All men’s souls are eternal, but the souls of the righteous are eternal and divine.

–Socrates

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Though I never received permission, I swear on the life of my dear friend Watson’s dog.

Based on intuition, knowledge, and experience, I am certain that the notion ‘the human brain quickly recalls the trajectory of its past life just before death’ is an outright lie.

How do I know?

If it were under ordinary circumstances, I would calmly explain, but alas, at the moment, a few pressing factors have robbed me of both time and leisure.

First of all, there is no comfortable sofa here.

Secondly, I had just been moving rather vigorously and ended up dropping the pipe I had been holding in my mouth.

And thirdly.

Switzerland, Meiringen.

Among the many waterfalls of the Alps, the highest is Reichenbach.

“It’s the end, Moriarty!”

Here, I, Sherlock Holmes, was in the act of hurling myself from a bridge 270 yards above ground, with my nemesis in my grasp.

-KWAAAA!!

The echoing sound of the water. The majestic landscape, sculpted by the rocks and water over countless years, was the sort of scenery that, on any given day, would have left me staring in awe…

However.

Right now, even this beautiful waterfall, the acquired potential energy, all of it.

Is nothing more than a weapon to erase this man whom I am tightly strangling from the world.

“Kuh…!”

The middle-aged man, gasping as if he might faint at any moment, is named James Moriarty.

A university professor revered throughout Europe, a bona fide genius known for excelling in various fields such as mathematics, chess, horseback riding, and boxing…or so it is said.

His true identity is the King of Evil who rules the nights of London, the worst kind of consultant who offers wisdom and assistance to criminals in secret.

The one who, through various schemes, has repeatedly placed Watson and me in mortal danger is none other than this man.

However, at this point, it hardly matters.

As that distinguished private criminal consultant is currently rolling his eyes, his neck tightly choked.

“Kuh…”

Moriarty, like a child fighting sleep at the stroke of midnight, is struggling against the overwhelming drowsiness and the lack of oxygen.

In the empty void where there is no place to stand, escaping from his bindings is an impossibility.

If I continue to strangle him to death like this, his body will sink into the pristine waters of the Alps.

“Quickly…”

Could it be that the lack of oxygen to the brain impaired his judgment?

Instead of shaking off the arm strangling his neck, Moriarty flailed his hand trying to grasp the pocket watch attached to the platinum watch chain.

Desperately, as if it were the only glimmer of hope to save himself from this desperate situation.

“Quickly return….”

Moriarty muttered incomprehensible nonsense while flailing his arms, but I continued to choke him without concern.

As I poured all my remaining strength into my forearms, I felt the strength draining from his body.

A surging sense of accomplishment.

Though it required ‘a slight sacrifice’, this duel was about to end in my victory.

If he falls from this height, Moriarty will surely die.

And, I too would meet the same fate.

The final trade of using my life to cut off his breath.

Thinking of it as the last waste of my life, it doesn’t feel regrettable.

To return to the story from earlier, the tale that one’s past life flashes by like a speeding horse-drawn carriage before death is nothing but an unfounded rumor.

As an investigative consultant, I am someone who only believes what I have seen with my own eyes, and what I’m seeing now, on the brink of death, is not some old memory.

Closing my eyes, the face of a dear friend comes to mind.

I saved London and Europe from a great evil.

The life of a friend threatened by Moriarty as well.

In the last moment, as I clung to consciousness, my face was reflected in the pocket watch that slipped from Moriarty’s pocket.

The last thing I confirmed was a smile on my lips.

Watson, will you cry for me?

Ah, I wish I could have one last whiskey―

-Crack.

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Case closed.

Sherlock Holmes. Age 37.

The cause of death was cervical spine fracture.

London’s greatest private investigative consultant fulfilled his duty and descended into a long slumber.

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How much time has passed.

I regained consciousness in the darkness.

I remember grabbing Moriarty, plummeting beneath the waterfall, but for some reason, I don’t hear the sound of water. I can also breathe freely.

Wasn’t I supposed to have fallen into the river?

I fell headfirst from that height, so there’s no way my neck wouldn’t be broken.

However, as someone who doesn’t believe in the occult, I do not want to accept that the darkness I’m trapped in as the afterlife.

Then there’s only one possibility left.

It means I’m still alive.

But how, exactly?

“Hey, waiter! Bring me a plate of fish and chips!”

The next moment, someone beside me shouted without any regard for manners, and instinctively, my eyes opened.

I was sitting alone in a library room where a table, leather sofa, fireplace, and bookshelf created a cozy atmosphere.

“This place―”

It was a familiar place.

The second floor of a pub located near Paddington Street Gardens. A small shop just a ten-minute walk from Baker Street 221b.

I used to visit this place during less crowded hours to enjoy ale and pie.

“……”

No, that’s not what’s important right now.

I clearly remember the pain and terror at the moment my cervical spine broke after falling from the Reichenbach Falls.

But, what’s going on? My neck and head are in their proper positions.

“…Remarkable.”

This is an incomprehensible situation.

Could it be that someone rescued me from the water, treated me, and then brought me here? If so, my condition seems far too good for that.

