In fact, if from a dramatic point of view, the atmosphere in this paragraph is very good, that is, a person with a not so strong personality, but he has the talent to be good at killing, and then he finished his life very contradictory, and finally found a satisfactory inheritance before he died, and then casually recalled his past few decades, and it was over.

However, Sherlock suddenly came over and disrupted the whole atmosphere.

The old beggar turned his head in confusion, and his gaze met Sherlock's.

That's one thing he hasn't been able to understand the other person all along.

Obviously I don't want to kill anymore, it's clear that Nightingale's life has been saved, and it's clear that no one in this room has died, and this is already the best ending.

Why would this guy even run out and ask such a question.

So, he shook his head, signaling again that he didn't want to say anything more.

There are some things that must be known to as few people as possible, so there is no need to swear hoarsely to the Holy Light, no need to scold the other party not to ask such stupid questions again, just shake his head and refuse, he didn't even make up a reason to prevaricate.

Because he knows very well that if he doesn't say it, then no one can make himself say it.

Maybe Sherlock, the young man, felt that he was seriously injured and could be arrested and tortured, or maybe he could do something from the Academy of Life Sciences to make people drowsy, and he could only tell the truth with potions, but these were impossible things.

Because no matter how weak you are, even if your internal organs are completely scorched, with dozens of guns, it is impossible to keep yourself here.

So he shook his head, which was getting heavier from lack of blood, and then supported the wall with his only remaining hand, and slowly stood up, his blood-soaked clothes off the ground, and pulled up sticky silk threads.

As Dante said the old guy, the world is already for those young people.

That's why he walked out of town that day and met one of the prisoners in the blood cell.

That was the last thing he did for the world.

As for themselves.

I've done the last thing for the world, John. Watson is a very talented young man, and he is very similar to his younger self many times.

Of course, he knew exactly what he wanted.

In fact, looking back on the past few months, in the process of selecting inheritors by himself, it seems that no one has been able to give up the temptation of [Ripper], even people like Hopkins, after having the ability to kill anyone, have begun to gradually abandon the imperial laws that they have always respected.

Although it is true that the Imperial Law has no value to continue to respect.

But Watson, he didn't change anything from beginning to end, and he even shot himself resolutely because of a young girl.

Haha, they've drunk so many times together, and this stinky boy didn't hesitate at all

Of course, this is also what he admires most about Watson.

And Watson could have shot himself in the head or heart with the first shot, but he didn't.

In the depths of his heart, he was probably still thinking about whether to stop himself first, and then after figuring out the reason, let Nightingale heal his injuries.

Trying to get a victim to treat a murderer who wants to kill her

Hey, the world of young people is becoming more and more incomprehensible.

The old beggar finally got up with difficulty, dragged his lame leg, and walked little by little towards the house.

"Miss Nightingale said that she was ready to end her travels in the Empire and go to the front." Sherlock suddenly said something at this time that had nothing to do with this situation.

The old beggar coughed, choking on the blood flowing into his trachea, and then ignored Sherlock and continued walking.

Countless muzzles were aimed at him in the streets, but no one fired because none of the Captain Gregson in the room had fired, he just nervously pointed his guns at the old man, sweating profusely on his forehead.

The old beggar walked towards the crowd, and those heavily armed retreated to the sides.

And then

It's so ridiculous, watching the other party walk out of the range of the searchlight, and then disappear into the night.

That's all. It's over?

Shouldn't a group of people rush up and press this old guy at the end of the crossbow to the ground and tie him up?

Shouldn't it be ordered to sieve its range directly?

Why watch this murderer who has been tossing around in the empire for months just go?

These soldiers, of course, did not know that this was already the best ending.

The night in London was as good as ever, the rain of the previous day had left few puddles on the ground, and some coachmen seemed to have received the news of the power outage in the upper town and began to rush to the other side of the Thames, probably hoping to take advantage of the hard-won power outage to pick up a few more orders.

No one cares, under the shadowy street lamp, a ragged homeless man walks forward with difficulty.

He staggered step by step, and something was dripping under the thin hem of his clothes, it was blood, but under the raging night wind, there was no time to emit the smell of blood around.

This is an old man who is about to die.

But no one would believe that in his life, it seemed that he had never felt so relaxed.

When the gun behind him fired a bullet, he could actually dodge, but he was very comfortable letting the gunpowder and shrapnel explode in his body.

He is actually not very happy in this life, maybe a perfectionist like him is destined not to experience too much happiness by nature, even if he is thrown into another world, even if there are no demons in that world, and human beings do not have to face the crisis of extinction, and there is no need to pray for blessings and blessings to the Holy Light, then he will probably still not be happy.

Perhaps, he can't even kill people in that world, so he will only be left with despair and loneliness, and he may try to find a faith other than the Holy Light, but he will still be suppressed by this, hiding in a room full of the pungent smell of paint, curling himself up into a miserable madman who does not fit in with society.

But it doesn't matter.

He felt colder and colder as he had less and less blood in his body to store temperature, and he always felt that he should have died in that failed assassination attempt 30 years ago.

A flash of light fell from the sky, and the clouds in the sky rarely dispersed, revealing a bright moonlight, Vincent raised his head and saw the stars on the clouds, because of the loss of blood, his vision was now more and more blurred, and this time, he seemed to really see the halo of the sky, like a piece of oil paint that did not dissolve, all by some kind of unknown rotation to the heart, forming a blurred vortex.

He smiled a little funny and thought that if someone looked at this sky from their own perspective, they would probably praise it, saying that the last painting he drew was actually quite similar.

Baker Street, 221B.

The momentary change just now didn't actually cause much damage to the street, except for an extra not very deep ravine in the pavement and the collapse of a wall, there was hardly any other damage.

In the bedroom, Nightingale was not too frightened, in fact her main emotion was now puzzled.

Because she herself didn't know why the old man wanted to kill herself.

Watson stood by the bedroom door, and in the few minutes he had apologized to himself 11 times, and at the end of the straight, he saw that he was really not angry, and seemed to be a little distressed by too many apologies, and finally stopped.

That's when it happened

"Squeak".

The door was pushed open, and Sherlock walked straight in without even changing his bloodstained clothes.

"Miss Nightingale." He said straight to the point: "What level of contractor are you?" ”

(End of chapter)