It was a desolate white world.

Or rather, a strange white living room.

The area seemed to be a bit larger than where Sherlock was staying at the moment, with a closed door on each side of the room, and little furniture, just a coffee table, a walled kitchen, and a few chairs.

That's all.......

And Sherlock stood in the middle of that white room, as if a stranger who didn't belong in this world at all had suddenly entered.

For he was the only one with color.

He was also the only one who could move.

As for everything else, it was as if it was welded into this strange white space, even some extremely thin cobwebs in the corners of the walls could not be touched at all, let alone destroyed.

Sherlock does not know what is here in the end, even more do not know why he will appear here anyway, since a very small time, every time you go to sleep, you will wake up in this white room, so lasted nearly30 years.

What depressed him even more was that he was trapped in this small room......The door wouldn't open, he couldn't get out, sound couldn't get through the walls or the windows, and maybe even light couldn't get out of this room, because when he looked out the window, he couldn't see anything but his sight hitting the glass on the window and then mercilessly reflected back into his pupils.

Locked, dead, no way out......

The good thing is, in the middle of this white room, one will not feel hungry or sleepy, and even after waking up, one will feel that the quality of sleep is good.

After consulting a lot of information, he still has no way to know what the hell is going on, so can only be very helpless, so stay, reluctantly, this is all attributed to a strange persistent dream.

But the detective, more or less will have a kind of intuition, Sherlock can feel, this strange dream is definitely not just like the manifestation of this.

One day it will change into something else.

But there's no telling what that change will be, let alone when that day will come.

......

After yawning, Sherlock sat down in one of the chairs as usual and began to think.

First things first...... That bloody [YES].

Why was this word written down?

In the most obvious sense, the killer felt that the word had some significance to him.

But under what circumstances would [YES] have an extraordinary meaning?so much so that the killer wanted to carve it into the body ......And what was the killer trying to convey?

The Holy See had forbidden the release of any information about clergy family members to the public, so Sherlock knew very little about the beautiful dead woman, and it was more than a little difficult to solve the case with just one corpse.

But he didn't panic, he just sat quietly and thought lazily.

After an unknown amount of time;

Suddenly, a faint sound broke the silence of Baker Street.

......

In reality, Sherlock opened his eyes lazily.

He glanced sideways at the clock on the wall, three in the morning.

Only one hour of sleep.......

With that, he moved his eyes to the door of the room.

"Knock~knock~knock~"

The knock at the door sounded again.

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

"dun dun dun dun~dun dun dun dun~"

......

Who could it be out there?

Like Sherlock, this kind of person, undoubtedly has no friends, even if there are, will not come to visit in the early hours of the morning, even if the visit in the early hours of the morning, certainly will not politely knock on the door, but simply kick the door open.

Things come together, and may become friends with him, most likely is not a quality guy.

At the same time, you can't expect a corrosive dog to knock politely on your door before chewing on your skull.

So......Gonna get in trouble with the client?

Chances are high, these days private investigators do everything from helping people track down murder and revenge to roaming the streets and alleys looking for cats and dogs, as long as the money is on the line.

"One moment, please."

Sherlock got up, straightened his wrinkled clothes, and after making sure there wasn't too much of the smell of blood on them, went to the door and opened it.

"Creak ----"

The night breeze that blew through the narrow staircase and into the hut along the just-opened doorway brought an icy chill, and Sherlock looked at the tall silhouette outside the door with some surprise, hesitating for a moment:

"Lord Baldur, what brings you here?"

Still with a cold, expressionless face, still with that very oppressive silence, a Deacon of the Judgment Division stood just like that in front of the door of a detective agency in the lower city, looking extraordinarily eerie.

For some reason, at this time, he seemed to be even taller than a few hours ago, and his stocky body coupled with his wide robe made his cross section extremely exaggerated, almost staining the entire corridor.

"You..." Badr spoke up as he looked Sherlock straight in the eye, "need help."

"Help?" Sherlock was stunned.

Then he seemed to realize that it was a little too rude and strange to have a clergyman of the Church standing in the doorway in the middle of the night, so he stepped aside and made a "come in" gesture.

Baldur bowed his head slightly, afraid to touch the doorframe, and entered Sherlock's apartment.

As a deacon, he certainly would not have any financial worries, and the residence provided by the Holy See for the clergy could not be inferior to those of the aristocracy, with comfort, spaciousness, and solemnity being the basic conditions.

For him, therefore, this cheap apartment must be cramped and confined.

It was a good thing that Deacon Bardell showed no discomfort, and like a machine with no concept of pleasure, he sat down directly on another shabby sofa near the bookshelves, opposite the one Sherlock had often sat on, as if he were one of the usual commissioners who had been crushed by the hardships of life.

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

Sherlock looked at the blood-red bullet on the other man's chest and did not panic as other civilians do when they see the clergy of the Holy See, not to mention reverently and humbly lowering his head....He just sat down on his exclusive red leather seat and lightly touched the tips of his ten fingers in a very habitual way....

Perhaps detectives have the habit of thinking that as long as they walk into their own office, then even if the other party is a ruling deacon, it is still a client, a poor person who is in trouble and needs help.

"You realize it's going to be hard enough to get this done in the original time frame......", he said.

"That's what I'm here for......You need help."Deacon Balder said, "Information about the families of the clergy of the Church is confidential, which was originally to protect their safety, but for now, releasing Karin's information should allow the case to move along more quickly."

His tone still had no ups and downs, but Sherlock seemed to be able to see that underneath that shell there was sadness, there was resignation, and the extremely deep hidden emotions were constantly bubbling and boiling.

This is what a bereaved person should look like.