Half an hour earlier, Land of Nothingness, Central Ring District, inside a steel cube beneath layers of lockdown. The fire burned in the fireplace, and logs crackled amid the flames.
Unlike the frigid gloom outside, everything within this prison-like room seemed frozen in some distant past.
Two comfortable chairs stood in the reception area, perhaps the only place in the room that could be called tidy. Everywhere else was piled high with books, candlesticks, papers, pens, files, records, materials, and black-and-white photographs strewn about in utter disorder.
And amid that vast collection of miscellaneous items—not quite trash, yet treated as such—a middle-aged man lay fully clothed in a massive recliner, snoring loudly.
His features were sharply defined, his aquiline nose long, and his body exceptionally lean and tall. A pistol dangled from his lowered hand, swaying faintly with each snore.
The wall above the fireplace bore old bullet holes, along with its owner's beloved violin, whose playing had always remained only barely passable.
It was like an afternoon nap.
Artificial sunlight shone through the window and fell across his face.
Everything was so tranquil.
Regrettably, that perfect and peaceful solitary life was soon interrupted.
Heavy footsteps sounded outside the door.
There came a knock.
The sleeping man jolted awake and raised his gray eyes.
He clicked his tongue.
Mathers pushed open the door and entered.
"Good afternoon, Detective." Mathers removed his hat, hung it on the rack beside the door, and casually asked, "It seems you rested well?"
"Insomnia, suffering, barely dragging out my existence in this dull world—and you, on the other hand, look as energetic as a beagle, Mr. Lestrade."
Sherlock Holmes greeted the client who had brought him this commission with undisguised teasing. "It seems you have forgiven my previous mistake?"
"..." Mathers sighed silently and sat