The Great Demon Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 2: Time Waits for No One

After the gates of hell opened, humanity displayed an unusual 'unity,' and the world ceased to have distinct nations, unified under the name empire.

London… was one of the few cities that retained its original name.

Of course, it also retained its perpetually gray hue.

Noon… The concept of 'bright sunshine' was practically nonexistent here.

The entire city's underground had been hollowed out to construct massive steam pipes and furnaces. A group of highly respected mechanical engineers, acting like madmen, dug through the Thames, continuously diverting its water deep underground, then cooking and burning it day and night. Thousands upon thousands of tons of steam were released into the sky daily, turning into acidic rain.

In the words of those old men who called themselves 'scientists,' this was a form of recycling, so there was never a day when steam would run out.

Of course, they made no mention of the dwindling number of trees.

The citizens, however, paid no heed to such concerns. All they knew was that this was London, home to the world's largest and most advanced steam furnace, the entire city enveloped in mechanical pipes. Steam was productivity—a source of undeniable pride.

If only the air were a little cleaner.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was traversing this mechanical city. He rode in a cheap, readily available carriage, costing only five pence per kilometer. A massive suitcase, nearly half his height, lay beside him, making the already cramped space feel even more confined. Outside the window, the noise of people mingled with the occasional roar of factory machinery and the distant tolling of church bells.

Sometimes, he truly couldn't understand people's thinking.

For example, even though these mechanical creations were becoming increasingly cumbersome and inefficient, people still held boundless faith in them, believing that 'boiling water' would ultimately save the world.

For example, even though they knew that no matter how much they shouted, the road would never be clear, almost everyone urged the carriage in front of them to hurry up!

For example, even though the man named Jack knew perfectly well that an assassin like him would never have a good end, when Sherlock tried to arrest him, Jack still yelled and swung his knife at him.

Sherlock was dirt poor; he just wanted to catch a few murderers and make a little money. What was wrong with that?

But old Jack was completely uncooperative and treated him so brutally. Sherlock was terrified and instinctively grabbed the knife, blade and all, and shoved it into Jack's kidney.

Well… thankfully, humans have two kidneys; even if one is crushed, he can still live…

At least for a while.

So, to save time getting to the police station, Sherlock specifically called a carriage, preventing the prisoner from suffering massive blood loss, shock, or dying in agony.

He was always so considerate, even towards murderers.

…At 2:30 PM, the carriage stopped at the main gate of Scotland Yard.

'Scotland Park' was actually a code name for the Metropolitan Police Service in London. Sherlock didn't know why it was called that, nor did he care. He simply carried the enormous suitcase down from the carriage.

As he paid, the coachman's gaze inevitably lingered on the suitcase again.

It was simply too large. He wondered what was inside; it was bulging and heavy, almost breaking the wooden handle, yet the passenger seemed to carry it without the slightest strain.

'Sir...sir?!'

'Oh!' the coachman snapped out of his daze. 'Excuse me, that'll be 25 pence in total.' Even the cheapest fare, combined with the distance traveled, became a considerable expense. Sherlock reluctantly took out a few coins and handed them over.

'May the Holy Light bless you,' the coachman said habitually as he took the money.

“The Holy Light doesn’t have time to bless me,” Sherlock replied weakly, then ignored the coachman’s surprised expression and headed straight for the police station. His tall, thin figure and the box he carried created a jarringly incongruous scene. The coachman stared blankly, momentarily thinking he was seeing things, for he thought he saw something in the box wriggle awkwardly.

…Entering the police station, the noise and chaos were even greater than on the streets. Since the second demonic invasion, London’s security had been poor; murders, thefts, and robberies were rampant. Perhaps the citizens felt that even if they behaved themselves, they might one day be bitten to death in the street by a small demon emerging from the void rift, so they simply sought revenge for every grudge.

“Damn it, get out of the way!” A shout rang out from the crowd, followed by a homeless man reeking of alcohol stumbling out, his hands shackled—clearly someone who had committed a crime.

Meanwhile, this guy was definitely drunk, otherwise he wouldn't have thought he could just walk out of the police station with his fat body; sure enough, the next second a policeman tackled him to the ground, his baton viciously jabbing into the drunk man's armpit. With a hissing sound, the prisoner convulsed, and the air reeked of urine.

This kind of situation was already commonplace at Scotland Yard. The surrounding officers didn't seem to care at all, even using the opportunity to nudge the prisoner next to them with their batons, signaling him to behave, or they'd get a beating too.

"Damn it, what bad luck." The policeman who tackled the drunk man got up, shaking off the urine stains on his uniform. Seeing a reasonably well-dressed man standing beside him, he instinctively complained:

"Sorry, sir, the prisoners haven't been very obedient lately..."

But he froze halfway through his sentence.

Because he saw the other person carrying a huge briefcase… He clearly recognized the briefcase, as a flicker of fear involuntarily crossed his eyes, yet he still raised his head with a sliver of hope…

As his gaze moved upward, he saw the other person's face, and those eyes that seemed perpetually sleepy.

In that instant, the menacing expression he had displayed when electrocuting the prisoner vanished, replaced by an incredibly docile demeanor.

“Mr… Mr. Sherlock…” The voice was soft, just a low murmur from his throat.

But the moment that name escaped, the surrounding noise subsided considerably, and then, in a flash, countless eyes turned towards him, interspersed with gasps of astonishment.

Sherlock, oblivious to the strange looks from those around him—or perhaps he was used to it—simply glanced sleepily at the obedient police officer before him and pushed the large box forward, saying,

“Hey, a murderer, caught at the crime scene. His name's something like Jack…or maybe Mike. Anyway, you can check his records.”

He spoke casually, and seeing the officer hesitate to take it, he simply let go.

“Thud!” The box slammed heavily onto the ground like a bloated lump of pork. Blood splattered from the leather seams at the bottom, startling those nearby who instinctively took a few steps back.

“Is Chief Lestrade in his office?” he continued.

The officer didn't dare hesitate and quickly nodded.

Sherlock: “Thanks.” Now that he'd caught a criminal, he naturally had to talk to the chief about the reward.

Logically speaking, if anyone else caught a criminal, there would be no need for the chief to go to such lengths; a simple registration at the police station would suffice. Sherlock was the exception.

He walked towards the edge of the crowd, and a path naturally parted around him. Suddenly, an officer seemed to remember something and quickly called out:

"Mr. Sherlock, please...please wait."

"Hmm?" He turned around.

The officer, mustering his courage to avoid eye contact, straightened his posture and said, "The chief is currently receiving a very important guest. You...it's best not to disturb him."

"A very important guest?" Sherlock seemed thoughtful. "Alright, I'll wait for him in the reception room." He walked through the quiet crowd, across an empty corridor, and entered the elevator...

Although its name contains the word 'electricity,' its operation is essentially still based on steam. There's no way around it; no matter how fashionable electricity is, its application is ultimately too narrow, relegating it to a mere accessory of its time, like those conservative veterans on the battlefield who tried to use guns to fight off evil.

"Click—" The lighter made a soft sound, its weak flame flickering as it approached the cigarette, seemingly afraid yet unwilling to flinch.

Just then…

"Wait a moment." A soft exclamation came from the corridor. A woman quickened her pace towards the elevator. She looked to be around 25 years old, dressed in a somewhat strange nun's habit—the long, flowing dress and headscarf were replaced with a form-fitting style suitable for movement.

Sherlock exhaled a long puff of smoke, obscuring his face.

He didn't press the elevator button… letting the elevator doors slowly close.

"Time waits for no one, beautiful lady…"