The Great Demon Holmes

After the gates of hell opened, humanity exhibited a rare attribute: unity. There were no longer any divisions among nations, and the world was unified under a single empire.

However, London was one of the few cities that still retained its original name.

Of course, it also preserved the perpetually gloomy and hazy atmosphere.

Noontime...

The concept of "bright sunshine" rarely existed here.

The entire underground of the city had been hollowed out to construct massive steam pipes and furnaces. A group of esteemed mad scientists had dug through the River Thames, continuously channeling its water deep underground. They tirelessly boiled and burned day and night, releasing thousands of tons of steam into the sky every day, only for it to transform into acidic rain as it descended.

According to those so-called "scientists," this was a form of recycling, so there was never a need to worry about running out of steam.

Of course, they never mentioned the dwindling number of trees.

But the citizens didn't concern themselves with such matters. They only knew that this was London, the home of the largest and most advanced steam furnace in the world. The entire city was enveloped in mechanical pipelines, and steam was their productivity. It was undoubtedly a source of pride.

If only the air could be a bit fresher, that would be even better.

And at this moment, Sherlock Holmes traversed through this city of machinery. He rode in a cheap carriage that stopped on demand, costing only five pence per kilometer. Next to his feet was a huge suitcase that was half the height of a person, making the already cramped space even more crowded. Outside the carriage window, there was a cacophony of voices, occasional roars from operating factories, and the distant tolling of church bells.

Actually, sometimes he truly couldn't understand people's thinking.

For example, even though these mechanical contraptions were becoming more cumbersome and inefficient, people still had boundless confidence in them, believing that "boiling water" would eventually save the world.

For example, even though they knew that no matter how much they shouted, the road would never become clear, almost everyone urged the car in front of them to go faster!

For example, even though that uncle named Jack was well aware that as an assassin, he would definitely not have a good ending, when Sherlock tried to arrest him, he still yelled and swung his knife at him.

Sherlock was desperately broke. He just wanted to apprehend a few murderers and make some money. What was wrong with that?

But old Jack didn't cooperate at all; he treated him so roughly. Sherlock was terrified at the time and instinctively snatched the knife from him. In one swift motion, he thrust the entire blade into Jack's waist.

Well... luckily, humans have two waists, so even if one is shattered, they can still live... at least for a while.

To save time going to the police station, Sherlock specially called for a carriage. This also prevented the prisoner from losing too much blood and going into shock or experiencing excruciating pain.

He had always been considerate like this, even when dealing with murderers.

...

At two-thirty in the afternoon, the carriage stopped at the main entrance of Scotland Yard.

"Scotland Yard" was actually a nickname for the London Police Department. Sherlock didn't know why it had such a name, and he didn't care. He just carried the enormous suitcase and got off the carriage.

While paying, the carriage driver inevitably cast another glance at the suitcase.

It was just too big, and he had no idea what was inside. It bulged and strained the wooden handle, but the customer holding it didn't show the slightest sign of exertion.

"Sir... Sir?!"

"Oh!" The carriage driver snapped out of his daze. "Apologies, that will be 25 pence."

Even if the fare was cheap, it still added up over the course of the journey, becoming a significant expense. Sherlock reluctantly took out a few coins and handed them over, feeling a pang of regret.

"May the Holy Light bless you," the carriage driver said out of habit.

"The Holy Light doesn't have the time to bless me."

Sherlock responded with a weary tone, paying no attention to the driver's astonished expression. He walked straight toward the police station, his tall and lean figure contrasting with the large suitcase he carried. The driver stared in a daze, for a moment thinking he was seeing things, as if he had witnessed something inside the suitcase struggling.

...

Entering the police station, the clamor and noise inside surpassed that of the streets. Since the second demonic invasion, London's public order had been consistently poor. Murders, thefts, and robberies occurred frequently. The citizens believed that even if they remained law-abiding, they might be bitten to death by small demons crawling out of the rifts in the void. As a result, they sought revenge and settled scores.

