The Meeting with Miss Holmes Was the Worst (8)
“Having that much fun, are you, Sherlock?”
“Yeah, Mycroft oppa!”
Mycroft let out a small sigh without realizing it at his younger sister’s utterly carefree reply. It was a strange situation. The Holmes siblings were currently in the backyard, in what could be called their secret hideout—an empty shed. Mycroft lay sprawled in a hammock, observing his sister, who was diligently focused on problems at the desk. In truth, the so-called secret hideout was just his youngest sister’s self-proclaimed title; reality was closer to the study and playroom their father had specially prepared for the three siblings. Of course, clever Sherlock occasionally showed childlike traits, so she still seemed oblivious to it on her own.
“So, what riddle has you so engrossed this time?”
“This one’s really tough. Want to take a look, Mycroft oppa? Oh, but don’t tell me the answer—I’m solving it myself!”
Unlike the enthusiastic Sherlock, Mycroft was, in the worst light, a lazy boy. Unlike the slender Sherlock, he already had some plumpness to him, fitting his chubby appearance with an innate laziness. Outwardly, he seemed like a dull boy. Of course, anyone who looked into Mycroft’s eyes might instinctively sense the boy’s extraordinary nature. Naturally, Sherlock was the latter. She already recognized her second brother as smarter than herself, so she casually trotted over with her book to show him.
Mycroft skimmed the fairly thick book Sherlock handed him. He already knew what she was reading. In fact, the whole family knew. She showed it off like a child, after all. The book itself was ordinary: a translation of Euclid’s Elements of Geometry. But on the front was an inscription in elegant, old-fashioned script: “To Sherlock.” Below it, Sherlock had written in her own hand, as if warning others of her ownership. It was a gift from their new tutor, Mr. Moriarty—who was also Mycroft’s tutor. It might not suit a child, but seeing Sherlock jump around in delight like a kid was a rare sight.
Of course, Mycroft knew Sherlock was immersed in Euclid’s various math problems and proofs. But what her small, slender finger pointed to was at the bottom of one page, in the margins: scribbles like notes from someone. It was the riddle their tutor, Mr. Moriarty—the one Sherlock chirped about like a lark—had assigned her as homework. A riddle about fictional crimes that Sherlock loved. Mycroft found it bothersome but glanced over it. True to being the brain Sherlock acknowledged, the boy quickly figured out the answer. But he didn’t voice it. He just nodded and handed the book back.
Of course, from her brother’s expression alone, the girl could tell he’d already solved it. Her competitive spirit ignited, her eyes sparkled as she fixed her gaze back on the book, determined to concentrate. But this time, unusually, Mycroft spoke up again.
“Honestly, Sherlock, I never thought I’d see the day you’d be this into studying.”
“...It’s necessary. And I realized it’s fun, oppa. Most of all, Mr. Moriarty is... really cool. Amazing.”
“......Well, he’s certainly skilled.”
Mycroft said it lightly. It was a somewhat contrasting reaction to Sherlock’s. She shot him a dissatisfied glare, but the good-natured boy brushed it off as if nothing happened.
It had been nearly two months since James Moriarty had come to the Holmes household. A short time, if you thought about it. Yet he’d already adapted like a long-time family member—and above all, he was receiving the youngest sister’s fervent admiration. Of course, pointing it out to Sherlock would make her deny it to the end, blushing like a boy caught with his crush—Mycroft knew that well. But in his eyes, Sherlock was just a child experiencing her first love.
Mycroft was smart. That was an objective fact. Even Moriarty acknowledged it, and Sherlock’s unguarded demeanor toward him was proof. Sherlock had been unique from birth, exceptionally bright but unable to tolerate boredom or foolishness. She only showed childlike sides to those whose intellect she recognized, even if they were family. Moreover, she’d long accepted Mycroft as superior to her. The difference between the siblings? Her brother was lazy. That always irked Sherlock. If he were more diligent, they could play tag or detective games together.
But there was no need anymore. Mr. Moriarty—the most perfect person in the world—was by Sherlock’s side. Watching that, Mycroft felt a twinge of jealousy. But with his inherently lazy nature and familial love for his sister, he didn’t voice any complaints. Still, Mycroft was special too. Cautiously gauging Sherlock’s mood, he spoke up.
“By the way... are you planning to become a mathematician, Sherlock?”
“What are you talking about, oppa? I don’t particularly like math.”
“Right, well, if you say so.”
Mycroft couldn’t press further at her immediate reply. Her answer carried conviction, leaving no reason to probe. Above all, Sherlock continued boastfully.
“Of course, math does help my intuition and logic—it’s true, thanks to the teacher. And it has its own fun, for sure. He showed me riddles by Professor Dodgson, the math professor at his university, and they’re definitely interesting.”
“...At least you’ve come to like studying. That’s good.”
“Yeah. So I’m going to Oxford too.”
“You?”
Mycroft couldn’t help but question her declarative statement. It wasn’t dismissal of his sister. He just pointed out practical issues. He himself was studying toward Oxford or Cambridge. He’d gone through several tutors, preparing steadily, knowing he could get into either when the time came. He hadn’t gone to boarding school like ordinary students partly because he was as exceptional as Sherlock, but also because their father was lenient in unexpected ways. Thanks to that, from a certain point, Mycroft had replaced school with private tutoring.
But would that leniency extend to Sherlock? Mycroft had no intention of discriminating against his brilliant sister, but Oxford didn’t admit women. No university in England did. Would their parents allow it? They were conservative at heart, despite occasional indulgences. It was natural for a family that had produced local pastors for generations. Their parents let Sherlock have her way now because she was only eight; there was no guarantee it would last. Being children of an English country squire meant futures were largely set. The eldest son inherited the land and the pastor role, like Sherrinford. Second sons got suitable education and moved to the city for civil service or jobs—like Mycroft after university. Daughters had even narrower paths: higher education if possible, but marriage was key. Spinsterhood meant governess work or staying home—neither suited this special sister.
Sensing her brother’s gaze, Sherlock gave a partial answer to his unspoken doubt.
“Of course, I won’t get an official diploma even after graduating, but the teacher said outstanding girls can attend. It’s funded by scholarships from Her Majesty the Queen, so no problem.”
“......Good, then.”
Mycroft didn’t press further on his young sister’s future. She was too young, and he didn’t want to hinder her dreams prematurely. Above all, he instinctively believed Sherlock could achieve whatever she wanted. Among the family, she showed the fairy blood most strongly. People were sometimes startled by the red glow in her gray eyes. But as one with fairy heritage, she’d surely become a stunning beauty, live long—and possessed incomparable intellect. She’d walk a special path. Of course, it applied to Mycroft too, but people struggle with self-objectivity.
Mycroft shifted topics briefly. This was closer to the main point. As the brother with a superior mind, he had to voice his baseless intuition cautiously.
“That said... I’d recommend not getting too close to the teacher.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
True to his lazy nature, Mycroft was somewhat emotionally obtuse. He was affable and less prone to fear than others—brave, like Sherlock. But for the first time, his sister’s flashing red eyes, glaring as she demanded explanation, instilled true fear in him.