The Worst Meeting with Miss Holmes (14)
“A thirteen-year age gap is pretty common, isn't it? Even Mom and Dad have a bigger difference. And I've heard girls get proposals around ten. Girls can marry at twelve, too.”
“Sure, there are such cases, but that just means it's possible. You're my student, Sherlock, and I'm your teacher.”
It was a bizarre era. This England, ruled by the widowed Queen Victoria, was hypocritical, dull, and just a touch mad. Even with legal marriage ages in place, boys could wed at fourteen, girls at twelve. It wasn't everyday stuff, of course. But it wasn't unheard of, either. There seemed to be no real disgust toward pedophilia; corrupt capitalists sought out even younger girls in brothels.
Of course, Moriarty hadn't sunk so low as to entertain thoughts of that vile sort. Still, Sherlock's not-quite-proposal had thrown him off enough. He stroked the girl's hair again, as if to shut down the conversation. She fell silent too, half-joking anyway, though her lips puffed out in unconscious dissatisfaction. He pretended not to notice.
And yet Sherlock was happy. She feared this happiness might vanish in an instant. But the girl didn't yet know the world's evils and injustices. Ignorance, sometimes, is a sin.
That was the moment.
Bang—
“What was that?”
Startled, Sherlock leaped from Moriarty's lap and shouted. She whipped her head toward the sound. It came from the house. She started to run—
Bang—
A second shot rang out, seconds later. Only then did Sherlock bolt toward the house, leaving Moriarty behind. She heard her teacher following, but she couldn't spare a thought for him now.
As she drew nearer, an inexplicable dread filled her chest. She wasn't the sort of girl to miss what two sudden gunshots meant. But that's why she denied it. She rejected every possibility. A robber with a gun breaking into their peaceful countryside home, straight out of a crime novel? Father's gun going off accidentally in someone's hands? She denied it all.
It's fine. No one's hurt. Someone just fired for fun. Father must've shot at the wall or something!
Sherlock and Moriarty reached the door to Father's study first. The maid Sally cowered at the foot of the stairs, trembling in confusion from the sudden shots.
“M-Mr. Moriarty! I-I was hanging laundry outside when suddenly the g-gunshots!”
“Calm down! Who was in the house?”
“Th-the p-pastor and... M-Madam!”
“Sherlock, no!”
Sherlock flung open the study door before she knew it. Moriarty tried to stop her late, covering her eyes and pulling her back—but she'd seen it.
It wasn't a clear sight. But unmistakably, her parents lay crumpled on the study floor, in a scene that had to be a nightmare. A strange smell assaulted her senses for the first time. Much later, she'd learn it was gunpowder—and blood.
The crime and detective stories that had always thrilled her no longer did.
She couldn't properly remember what happened after. Sally's belated scream as she grasped the horror. Moriarty carefully entering the study alone to cover the bodies—that lingered faintly. Mycroft rushing from the backyard where he'd been studying. People gathering. Herself sobbing into Moriarty's chest as he gently comforted her.
And... strangely, from the teacher consoling her, she sensed something off. Even if he wasn't as heartbroken as she was, he should've been shocked by the sudden death of acquaintances. Yet he seemed oddly elated. She couldn't fully grasp it then, but he was. Moriarty had been smiling to himself, secretly.
The Holmes family's sudden tragedy drew condolences from the small village folk, who mentioned it briefly before dropping it like an unspoken pact. Reverend Holmes and Mrs. Holmes's deaths shocked their tight-knit rural society. They were respected, after all. But the real kicker was how nothing exciting had happened there before.
The old local constable, stationed far off, arrived flustered by the horrific “accident” and hastily called for backup. A few officers came from afar to investigate, but to honor the late reverend, they ruled it a tragic firearms mishap. It was his final courtesy; the church allowed burial in its graveyard—not as suicides, but accident victims.
Sherrinford rushed home from seminary to become head of the household. The school expedited his graduation, and he smoothly took over Father's parish. Everything wrapped up neatly.
Of course, the orphaned Holmes siblings bore deep wounds from the sudden loss, leaning on each other. The funeral came. Everyone wept sadly. No logic or deduction held against grief. Sherlock, Mycroft—death left no room for thought.
Moriarty felt out of place but grieved publicly, attended the funeral, and comforted the children as an adult. He paid extra attention to Sherlock, who'd followed him closest. He had to try. He didn't want her broken.
Faced with the abrupt tragedy, Moriarty returned to Oxford earlier than planned. It was still winter, spring not yet come.
On his last day, he wanted a brief farewell with the siblings.
“Where's Sherlock?”
“She said goodbye yesterday and's avoiding you. Probably hates parting even from her teacher.”
“I see. Well, Mycroft—what about you? Oxford?”
“No, Cambridge.”
“Right.”
The short talk with Mycroft ended. Moriarty sensed the boy instinctively suspected him. But it was too faint for conclusions, so he dismissed it cleanly.
Whistling as he left the Holmes house, he felt a twinge of regret at missing Sherlock. But he knew this wasn't the end.
Still, a proper goodbye would've been nice.
All proof was complete. Now back to prepare for the detective Sherlock Holmes he'd face someday.
But the world clearly turned for Moriarty. Waiting for his carriage, he heard someone panting toward him. And fittingly, a distraught girl stood there.
Sherlock hadn't simply refused a childish farewell. As departure loomed, her mind cleared like a sudden awakening, confronting the tiny doubt and unease in her heart.
But she denied it. No way. He couldn't have. He mustn't have!
Yet as a detective, she crept to Father's study—dusty from neglect, the site no one dared approach since the tragedy. A cursory investigation had happened, but Sherlock knew how inept this era's police were. The scene wasn't preserved; clues littered everywhere.
And near the fireplace, she found a crumpled envelope. Clearly addressed to Mother. The handwriting—unfamiliar. Yet familiar.
“Handwriting's useful, sure, but it can be faked anytime. That's why those novels are full of holes, Sherlock.”
“Really?”
“You haven't read it yet—it's long—but even dumb university kids love Dumas. Write with your off hand, the left—like this—and you get a totally different, weird script.”
A past lesson replayed in her mind. And his taught “intuition” snapped the puzzle together.
Regaining her senses, Sherlock raced to where Moriarty should still be. She wasn't too late. She had to confirm. Deny it. It couldn't be.
But as detective Sherlock Holmes, she faced the horrific truth.
“Professor... it was you, wasn't it?”