"Get out of the way, you bastard!"

A shout emerged from the crowd, followed by a drunken tramp stumbling out, his hands shackled in handcuffs, clearly having committed some offense.

At the same time, the man was clearly intoxicated; otherwise, he wouldn't have foolishly attempted to escape the police station solely based on his ample flesh. Sure enough, the next moment, a policeman tackled him to the ground, viciously jabbing his electric baton into the man's armpit. Accompanied by the sound of electric current, the criminal convulsed, and a whiff of urine filled the air.

Such scenes were commonplace in Scotland Yard, and the surrounding law enforcement officers paid no attention, even using their batons to prod the nearby prisoners, gesturing for them to behave or else.

"What a damn streak of bad luck."

The policeman who tackled the drunkard got up, shaking off the urine stains on his uniform. Seeing a decently dressed person standing nearby, he complained instinctively:

"Sorry, sir, the recent criminals aren't very cooperative..."

But before he could finish, he suddenly froze.

He recognized the person holding the enormous suitcase. His eyes involuntarily flickered with a hint of fear, but he still held a glimmer of hope as he raised his head...

Following his line of sight, he also saw the person's face and those eyes that seemed forever asleep.

At that moment, the once intimidating expression of the officer who had just electrocuted the criminal instantly softened.

"Sher... Mr. Sherlock..."

His voice was not loud, just a soft murmur from his throat.

But the instant that name floated out, the surrounding clamor suddenly subsided, and then, a wave of gazes turned toward them, accompanied by faint gasps of astonishment.

Sherlock paid no attention to the surrounding crowd's odd behavior. In fact, he had long been accustomed to it. He just sleepily looked at the compliant officer in front of him and handed the large suitcase forward.

"Here, a murderer caught directly at the crime scene. He seems to be called Jack... or maybe Mike. Anyway, you can check his criminal record."

Casually, he spoke as if nothing had happened, noticing the officer's hesitation to take the suitcase. So, he simply let go.

"Thunk!"

The suitcase landed heavily on the ground, like a lump of waterlogged pork. Some blood splattered from the seams of the leather, causing the people nearby to instinctively step back

a few paces.

"Is Commissioner Lestrade in his office?" Sherlock continued to ask.

The officers present didn't dare to think too much and hurriedly nodded.

Sherlock replied, "Thanks."

Since he had apprehended a criminal, he naturally had to discuss the reward with the commissioner.

In fact, in normal circumstances, if someone else caught a criminal, there was no need to bother the commissioner in such a grand manner. They could simply register the case with the police department. Only Sherlock was an exception.

He walked toward the outside of the crowd, and naturally, a path was cleared for him. Suddenly, an officer seemed to recall something and quickly shouted, "Mr. Sherlock, please... please wait."

"Hmm?" Sherlock turned back.

The officer summoned up his courage, not avoiding eye contact, and said formally, "The commissioner is currently receiving a very important guest. It would be better for you not to disturb him right now."

"A very important guest?" Sherlock pondered. "Alright, I'll wait for him in the reception room."

Passing through the quiet crowd, he walked down an empty corridor and entered the elevator...

Although it contained the word "electric" in its name, its operation still relied mostly on steam. There was no other choice—no matter how fashionable electricity was, its scope of application was still too limited. It remained a mere accompaniment to the era, just like those conservative veteran soldiers on the battlefield who tried to fend off demons with guns.

"Click~"

A lighter made a soft sound, and the feeble flame of the cigarette trembled as it approached. It seemed fearful, yet unable to retreat.

And at that moment...

"Wait."

A soft call came from down the corridor as a woman hurriedly walked toward the elevator. She appeared to be around 25 years old, dressed in an unusual nun's attire—no cumbersome long skirts or headscarves. Instead, everything was tailored to facilitate movement.

Sherlock exhaled a long puff of smoke, enveloping his entire face in a haze.

He didn't reach for the elevator button... allowing the elevator doors to close slowly.

"Time waits for no one, beautiful lady..."