Chief Inspector Lestrade did not like Sherlock.
Beyond the two reasons previously mentioned, there were a third, a fourth... and an ever-expanding list of others.
Even though the Detective had once apprehended the man who raped and murdered Lestrade's daughter—and proceeded to skin the culprit alive right in front of him—the Inspector still loathed the man.
Because Lestrade could feel it. He knew with absolute certainty that this man didn't hunt criminals for justice. He didn't even do it for the money. If he did, he wouldn't habitually turn his bounties into "indescribable" heaps of meat. While criminals theoretically lacked human rights, the state couldn't simply let them die in a cell, nor could they allow them to appear at the gallows in a state so wretched it might "disturb the public peace."
Processing such "damaged goods" cost the department a fortune, which meant Sherlock's actual take-home pay was often pittance.
And yet!
He continued to do it with tireless enthusiasm. Lestrade harbored a dark suspicion that Sherlock hunted solely for catharsis, to ward off boredom, or for some other inscrutable, sinister motive.
"If it weren't for the fact that my daughter's soul might harbor a shred of gratitude toward you, I'd have branded you the most heinous criminal in the Empire long ago!" the Inspector hissed, his voice thick with suppressed rage.
Sherlock offered a faint, indifferent smile. "Come now. You know exactly how many 'troublesome' elements I've cleared off your books over the years. Besides, you can't exactly throw me in a cage. I've never once broken Imperial law... at least, you've never found the evidence."
Lestrade felt a vein throb in his temple.
It was true. There wasn't a scrap of proof to suggest Sherlock was a criminal. But in his gut, the Inspector knew this man was the most terrifying, most evil entity he had ever encountered. Whatever Sherlock was doing behind closed doors was undoubtedly more depraved than the collective sins of every death row inmate in the subterranean cells.
Yet, no one knew what he wanted.
No one knew where he came from, how old he was, or what his history entailed. No one even knew if "Sherlock Holmes" was a real name.
The world knew only that he called himself a Detective and lived in a small, rented room on Baker Street. Every so often, he would appear at the station with that blood-soaked leather suitcase, trading whatever poor, damned soul was inside for a stack of bills.
That was the extent of it.
If one asked him about his daily life, his dreams, his goals, or why he became a Detective, he would simply shrug with an air of nonchalance and smile.
"Life is a dull affair," he'd say. "I simply don't want my brain to rust. I'm just looking for a little fun."
Minutes ticked by in silence. Lestrade didn't ask anything else; he knew the bastard wouldn't talk anyway. He watched as the Blues cigarette burned down to the filter.
Tap—tap—tap.
The rhythmic sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the reception lounge corridor, growing louder with every strike.
Lestrade and Sherlock looked toward the door simultaneously. A moment later, the tall nun and the stooped, elderly priest appeared in the entrance.
Miss Catherine and the Lord Priest.
Lestrade stood immediately, offering a respectful, shallow bow.
Sherlock, however, remained seated.
It wasn't because he was trying to project an aura of cold defiance toward the clergy. Rather, it was because his gaze had landed—with a rare expression of bewildered shock—on the woman's modified, form-fitting habit.
For the first time, a flicker of genuine embarrassment crossed his face.
"Let us go, Mr. Holmes," Catherine said, meeting his eyes with her chin held high. "Time, after all, waits for no one."
The evening sun bled through the gaps in the carriage curtains. Floating dust motes danced in the air like microscopic, alien organisms, making one instinctively want to hold their breath.
Sherlock sat within the carriage, his boots resting on a thick, plush wool carpet.
He never imagined he'd find himself riding in a carriage belonging to the Holy See. Even less did he expect the "nun" he'd ignored at the elevator to hold such a lofty station.
Looking out the window, the crowded squares of the Lower District were still teeming with life. Porter-laborers hauled wooden crates, and barefoot newsboys shrieked headlines at the top of their lungs. In the alleys flanking the taverns, women in revealing clothes stood waiting—business must have been poor this month for them to be soliciting so early in the evening.
The carriage was equipped with cutting-edge shock-absorption technology; the ride was preternaturally smooth. They passed through several gated checkpoints and massive, geared lift-gates. As the noise of the slums faded, they entered the Upper District.
Here, the streets were wide and paved with smooth stone. The buildings rose with a sense of grim, orderly majesty. Ornate metal pipes climbed the walls like meticulously pruned ivy, gleaming under the weak sunset.
Another half hour passed. The sun finally vanished, and the gas lamps flickered to life just as the carriage came to a halt.
Sherlock stepped out, feeling the lingering weight of sleepiness. The night air was crisp. They were on a pristine, narrow street that had clearly been cordoned off. No civilians were in sight. Instead, security guards in heavy steam-armor patrolled the perimeter. The rhythmic clank of iron boots on cobblestone masked the intermittent hiss of high-pressure steam venting from their joints.
"Ma'am!"
Upon seeing the carriage, a security officer hurried over. His mechanical arm slammed into a fist against his left chest as he dropped to one knee before Catherine.
It was the traditional salute of the Church's subordinates, though the steam-armor was so bulky that even in a kneeling position, the man remained taller than her.
"Lord Priest," the guard added, bowing to the frail old man.
As he did, his gaze inadvertently drifted over the Priest's shoulder. He saw Sherlock standing behind them.
The overhead gas lamp cast Sherlock's shadow into a long, distorted silhouette. And at that moment, Sherlock was casually pulling out a cigarette and striking a match.
The guard's eyes nearly bulged out of his helmet. Even with his superiors present, he couldn't help but roar:
"NO SMOKING IN THIS AREA!"