I fought with Professor Moriarty and was injured in the process.

Yet, I can’t find any such wounds on my body. Nor are there any signs of stitching.

It just felt like I had woken up from a long dream.

“Yes, sir. What would you like to drink?”

That was when it happened. A waiter approached the man who had just made the loud noise.

“Make it bamboo leaf-green. Two bottles.”

“Fish and chips with bamboo leaf-green is the best combination. An excellent choice.”

Normally, I wouldn’t have cared what someone at the next table ordered, but perhaps because of the strange experience, it particularly bothered me.

The term ‘jeomsoi’1 the man used to call the waiter, who seemed like a native Londoner, was something I’d never heard before, and above all, I’d never seen a drink named ‘bamboo leaf-green’ sold at this pub.

Then suddenly, my gloved hand caught my eye.

Although I don’t particularly think it’s something to be ashamed of, when I have no cases to take on and spend my time idly, I’d often inject morphine.

Thanks to this, I suffered severe side effects right up until the fight with Moriarty.

The accelerated aging compared to Watson and other gentlemen of my age was just an added bonus.

However.

The back of my hand, after removing my gloves, no longer had as many wrinkles as before.

The traces of discoloration on my fingers from repeated chemical experiments, along with the small wounds, have all disappeared.

Not only that. My chronically low body temperature due to the side effects of drugs had returned to normal.

“I can’t believe it.”

Unable to contain my curiosity, I rushed to the nearby mirror and witnessed an unexpected sight.

“Watson needs to see this.”

My face, looking much younger than the last time I saw it.

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I dashed out of the pub and returned straight to the familiar lodging house.

And soon, I confirmed the despairing fact that Watson was not there.

The one fortunate thing is that Mrs. Hudson, the kind landlady, recognized me perfectly well.

She brought me chicken curry made for a late-night snack and the evening newspaper, and I first checked the publication date at the top of the paper.

Absurdly, it was dated a week before I first met Watson.

“That’s not like the landlady. Playing such a prank.”

Thinking she must have handed me an old newspaper, I went downstairs.

“It seems the newspaper was delivered incorrectly, Mrs. Hudson.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Holmes? March 7, 1881, this is indeed today’s evening edition.”

She answered, glaring at me as if I were a madman.

“What did you say?”

“It seems you’ve had a drink outside. More importantly, who exactly is this Mr. Watson you are talking about?”

“You don’t know Watson? John Watson?”

“Yes. I don’t know. Since it’s late, after you finish the curry, try to dispel some of the intoxication with breathing exercises and get some sleep. Don’t forget to leave the dish by the door before going to bed.”

What did he drink to act like that when he can’t even get drunk?

Mrs. Hudson grumbled as she made her way back to her room.

Breathing exercises, yet another term I’ve never heard before.2

The sense of incongruity that has persisted since I woke up in the pub earlier.

Nouns that I don’t recognize keep reaching my ears.

Have I lost the knowledge I once had?

No, there’s no such side effect from morphine.

I went back up to the second-floor living room and carefully examined the newspaper.

“…It’s definitely published today.”

The smell of the ink and the texture of the paper confirmed it for me.

The newspaper Mrs. Hudson gave me was undoubtedly today’s edition.

“Really, have I returned to before I met Watson?”

The room I’m residing in has two bedrooms and a living room.

I searched the house just in case, but there was no luggage that seemed to belong to Watson.

“I never thought this could be possible.”

I’ve never believed in miracles, but this time I have no choice but to acknowledge it.

Seeing my younger self reflected in the mirror, I was skeptical, but it seemed safe to assume I’d returned to the past.

Of course, I did consider the possibility that killing Moriarty was just a vivid dream.

However, the biggest evidence against this was attached to the front page of the newspaper I held.

[Evening Standard Exclusive Report]

[By the grace of God, Her Majesty Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Defender of the Faith and Sword Queen,

has reached the Unrestrained realm, and successfully achieved Rejuvenation.]

Next to the bold headline, there was a photo of a woman in her early twenties wearing a crown.

Eyes deep and cold, exuding the dignity of a monarch.

According to the article, she was none other than

Queen Victoria.

“……”

My head was spinning.

I quietly finished my chicken curry and got up from my seat.

While I was glad to have returned to the past, was this really the London I knew?

For now, as Mrs. Hudson instructed, I placed the empty bowl by the door—

-Swaying.

Perhaps shocked by the fact that I had entered a strange world, my legs gave way, causing me to lose my balance.

Luckily, I quickly regained my composure, but unintentionally stomped the ground hard with my left foot.

-BOOM!!!!

With a tremendous roar, the floor shattered, revealing Mrs. Hudson’s angry face through the gaping hole.

“Mr. Holmes!! How many times do I have to tell you to stamp outside for Stomping Steps!!!”

…Huh?

1. TL/N: the term ‘jeomsoi/店小二’ (Sino-Korean), is the term used for ‘waiter’, commonly used in China in the past ️

2. TL/N: The term ‘Breathing Exercises’ Mrs. Hudson uses is another Chinese term 운기조식/ 運氣調息, which means to ‘circulate qi and regulate breathing ’ ️