The Meeting with Miss Holmes Was the Worst (13)
The sweltering summer had passed, giving way to autumn. After several months away, Moriarty had returned briefly to Oxford and was chatting with Professor Dodgson. Most of the conversation revolved around the paper he was writing on binomial theorems, though it naturally included some light small talk for the sake of social graces.
"Gr...grand work, Moriarty. This... this'll certainly draw... big... big att... attention once it's finished."
Professor Dodgson often stuttered when speaking with adults—a habit that had earned him the whispered nickname of "stutterer" among mischievous students. Yet Moriarty listened patiently for the sake of propriety.
"It's coming along faster than expected, actually. I aimed to wrap it up by next summer, but I should have it ready for Oxford before this winter ends, Professor Dodgson."
"R...right... You'll... you'll surely be... working together soon enough. B...by the way... are you... all right? It's... unexpected."
"What do you mean?"
At Moriarty's question, Professor Dodgson let out an involuntary hiccup. He always tensed up around adults, but facing Moriarty after so long made him even more nervous than usual. Though puzzled, he pressed on.
"N...no, when you... left school for a bit, it felt like you'd... stay at least a year... but now you're... coming back early... And that... Sh...Sherlock, was it? The clever lady you mentioned? You said she looks up to you so much... Will you be... okay?"
You seem different somehow. Scarier, even. Dodgson swallowed the afterthought and eyed Moriarty cautiously.
In their letters, he'd felt a twinge of kinship hearing that his aloof protégé—the promising young mathematician of the future—was befriending a girl. Dodgson feared adults and retained a childlike side, often playing with children. Just this summer, he'd spent time with Dean Liddell's three lovely daughters, regaling them with tales of a wondrous wonderland.
Moriarty fell silent for a moment. Fortunately, he wasn't looking at Dodgson but seemed lost in thought, just as the professor had anticipated.
As expected, Moriarty pondered the Holmes family and Sherlock. He couldn't help feeling a pang of regret at parting ways months earlier than planned. In that instant, he realized how deeply Sherlock had embedded herself in his heart—far more than he'd imagined.
But precisely because of that, they had to part. All preparations were complete. Sherlock would become a splendid detective. He'd give her a little nudge, at least. Of course, she might fail to soar and come crashing down. If so, it would be regrettable, but it would merely prove she was an ordinary, unremarkable girl. Then he'd seek a new plaything. It might even be somewhat sorrowful.
Yet Moriarty refused to dwell on uncertain futures. He trusted only what he could control.
"Yes, well... The atmosphere around here hasn't been great, to be honest. As I mentioned, Professor, I've been staying with Pastor Holmes's family, tutoring the children? Lately, the couple's been arguing more—the mood's turned sour. That's part of it."
"H...how awful! I... I understand, Mori... Moriarty. Still, that lady might... worry... So even after... returning to Ox... Oxford... keep in... touch often."
"She's smart and strong—she'll be fine. Besides... it's not forever. She'll come find me. Her brothers dote on her too, so it'll be all right."
At the mention of her brothers, Dodgson frowned unwittingly, but Moriarty pretended not to notice. The professor's eccentricities were well-known at school, including his childlike disdain for rowdy boys.
As Dodgson grumbled on about the misdeeds of bad boys, Moriarty half-listened and reflected briefly on Sherlock and her brothers.
Mycroft, his first disciple of sorts, was as exceptional and clever as Sherlock. In raw intellect, he even surpassed her—a fact even the prideful, competitive Sherlock readily admitted. But unlike her, Mycroft lacked drive. He was too indolent and passionless for detective work, so Moriarty's interest in him paled compared to Sherlock. That said, he did hold a fitting curiosity toward Mycroft himself.
Sherrinford Holmes, the eldest son he'd only heard of, had visited the estate during summer break. They'd exchanged formal greetings and words. Already excelling at seminary and on track to graduate with honors, he wasn't worth much attention. Still, Moriarty found their encounter satisfying enough. Unlike his younger brothers, the Holmes heir was relatively ordinary—dull, even. But fortune favored him: Sherrinford had hidden depths, unordinary like his siblings. Though average, he was open-minded, with eccentric views ill-suited to the era. Moriarty was confident he'd support whatever path his siblings took. Everything was perfect. He understood why farmers awaited the harvest season. James Moriarty was truly content.
"Did something happen with Sherlock?"
Back at the Holmes estate, during his first lesson with Mycroft, the boy unusually posed a personal question. Moriarty set down his pen and observed him. Those exceptional eyes, rivaling Sherlock's, were scrutinizing him in turn.
"No, same as always. Is something wrong?"
"...No, nothing... really."
Moriarty's reply left Mycroft unable to probe further. As a boy, he couldn't be certain anyway. His parents' occasional quarrels predated the tutor. It wasn't unusual compared to other families. Yet Mycroft's keen senses detected something amiss—a deliberate stirring of discord, steering toward malice. He couldn't shake the feeling.
Appraising Mycroft's thoughts, Moriarty felt a mix of surprise and satisfaction. He'd schemed subtly, beyond anyone's notice, yet the boy's intuition neared the truth. But both Sherlock and Mycroft were still too young. That was their misfortune.
Moriarty continued the lesson.
The year drew to a close, and winter settled over the Holmes estate. Though aware her parents' relations had grown as frigid as a midwinter blizzard, Sherlock tried to ignore it. Was it childish escapism? Guilt over unwittingly contributing to the discord? Or sorrow at the impending spring parting with Professor Moriarty? The girl was too young to process such complex emotions, her experience of the world too limited. Her small world lacked sufficient data.
Thus, she leaned even more on her admired Professor Moriarty, now as familiar as family. On snowy days, they'd play snowball fights like old friends. Everything delighted Sherlock.
"It's... really not long now, Professor. Do you have to go? Everyone would love it if you stayed forever."
"I have work to do, Sherlock. But come visit anytime—Oxford's near London, nothing like here."
"But... Mom and Dad won't allow it. Maybe on a family trip to the city, but Dad can't easily leave the parish."
"True, perhaps not."
What was James Moriarty to Sherlock Holmes? Too young to distinguish forms of affection, she felt a jumble toward him: admiration, envy and jealousy of his superiority, ambition and rivalry to become like him, kinship with someone as special as herself, and love. The little girl grew daily more terrified of time passing, mirroring emotions Moriarty had once known.
As she sulked, her parents would never permit city visits. For a moment, they felt like obstacles blocking her path. Her keen mind already foresaw her future. She dreamed of being a detective before Moriarty, but would her parents allow it? If they were wealthy urban nobility, perhaps. But the Holmeses were rural gentry—landowners neither poor nor rich. Like other country daughters, her parents envisioned marriage to a good family or governess work as her best lot.
"...I don't want to part with you like this, Professor."
The girl grumbled petulantly. Moriarty paused in stroking her hair.
"You know it's hard, Sherlock."
"Hm... What if you proposed to me now? Then I could visit your house as your fiancée!"
This time, even Moriarty was a bit flustered. But as her teacher, he cleared his throat and played along with her "joke."
"That's not a good idea. You're only eight, and if I did... well, Pastor Holmes would shoot me. We're too far apart in age besides."