with a delicate mesh veil obscuring her face. Beside her, a chestnut-colored wooden carriage stood ready, drawn by three horses whose hooves struck the cobblestone with a rhythmic cadence.
Sherlock's mind drifted back. This carriage… it belongs to the 1800–1900s. Yet I was born in 2000. These things existed a century or two before my time… and now I am here.
Ifi helped him settle into the carriage, guiding him gently to one side. "6-Royal Street," she instructed the driver, then seated herself opposite Sherlock. Leaning her head on his shoulder, exhaustion claimed her quickly; she slept instantly, despite the journey still stretching an hour ahead.
Sherlock watched her sleeping form, the red glow of a lantern casting warm, almost intimate shadows. A romantic aura filled the carriage, yet he resisted any frivolous thoughts. Even as Ben's body took form within Nico Ben, Sherlock felt a strange, quiet satisfaction. A beautiful wife at birth. What more could one ask?
The journey to 6-Royal Street revealed a two-story, 2,800-square-foot house built from faded bricks. The paint was peeling, revealing the earthy reds beneath, a pattern mirrored in neighboring houses. This odd aesthetic seemed deliberate.
Inside, Sherlock observed the house: gas lamps flickering with golden light, wooden furniture with hand-carved details, a clay stove in the kitchen. There was no ceiling fan, no air conditioning, no television. Antiquated, yet functional. Oddly comforting.
"Selena!" Ifi called. A young woman, around twenty-one to twenty-three, hurried over. "How are you, Miss? Has the sir finished his treatment?"
"Yes," Ifi replied. "Bring some food to our room. And make sure someone prepares soup in the morning. I'll manage the rest; just wake me up then."
Sherlock was guided upstairs to the left room. Two rooms on the upper floor, though only one seemed in immediate use. Ifi placed a firm leather bag on a nearby table, then handed Sherlock a towel. "Ben, clean up in the bathroom here. Your clothes are in wardrobe number two."
He entered the bathroom and noted the stone floor, designed to absorb water quickly, leaving no puddles behind. Ingenious. They've thought of everything, he mused. The shower fixtures, crafted from iron, gleamed faintly under the lamp. Even iron—ubiquitous, yet practical.
Sherlock finished his wash and dressed in trousers and a sleeveless top, the house's calm settling around him. Around one or two in the morning, Ifi returned, carrying a tray of food.
Sherlock's brow furrowed as he examined it. "What kind of meal is this? No flavor… no spice. Not even pepper, turmeric, coriander, or cumin. Just chunks of meat floating in oil and water with a touch of salt?"
Ifi, slightly taken aback, asked softly, "What's wrong?"
"I… I don't understand. This is how you eat?"
"Oh… you prefer something else?" she replied.
"Yes. Rice or bread… anything basic."
"Rice? That I can manage. Bread too," she said, about to leave.
Sherlock stopped her. "No need to go. Stay. I'm not hungry anymore. Sleep."
She smiled faintly, nestling under the blanket. Sherlock left the tray, washed his hands again, and turned toward the mirror. His reflection made him freeze.
They all call me Ben… but why do I look like this? Who is Ben? And how am I understanding this language? How is this… all happening so effortlessly?
His breathing quickened, and the familiar chant began to echo in his ears:
"The human of the unknown..."
"Whose knowledge is the unknown..."
"Whose thought is zero..."
"The deity of zero and the unknown..."
"Without birth or death..."
"Oh, Lord Zero."
Unable to contain the surge of confusion and realization, Sherlock screamed aloud.