The Great Demon Holmes

To travel between the Upper and Lower City, one needed to cross a large bridge spanning the River Thames. Heavy gear gates stood on either side of the bridge, rarely opened after curfew, but such rules outlined in London's law enforcement never applied to the Judicators.

Listening to the thunderous sound of mechanical gears outside the carriage window, Sherlock slowly shifted his gaze towards the night sky. A colossal portrait of Nightingale hung from the steel cables on the bridge, depicting the girl who would come to London in a few months, bringing healing and blessings to many.

Looking at the beautiful face displayed on the canvas, Sherlock didn't exhibit the human fascination and longing for beauty like all the other citizens. He sat silently as a few rare stars appeared in the London sky, representing distant celestial bodies being born or destroyed.

But he knew well that if there were still admirable people in this wretched world, this young girl would undoubtedly be one of them.

Half an hour later, after passing through several alleys shrouded in steam from manhole covers, the carriage finally arrived at Baker Street.

It was an inconspicuous street, relatively clean compared to the main roads in the city... At least apart from the perpetually uncleaned garbage bins, never repaired gas lamps, and the orphan pickpockets roaming about, there was hardly any congestion here, nor the hissing of leaking pipes.

Even murderers wouldn't dump their victims here... probably because they felt it was beneath them.

Of course, occasionally, some badly mutilated bodies, bitten by demons, would appear on the streets. It couldn't be helped. Lesser demons generally lacked intelligence and would instinctively attempt to gnaw on anything that moved, hoping to swallow it.

For Sherlock, however, this place was relatively peaceful.

...

Entering Building A at 314 Baker Street, a musty smell greeted him.

The building was clearly quite old. Walking up the stairs, the creaking floorboards groaned under his weight. His home was on the second floor.

He ascended and pushed open the door, extending his hand to twist a knob on the wall. Gas seeped into a glass fixture from the concealed pipes, and the light slowly illuminated the room. The dim, yellowish light filtered through the faded carvings on the lampshade, casting an air of disorder and loneliness rather than warmth in the small room.

Before him was a living room, not large enough to require a second glance. The sofa was casually placed, the carpet had lost its original color, and the wooden cabinet was unpolished. The window was small, facing a neighboring building with patchy red brick walls.

It was a standard budget apartment.

And apart from that, the room was filled with books...

"The Memoirs of a Butler to a Contractee," "Compendium of Abyssal Creatures," "Hypotheses on the Abilities of High-Ranked Contractees," and numerous clippings about commoners working together to repel or even kill demons.

These books were scattered in various corners of the room, each one worn and tattered from countless readings.

As mentioned before, Sherlock was an ordinary person. He wasn't a devout believer, and he hadn't participated in the Church's contractee consecration ceremony. But he didn't mind. He would flip through books from time to time, read briefings about abyssal demons, and entertain his idle mind.

"Ah~"

Hanging up his coat and hat, Sherlock walked over to a sofa and sat down. He let out a comfortable groan.

The sofa was also old, its red leather cracked and a portion of the middle cushion had collapsed, allowing the person sitting on it to half-recline comfortably. Sherlock quite liked this posture.

He was exhausted today...

First, he caught a murderer, then encountered clergy members of the Church, visited the Upper City, and inadvertently offended a nun.

Oh, speaking of the inquisitor named Catherine, Sherlock found her... quite interesting.

Through some half-hearted observations, he discovered that she had a sweet tooth, was a bed-sleeper, and didn't bother to make her bed! Living alone, she enjoyed drinking and slept hugging a large body pillow, probably a plush rabbit with long ears or something.

Tsk tsk, it was a bit different from her usual cold and aloof image in front of others.

But it didn't matter. Nowadays, who didn't have some contrasts... Even old-fashioned detectives like Lestrade secretly enjoyed wearing T-shaped underwear that tightened the buttocks. Sherlock never found anything inappropriate about it and never exposed it.

Now, back to the Bailiff who lost his wife...

Sherlock was quite interested in him. After all, he was closely related to the deceased and belonged to the violent arm of the Church that controlled the Empire's internal affairs. He deserved more attention.

However, to Sherlock's surprise, he couldn't gather even a shred of information about this man... Nothing about his personality, daily routine, food preferences, physical condition, habits. It was as if he were a blank slate. If it weren't for his slight reaction to his wife's death, Sherlock would even suspect that he was truly emotionless, as the rumors suggested—a machine devoid of feelings.

Lost in his thoughts, Sherlock turned his gaze to the clock on the wall...

It was already two o'clock in the morning, and Sherlock needed rest.

Outside the window, there was no light, enveloping the entire apartment in darkness. There were no street vendors or traffic, only the distant sound of bells echoing as always. He closed his eyes... ready to fall asleep on the sofa.

And as he entered slumber, he could also contemplate the puzzles of the murder cases.

Hmm... yes, deductions... are for after falling asleep.

So, he relaxed his body, pouring all his weariness into the worn-out sofa beneath him.

Less than 10 minutes later.

Soft snores filled the room.

A gentle, rhythmic lullaby, akin to the ringing and prayers of a church...

...

Meanwhile, in a world of white, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes.

He twisted his neck and stood up... unstartled by the bizarre environment around him, as if he were accustomed to it, yawning.