The Great Demon Holmes

Dusk in London began at half-past three. Due to the accumulated water vapor in the clouds, the greyish sunlight passed through the mirrors, tinted with a vibrant crimson hue. The distant church bells gradually ceased, marking the end of the day's worship.

Inside the office, the venerable High Priest sat with closed eyes, his sparse hair resembling the legs of insects, subtly and imperceptibly wriggling...

Director Lestrade slightly lowered his body and whispered, "Miss Katherine, do you know that detective?"

"I don't."

"But... it seems like you're very dissatisfied with him."

Recalling the detestable face she saw in the elevator, Katherine spoke coldly, "The family member of a clergyman was murdered! What we need now is the strongest and most professional elite who can single-handedly solve the entire case, catch the killer, and have their blood stain the court's announcement before tomorrow's sunset!

And what did you do? You found such a lazy, shameless scum who is always dazed, as if he's under the influence of hallucinogens?"

Director Lestrade stared at her in astonishment, surprised at her evaluation of Sherlock, which... was actually quite accurate.

"But, esteemed Miss Katherine, I can assure you, as the highest-ranking officer of Scotland Yard, that the only person who can meet your requirements is him, even if we search all of London."

He cautiously countered, as the highest authority in the London law enforcement system, he instinctively displayed a stubborn and proud side in his own field, completely forgetting that less than half an hour ago, he was unwilling to even mention the name Sherlock.

...

After Lestrade left, the old High Priest slowly opened his eyes.

The previous moment of meditation seemed to have brought him great enjoyment, and the crimson rays of the setting sun shone on the edges of his robe... Suddenly, right there, a pitch-black crack appeared out of thin air, and a giant hairy spider emerged silently.

It was as large as a handcart, its eight eyes resembling eight black beans, emitting a chilling glow under the evening sun.

The old priest extended his hand and affectionately rubbed the fur on the spider's abdomen, causing it to emit a nauseating hiss:

"During the second demonic invasion, Lestrade was responsible for the security of the lower city alone, and he managed to reduce the civilian crime rate there to a level that satisfied the Church. It seems his judgment shouldn't be too poor..."

"I just feel that such a lazy person doesn't seem to possess any outstanding qualities," Katherine wrinkled her brows in confusion.

"Haha, that detective captured a murderer today, whom he used to claim a reward for. He... stuffed the criminal into a box."

"A... box?" Katherine questioned.

"Haha, that's right, a suitcase." The old priest chuckled and gestured with his hands, outlining the shape, "I have never seen a person so contorted, yet still alive. Even the lunatics from the Academy of Vitality Research would require a considerable number of instruments to achieve that. Moreover, the captured murderer isn't a simple character. The reward has already reached 200 pounds, and I heard that he captured him in just two or three days... and caught him in the act of committing a crime."

"For an ordinary person, accomplishing something like that is already exceptional."

Katherine pondered the old man's words for a while before saying, "Nevertheless, exceptional or not, he is ultimately just an ordinary person."

There was a natural sense of disdain in her tone. It wasn't the disdain of those in power towards the lower class; it was a reasonable and logical condescension, unrelated to politics, character, money, or even social status.

It was more like the attitude of an eagle towards a rabbit, stemming from the interplay between different species.

Ultimately, he was just an ordinary person...

Not a contractee...

In this era where abyssal forces influenced everything, the Church had long discovered the method of controlling abyssal forces through human bodies a century ago... Thus, it was natural for an ordinary human to be subject to doubts regarding their abilities.

Fortunately, the old man's words had a certain persuasiveness, and Katherine's expression remained icy, ultimately nodding her head.

...

Inside the lounge, Sherlock slouched on the couch, drowsy.

He held a book in his hand.

"How to Survive Encounters with Small Demons in the Wilderness," written by someone named Bell Grills.

The cover was made of the cheapest cardboard, featuring an illustration of a common hellhound spewing acidic fluid at a beautiful woman in a dress. The artwork was rough, and the ink had smudged during printing.

During a certain period, these self-help books were quite popular since no one knew where a Void Rift might appear. What if, while you were relieving yourself, the space in front of you suddenly tore open, and a disgusting giant fly emerged, desperately trying to suck your brain marrow? Reading more books like this might increase your chances of survival.

After more than a decade of market validation, people gradually realized that these books were completely useless. When encountering void creatures, either you have a Lestrade shotgun and enough ammunition, or you simply run away.

The fastest option is to run to the nearest contractee and request their assistance, or run to the nearest church. That's all there is to it.

If you have nothing and still expect to engage in combat with the creatures using the knowledge from the books, you will definitely end up being amusingly defeated. There was once an author of a self-help book who, in a moment of foolishness, threw himself into the freshly torn chest cavity of a putrid monster.

Delivery right to your doorstep, one step to the stomach.

"Care for a smoke?" a voice said.

Sherlock was momentarily taken aback. He raised his half-asleep eyes and saw Director Lestrade holding a cigarette, offering it to him.

"No, thanks. I have my own," Sherlock yawned without any semblance of grace and pulled out a pack of "Blue Note" cigarettes from his pocket.

"I still don't understand why you only smoke Blue Note. It's such an old brand, hard to find, and so harsh."

Sherlock nonchalantly lit his cigarette, took a deep drag, and didn't answer the question.

"You see, that's why people don't like you. You have too many enigmatic qualities about you, and you never explain them," the director stated while observing Sherlock's expression. He had expected at least a slight surprise upon hearing the word "Church," but Sherlock only furrowed his brow slightly and returned to his perpetually drowsy demeanor.

"Why don't you have any reaction at all!?"

"Oh, well... thank you very much," Sherlock replied indifferently.

The lack of sincerity in his tone greatly irritated Director Lestrade. He angrily extinguished his cigarette butt.

"This is precisely what I dislike about you... You have no reverence for the Church at all!"