Following the opening of the Gates of Hell, humanity displayed a rare attribute: "solidarity." There were no longer nations, only the unified banner of the Empire.
And London... was one of the few cities to retain its original name. Naturally, it also retained its perpetual, suffocating shade of grey.
High Noon. Here, the concept of a "bright sun" was virtually non-existent. The city's underbelly had been entirely hollowed out to accommodate colossal steam pipes and furnaces. A group of highly respected madmen from the Academy of Mechanics had diverted the Thames into the depths, boiling and burning it day and night. Thousands of tons of steam were vented into the sky daily, only to fall back as acidic rain.
To quote those old fogies crowned with the title of 'Scientist': "This is recycling." Thus, one never had to worry about running out of steam. Of course, they never mentioned a word about the dwindling number of trees.
But the citizens didn't care. They only knew this was London, home to the world's largest and most advanced steam furnaces. The city was swaddled in mechanical piping; steam was productivity, and that was undeniably a point of pride. If only the air were a bit fresher, it would be perfect.
At this moment, Sherlock was moving through this capital of machines. He sat in a cheap hackney carriage—hail-and-ride for just five pence a mile. At his feet lay a massive suitcase, nearly half the height of a man, cramping the already tight space. Outside the window, human voices clamored, punctuated by the roar of factory operations and the distant tolling of church bells.
Sometimes, he truly couldn't understand how people thought. For instance, despite mechanical creations becoming increasingly cumbersome and inefficient, people still held infinite faith in them, believing that "boiling water" would ultimately save the world. For instance, knowing full well the road was hopelessly gridlocked, everyone still shouted for the carriage in front to move faster.
For instance, Old Jack clearly knew that being an assassin meant he wouldn't meet a good end. Yet, when Sherlock went to arrest him, the man had screamed and lunged with a knife. Sherlock was poor as dirt. He just wanted to catch a few murderers and earn a little coin. What did he do wrong?
But Old Jack wouldn't cooperate and had treated him with such rudeness. Sherlock had been terrified—so terrified that he instinctively snatched the knife and shoved it—blade and handle alike—right into the man's kidney. Well... fortunately, humans have two kidneys. You can survive with one shattered... At least for a while.
To save travel time to the police station, Sherlock had specially hailed a carriage. This also avoided the inconvenience of the criminal going into shock from blood loss or dying from the sheer pain. He was always this considerate, even to murderers.
---
2:30 PM. The carriage pulled up to the main entrance of Scotland Yard. "Scotland Yard" was simply the metonym for the London Metropolitan Police Service. As for why it was called that, Sherlock didn't know, nor did he care. He simply lugged the massive suitcase out of the carriage.
While paying, the driver couldn't help but eye the box again. It was far too large, bulging with unknown contents, the weight nearly snapping the wooden handle. Yet, the passenger lifted it without showing a hint of strain.
"Sir... Sir?!" "Oh!" The driver snapped out of it. "Apologies. That will be 25 pence." Even the cheapest fare adds up over distance to a considerable sum. Sherlock, pained by the expense, handed over a few coins.
"May the Holy Light bless you," the driver said out of habit as he took the money. "The Holy Light has no leisure time to bless me," Sherlock responded weakly.
Ignoring the driver's astonished expression, he walked straight toward the station. His tall, thin silhouette contrasted sharply with the massive case in his hand, creating a jarring image. The driver stared blankly, and for a moment, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him—he could have sworn he saw something inside the suitcase twitch with difficulty.
---
Entering the station, the noise and chaos were even worse than on the streets. Since the Second Demonic Invasion, London's security had been wretched. Murder, theft, robbery—they happened everywhere. Perhaps the citizens felt that even if they were law-abiding, they might get their heads bitten off by a small demon crawling out of a void rift the next day. So, they figured they might as well seek revenge and settle grudges while they could.
"Bastard, move!" A shout rang out from the crowd, followed by a drunkard reeking of alcohol stumbling out. His hands were shackled; clearly, he was a criminal. He was also undoubtedly drunk, or he wouldn't have been delusional enough to think his flabby bulk could break out of the station. Sure enough, a second later, an officer tackled him. A baton thrust viciously into the drunkard's armpit, and with the buzz of electric current, the prisoner convulsed, and the air filled with the sharp scent of ozone and urine.
This scene was standard for Scotland Yard. The surrounding officers paid it no mind, some even taking the opportunity to jab their own prisoners with batons, warning them to behave or face the same.
"Bloody bad luck." The officer who had tackled the drunk stood up, shaking urine droplets from his uniform. Seeing a decently dressed man standing nearby, he subconsciously complained, "Sorry, sir. Criminals lately just don't listen..."
He stopped mid-sentence, freezing in place. He saw the massive suitcase in the man's hand. He clearly recognized it, for a flash of terror passed through his eyes. Still, holding onto a sliver of hope, he looked up. As his gaze travelled upward, he saw the face—and those eyes that looked as if they could never quite wake up.
In that instant, the face that had been fierce and menacing while electrocuting a prisoner turned instantly docile. "M... Mr. Sherlock..." The voice wasn't loud, just a soft whimper from his throat. But the moment the name floated out, the surrounding clamor seemed to hold its breath. countless gazes snapped toward him, accompanied by the sound of sharp intakes of breath.
Sherlock didn't care about the strange looks, or perhaps he was simply used to them. He looked sleepily at the docile officer before him and thrust the large suitcase forward. "Here. A murderer, caught red-handed at the scene. I think his name is Jack... or maybe Mike. Anyway, check the records, you'll find him."
He spoke nonchalantly. Seeing the officer didn't dare to take it, he simply let go. Squelch! The suitcase hit the floor heavily, sounding like a slab of waterlogged pork. Blood spurted from the leather seams at the bottom, causing the people nearby to recoil in unison.
"Is Chief Lestrade in his office?" he asked. The officer before him didn't dare think, nodding hastily. Sherlock: "Thanks."
Since he had caught a criminal, he naturally had to discuss the bounty with the Chief. Normally, if anyone else caught a criminal, they wouldn't bother the Chief with such fanfare; registering with the desk sergeant would suffice. Only Sherlock was an exception.
He walked out of the crowd, the people parting naturally to form a path. Suddenly, an officer seemed to remember something and shouted: "Mr. Sherlock, please... please wait." "Hm?" He turned back. The man gathered his courage, trying not to let his gaze waver, and stood at attention: "The Chief is currently hosting a very important guest. You... you'd best not disturb him right now."
"An important guest?" Sherlock looked thoughtful. "Fine, I'll wait in the reception room."
He passed through the quiet crowd, crossed an empty corridor, and entered the elevator. Although it had 'electric' in the name, it still operated mostly on steam. It couldn't be helped; no matter how fashionable electricity was, its application was too narrow, reduced to a mere accessory of the era—much like those conservative veterans on the battlefield who tried to repel demons with gunpowder guns.
Click. His lighter made a soft sound. A weak flame trembled as it approached the cigarette, as if afraid, yet unable to hide.
Just then... "Wait." A soft cry came from the corridor. A woman quickened her pace toward the elevator. She looked about twenty-five, wearing a somewhat strange nun's habit—no cumbersome long skirts or head coverings; instead, everything was modified into a form-fitting style suitable for movement.
Sherlock exhaled a long plume of smoke, enveloping his entire face in the mist. He did not press the button to hold the door... letting the elevator doors slowly slide shut.
"Time waits for no one, beautiful lady..."