Deduction Had to be After Sleep

This was a pale white world.

Or rather, it was a white, unfamiliar living room.

The area was larger than where Sherlock lived. There were closed doors on both sides. There was little furniture, only a coffee table, a wall-hung cabinet, and a few chairs.

That was all…

Sherlock stood in the white space, as if a stranger who originally did not belong to this world suddenly intruded.

Because he was the only one with color.

Only he could move.

As for everything else, it was as if they were welded into this strange white space. Even the thin cobwebs in the corner could not be touched at all, let alone destroyed.

Sherlock did not know where he was, nor did he know why he was here. Ever since he was young, he would wake up in this white room every time he fell asleep. This had continued for nearly 30 years.

What made him even more depressed was that he was trapped in this small room… The door could not be opened, he could not get out, his voice could not pass through the walls and windows, and he might not even be able to walk out of the room. Because when he looked out of the window, he could not see anything, but his line of sight hit the glass on the window and was mercilessly reflected back into his pupils.

Shut off, dead silence, and no way to escape…

Fortunately, he did not feel hungry or sleepy in this white room. When he woke up, he even felt that the quality of his sleep was not bad.

After looking through a lot of information, he still had no way of knowing what was going on, so he could only stay there helplessly. Reluctantly, he attributed this to a strange persistent dream.

However, detectives had intuitions. Sherlock could feel that this strange dream was not as simple as it seemed.

One day, it would become something else.

However, he did not know what this change would be, nor did he know when that day would come.

…

After yawning, Sherlock sat on a chair and began to think, as he always did.

First, the first question… the blood-colored [YES].

'Why did he write that word?'

The most superficial idea was that the killer felt that the word had some meaning to him.

But under what circumstances would [YES] have an extraordinary meaning? So much so that the killer wanted to carve it on the body… and what was the killer trying to express?

The Vatican prohibited the disclosure of all information about the family members of the clergy, so Sherlock knew very little about the beautiful deceased. It was more or less difficult to solve the case with just a corpse.

But he did not panic. He just sat quietly and thought lazily.

After an unknown period of time, suddenly, a soft sound broke the silence of Baker Street.

…

In reality, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes.

He turned his head slightly to look at the clock on the wall. It was three in the morning.

He had only slept for an hour…

Then, he shifted his gaze to the door of the room.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

The knock came again.

The night was silent, as if it had died long ago.

Knock knock knock! Knock knock knock!

…

Who could it be outside?

Sherlock did not have many friends. Even if he did, they would not come to visit in the wee hours of the morning. Even if they did, they would not knock politely. They would simply kick the door open.

Birds of a feather flock together. Those who could be friends with him were probably not people of quality.

Similarly, one could not expect a corrosive dog to politely knock on one's door before biting off the top of one's head.

So… could it be a client who had run into trouble?

The possibility was very high. In this day and age, private detectives did everything from helping people hunt down killers to finding cats and dogs on the streets. In any case, they just had to pay.

"One moment, please."

Sherlock stood up and straightened his crumpled clothes. After making sure that there was no smell of blood, he went to the door and opened it.

"Creak—"

The night wind passed through the long and narrow stairs and entered the house through the gap of the door that had just been opened, bringing some coldness. Sherlock looked at the tall figure outside the door in surprise and hesitated for a while.

"Sir Baldell, what brings you here?"

His face was still expressionless and cold, and there was still an oppressive silence. A deacon of the judicial department stood outside the door of a detective agency in the downtown area, looking exceptionally strange.

For some reason, he seemed to be bigger than a few hours ago. His muscular body and thick robe made his cross-section extremely exaggerated, almost covering the entire aisle.

"You—" Baldell looked into his eyes and said, "Need help."

"Help?" Sherlock was stunned.

Then, he seemed to realize that it was a bit rude and odd to let a clergyman of the church stand at the door in the middle of the night. He moved aside and gestured for him to come in.

Baldell lowered his head slightly for fear of touching the door frame and walked into Sherlock's apartment.

As a deacon, he would definitely not have any financial concerns. The residences provided by the Vatican for the clergy were definitely not inferior to those of the nobles. Being comfortable, spacious, and dignified were the basic conditions.

Therefore, this cheap apartment must be narrow and cramped for him.

Baldell did not show any signs of discomfort. Like a machine that did not know how to enjoy life, he sat on another worn-out sofa near the bookshelf facing the sofa where Sherlock often sat on. He was like those clients who had been defeated by hardship.

"I love Karine," he said slowly. "I want you to find the killer as quickly as possible."

Sherlock looked at the blood-red notice on his chest. Sherlock was not as flustered as the other commoners when they saw a clergyman. Sherlock did not lower his head reverently and humbly… He simply sat on his exclusive red leather chair, lightly touching it habitually with the tips of his ten fingers.

Perhaps detectives had a habit of thinking that as long as the other party walked into their own offices, even if the other party were a judicial deacon, he was still a customer, a pitiful person that was in trouble and needed help.

"You should know that it's already very difficult to get this done within the original time frame…" he said.

"That's why I'm here… You need help," Deacon Baldell said. "The family information of the family members of the clergy is confidential. This was originally intended to protect their safety, but now, releasing Karine's information should allow the case to move along more quickly."

There was no change in his tone, but Sherlock could see sadness and unwillingness beneath the shell. Deep hidden emotions were continuously pouring and boiling in his head.

This was what a bereaved man should look like.