The Great Demon Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 48: Please Come In…

“Tell me about it?” Sherlock ignored the teasing in Watson’s words.

The latter flicked his hair, a hint of reproach in his expression: “You really don’t know how to be considerate… Aren’t you going to thank me first? I just bought you a drink, and this is what happens. I even have to interrogate someone for you… Do you know how exhausting it is to interrogate someone?”

“I think you don’t need to pretend anymore.” Sherlock squinted: “Look at your flushed face!”

“Is that so… Alright, then I’ll stop pretending for now.” Watson, his quirk exposed, didn’t seem bothered at all, and continued: “He did tell someone your name, someone named—Theodore Sloan.”

“Who is that?”

“A pope, whose church district is in Cleveland, more than 700 kilometers from London.”

Hearing the word “pope,” Sherlock couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.

“And the gentleman in the room just said that His Holiness the Pope Theodore will be arriving in London in about a month,” Watson continued, then suddenly realized something: “Wait a minute, a pope leaving his diocese to come to London? That’s not very normal. Could it be… the Day of Holy Love is really coming?”

Sherlock, of course, didn’t care about the Day of Holy Love. He had no respect or reverence for saints like the Holy Son or Holy Daughter, who stood at the very top of the papacy’s power. Unless they suddenly died and he was tasked with investigating a case, he had no desire to have any interaction with them.

“But a pope, logically speaking, shouldn’t he pay any attention to a commoner like me?” Sherlock said nonchalantly.

“That’s not necessarily true. During the quiz, that gentleman mentioned that Deacon Bader and Pope Theodore were both battle-hardened, albeit for only three years. However, they served in the Holy Vanguard, under General Patton.

And as far as I know, those who came from General Patton’s ranks all share a common characteristic: extreme favoritism.”

At this point, Watson’s expression turned wistful, as if recalling the bittersweet memories of their b****y battles along the Reddock Strait.

Sherlock leisurely lit a cigarette. “I see. The bonds forged in the army are indeed extraordinary; after all, they’re friends who once went hungry.”

“Well, what are we going to do? You’re doomed… Sigh, it’s so hard to find a friend you can really connect with.” Watson’s words were melancholic, but his tone betrayed a different story, even a hint of… anticipation for a good show.

Sherlock, too lazy to pay him any attention: "Don't worry, he's already reached the position of Pope, he's definitely not stupid. Deacon Baldr violated the laws of the Holy See, he's bound to die. Even if he were a bishop, or even a cardinal, he wouldn't ignore the Holy See and openly hunt me down."

"But he could just conveniently eliminate you, no one would care about a commoner like you?"

"I know two clergymen, it'll be easy to bring this to the forefront."

"You know clergymen?!" Watson was somewhat surprised, but then, remembering the rumors that this detective's letter of recommendation was personally written by a high priest, he nodded slightly.

"Heh, you are indeed interesting. It's not so easy for a commoner to know clergymen."

"You're quite interesting too. It's even more difficult for a commoner to become a medic in the Holy Crusade, and to retire so young and unharmed, suffering from such severe post-traumatic stress disorder, it all seems strange." Sherlock said, exhaling a puff of smoke.

During this time, he noticed Watson's smiling expression seemed etched onto his face, his eyes slightly open, revealing a pair of cold eyes staring intently at him!

But he didn't care at all.

"Alright, you didn't ask about my past, so naturally I won't pry into your secrets. I'm going back. It's a new place; if I stay out all night too often, the landlord will think I'm strange, and it wouldn't be good if he kicked me out," Sherlock waved his hand.

"Do you need me to see you off?"

"Of course not..."

With that, he put on his long trench coat and left Watson's house.

...

Sherlock was gone.

Watson went to the window, stood quietly, and watched through the glass as the detective, whom he had only met twice but who gave him a very different feeling, walked out of the apartment building. Then he stood on the long street, smoked another cigarette, and waited for a full fifteen minutes before finally getting into a carriage and slowly disappearing into the London night.

He stared out the window, lost in thought, unsure of what he was thinking.

Suddenly, he found himself incredibly energetic… Despite drinking heavily tonight, he felt no drowsiness whatsoever.

Perhaps he had truly found some kind of anticipation in this monotonous life.

And so Watson grew even happier, his laughter echoing lonely in the solitary apartment, sounding somewhat eerie.

Oh, no, he wasn't alone in the apartment. On the other side of a small door, a poor fellow was strapped to an operating table. He lay flat, no one caring what he had endured; he was simply screaming, a sound far beyond human comprehension, a series of pitiful howls like those of a dying beast. The door was closed; his cries couldn't reach the outside. No one knew when he would die.

And so it went, and so it went…

Meanwhile, the seemingly harmless but ruthless doctor was putting on his coat, picking out a not-so-cheap bottle of liquor from the shelf, pushing open the apartment door, and walking out.

...

Watson couldn't sleep, so, as on his usual sleepless nights, suffering from post-war stress, he grabbed a bottle of liquor, went downstairs to his apartment building, walked along a quiet street, turned into a deep alley, and finally arrived at a dilapidated steam boiler tucked away in a corner.

He knocked on the door...

Yes, that's right, this boiler actually had a door, actually just a plank of wood tied to the coal inlet with wire, but the disabled old man insisted on calling it a 'door'.

Probably that gave him a sense of 'having a home'.

A moment later...

"Who is it!" a very impatient, even angry voice called out.

"It's me," Watson said softly.

"Get out!" the voice shouted irritably.

“I brought some wine…”

A moment of silence followed, then the sound of several bottles being knocked over echoed from inside. The wooden door was then pushed open, revealing an elderly man, well past sixty, dressed in coarse cloth, sitting inside with a fawning smile.

“Oh, it’s Watson! I didn’t recognize you at first. Please come in…”