Chapter 10: Baker Street
1003 Words
Travel between the Upper Town and Lower Town required crossing a bridge over the Thames, its heavy geared gates rarely opened after curfew.
Of course, these rules of London law never applied to the Papacy.
Listening to the rumble of gears turning outside the window, Sherlock slowly turned his gaze into the night. A huge portrait of Florence Nightingale hung from the bridge's steel cables. Legend had it that this angelic girl, who had traveled the Empire, would arrive in London in a few months, bringing healing and blessings to countless people.
Looking at the exquisite face depicted on the canvas, Sherlock didn't display the same obsession and yearning for beauty as other citizens of the Empire. He simply sat silently. A few stars, unusually, appeared in the London sky, signifying the birth or destruction of massive celestial bodies in the distant depths.
But he knew very well that if there were any respectable people in this rotten world, this young woman must be one of them.
Half an hour later, after traversing several alleys shrouded in steam billowing from manhole covers, the carriage finally arrived at Baker Street.
It was a very unremarkable street. Compared to the main thoroughfares of the city, it was remarkably clean…at least, aside from the perpetually emptied garbage cans, the never-repaired gas streetlights, and the homeless orphans stealing everywhere, it was rarely congested, nor did it emit the hissing of leaky gas pipes.
Even murderers wouldn't dump their bodies here…perhaps they considered it beneath them.
Of course, from time to time, some mangled corpses, bitten to pieces by demons, would appear on the street. This was unavoidable; low-level, small demons generally lacked intelligence, and upon encountering anything moving, they instinctively wanted to gnaw at it, then try to swallow it.
Anyway, for Sherlock, this was a rare quiet place to live.
…Entering Building 314A, a musty smell hit him.
The building was clearly very old; as he climbed the steps, the wooden planks groaned uncontrollably. The second floor was his home.
Upon entering and pushing open the door, Sherlock reached out and turned a knob on the wall. Gas wafted from an internal pipe into a glass lampshade, casting a soft, yellowish light that, instead of bringing warmth to the small room, illuminated a sense of disarray and loneliness.
The room opened to a living room, small and easily visible. A haphazardly placed sofa, a carpet whose original color was unrecognizable, unpolished wooden cabinets, and a small window facing a bare, red brick wall.
A typical cheap apartment.
Besides that, the room was filled with books… *Memoirs of a Contractor's Servant*, *The Complete Encyclopedia of Abyssal Creatures*, *Speculations on the Abilities of High-Rank Contractors*, and numerous newspaper clippings about civilians working together to repel, and even kill, demons.
These books were scattered haphazardly in various corners of the room, almost all tattered and worn, clearly having been read countless times.
As mentioned before, Sherlock was an ordinary man. He wasn't a devout believer and naturally hadn't participated in the Vatican's contractor initiation ceremony; however, he wasn't particularly interested either. He just occasionally flipped through books, reading briefings about Abyss Demons, which was a good way to pass the time with his idle mind.
"Hoo..." He hung up his coat and hat, walked to a sofa, and sat down, letting out a comfortable groan.
The sofa was quite old; the red lacquer was all cracked, and a section of the central partition had sunk, allowing a person to recline comfortably—a position Sherlock liked very much.
He was exhausted today… First, he apprehended a murderer, then he encountered Vatican clergy, went to the Upper City, and incidentally offended a nun.
Oh, speaking of that Sister Catherine, the Judgement Sister, Sherlock's assessment of her was… quite interesting.
Through some half-hearted observation, it became clear that she was a sweet tooth, loved to sleep in late, and hated making her bed! She lived alone, was an alcoholic, and slept with a large bolster pillow, probably a long-eared plush rabbit or something.
Tsk tsk, quite different from her usual aloof public image.
But it didn't matter; these days, everyone has a little bit of a contrast… Even old-fashioned policemen like Lestrade secretly wore thongs that were so tight they could be squeezed into their buttocks, and Sherlock never thought there was anything wrong with it, so he never pointed it out.
Back to Deacon Baldr, whose wife had died…
Sherlock was quite concerned about him; after all, he was closely related to the deceased and belonged to the Church's violent apparatus that controlled the Empire, so he deserved more attention.
However, to Sherlock's surprise, he couldn't glean a single piece of information about this man… his personality, daily routine, dietary preferences, physical condition, habits—it was all a blank slate.
If it weren't for the slightest reaction this man still had to his wife's death, Sherlock would have even suspected that he truly was, as rumored, an emotionless machine.
After a moment of random, random thoughts, he turned his gaze back to the clock on the wall…
It was already two in the morning; Sherlock needed to rest.
There was no light outside the window; night enveloped the entire apartment. There were no vendors or cars, only the distant chimes echoing as always. He closed his eyes… intending to fall asleep on the sofa.
And once he was asleep, he could also think about the mysteries surrounding the murder case.
Um… that's right, the deduction… would have to wait until he was asleep.
So, he relaxed his body, letting all his exhaustion sink into the old sofa beneath him.
Less than ten minutes later.
A soft snore began.
The rhythm was gentle and long, like the tolling of church bells and prayers…
…And at the same time.
In a world of white, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes.
He twisted his neck, then stood up... He wasn't surprised by the strange surroundings, but simply yawned as if it were commonplace.
- Writer
