The Great Demon Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 88: Nothing at All

Sherlock's address was known to Scotland Yard… he'd simply moved from 314A to 221B; the local policeman on that street didn't even need to be replaced.

The very next day, almost everyone in the Metropolitan Police Department knew.

They weren't sure why they cared so much about Sherlock's location, but it gave them a sense of security.

So, when the operator heard the human trafficker on the other end of the line reveal the address, he knew it was beyond his control.

Even though the police had been called, even though this was supposed to be a society governed by law, even though he should have stopped what was happening, he… wasn't going to do it.

Even if he reported it to Chief Inspector Lestrade, the chief would still praise him…

A guy who kidn*pped Sherlock's landlord and even killed his cat—well… maybe it was the landlord's cat—but whatever the case, that guy was finished.

No one cared how he would perish, nor did anyone want to know the process. As the saying goes, when the storm comes, run as far away as possible…

…The night passed just like that.

The sunlight, as always, bathed the vast lands of half the empire, passing through the foggy city of London… A small patch of light pierced through the Crawford Capital Company, illuminating the blood seeping from beneath the door.

After several hours of freezing, the blood resembled glistening red gemstones, dotted with white ice crystals. Several people walked by in the morning, unaware of its significance, simply finding it somewhat beautiful, until a pet dog barked wildly at the door, drawing the owner's attention.

Curiosity compelled the person to push open the door, and a horrifying scene unfolded before their eyes, followed by the expected scream—a scene common in almost every murder case.

Except…this time, more people had died.

And what happened next… was just like all previous murder cases. Police arrived to handle the scene, body bags were tossed one after another into the hearse, people outside the police cordon pointed and whispered, and tabloid reporters desperately tried to sneak in to take a few photos.

But the police collectively chose silence.

Silently washing away the bloodstains, silently moving the bodies, not even uttering a word about the white lines around the corpses. Some couldn't hold it in any longer, rushed out of the basement, leaned against the wall to vomit, completely unconcerned about disturbing the crime scene, and after vomiting, silently returned to work.

They knew these people deserved to die; the substandard ether, the unconscious bodies in the boxes, and the transport assembly line all indicated this.

The chief's performance this year was likely to rise another notch…

As for who caused this m******e,

some knew, some didn't.

What did it matter?

…In 221B Baker Street, on the first floor, Sherlock drew back the curtains, letting sunlight stream into the room…

Behind him, Watson was furrowing his brow, fiddling with a vase on the dining table. After bringing his landlady back, he couldn't stand the messy room, so he started a thorough cleaning. He picked up all the broken plates, straightened the overturned tables and chairs, washed the carpet, and dusted the room thoroughly with a feather duster. Only then did he finally take off Mrs. Hudson's apron, fold it neatly, and place it on the shelf.

Right now… he was trying to make a vase on the table look nicer, repeatedly moving it from the windowsill to the doorway and then putting it back on the table.

"I say… do you have OCD?" Sherlock said listlessly.

"It's not pretty… it's obviously not pretty like this." Watson seemed anxious. "Can't you use your reasoning skills? Help me figure out where this vase should go?"

"My reasoning tells me it can't do this," Sherlock said, then looked at Mrs. Hudson lying in bed, still unconscious. According to Watson, she should wake up soon.

Just as this thought crossed her mind…

“Ugh—” A soft, painful moan escaped her lips. The girl on the bed trembled a few times, then opened her eyes with great difficulty.

Sherlock went over.

Watson also reluctantly turned his gaze from the vase and followed.

Mrs. Hudson was still very weak. Her consciousness seemed to be stuck in the time she was kidn*pped, so her eyes were still full of terror. But when she opened her eyes and saw herself lying on her familiar bed, and then saw Sherlock standing beside it, her breathing gradually calmed down.

“You saved me?” she asked, her voice extremely hoarse.

Just then, Watson walked over. Perhaps realizing that the story of a hero rescuing a damsel in distress takes on a different tone when told by the person involved, he took over the conversation:

"Yes, your tenant rescued you..."

As he spoke, he helped Mrs. Hudson into a semi-reclining position, placing a thick cushion behind her, then poured her a cup of brewed black tea. "You must be wondering why someone as insignificant as him could rescue you from a group of debt collectors...

Because you were lucky...

It seems that the debt company angered some big shot, and last night, someone launched a raid on them."

"A raid?"

"Yes, I don't know how the newspapers will report it, but you can't expect this guy to single-handedly storm into their headquarters, kill everyone inside, and then rescue you." "Watson said with a smile: "Anyway, the encirclement ended quickly, and those fierce-looking guys... well... obviously didn't want to deal with you civilians who were obviously kidn*pped, so they simply left you where you were. And your tenant was the first person to rush over and carry you out in a princess carry... He really cares about you." Watson, in this hasty retelling of Sherlock's m******e of three floors the previous night, presented a completely different version. The series of explanations was rather abrupt and contrived, with some parts sounding quite problematic, but through Watson's mouth, it seemed perfectly natural.

Under normal circumstances, a woman hearing this would likely be filled with fear, anxiety, or even burst into tears.

But Mrs. Hudson was different. Although she was also extremely panicked and frightened, she tried her best to appear calm and sincerely thanked the two people in front of her.

She knew that although the story sounded simple, the process must have been incredibly difficult.

After all, her tenant was just a small-time detective, probably one with few clients. It was already quite an achievement that he knew where he had been kidn*pped, let alone rescued her under those circumstances. For an ordinary person, that required immense courage.

Even... At this moment, lying in bed, looking at the lodger she hadn't known for long, a small, long-lost feeling of security stirred within her.

Since her father lost consciousness and her brother went to the distant battlefield, she hadn't dared to hope for this feeling again.

"Thank you... thank you... I will repay you, but right now I don't know what to do, thank you so much..." She was even a little flustered with gratitude: "Oh, I should go and make you something to eat, maybe that's the only thing I can do now..." Sherlock couldn't understand Watson's nature either. He could turn a room into a t*****e chamber, yet he was also so good at taking care of people. Seeing Mrs. Hudson trying to get up, he even handed her a plate of peeled and chopped apples.

"Beautiful lady, you only need to thank your lodger, no need to thank me. I was just dragged here by him to take care of you while you were unconscious. Now that you're awake, my task is complete, so I won't bother you any longer." With that, he got up to leave.

"But..."

"Don't ask me to stay for dinner." Watson flashed a captivating smile. "Mr. Sherlock has already paid the price—two very lively toys. See you next time, and I hope you become even more beautiful." With that, Watson left Mrs. Hudson's apartment.

He was in good spirits, tightening his scarf, a genuine smile playing on his lips, preparing to find a carriage to take him home.

However, a slight worry lingered in his heart for his friend. A few days ago, he had been informed that the Pope from Cleveland had arrived in London. Although the Pope's arrival hadn't caused them any trouble so far, the absence of a crisis was the most worrisome.

Just as this thought crossed his mind, a sudden thought struck him, and he instinctively glanced towards the shadows of the alley across the street.

But there…… nothing at all…