The pain and fragility in those eyes were so real, so heartbreaking, that the last glimmer of any intention to persuade her in Sheriff Marcus's heart was completely extinguished.
He nodded heavily: "I understand, Miss Hawkins. No one has the right to ask more of you. Rest well and take care of yourself."
He paused, his tone becoming more serious: "However, for safety's sake, please be sure to accept this."
He took two business cards out of his suit's inner pocket, handed one to Wright, and solemnly handed the other to Catherine.
The business cards were simple, containing only Marcus's name and a handwritten, private phone number that was not for the police station.
"This is my private contact information. At any time, in any situation, if you feel something is wrong, or... if anything strange happens, call me immediately."
Wright also immediately took out his own business card and added: "My office phone number and address are on it, and the one below is my private number."
His eyes were filled with concern: "Catherine, don't hesitate. Even if it's just a rustle of grass that makes you feel uneasy, contact us. Remember, you are not alone."
Catherine looked at the two business cards held out in front of her, a flash of extremely complex emotion crossing her eyes, too fast for anyone to catch.
She hesitated for a moment, then finally reached out with a slightly trembling hand and took them. Without even looking, she tucked both cards into the innermost pocket of her black handbag.
"Thank you..." she said in a low voice, her tone still airy and drifting.
"Also."
Sheriff Marcus lowered his voice, his gaze once again vigilantly sweeping across the silent curtain of rain surrounding them.
"About that stutterer... Gan, we are still tracking his whereabouts. This person is dangerous, very dangerous."
"He participated in this incident at the Theological Seminary, knows the inside story, and may have even... come into contact with things he shouldn't have."
"If... I mean if, anywhere you are, you feel someone is watching you, or you see suspicious people, do not hesitate at all. Call the police immediately, or call me, or call Wright, understand?"
"Gan..."
Catherine murmured the name, repeating it, wearing an intriguing expression, but she quickly lowered her head to hide it, only giving a soft "Hmm" in response.
A brief silence descended once more, with only the sound of the rain remaining; it seemed everything that needed to be said had been said.
"Then... take care, Miss Hawkins." Sheriff Marcus said solemnly once more.
"Take care, Catherine." Wright also said in a deep voice.
Catherine did not look up, only nodding slightly, her voice as thin as a mosquito's buzz: "Goodbye, Sheriff. Goodbye, Mr. Wright."
After speaking, she turned around quickly, walking with somewhat unsteady steps, heading toward the cemetery exit without looking back.
Her black figure quickly merged into the grey curtain of rain and the sparse crowd, becoming blurred.
Sheriff Marcus and Wright stood where they were, watching her fragile and lonely back disappear into the distance.
But unfortunately, they did not see the flash of red light that flickered in Catherine's eyes after she turned away.
"I hope she... can truly move on."
The sheriff sighed, his tone heavy.
Wright's gaze followed the vanished figure, his brows locked in a frown. The wound under the sling on his left arm seemed to start aching faintly again, bringing a sense of uneasy palpitation.
"I hope so."
He replied in a low voice, though his tone was not very certain.
The sheriff turned to Wright, the heaviness on his face temporarily replaced by a pragmatic seriousness: "There is one more thing, Mr. Williams. Do you have the contact information for Mr. Sherlock and Mr. Watson?"
"If we could invite them as well, it would be a tremendous help for the mysterious events we might encounter later."
"Sorry, Sheriff, after they said goodbye to me two days ago, I lost contact with them."
"That is a pity, Mr. Williams. Keep in touch. I will have someone send the detailed report on the mysterious traces around the Theological Seminary, the scene photos, and the known information about Gan to your office through unofficial channels."
"Understood, I will familiarize myself with it as soon as possible." Wright nodded, his detective instincts already beginning to stir.
He suddenly seemed to think of something else: "Oh right, Mr. Watson left a message for me to tell you."
"What?"
"Ahem..." Wright cleared his throat.
