Tick, tick.

The old beggar's sackcloth clothes were soaked with blood, and he lowered his head to see a piece of fabric that had been torn from the corner of his clothes drooping, and from that corner, blood was constantly dripping on the ground.

The old beggar shook a little, feeling a little dizzy.

It seems that his body is really not as good as before, and if he was a few years younger, this injury should not make him feel dizzy so quickly.

He staggered and fell towards the wall, and hurriedly helped himself down the wall.

In the process of this slip, he reluctantly thought of the person who asked him the meanest, but also the most unavoidable, question:

"Are you willing to sacrifice yourself for the sake of this world?"

The old beggar did not hesitate at that time, nodded and replied:

"Yes."

Of course he wanted to, because he didn't have any concerns, and he didn't have any desires, and after his right hand was smashed by a punch in that assassination, he could only pick up a paintbrush with his left hand, which he was not good at, and the oil paints that could have brought a little bit of beautiful imagination became strange and distorted.

So, he became a beggar like the walking dead, and the only thing he was interested in was the alcohol that could numb him, and in short, if he could fill the world with this boring life, then of course he would like to.

However. The man asked again.

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

“.”

At that time, he was silent, because he found that he, who only had some talent for killing, could not give an answer.

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

A cold wind blew in from outside the broken walls, brushed through the rows of black muzzles, and with his breath, into the throat of the old beggar,

He coughed violently in his chest, then spurted out a mouthful of blood, and in the midst of a painful choking, he savored again what Watson had said to himself.

He now finally had to admit it

It turned out that I had always been unwilling.

Old beggar. His name is Vincent.

It was a name that not many people had ever heard of, and even he rarely mentioned.

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

Well, it seems that there is an older brother, or a younger brother, it doesn't matter, anyway, he was originally just a withdrawn teenager who liked to lock himself up alone in a dilapidated house, and then spread a canvas and stay so closed for a week.

If he had to choose again, he would rather he never meet the robber after the rain that day, and would rather have a painting that he had worked hard for half a year and be thrown into the mud and trampled on by him than be angry.

Because if he had been a little more cowardly at that time, then the other party would not have died, and he would not have discovered his talent for killing a person so well.

Vincent is a very contradictory person.

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

Originally, he thought that he was good at painting, so he tried his best to use that kind of oil paint to paint the most beautiful scenery in his opinion.

But the reality is not so plump, and the works he painted in a few days and nights can only be exchanged for a few days of dry bread.

In this not very long, but difficult enough life, he worked as a teacher, but was thrown out of the classroom with stones by his own students, worked as an ascetic, but because he could not memorize the Gospel of Light, he was kicked out of the church by the nuns, he polished his shoes, worked as an apprentice bricklayer, and whatever he did, he always took it very seriously, because he felt that it was his responsibility.

But this obsession with responsibility did not make his life better, but hit walls everywhere, and in the end, he fell into the end of sleeping on the streets.

Until his 30th birthday, he killed a gangster who robbed at gunpoint in a small alley.

He finally found his worth as a human being.

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

But why are you so good at killing?

Why can those seemingly flawless guards see through their loopholes at a glance, why can those powerful soldiers and soldiers be easily knocked down by themselves, and why can they kill whoever they want?

This talent is like a curse.

If a criminal escapes the punishment of the law, then should he kill himself?

If a businessman squeezes the workers of an entire factory, should he kill himself?

A child with a plague is about to bring death to the whole village, should he kill it?

A mother who is suffering from illness only wants to die, should she be killed?

If these people can kill themselves, but they don't, then do they also have their own participation in the disasters they bring?

But I'm just an ordinary person who likes to paint, I'm just very unfortunate and good at killing, why throw these questions to myself, why can't I ignore them, why every time I want to abandon some entanglements to sleep peacefully, there will be countless voices hovering around me, saying those cursed words about life and responsibility?

"You could have killed him."

"You can kill him!"

Just like Watson said, Vincent is a very contradictory person, a person who pursues beautiful things, but he is ugly, such a person, of course, will also fall into the most extreme contradictions.

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

The first is that after he fired that shot at Dante, half of his body was destroyed, and he survived.

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

The second time, now, he leaned against the wall, feeling the constant loss of blood from his body's internal organs, which had been blasted open by gunpowder.

He was glad that he had finally found someone who could inherit his talents, the one who could stop him and make him realize that he was old.

I can finally rest in peace.

"There is only one church in Zundert, Brabant, south of the city of Holmillland, where my father used to be a pastor, and although it 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 of the corner of his mouth with the sound, and the voice was so soft that only Watson could hear it.

"Last year, when I went back to my hometown, I left a journal there, just in the floor under the prayer table, and there was a piece that I could lift, where I used to hide things when I was a kid.

That notebook, now yours, is the same as the gun, and I hope you can put it to good use.

At the very least, you can use it to protect the things you want to protect. ”

In this kind of scene, such words are spoken, just like some explanations left by a character before death in a stage play.

However, at this very moment

In the corner of the room, there was a noise beneath some broken furniture, and then a wooden plank was pushed away, and a man with a broken trench coat and a blood-stained lining struggled to his feet.

I don't know if Sherlock heard the conversation between the old beggar and Watson just now, he just staggered over the mess all over the ground, and then came to the old beggar regardless of it, and then he leaned down weakly, stared at the big eyes that were more curious than just now, and said:

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

I've even thought about whether you want to make such a big battle, and by the way, give the blood prison a reason to get me and Watson out of it.

While these speculations are valid, they shouldn't be the whole story.

At some point, you're really wondering how you can kill Nightingale!

So, why did you kill her? ”

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

“.” Sherlock's gaze swept over his tattered half-missing face:

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

(End of chapter)