The Worst Meeting with Miss Holmes (9)
The younger sister's gaze, fixed on him sternly and unblinkingly, was—honestly—terrifying. Mycroft had never felt fear like this in his life. He had no intention of dismissing his sister, but she was just an eight-year-old child. Normally, even when she got angry, her age and appearance made it hard to sense genuine fury. A cute squirrel throwing a tantrum might look like playful antics from an adult's eyes.
But in that instant, Mycroft was afraid of the way his sister looked at him. That sharp gaze, laced with fairy blood, stared as if it could incinerate him on the spot. Unlike usual, it didn't sparkle. It felt like confronting something devoid of life. Was this the sensation of facing a beast alone in the heart of a forest? Cold sweat beaded on his skin unbidden, and he swallowed hard.
Fortunately, his sister seemed to realize she'd acted irrationally, unlike her usual self. She cleared her throat awkwardly and shook her head. Her excitement hadn't fully faded, but she'd regained her senses and quickly added,
"I... I know it all! You're jealous, aren't you, oppa? Because I'm hogging your tutor!"
"...Yeah, I acted like a kid. Sorry, Sherlock."
Mycroft added hastily. Luckily, the siblings soon fell silent, staring at the floor as if nothing had happened. Of course, he had to swallow the rest of what he'd nearly said. He was young himself, but as sharp as Sherlock and gifted with intuition. If he'd had a mean streak, or if he weren't close to her, he might have pounced on the impulsive truth she'd let slip.
In fact, isn't that exactly what you secretly want? Like a child clutching a precious doll, unwilling to share with siblings—your greed to stay Professor Moriarty's one and only disciple.
Of course, Mycroft loved and cherished his sister, so he kept such cruel words to himself. Still, his gut feeling about Moriarty remained deeply unsettling. Yet he couldn't keep pushing. It wasn't just fear of her gaze. Slandering his tutor on baseless instinct wasn't gentlemanly.
Even so, something about that man instinctively repelled him. Foolish as it was, the casual way he spun horrific fictional murders into riddles while playing with Sherlock stirred a vague unease. Mycroft knew it was silly. If crafting imaginary atrocities made one a villain, as Sherlock put it, then the writers of her beloved penny dreadfuls were London's premier killers and crooks.
But why does it keep nagging at me?
Mycroft pondered. Some indefinable sensation, beyond words or logic, sent faint but relentless warnings.
It was impolite, but he pictured Moriarty as snake-like—not in looks, but in aura, as if a serpent slumbered within. Outwardly, he was a young man who'd charm anyone. Only those with Mycroft's keen senses might barely detect it.
That made Sherlock's sincere devotion to him all the stranger. She had the same instincts he did. So why?
No need for overthinking. Moriarty shared traits with Sherlock. Unlike Mycroft, who found everything tedious, he bonded with her like a kindred spirit, indulging her love for crime riddles.
No—similar, yet different. Sherlock adored criminal tales and puzzles, but her true passion, her childlike dream, was detective work. Solving them.
Then Moriarty? Mycroft cut the thought short. It felt ridiculous. Needless worry. He was just jealous—his precious sister latching onto someone outside the family. She was a kid throwing a tantrum; it'd pass soon.
That's what Mycroft told himself. But he overlooked that he, too, was just a boy—not yet an adult, short on experience.
James Moriarty had spent the last two months in a routine, monotonous rhythm. Holed up in the Holmes family's annex as tutor, prepping lessons for second son Mycroft and teaching him. No great challenge. He'd never met anyone smarter than himself, and Mycroft was exceptionally bright. The boy lacked natural drive but wasn't lazy about learning; all went smoothly.
Yet Moriarty's real focus was time with Miss Sherlock. Teaching her was pure enjoyment. Those who knew him—the idiots at Oxford, his hollow family—would gape. He wasn't one for attachments or interests.
Of course, it was pleasure-driven. She was Sherlock, after all. Boy or girl, future legend or not, it mattered little if she idolized him like a father already.
Equally absorbing was prepping her lessons. In under two months, he'd taught her everything worthwhile. She was that gifted. Under someone she admired, she focused fiercely, absorbing it all at astonishing speed.
He could've pushed further—intermediate math and beyond. But to him, it'd be wasted effort. Even she could self-study it, and she was only eight.
Lessions naturally morphed into chats. Meaningful ones, deepening their understanding of each other.
Every moment, Moriarty saw how extraordinary she was. Obvious, since she'd become the famed Sherlock Holmes. But he couldn't quell the urge to toy with the girl before him.
Hence, like that first riddle, he'd pose puzzles, sparking her agonized solving sessions. She reveled in it. So did he.
Their angles differed, though. She strove to impress the world's coolest adult, proving her prowess. He savored watching her.
Yet he found another joy: crafting riddles just for her. The creation itself thrilled.
Odd. He'd mastered math solely to be a mathematician. As told her, it was problem-solving—riddles, essentially. Not his hobby.
Truly peculiar. Disliking solutions didn't mandate loving crimes.
But he admitted: riddle-making suited him better.
For her, sources were lurid magazine murders. Fictional victims slain riddle-perfect, unraveled by pint-sized sleuth Sherlock. Simple game.
Thus, he played the villain she'd pegged him as day one.
"That was... really brilliant this time, Professor. If you were a real villain, London's detectives wouldn't stand a chance—unlike the novels!"
"Didn't you say villains must get caught?"
"D-don't tease! Of course, but you're not a villain, right, Professor Moriarty?"
"Right you are."
He stroked her awestruck head, replying evenly. She didn't shy from the familiar touch, but ventured carefully,
"Anyway... you're amazing, Professor! Mark my words—you'll be assistant to England's top detective someday!"
"Assistant?"
He echoed her childish fancy. Blushing yet bold, she declared,
"Obviously, I'll be the top detective! When that day comes, I'll make you my assistant—specially, 'cause you're my pick."
"...What an honor, Detective Sherlock."
To her confession-like offer, he responded calmly. Neither grasped its weight or feeling—perhaps too clever for that.
Watching her beam, he mused evenly: She won't get her wish.
Natural. Even he knew Watson was the destined sidekick.
But then: And me? Where do I fit?
Foolish. Ten months more beside her, then done.
Yet dread flickered—that time slipping away.
Joy blinded her to observation, but had she peered sharply as always, she'd have caught James Moriarty's eyes glint serpent-sharp.
Too late now.