After the opening of Hell's Gate, humanity displayed a rare flash of "unity." National borders dissolved, replaced by a singular entity known simply as the Empire.
London remained one of the few cities to keep its original name.
Naturally, it also kept the eternal, suffocating shroud of grey that clung to its streets.
High noon.
In this city, the concept of "glorious sunshine" was practically a myth.
London's foundations had been hollowed out to accommodate massive steam pipes and furnaces. A cabal of venerable madmen from the Academy of Mechanics had diverted the River Thames, funneling a relentless torrent into the subterranean depths. There, the water was boiled day and night. Thousands of tons of steam were vented into the sky every day, only to condense and fall back as acidic rain.
According to the elderly "scientists," this was a perfect cycle of recycling. They claimed the world would never run out of steam.
Of course, they conveniently failed to mention the vanishing forests.
The citizens didn't care for such details. They knew only that this was London—home to the largest and most advanced steam furnace in existence. The city was encased in a shell of mechanical brass and iron. Steam was productivity; steam was progress. It was a point of immense pride.
If only the air were a little easier to breathe.
Sherlock navigated this mechanical capital in a cheap, hail-on-sight hansom cab. At five pence per kilometer, it was a bargain, though his luggage made the cramped cabin nearly unbearable. A massive suitcase, standing nearly half as tall as a man, occupied the floor by his feet. Outside the window, the city was a cacophony of human chatter, the rhythmic thrum of distant factories, and the tolling of church bells.
Sometimes, Sherlock truly struggled to grasp the logic of the masses.
For instance: despite the fact that mechanical constructs were becoming heavier and less efficient, people maintained an unshakable faith that "boiling water" would eventually save the world.
Or the way people screamed at traffic, knowing full well the road would never clear, yet still urged their drivers to push forward as if sheer willpower could part the sea of brass.
Or take "Old Jack." The man knew an assassin's life never ended in a warm bed, yet the moment Sherlock tried to apprehend him, the old fool had lunged with a knife, screaming like a banshee.
Sherlock was destitute. He just wanted to catch a few murderers and earn a bit of coin. What was his crime in that?
Yet Jack had been utterly uncooperative. He'd forced Sherlock's hand with such crude violence that Sherlock, in a state of startled instinct, had disarmed the man and driven the knife—hilt and all—directly into Jack's kidney.
Well... humans had two kidneys. One could survive with a shattered one.
At least for a while.
To save time, Sherlock had hailed the cab specifically to ensure the prisoner didn't go into hemorrhagic shock or die from the sheer agony of the wound before they reached the Yard. He was always so considerate, even toward killers.
At 2:30 PM, the cab pulled up to the main gates of Scotland Yard.
Scotland Yard was the colloquialism for the London Metropolitan Police headquarters. Why it was called that, Sherlock didn't know or care. He simply hauled the massive suitcase out of the carriage.
As he paid the fare, the driver couldn't help but eye the luggage.
It was gargantuan and bulging, the weight so great it looked ready to snap the wooden handle. Yet the tall, gaunt passenger carried it with an ease that defied his slender frame.
"Sir... Sir?"
"Oh!" The driver snapped out of his daze. "Sorry. That'll be twenty-five pence."
Even a cheap fare added up over a long distance. Sherlock felt a pang of phantom pain in his wallet as he handed over the coins.
"May the Holy Light preserve you," the driver said, a habitual parting.
"The Holy Light is far too busy for the likes of me," Sherlock replied tonelessly.
He ignored the driver's startled expression and marched toward the station. The silhouette of the tall, thin man set against the massive, heavy trunk created a jarring, surreal image. The driver watched him go, blinking hard. For a fleeting second, he thought he saw the suitcase twitch, as if something inside were writhing in a desperate struggle.
Inside the station, the chaos was even louder than the streets. Ever since the Second Demon Invasion, public order in London had plummeted. Homicides, thefts, and muggings were rampant. Perhaps the populace felt that since a stray demon from a void rift might tear their throats out any day regardless of their behavior, they might as well settle their personal grudges now.
"Move it, you bastard!"
A shout erupted from the crowd as a drunkard, reeking of cheap ale, stumbled through the throng. His hands were bound in heavy manacles.
The man was clearly too intoxicated to realize that a mountain of flab wasn't enough to break out of a police station. A second later, an officer tackled him to the floor. The officer's truncheon was jammed brutally into the drunk's armpit. With a sharp crackle of electricity, the prisoner's body buckled in a violent convulsion. The air grew sharp with the scent of ozone and urine.
This was a routine sight at Scotland Yard. The surrounding officers didn't even blink; some simply poked their own prisoners with their batons as a silent warning to stay quiet.
"Bloody nuisance," the officer muttered, rising and dusting urine from his uniform. Seeing a decently dressed man standing nearby, he complained instinctively, "Apologies, sir. The lot we're bringing in lately just don't know how to behave—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
His eyes fell on the massive suitcase. He clearly recognized it. A flicker of genuine terror crossed his face, but he looked up, hoping his intuition was wrong.
Then he saw the face. The eyes that looked as though they hadn't slept in an eternity.
The officer's aggressive snarl vanished, replaced by an expression of extreme, subservient politeness.
"Mr. Sher—Sherlock..."
The voice was a mere whimper, barely audible in the throat.
But the moment that name drifted into the air, the roar of the station plummeted into a hushed silence. Dozens of eyes snapped toward him. Somewhere in the back, someone audibly gasped.
Sherlock ignored the shift in atmosphere—he was long accustomed to it. He merely looked at the trembling officer with sleepy eyes and nudged the heavy trunk forward.
"Here. A murderer. Caught red-handed at the scene. I believe his name is Jack, or perhaps Mike. Check the records; you'll find him."
He spoke with the casual air of a man delivering groceries. Seeing the officer was too paralyzed to take it, he simply let go of the handle.
Thump-squelch.
The suitcase hit the floor with the heavy, wet sound of a side of beef hitting a butcher's block. A spray of dark blood leaked from the leather seams at the bottom. The nearby crowd scrambled back as one.
"Is Chief Inspector Lestrade in his office?" Sherlock asked.
The officer didn't dare hesitate. He nodded frantically.
"Thanks."
Since he had brought in a criminal, he naturally had to discuss the bounty with the Chief. Normally, anyone else would just register at the front desk, but Sherlock was the exception.
He began to walk through the crowd, and the sea of officers parted for him without a word. Suddenly, one officer found his courage and called out.
"Mr. Sherlock! Please—wait a moment."
"Hmm?" Sherlock turned.
The man stood stiffly, forcing himself not to look away. "The Chief is currently hosting a very important guest. You... it would be best if you didn't disturb him just yet."
"An important guest?" Sherlock mused. "Fine. I'll wait in the reception lounge."
He moved past the silent crowd, down a deserted corridor, and into the elevator.
Despite the name, the lift operated primarily on steam. No matter how fashionable electricity became, its utility remained too narrow—a decorative accessory of the age, much like the old veteran soldiers who still tried to use gunpowder against demons.
Click.
His lighter flickered. A weak, trembling flame leaned toward his cigarette, as if terrified to touch it yet unable to pull away.
Just then—
"Wait! Please!"
A soft cry echoed down the hall. A woman hurried toward the closing elevator. She looked to be about twenty-five, wearing a peculiar set of habit. It lacked the cumbersome skirts and veils of a traditional nun; instead, it had been tailored into a form-fitting, practical suit designed for movement.
Sherlock exhaled a long cloud of smoke, letting the grey mist shroud his features.
He did not reach for the button to hold the door. He simply watched as the brass gates slid shut.
"Time waits for no one, my beautiful lady."