"I am very sorry, Mr. Sheriff, the weapon borrowed from the police station has been buried underground along with its target, and cannot be returned."
"But we are not people who go back on our word. If there is a chance to meet again, we will unconditionally help you, Sheriff, complete one case—the kind that isn't illegal."
The corner of Sheriff Marcus's mouth twitched.
"Come to think of it, my car was also totaled, but never mind. Looking forward to our next meeting."
"Stay safe, goodbye."
The sheriff gave one last word of caution, turned around, and walked toward his police car parked outside the cemetery with steps that were slightly staggering due to fatigue and injury.
Wright did not leave immediately. He stood alone under the dense shade of an oak tree, the scent of cold rain mixed with the raw, earthy smell of the cemetery soil entering his nostrils, intoxicated by the feeling of being alive.
He slowly raised his right hand, pressing it gently through the thick suit fabric onto the area covered by the sling on his left arm. The excruciating pain of the Insectoid's cold, sharp bone claws tearing through flesh seemed to still linger on his nerve endings.
He lifted his head, looking up at the grey, oppressive sky, the slanting rain hitting his face.
Sherlock and Watson... where could they be now?
That short, almost hasty farewell two days ago was still vivid in his mind.
Sherlock only left behind a silhouette.
"Things here have come to an end, but a greater shadow has never been far away. Stay vigilant, Mr. Williams."
Watson patted Wright's uninjured right arm firmly: "Take care, Wright. You did very well."
"Remember, what you have seen and heard is far beyond what ordinary people can imagine. Protect yourself, and also... protect your sanity."
Then, they got into the hired black car and disappeared into the morning mist that had not yet dispersed, leaving no further news.
A strong sense of loss welled up in Wright's heart, but it was immediately replaced by a strange certainty: his fate with Sherlock and Watson had not yet ended.
"We will meet again."
Wright murmured to the grey curtain of rain, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile mixed with respect and anticipation.
"On the next battlefield where we need to fight the darkness."
He took one last look in the direction Catherine had left; the rain was heavy, and her figure was long gone.
Wright put away his umbrella, letting the cold raindrops hit his face, and turned to stride toward the cemetery exit. His steps were steady and firm, and his injured left arm no longer seemed to be an obstacle.
...
The fog of London, carrying the familiar damp, cold scent of a mixture of coal smoke and Thames water vapor, coiled around the window lattices of 221B Baker Street.
In the fireplace, a few lumps of coal were burning listlessly, emitting a faint and intermittent crackling sound, barely dispelling the chill in the room.
Creak—
The door was pushed open, and Watson walked in, wrapped in the cold air from outside. He took off his top hat and coat, which were stained with night dew, and hung them on the coat rack by the door. His movements carried a hint of fatigue, but even more, a sense of helplessness at the scene inside the room.
As far as the eye could see, the room was almost submerged in a sea of books.
Thick tomes, opened parchment scrolls, and scattered notes and papers were stacked layer upon layer on the armchairs, the laboratory bench, and even the floor.
Chemical instruments had been pushed into the corner, and the violin that had once played sharp, screeching noises to vent boredom was now leaning against a pile of books, covered in a thin layer of dust.
In the center of this ruin of knowledge, Holmes was deeply sunken into his familiar high-backed chair, like a pale statue buried by books.
The only thing proving he was not a statue were his grey eyes, which were currently scanning a thick tome spread across his lap at an astonishing speed. His fingers were unconsciously twisting the edge of the page, his fingertips stained with ink and dust.
"Sherlock."
Watson's voice broke the congealed air, carrying a tone mixed with concern and slight reproach.
"You really need to go out and get some fresh air."
"You've been back for a full half-month, and apart from going to the library and the museum, you haven't stepped a foot outside this door!"
"Look at all this."
He gestured, sweeping across the mountain of books surrounding them.
"You're either studying that... that the book of eibon, or you're reading these!"