The Great Demon Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 42: Alcohol

“Want me a drink?”

“Of course, what could be better for building camaraderie among colleagues than drinking?” Watson said, fiddling with his bangs.

Perhaps he had just emerged from a dream, or perhaps this guy simply had a natural talent for building rapport with others, Sherlock didn't immediately refuse.

In truth, in his past thirty-two years of life, he had practically no friends.

He was undoubtedly considered a freak in his childhood, and as an adult, he always went out to 'work' alone. Those who knew him generally didn't want to associate with this guy who exuded a strange aura.

Naturally, no one would invite him for a drink.

Sherlock looked at Watson…

Then he thought of the mysteries that had been filling his mind lately, the dreams he longed to explore, and the various questions waiting to be unearthed about his contracted demon.

At that moment, he suddenly felt a sense of comfort and satisfaction that only a detective could understand…

“That’s right… drinking is definitely the easiest way to strengthen friendships.” He smiled in agreement, picking up his old trench coat, which he often wore, from the hanger. “So what are we waiting for?”

He put it on and walked out of the room.

But at that very moment, a flicker of surprise flashed in Watson’s eyes… only to be instantly masked by an even wider smile.

Of course, this instantaneous change in expression didn’t escape Sherlock’s notice.

“What’s wrong?” he asked directly, not bothering to hide it.

Watson was taken aback. “Hmm? You noticed?… I thought I was hiding it well.”

“Indeed, you hid it well, but my observation skills are quite sharp; I’m a detective, after all.”

Sherlock said, having already walked with Watson to the side of the street. He lit a cigarette for himself and offered one to Watson.

Watson hesitated for a moment, but still took the cigarette and leaned towards the lighter Sherlock offered:

"It's nothing serious, really, but I smell a strong stench of blood on your clothes... a large proportion of it is human blood."

A sudden silence fell;

The gas streetlights flickered incongruously, hissing and leaking gas... Watson casually stated his discovery, completely unconcerned about the chilling implications of his words.

"Really? I wash often, I thought I couldn't smell anything anymore." Sherlock even casually exhaled a puff of smoke and sniffed his collar.

"I'm quite sensitive to the smell of blood, I'm a doctor, after all." Seeing the other's nonchalant attitude, Watson's eyes almost closed into slits with laughter;

Then he took a drag of his cigarette!

In an instant! His eyes widened in shock: "Damn! Cough—cough—what's this cigarette? It's so pungent!!"

"Blues."

"Never heard of this brand."

He cautiously took another drag, "Pfft—" carefully savoring the pungent, spicy sensation coursing through his lungs, finally pursing his lips in slight surprise: "It seems...not bad..."

...

...Midnight, a long street in Lower London, far from the Thames...

Number Five Avenue.

This street is quite old, without a particular name. It seems to have been called this since the invention of the first steam engine. After the opening of the Devil's Gate, the Second Invasion, and countless destructions and reconstructions, no one has ever wanted to change its name, as if changing it would alter the entire street's character.

The buildings on both sides were generally low, with rusty steam valves emanating from their facades, mingling with the intricate network of pipes along the long street. Some buildings had haphazardly hung gas lamps hanging from their ceilings, their light flickering only occasionally, giving the entire street a sense of dying decay.

At the end of the street stood a highly recognizable building: a dilapidated, rusty iron gate, walls devoid of any coating, and a vast, yet perfectly square, structure, making it resemble a coffin.

However, inside that iron gate lay a completely different scene.

Dazed music, wildly shifting lights, a dim overall tone, writhing bodies, a strong aroma of alcohol, and shouting—a contradictory yet forceful combination of elements.

“I’m quite surprised that someone like you would even know about this place,” Sherlock said, looking at the swirling liquor in his glass.

"Someone like me?"

"Yes, you're a doctor, such a noble profession. Shouldn't you be in those upscale places where someone plays the piano and a glass of wine costs several pounds?... Look at you sitting here, you don't fit in at all with the atmosphere. Oh, just so you know, there are a few married women over there staring at you for almost half an hour." Watson always smiled, his crescent-shaped eyes, illuminated by the huge gaslight overhead, exuding a certain allure that could attract any woman. However, he didn't respond to any of the women's gazes, but simply listened to Sherlock's words, happily taking a sip of his gin:

"I used to go to those kinds of places quite often, but after a while, I got tired of them and started to like this more and more." "Well... but compared to all that, aren't you surprised by something else?"

"Something else?"

"Yes, you should be able to tell, right? Hallucinogen sales here are ten times higher than elsewhere, and the syphilis transmission rate is alarmingly high. It's practically a breeding ground for multiple crimes. Yet, just one street away, there stands a grand cathedral. Isn't that astonishing?"

"What's so surprising about that?" Sherlock lit a cigarette. "It's precisely because this place is next to a cathedral that it has been able to survive. I bet at least 70% of the people here are devout believers."

"Oh?" This assertion didn't surprise Hua Sheng; instead, it made her even more interested in him.

"It's an easy truth to understand: people's desires are either vented in alcohol, l**t, and unrealistic fantasies, or poured into riots, discontent with society, and hatred of life.

Compared to that, the former is infinitely better than the latter!

Therefore, this lawless, chaotic place is far more effective at calming the people than those churches." Sherlock wasn't in a good mood today, so he spoke these disrespectful words about the Holy Light without restraint. Fortunately, in a place like this, no one cares what you say.

After hearing this, Watson's smile widened even more: "You're quite an interesting person, much more interesting than those guys at Whitethorn Security. You know, every morning at the company, we have to listen to Father Thompson recite prayers for almost an hour."

"An hour!! That...that's really tough." Sherlock, imagining that scene, subconsciously took a deep drag on his cigarette: "By the way, speaking of which, has that eye-gouging demon been caught yet?"

"Of course not. That guy is very cunning, probably the intelligent type of demon. And recently, the higher-ups issued orders saying a big shot is coming to London, and we need to quickly clear up the security situation in the lower city."

"A big shot...? Could it be Miss Nightingale? I heard she's coming next month."

"Definitely not. Her Excellency Nightingale is a public figure. Her coming to London isn't some secret; the higher-ups wouldn't hide it," Watson said, then squinted and glanced around. Seeing that apart from a few brightly dressed young women staring at him, no one else seemed to be paying attention, he whispered, "I reckon it's probably the [Day of Romantic Love] that's coming up." Hearing this, Sherlock paused, thinking of this strange yet incredibly romantic holiday and its ancient custom, and couldn't help but smile:

"Then... London is sure to be incredibly lively this year."