The Great Demon Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 20: A Reward?

This statement sounded like a cover-up.

Moreover…

‘I have killed a few, after all.’

This answer was also awkward.

It wasn't that a detective couldn't kill, but coming from Sherlock's mouth, coupled with his previous actions, it felt like countless strange and bizarre stories were hidden behind those words.

Catherine narrowed her eyes at him, remaining silent for a moment; she actually wanted to continue questioning, but as a clergy member of the Holy See, she couldn't very well lower herself to pry into a commoner's past.

Fortunately, at this moment, Sherlock proactively changed the subject: “Um, didn't you just mention… a reward?”

“How can what the Holy See gives be called a reward!… It should be called a blessing!” Catherine corrected sharply.

“Of course, Your Excellency, whatever you say.”

Sherlock's smile always seemed hypocritical to her. It even took considerable effort to reconcile the man before her with the figure who had just turned the tide.

But then, she tilted her head slightly.

"So what do you want?" she asked, her tone naturally carrying an air of superiority.

No wonder, she had the Papacy behind her, and receiving a reward from the Papacy was enough to make anyone feel superior, because the Papacy wouldn't tell you what you could get, but rather let you say whatever you wanted. After all, the Papacy could basically grant any wish, as long as you had the right to.

But this very question, carrying such supreme glory, stumped Sherlock.

A reward… did he have to think of it himself?

Seeing the detective's bewildered expression, Catherine assumed he was overwhelmed by the Papacy's favor and finally smiled genuinely:

"I know this is a difficult question to answer… but money, power, honor, all are possible, and even if you want to better serve the Holy Light, I can apply for your own church in the suburbs of London!" Sherlock didn't speak, but his brows furrowed deeper, raindrops streaming down his cheeks and into his unkempt stubble.

He hadn't felt this troubled when he killed a deacon from the Tribunal.

Because he felt that money and power didn't hold much appeal for him. He simply enjoyed catching murderers, solving cases, and keeping his mind active—that was all.

So, ten seconds… thirty seconds… a minute passed…

"Give me some time, I need to think…"

He finally replied.

…The rain cloud in the sky was like a bladder with its urethra blocked, finally released, frantically pouring out the liquid that had been accumulating for who knows how long.

Under the rain, the battle that had nearly destroyed half the street wasn't actually that long, probably only about five minutes.

The post-battle staff had already set up makeshift tents, with gas stoves lit inside, and even thoughtfully provided hot water and food; because the wounded, the heavy steam armor, and the clergy couldn't be lifted away by airships, and the reinforcements wouldn't arrive for over an hour, they could only rest on the spot for the time being.

Sherlock sat inside a tent… This detective, initially abandoned on the battlefield and left to fend for himself, now seemed to have suddenly risen from cannon fodder to a highly valued position.

At least for now, only Catherine and the old priest had tents to shelter from the rain.

Moreover, nuns would occasionally enter with state-of-the-art battlefield medical equipment to examine and treat Sherlock's injuries.

In the Vatican's hierarchy, nuns were generally responsible for daily prayers and reception duties between city churches; only a select few with specialized medical training were allowed to go to war zones. Compared to ordinary medical personnel, these battlefield nuns were proficient in almost all baptismal rites and prayer vows, allowing them to soothe soldiers whose faith had crumbled due to killing or fear—a high-ranking position among nuns.

Of course, Catherine, the [Judgment Nun], was an exception; she was a second-tier contractor, no longer a low-ranking member of the Vatican.

Regardless, this kind of treatment was definitely not something an ordinary person could enjoy… Fine needles threaded through the wounds on Sherlock's back. Although he had only been on the scene for a dozen seconds, he had inevitably sustained some injuries in order to better observe the battle from the edge of the battlefield. However, none of them were serious, and none would cause paralysis or amputation. This made him feel… the nun behind him was being a little too cautious.

Several times he wanted to remind her that she could be a bit rougher. He hadn't been shot many times, so why use tweezers to remove the bullets? It would be much easier to just use her hands.

But seeing the fine sweat on her forehead and the fearful look in her eyes that avoided eye contact, he felt too embarrassed to bother her.

After a few more minutes, her wounds were mostly treated. The nun then performed a most humbly prostration before Sherlock, as devoutly as if she were addressing a clergyman.

The old priests must have given the nun some special instructions…

Anyway, Sherlock felt very embarrassed. He awkwardly responded with clumsy courtesy, “Thank you so much.”

These words made the other person tremble. He instinctively glanced at her with a panicked look, then quickly and humbly lowered his head, silently reciting a prayer, and left the tent.

Shortly after the nun left, the tent was quickly opened again.

This time, a Vatican guard without steam armor entered.

Upon entering, the man first glanced at the detective before him, his eyes filled with curiosity and gratitude, but mostly with fear, which he concealed well. He simply spoke in a respectful tone:

“Your Excellency… please come in.”

…

… Lifting the curtain of a tent not far away, Sherlock shook off the rain.

The tent was filled with medical equipment, some of which even required electricity to operate. He wondered where the Vatican had obtained portable power sources.

In the very center of the tent was a bed, somewhat incongruous with the scene. The old priest lay on it, seemingly unharmed, but an IV drip hung from his arm, a bright red liquid being infused into his body through a tube.

"A nutrient solution, supposedly to relieve mental stress and reduce pain," the old priest explained helplessly, noticing Sherlock's gaze. "Those medical staff always think I'll die for some strange reason."

"At your age, you're certainly not suited for combat anymore," Sherlock replied with a smile, as if visiting a bedridden old friend. "So what did you call me here for?" The old priest shifted back, leaning against the bed, and looked Sherlock up and down again:

"You...would you like to become a contractor?"