Cold, viscous, weightless; no shifting of light and shadow, no whistling wind, only a shuddering sensation of being torn from the very foundation of one's existence and reassembled by an invisible hand.
Sherlock Holmes felt as if he had been decomposed into billions of suspended dust particles; his consciousness drifted in absolute nothingness, and the dam constructed by his reason teetered on the brink of collapse before a torrent of pure unknown.
Only the faint yet stubborn "ticking" sound from the brass pocket watch in his palm acted like an anchor, firmly pinning down his self-awareness, which was on the verge of disintegrating.
That sound did not come from machinery; it was more like a rhythm acting directly upon the soul, a coordinate leading to "reality."
"Sherlock!" Watson's hoarse cry seemed to come from the depths of a very distant body of water.
Holmes opened his eyes abruptly and raised his hand to block the palm Watson was swinging toward his cheek.
"Alright, I am awake now. It is fortunate that you followed, otherwise I might have truly found myself in a predicament."
"Hah, someone couldn't be held back at the time. I couldn't just stand by and watch you step into the abyss alone, could I?" Watson let out a cold sneer, sat back on the sofa, and took a small sip of coffee.
"How is it? Have you found a way to activate the pocket watch?"
"No," Holmes said, tucking the brass pocket watch into his breast pocket. "I suspect it must be activated again only after resolving this incident."
"Incident? What incident? We have been thrown into this room by this pocket watch for a whole day now, and we can't even open the door. Where is this incident coming from?"
"Fortunately, there is food in this room, otherwise,"
Watson pointed toward the kitchen.
"The goal that Moriarty failed to achieve even in death would be realized in this nameless cabin."
Holmes walked to the window and stood still.
"The door not opening is, in a sense, a form of protection. This period of time is likely intended for us to gather information and familiarize ourselves with this world."
"After all, this world, more than 100 years later, is very unfamiliar to us."
"More than 100 years later?! You mean we arrived here more than 100 years later just by closing and opening our eyes? How do you know?" Watson stood up abruptly.
"It is obvious."
Holmes pointed to the calendar hanging on the wall, which read 1991.
"You seem a bit too relaxed, or perhaps it is mental lethargy caused by time-space travel; it warrants further observation."
"And according to my observations, our current location is Boston, Massachusetts."
After speaking, he turned and leaned against the window sill, staring at Watson with a hint of expectation in his eyes.
"I know what you hope to hear, but I will not say it."
Watson sat back down on the sofa and picked up his coffee.
Holmes remained silent, continuing to stare at Watson.
After finishing his coffee, Watson sighed.
"Fine... why?"
"It is obvious! There are not many books in the room; most of them are overviews, culture, customs, and maps related to Boston."
Having received the response, Holmes was satisfied. Speaking rapidly, he raised his hand and pointed to a boxy yellow car driving by outside the window.
"The markings on the taxi are unique to New York and Boston; the books mentioned it."
"The world 100 years later, everything is so fresh; it is truly marvelous!"
"Ahem... back to the point. Combining the air humidity and architectural style, there is no doubt: Boston, Massachusetts."
"By the way, there was an error in your statement just now. You said we have been trapped in the room for a whole day; in fact, it will only be a full day in 10 seconds."
As soon as Holmes finished speaking, the door creaked open.
"Let's go; there should be many things waiting for us next."
...
Holmes and Watson packed their belongings briefly and walked out the door.
Underfoot was solid concrete, and the damp scent characteristic of the aftermath of rain, pungent car exhaust, and a strange odor mixed with grease and cheap perfume rushed violently into their nostrils.
Holmes cast his gaze across the street toward a relatively new three-story apartment building, where a busy scene was unfolding.
A box truck with the words "Quick Move" printed on it had its rear doors open, and several sturdy workers in blue uniforms were laboriously moving heavy wooden crates and furniture covered in white cloth into the building.
A remarkably tall and thin young man stood at the entrance directing them. He was wearing an out-of-place dark gray trench coat, buttoned up tightly even in the hot afternoon.
He was pale, with a long, narrow face and a sharp chin. Heavy dark circles surrounded his deep-set eyes, and he was currently scanning the street with visible anxiety and resistance.
"He..." Watson followed Holmes's gaze and also noticed the man. "He seems very uncomfortable here, as if he is avoiding something."
"It could also be agoraphobia, or at least severe social anxiety," Holmes said, speaking extremely quickly. "The trench coat is new, with clear creases, but the hem is stained with mud spots characteristic of London, mixed with coal dust and a specific type of moss. It has been less than a week; he just arrived here from England."
"Those pieces of furniture." He pointed to a classically styled wooden desk the workers were carrying in. "Typical English style; the worn edges show signs of multiple repairs, indicating that the owner is not wealthy and is sentimental."
"Among the books being moved, a few have their spines exposed, with titles like 'New Explorations in Toxicology' and 'Analysis of Trace Evidence at Crime Scenes'."
A faint curve swept across the corner of Holmes's mouth.
"A detective trying to put down roots in Boston."
Just then, the man directing the move seemed to sense the scrutinizing gaze from across the street and turned his head abruptly. Those deep-set eyes instantly locked onto Holmes and Watson.
There was no curiosity in that look, only a kind of shock and anger at being spied upon, and a deeper unease.
He retreated a step quickly like a startled animal, almost retreating into the shadows of the entrance hall. One hand subconsciously pressed against a bulging spot inside his trench coat—the shape, which Watson, as a soldier, knew all too well, was a gun.
