Sherlock Holmes

Tick ​​tock, tick tock.

The linen clothes on the old beggar's body were soaked with blood. He lowered his head and looked at the torn piece of fabric drooping at the corner of his clothes. From that corner, blood was dripping on the ground.

The old beggar shook a little and felt a little dizzy.

It seems that my body is really not as good as before. If I had been younger for a few years, this kind of injury would not have caused me to feel dizzy so quickly.

He staggered and fell towards the wall. He hurriedly helped him and then let his body slide down the wall.

In the process of this decline, he helplessly thought of that person who asked him the most harsh, but also the most unavoidable question:

"Are you willing to sacrifice yourself for this world?"

At that time, the old beggar did not hesitate at all, nodded and replied:

"willing."

Of course he is willing, because he has no worries or desires. After his right hand was shattered by a punch in the assassination, he could only use his left hand that he was not good at to pick up a paintbrush. Those who could originally The oil paint that brought some beautiful imagination also became weird and twisted.

Therefore, he became a beggar like a walking zombie. The only thing he was interested in was the alcohol that could numb him. In short, if he could use this boring life to fill the world with some color, then Of course he does.

However, the man asked again.

"Then are you willing to sacrifice others for the sake of this world?"

"."

At that time, he fell silent because he discovered that he, who was only talented in killing people, could not give an answer.

Even to this day, the old beggar still has not been able to give a satisfactory answer.

A gust of cold wind blew in from outside the broken wall, brushed over the rows of dark muzzles, and penetrated into the old beggar's throat as he breathed.

He coughed violently in his chest, and then spurted out a mouthful of blood. While coughing in pain, he once again savored what Watson said to himself.

He finally had to admit it now

It turned out that I had never been willing.

The old beggar. His name is Vincent.

This is a name that not many people have heard of, and even he rarely mentions it.

In fact, he has no friends, let alone relatives.

Well, it seems that he has an older brother or younger brother, it doesn't matter. In short, he was just a lonely boy who liked to lock himself in a dilapidated house alone, then lay out a canvas, and stay there for a week. .

If he had to choose again, he would rather he had never met the robber after the rain that day, and would rather have a painting he had worked hard on for half a year thrown into the mud and stepped on by him. Not angry.

Because if I had been more cowardly at that time, the other person would not have to die, and I would not have discovered that I was so good at killing a person.

Vincent is a very contradictory person.

He always felt that people should do something in this life.

Originally, he felt that he was pretty good at painting, so he worked hard to use that kind of oil paint to depict what he thought was the most beautiful scenery.

But the reality is not so full. The works he painted carefully over several days and nights can only be exchanged for a few days of dry bread.

During this life that was not long but was difficult enough, he worked as a teacher, but was thrown out of the classroom with stones by his students. He worked as an ascetic, but because he could not memorize the Holy Light, he Gospel, so he was kicked out of the church by the nuns. He polished shoes and worked as an apprentice bricklayer. No matter what he did, he always took it extremely seriously because he felt that it was a responsibility he needed to bear.

However, this obsession with responsibility did not make his life better. Instead, he ran into obstacles everywhere, and eventually ended up sleeping on the streets.

Until his 30th birthday, he killed an armed robber in an alley.

He finally found his value as a person.

Although I really don't want to admit it, it turns out that I am really just good at killing people.

But why is he so good at killing people?

Why could he see through the loopholes of those seemingly flawless guards at a glance? Why could he easily knock down those powerful soldiers? Why could he kill whoever he wanted?

This talent is like a curse.

If a criminal escapes the punishment of the law, do you want to kill him?

If a businessman exploits an entire factory's workers, should he kill him?

A child infected with the plague is about to bring death to the entire village. Should he kill him?

A mother who is tortured by an illness and is in agony just wants to die. Should she kill herself?

If these people can kill themselves but do not, then are they also involved in the disasters they bring about?

But I'm just an ordinary person who likes to draw. I'm just unlucky and good at killing. Why do I throw these problems to myself? Why can't I ignore them? Why do I want to give up some entanglements every time to have peace of mind? When you sleep, there will be countless voices lingering around you, saying those curse-like words about life and responsibility?

"Obviously you can kill him."

"You can obviously kill him!"

Just like Watson said, Vincent is a very contradictory person, a person who pursues beautiful things, but is ugly himself. Such a person will of course fall into the most extreme contradiction.

In fact, in Vincent's life, there were only two moments that were the most relaxed and enjoyable.

The first one was that after he fired the shot at Dante, half of his body was destroyed, and he managed to survive.

Finally, I can stop thinking about the choices between life and death.

The second time, now, he leaned against the wall, feeling the blood loss from the internal organs in his body that had been exploded by gunpowder.

He was very happy that he finally found someone who could inherit his talents, someone who could stop him and make him realize that he was old.

I can finally rest with peace of mind.

"There is only one church in Zundert, Brabant, in the southern part of the city of Holland. My father used to be the pastor there. Although the church is now so dilapidated that no one wants to pray, it is still open to the public."

Vincent spoke slowly, letting the blood in his chest flow out from the corner of his mouth with his voice, which was so soft that only Watson could hear it.

“Last year, I went back to my hometown, and I left a diary there. There was a lift-up part of the diary on the floor under the prayer table. I used to hide things there when I was a child.

That notebook belongs to you now, just like the gun. I hope you can make good use of it.

At least, you can use it to protect something you want to protect. "

In this scene, these words were said again, just like some instructions left by a character before his death in a stage play.

However, at this moment

In the corner of the room, there were sounds under some broken furniture, and then a wooden board was pushed away. A man with a broken trench coat and the lining stained with blood stood up with difficulty.

I don’t know if Sherlock heard the conversation between the old beggar and Watson just now. He just staggered across the mess on the ground, and then came to the old beggar regardless, and then he was extremely weak. He leaned down and stared with big eyes that were even more curious than before and said:

"No, you can't be just here to kill Nightingale because of some inheritance test.

I even considered whether you wanted to cause such a big battle and give the Blood Prison a reason to get Watson and I out of it.

Although these guesses are reasonable, they should not be the whole story.

At some point, you are really thinking about how to kill Nightingale!

So, why did you kill her? "

The old beggar shook his head: "I can't say."

"." Sherlock's eyes swept across his ragged face with half of it missing:

"Hehe, that's not up to you."