Chief Lestrade did not like Sherlock.
Aside from the reasons mentioned previously, there was a third, a fourth... and indeed, a relentless litany of reasons that followed.
Even though this detective had apprehended the beast who had violated and murdered the Chief's daughter—and had proceeded to flay the man alive right before Lestrade's very eyes—he still loathed Sherlock.
Because he could clearly sense that this man wasn't hunting criminals for the sake of justice. He wasn't even doing it for the money...
Sherlock had a habitual need to reduce his targets to a state that defied description. While criminals had no human rights to speak of, one couldn't simply let them die in prison from their injuries, nor could they be allowed to appear on the execution block in a condition miserable enough to "disturb the public peace."
Cleaning up these messes required a significant amount of medical expenses, which meant that the actual bounty Sherlock pocketed in the end was pitifully small.
But!
He continued to do it with tireless enthusiasm.
Lestrade seriously suspected that the man hunted criminals solely to vent some dark urge, to relieve boredom, or for other reasons too unspeakable to voice.
"Were it not for the faint possibility that my daughter's soul bears you some gratitude, I would have long since listed you as the most heinous criminal of them all!" the Chief growled, suppressing his rage.
Sherlock smiled with utter indifference. "Oh, come now. You know perfectly well how many troublesome dregs I've disposed of for you over the years. Besides, you have no way to categorize me as a criminal. I have never violated Imperial Law... at least, you've never found a shred of evidence..."
Lestrade choked on his anger.
It was true. There was no evidence that Sherlock had ever committed a crime... yet he knew in his gut that this man was absolute terror incarnate. The things he did were far more insane than the combined atrocities of every death row inmate in the underground cells.
Yet, no one knew what he wanted.
No one knew where he came from, his age, his past, or even if the name [Sherlock Holmes] was real.
People only knew he claimed to be a detective and lived in a small rental flat on Baker Street.
Every so often, he would appear at the station lugging that blood-soaked leather suitcase, trading some poor sod who had the misfortune of crossing him for a bounty.
That was all.
And if you asked him what he did with his time, or about his ideals, goals, or why he became a detective, he would simply spread his hands with a matter-of-fact attitude and smile:
"Life is dreadfully dull. I merely wish to keep my mind from rusting, and perhaps find a bit of amusement along the way..."
...
Several minutes passed in silence. Lestrade asked nothing more; the bastard wouldn't answer anyway. They sat until the Blues cigarette burned down to nothing.
Click-clack, click-clack.
A series of footsteps suddenly echoed from the corridor outside the lounge, drawing near.
Lestrade and Sherlock looked over in unison... A moment later, a tall nun and a thin, hunched old man appeared at the door.
It was Miss Catherine and the High Priest.
Lestrade immediately stood up and bowed respectfully.
...Meanwhile, Sherlock remained seated.
This wasn't an attempt to maintain a cool, disrespectful facade before the Holy See's clergy. It was because his gaze had fallen, with sheer incredulity, upon that modified, form-fitting nun's habit!
For the first time, his face showed a rare trace of... awkwardness and shock.
"Let's go, Mr. Holmes," Catherine said, tilting her chin slightly as she locked eyes with him. "...Time waits for no one."
...
...
The setting sun pierced through the gaps in the carriage windows, illuminating floating dust motes that danced like tiny, eerie creatures, making one instinctively want to hold their breath.
Sherlock sat inside the carriage, cushioned by thick wool blankets beneath him.
He had never imagined he would be riding in a Holy See carriage in such a manner, nor had he expected the nun he encountered earlier to hold such a lofty status.
Looking out the window, the bustling square was still woven with streams of people. This was the Lower City. As far as the eye could see, there were porters carrying wooden crates, barefoot paperboys shouting headlines, and scantily clad women lingering in the alleyways near the taverns—business must be slow this month for them to be out soliciting so early.
The carriage axles were equipped with shock-absorbing technology; he felt not a single bump.
Along the way, they passed several district checkpoints and massive gear-operated lift gates. The noise gradually faded as the convoy entered the Upper City.
The streets became wide and flat. The buildings on either side exuded an air of solemnity and order. Intricate metal piping clung to the walls like carefully pruned ivy, glistening in the waning light.
After about half an hour, when the sun had completely hidden its body and the gas streetlamps ignited, the carriage finally stopped.
Sherlock stepped out, looking slightly drowsy. The night wind was biting. Before him lay a pristine, small street. Likely due to a blockade, there were no pedestrians in sight—only security guards clad in steam-powered armor patrolling the area. The collision of heavy steel against the cobblestone pavement masked the intermittent hiss of high-pressure steam venting.
"Commander!"
Seeing the carriage, a security officer rushed over. His mechanical arm formed a fist over his left chest as he knelt on one knee before Catherine.
This was the standard etiquette for subordinates within the Church. However, the steam armor was so bulky that even kneeling, he still towered over Catherine.
"High Priest."
He then bowed respectfully to the small old man who had just alighted. But in that brief interval, his gaze inadvertently swept over the High Priest's shoulder and landed on Sherlock behind him.
The gas lamp overhead stretched Sherlock's shadow into a long, thin streak. And at that exact moment... Sherlock was just pulling out a cigarette to light it.
The officer's eyes nearly popped out of his sockets!
Even with his superior standing right there, he couldn't hold back a roar:
"NO SMOKING HERE!!!"