Ouch!
The pain was a brutal hammer against his skull!
His head throbbed with an intensity that shattered the remnants of a bizarre, murmur-filled dream. Still lost in the clutches of sleep, Arthur Finch felt a searing agony, as if a heavy rod had repeatedly struck his head. No, it was worse—a sharp, piercing sensation at his temple, twisting and tearing with each pulse!
Ouch… Groggily, Arthur tried to roll over, to cradle his aching head, to even sit up, but his limbs felt like lead, refusing to obey his commands. He was utterly trapped, a prisoner in his own unresponsive body.
I must still be dreaming, he thought, a familiar sense of disorientation washing over him. Perhaps soon I'll think I'm awake, only to find myself still in this slumber… Arthur, no stranger to such unsettling experiences, fought to focus his scattered thoughts, to wrestle free from the suffocating grip of darkness and confusion.
Yet, in this liminal space between sleep and wakefulness, his will felt as fragile as morning mist—present one moment, vanished the next. His thoughts were unruly, resisting any attempt at control or examination. No matter how fiercely he tried, his focus slipped away like sand through his fingers, replaced by a chaotic jumble of random notions and fleeting images.
Why this sudden, agonizing headache in the dead of night?
And it's so damn intense!
Could it be a stroke? A hemorrhage?
Bloody hell, am I going to die young like this?
I need to wake up! Now!
Huh? The sharpest edge of the pain seemed to have dulled, but it still felt as though a blunt knife was slowly sawing its way through his brain…
Looks like sleep is out of the question. How am I supposed to face the day tomorrow?
Wait… why am I even thinking about work? With a headache like this, a day off is surely in order! No need to fret about Mrs. Hudson's usual morning fuss!
Hold on… viewed from that angle, it doesn't seem so terrible after all. Hehe, perhaps I can finally steal a few precious hours for myself!
The persistent throbbing, though unwelcome, allowed Arthur to gradually gather his scattered mental strength. Finally, with a surge of effort, he straightened his back and forced his eyes open, dragging himself fully from the depths of his reverie.
His vision swam for a moment, then settled, tinged with an unsettling crimson hue. Before him sat a sturdy wooden desk, upon which lay an open notebook. Its pages were rough and yellowed with age, and in the center, a striking sentence was penned in deep black ink.
To the left of the notebook, a neat stack of perhaps eight books stood sentinel. To their right, the wall was adorned with grayish-white pipes, and a wall lamp was affixed to them.
The lamp, a classic design of the era, was about half the size of a grown man's head, featuring a clear glass inner layer protected by a black metal grid on the outside.
Diagonally below the extinguished lamp, an ink bottle sat bathed in a faint, eerie red glow. Its surface, embossed with a delicate angel pattern, appeared blurry in the dim light.
In front of the ink bottle, to the right of the notebook, lay a dark-colored pen with a comfortably rounded body. Its nib gleamed faintly, and its cap rested beside a gleaming brass revolver.
A gun? A revolver? Arthur was taken aback. Everything he saw was utterly unfamiliar, bearing no resemblance to his own familiar room!
In his shock and growing confusion, he noticed that the desk, the notebook, the ink bottle, and the revolver were all draped in a layer of crimson "veil" cast by the light filtering through the window.
Instinctively, he lifted his head, his gaze slowly tracing upwards.
Suspended in the air, against a backdrop that resembled 'black velvet curtains,' a crimson moon hung high, its silent light casting an unsettling glow.
Wh— Arthur felt a primal terror grip him, and he shot to his feet. But before his legs could fully straighten, the agonizing throbbing in his head returned with a vengeance, causing his strength to abandon him. He collapsed back onto the hard wooden chair with a heavy thud!
The jarring impact did little to alleviate the pain. Arthur, his breath catching in his throat, propped himself up with his hands on the table, stood once more, and spun around in a frantic attempt to take in his surroundings.
It was a small, cramped room with a plain brown door on each side and a simple wooden bunk bed pressed against the opposite wall.
Between the bed and the left-hand door stood a cabinet, its upper section featuring two open doors, revealing empty shelves, while five drawers lined its lower half.
Next to the cabinet, at roughly shoulder height, another grayish-white pipe connected to a bizarre mechanical contraption, its inner workings of exposed gears and bearings a testament to some strange engineering.
In the right corner of the room, near the desk, were items that looked like coal stoves, alongside an assortment of soup pots, iron kettles, and other kitchen utensils.
Across from the right-hand door, a dressing mirror with two prominent cracks marred its surface leaned against the wall. Its wooden base was adorned with simple, unadorned patterns.
