Chapter 11: Deductions After Falling Asleep

Chapter 11: Deductions After Falling Asleep

This is a bleak white world.

Or rather, it is a white unfamiliar living room.

It appears to be larger than the place Sherlock is currently living in. There are two closed doors on either side, no furniture, only a tea table, a hanging kitchen, and a few chairs.

That's all there is...

And Sherlock is standing in this white space, like an alien who suddenly intruded into a world where he doesn't belong.

Because he is the only one with color.

And he is the only one who can move.

As for everything else, it is as if they are welded into this eerie white space. Not even the extremely delicate cobwebs in the corners can be disturbed, let alone destroyed.

Sherlock doesn't know where this place is or why he has ended up here. Ever since he was young, every time he falls asleep, he wakes up in this white room. It has been going on for almost 30 years.

What frustrates him even more is that he is trapped in this small room... The door won't open, he can't leave, his voice cannot pass through the walls and windows, and he might not even be able to escape the light. When he looks out the window, he sees nothing but his gaze colliding with the glass and being mercilessly reflected back into his pupils.

Enclosed, silent, no way to escape...

Fortunately, in this white room, he doesn't feel hungry, nor does he feel tired. And when he wakes up, he even feels satisfied with the quality of his sleep.

After consulting many materials, he still can't figure out what this is all about. So, reluctantly, he just stays here, unwillingly attributing it all to a peculiar recurring dream.

But Sherlock, as a detective, always has some intuition, and he can feel that this strange dream is definitely more than what it appears to be.

One day, it will transform into something else.

But he doesn't know what that change will be, and he doesn't know when that day will come.

...

After yawning, Sherlock, as usual, sits on a chair and starts pondering.

First, there's the first question... the blood-red "YES."

Why was this word written?

The simplest idea is that the killer believes this word has some significance to them.

"Please wait."

Sherlock gets up, straightens his wrinkled clothes, making sure there's not too much lingering scent of blood, and approaches the door to open it.

"Squeak."

The night breeze creeps in through the narrow staircase and enters the small apartment through the newly opened door, bringing a hint of coldness. Sherlock looks at the tall figure outside the door, hesitating for a while:

"Your Excellency Bader, why are you here?"

The expressionless, imposing face remains the same, and a servant of the Inquisition stands outside the detective agency in the lower district, giving off an unusually eerie feeling.

For some reason, he seems even larger than he was a few hours ago, his robust figure accentuated by the wide robe, almost filling up the entire corridor.

"You..." Bader stares directly into Sherlock's eyes and says, "need help."

"Help?" Sherlock was taken aback.

Then he seems to realize that it is impolite and bizarre to have a member of the clergy standing at the door in the middle of the night. He steps aside, gesturing for Bader to enter.

Bader lowers his head slightly, careful not to touch the doorframe, and walks into Sherlock's apartment.

As a member of the clergy, he certainly wouldn't have any financial concerns, and the accommodations provided by the Vatican for clergy members are undoubtedly not inferior to those of the nobilitycomfortable, spacious, and dignified.

So, this cheap apartment must feel cramped and confined to him.

Fortunately, Bader shows no signs of discomfort. He sits on the worn-out sofa across from the bookshelf, facing the one where Sherlock usually sits, just like the clients who have been defeated by a difficult life.

"I love Karin," he speaks slowly, "and I hope you can find the killer as quickly as possible."

Sherlock glances at the blood-red badge on Bader's chest. He doesn't show the same panic as ordinary civilians do when they see a member of the clergy, nor does he bow down with devout humility. He simply sits on his red leather chair, lightly tapping his fingertips against each other, very accustomed to it.

Perhaps detectives have a certain inertia in their thinking. As soon as they step into their office, even if the other party is an Inquisition official, they are still a customer, a pitiful person who has encountered trouble and needs help.

"You should know that it would be quite challenging to solve this case within the original timeframe..." Sherlock says.

"That's why I'm here... You need help," Bader says. "The information about the family members of clergy members is confidential. It was originally meant to protect their safety. But now, making Karin's information public should expedite the progress of the case."

His tone remains unchanged, but Sherlock seems to see deep-seated sorrow and reluctance beneath that exterior. Hidden beneath the surface is a deeply buried and boiling emotion.

That's how someone who has lost their spouse should be.