"We've been spotted, Sherlock," Watson whispered, his body slightly tense. The atmosphere suddenly became somewhat strained.
"Sorry, sir, we have no hostile intent." Holmes showed his empty hands to indicate no threat and walked slowly toward the man. "We are your neighbors living across the street. Welcome to Boston."
Seeing Holmes's friendly attitude, the man relaxed slightly. "No... it's nothing. I was just too nervous; occupational habit. Sorry."
"I am Sherlock, and this is my good friend, Watson." Holmes introduced himself while extending his palm.
"Wright Williams, just call me Wright."
Wright shook hands with Holmes and Watson respectively, then produced a business card.
"I am a detective. If you need anything, you can come to me."
"That is truly excellent; I happen to have something I need help with." Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Why don't we go to your office to discuss it in detail?"
...
Wright invited Holmes and Watson to his detective office, which had not yet been organized. Unopened boxes and packages of various sizes were everywhere in the room, and newly arrived flat-pack furniture was piled carelessly to one side.
"It is like this, Mr. Wright, I would like to commission you to investigate what strange things are happening in the vicinity..."
Bang!
The door was violently kicked open, interrupting the rest of Holmes's words. His pupils contracted sharply, and all his senses instantly focused on the intruder.
Watson instinctively tensed his body, his right hand subconsciously reaching toward his waist, even though it was already empty.
Because the time-space travel had happened so suddenly, he had not had time to retrieve his pistol.
The intruder exuded a pungent stench of rot and blood. He was wearing a black robe, and one foot was bare and covered in filth.
He was about forty or fifty years old, his face covered in deep wrinkles, his temples gray, and his eyes wild and desperate.
He was convulsing violently, emitting a hoarse, rattling sound from his throat.
"Is... is there a detective here?"
His gaze swept over Wright and finally landed on Holmes, with an urgency like a drowning man grasping at driftwood.
Wright's hand had already silently rested on the holster inside his trench coat, his voice kept as steady as possible. "I am. State your business, sir."
Holmes was rapidly analyzing every detail of the intruder.
The hem of the ragged black robe was stained with dark red mud and did not seem to fit the intruder well; there were several old scars on his neck, with the marginal tissue showing an unnatural grayish decay; his expression was urgent, his eyes wild, and he could commit an extreme act at any moment.
His brain operated at high speed amidst the torrent of information, attempting to construct a logical chain, but the scent of old blood, chemical agents, and sewer sludge mingled on the intruder assaulted his senses.
"I... I need..." Having just spat out two words, the intruder choked abruptly, his eyeballs bulging, his mouth opening and closing in vain, but unable to make any sound.
Immediately after, viscous, ebony-colored blood slowly seeped from the corners of his eyes, ear canals, and even his nostrils. He let out a choking "gurgle," his hands frantically scratching at his own throat, leaving trails of blood on his pale skin.
"Good God!" Watson exclaimed, his doctor's instinct making him want to rush forward.
"Don't move!" Holmes shouted, stopping him sharply. He had caught a more subtle change: the blood vessels under the intruder's skin were squirming and bulging eerily, as if countless tiny insects were crawling under the skin!
"Hrrgh!" A non-human roar erupted from deep in the intruder's throat. At this horrifying moment, his throat was torn open from the inside as if by invisible claws!
There was no spurting blood, only a large amount of black blood, viscous like asphalt, gushing out, but this was not the end.
In the horrified gaze of everyone, the intruder convulsed and suddenly pulled a long meat-carving knife stained with congealed filth from behind his back, the blade flashing with an ominous, cold light.
He brandished the knife, forcing back Holmes and Watson who were trying to approach. The last trace of rationality in his eyes was replaced by extreme pain and a strange sense of relief.
Then, he performed a hair-raising act: he thrust the sharp tip of the knife fiercely into the throat wound that had just been torn open, and with all his strength, sliced downward!
Skin, muscle, fascia... the blade, with a teeth-gritting sound of cutting, went all the way down, slicing across his chest and reaching his abdomen! He seemed to feel no pain, his movements carrying a sacrificial, frantic determination.
Dark viscera were exposed under the dim yellow light, yet there was no expected gush of blood, only more black mucus pouring out, emitting a strong, sweet, and rotten stench.
Watson's face was deathly pale, his stomach churning. As a doctor, he had seen countless traumas, but he had never seen such an abnormal, terrifying scene that exceeded the limits of human endurance.
Wright gripped his pistol tightly, his knuckles white, his breathing rapid. His agoraphobia was nearly triggered by the stimulation of witnessing supernatural horror in a confined space.
The intruder dropped the meat-carving knife stained with black blood, his body trembling violently from the excruciating pain and blood loss. Dipping his fingers into the viscous black blood pouring from his own wound, he began to write laboriously on the floor with trembling fingers. Every stroke seemed to exhaust his life.
What he wrote was not text, but a string of baffling symbols:
[ A - Ari ]
[ Y - Vir ]
[ B - Lib ]
[ Danger - Leo, Cap, Sco ]
[ Sco - Oph - Sgr ]
Having finished the last symbol, he seemed to have exhausted all his strength, and his body collapsed to the ground with a dull, heavy thud.
At the very last moment before losing consciousness completely, his eyes, clouded by pain and blood loss, stared fixedly at Holmes, filled with indescribable terror and a suffocating sense of worry.