With a swift, panicked glance, Arthur caught his reflection in the cracked glass—the current him: black hair, piercing brown eyes, clad in a simple linen shirt, possessing a lean build, unremarkable features, yet with a certain sharpness to his gaze…
Wh— Arthur gasped, his mind reeling, flooded with a torrent of helpless and confused thoughts.
The revolver, the distinctly old-fashioned Western decor, and the crimson moon hanging in the sky—so unlike the familiar lunar orb of Earth—all pointed to a single, unbelievable conclusion!
C-could I have truly transmigrated? Arthur's mouth fell slightly open.
He had spent countless hours lost in the pages of web novels, often indulging in fantasies of such extraordinary occurrences. But now that it seemed to have actually happened, the reality was almost impossible to grasp.
Almost a full minute passed before Arthur finally managed to mutter to himself, a wry attempt at humor coloring his voice, So, this is what they mean by being a fan of fantasy, eh?
If it weren't for the relentless headache, a constant, throbbing reminder of his current predicament, he would have surely dismissed it all as a vivid dream.
Calm down, calm down, calm down… Taking several deep, steadying breaths, Arthur fought to quell the rising tide of panic threatening to overwhelm him.
In that moment, as his mind and body began to settle, a flood of memories, not his own, began to surface, slowly coalescing within the depths of his consciousness!
Sherlock Holmes, a resident of the Northern Continent's Albion Kingdom, in the quaint county of Sussex, within the bustling town of Baker Street. He was also a recent graduate of the esteemed Department of History at Oxford University…
His father had been a decorated sergeant in the Royal Army, tragically lost in a colonial conflict on the distant Southern Continent. The modest compensation received had allowed young Sherlock to attend a reputable private grammar school, laying the groundwork for his eventual admission to university…
His mother, a devout follower of the Eternal Night, had passed away the very year Sherlock had successfully navigated the rigorous entrance examinations for Oxford…
He also had an elder brother, Mycroft, and a younger sister, Enola. They shared a modest two-bedroom apartment…
Their family was far from wealthy, constantly teetering on the edge of financial hardship. They were currently supported by his elder brother, who held a position as a clerk at a prominent import and export firm…
As a history graduate, Sherlock had diligently studied the ancient Fae language—widely considered the root of all tongues on the Northern Continent—and the cryptic Hermes language, often encountered in ancient mausoleums and texts related to forgotten rituals and prayers…
Hermes language? A flicker of recognition sparked in Arthur's mind. He instinctively reached up to rub his throbbing temples and glanced down at the open notebook on the desk. The strange symbols on the yellowed paper shifted and morphed before his eyes, transforming from alien glyphs into something vaguely familiar, until finally, they resolved into legible words.
It was indeed text written in the Hermes language!
The dark ink starkly proclaimed: "Everyone will die, including me."
Hiss! A wave of inexplicable dread washed over Arthur. He recoiled instinctively, scrambling to put distance between himself and the ominous notebook and its chilling message.
So weak he nearly tumbled from his chair, he managed to grab the edge of the table in a desperate attempt to steady himself. The air around him seemed to shimmer and distort, filled with faint, unsettling whispers that echoed in the silence. It reminded him of the spine-chilling tales his elders used to recount in his youth.
He shook his head, desperately trying to convince himself it was merely a trick of his overwrought imagination. Arthur took a deep breath, forcing his gaze away from the disturbing notebook.
This time, his eyes fell upon the gleaming brass revolver. A sudden, logical question pierced through his confusion.
Given Sherlock's family's precarious financial situation, how could they possibly afford, or even acquire, a revolver? Arthur couldn't help but furrow his brow in puzzlement.
Lost in thought, he suddenly noticed a vivid red handprint marring the edge of the table. Its color was deeper and richer than the crimson moonlight, thicker than the strange "veil" that seemed to permeate the room.
It was undeniably a bloody handprint!
A bloody handprint? Arthur subconsciously turned over his right hand, the one that had been gripping the table's edge. Looking down, he saw his palm and fingers were smeared with fresh, crimson blood.
At the same moment, the relentless throbbing in his head continued its assault. Though perhaps slightly diminished, it remained a persistent, agonizing presence.
Did I hit my head? Arthur wondered, his mind racing as he turned and stumbled towards the cracked dressing mirror.
A few unsteady steps later, a figure of medium build with black hair and intense brown eyes came into view. The person exuded a distinct air of scholarly intellect.
Is this me now? Sherlock Holmes?
Arthur paused for a moment, his gaze fixed on the reflection. The dim light made it difficult to discern details, so he moved closer until he stood just a step away from the mirror.
Using the eerie crimson moonlight as his guide, he carefully turned his head to examine the side of his forehead.