The Meeting with Miss Holmes Was the Worst (10)
“Alright, I think that’s enough for today.”
“If I just think a little more, I’m sure the answer will come... It has to be inductive reasoning, right? Right?”
“Now, now, little detective. We can confirm that in class tomorrow.”
No matter how well she followed along, it was still fascinating to see Sherlock, who was little more than a girl, begging for more study time. But Moriarty had his own schedule to keep, so he had no choice but to end the lesson.
Sherlock, well aware that whining to her teacher would get her nowhere, gave up neatly and bid him farewell.
“See you tomorrow, M. Today’s case was excellent too.”
“Indeed. You did splendidly today as well, S.”
With that, Sherlock left Moriarty’s room and vanished like a flying squirrel off to who-knows-where.
S and M. At some point, the cryptic nicknames had become a half-joking thing between them. Of course, it hadn’t been Moriarty’s idea. No matter how intrigued he was by Sherlock or how much he enjoyed teaching her, he wasn’t one for childish games. Whether she’d picked it up from some detective novel or adventure story, he couldn’t say—but he had no choice but to play along with her whims.
Naturally, Sherlock had chosen the code names. Grown-up as she tried to be, she was still a child at heart, and the codes were absurdly simple. For Moriarty, it was just the first letter of his surname: M.
“Then you’ll be H.”
“There are too many Holmeses in the house. Call me S, for Sherlock, M.”
Moriarty could only nod, stifling a laugh as he watched her waggle her fingers in an imitation of adult seriousness.
After that, they occasionally addressed each other by their code names—like savoring a precious chocolate from a box, drawing it out only now and then.
His room, lively while Sherlock had been there, fell quiet once more. Moriarty was accustomed to solitude, yet strangely, in this moment, he felt an emptiness. Even a faint bitterness crept in. A wry smile tugged at his lips unbidden.
Feeling emotions like this was exceedingly rare for him since his reincarnation. Was he normal? He’d admit it if pressed, but he was close to cold-blooded, so acceptance came easily enough. That was why he might have developed a bit of interest—no, obsession—with this Sherlock Holmes.
Obsession. But Moriarty still couldn’t fully embrace it. Acknowledging it felt like crossing an irreversible line.
Playing with a kid must be making me sentimental.
He shook his head and turned to his personal errands.
Staying with the Holmes family was, naturally, due to his role as Mycroft’s tutor—and for the money. He’d offered to teach Sherlock for free as volunteer work, but Mr. and Mrs. Holmes weren’t the type to exploit such kindness. Even without his asking, his salary was a touch higher than planned. Moriarty could see the couple was truly good-hearted.
But that was all. Unlike Sherlock or Mycroft, they were dull, ordinary folk. Had they resembled their children, he might have hesitated to ruin or remove them. But their ordinariness meant no qualms, no matter their goodness, when the time came.
For now, though, Moriarty was a man trying to live ordinarily, so he immersed himself in his private research.
He’d normally stay late at the university, but with only a year granted—and results needed to secure his guaranteed professorship in mathematics at Oxford Christ Church College—he pressed on. The topic, decided from the start, was a modest paper on the binomial theorem.
Like many mathematicians, he pondered, scribbled equations on paper, and invested time in proofs and new horizons.
Moriarty aimed for a somewhat regular routine. Without it, he’d surely devolve into a wastrel in this tedious world. Force the structure, or he’d break.
This world was boring. Incredibly, intolerably so.
When the allotted time ended, he quietly set aside his work and stretched. Glancing at the date, he realized he needed to send a letter urgently. Teaching Sherlock had made him forget important tasks more often lately.
Living in 19th-century British society was tediously dull. But he had to maintain proper social graces. His position at Oxford Christ Church College was all but assured, yet honeyed words between people were regrettably necessary.
Moreover, in this boring countryside home of the Holmeses, the postman came on schedule to collect mail—and it was late afternoon, just in time.
He began writing brief letters for social upkeep to two contacts in Oxford.
The first and most crucial was to Henry Liddell, dean of Christ Church.
Formal pleasantries ensued—dull, but sweetened for an elder superior’s ears—with a simple inquiry after his health. Moriarty finished the letter.
Unwittingly flattering such a bore twisted his expression briefly.
The second letter allowed a lighter touch. It was to Charles Dodgson, one of his professors who admired his talent and had influenced the post.
I am doing well, Professor Dodgson.
The paper on the binomial theorem I mentioned is progressing smoothly. Once complete, even the dreary Royal Society might take notice. Of course, I’ll return to Oxford briefly soon and would value your thoughts on it then.
Life here is as monotonous as ever. That Miss Sherlock I wrote about is following along splendidly, so all is well. You won’t meet her, but she’s a little lady I’m sure you’d adore—the sharpest and most intriguing I know—
But Moriarty couldn’t finish. The worn nib bent, splattering ink. Meant as flattery to pique Dodgson’s interest, he clicked his tongue in annoyance.
The stuttering professor was known at school for loving children—close enough to the Liddell girls to spark rumors. If Dodgson were truly some monstrous pedophile, even Moriarty—who cared nothing for others’ deaths in the street—wouldn’t have mentioned Sherlock.
But his innate intuition pierced people, and Dodgson struck him as childlike himself, harmlessly fond of kids despite his quirks.
The priority was finishing the letter. No spare pens in sight, perfectly timed.
Resigned, he headed to the main house to borrow from Mycroft—and ran into the maid Sally.
Summer approached; it was already sweltering. Sally, drenched from outdoor chores, beamed upon spotting him.
Stupid girl.
Moriarty sneered inwardly at the young maid. Her intentions were plain on her face. Not uniquely dim, though—everyone clung to illusions, impossible as they knew them to be. To a maid like Sally, Moriarty was a dream: not much older, assured professorship, proper status, handsome, polite.
Even without him—or someone similar—her fantasy wouldn’t materialize. But Moriarty wielded his looks and such delusions deftly to win favor, never sparing it.
“Wait, there are spares in the master’s room. You can borrow one!”
To an onlooker—like future detective Sherlock or Mycroft—it might seem serpentine manipulation. But Sally clapped delightedly and led him to Mr. Holmes’s room, where he was out.
The door was locked, as expected. Mr. Holmes was a finicky man.
“It’s locked.”
“Don’t worry.”
At Moriarty’s note, Sally slyly lifted a corner of the hallway carpet. A glinting key lay there; she smiled triumphantly as she unlocked the door.
“Everyone in the house knows, really. Mr. Holmes just thinks he’s clever about it.”
“I see.”
Moriarty eyed the carpet briefly before following her in. Sally, familiar from cleaning, cautiously opened a drawer for a spare pen—and uncovered something unexpected.
“A gun.”
“Oh... Don’t worry. It’s empty. The pastor keeps bullets in the safe separately, so it’s never loaded.”
Sally’s gaze flicked to the safe in the corner; Moriarty didn’t miss it.
Maids gossiped about masters often. Sally, eager to bond with him, prattled half to mock her employer, half to prolong talk. Moriarty listened intently, eyes gleaming.