The Worst Meeting with Miss Holmes (15)
There was a brief silence. But to the girl, that silence felt unbearably tense. She almost desperately wished the man would break it quickly. The man she had once admired—no, perhaps still admired even now. The girl was still so young, too young to be familiar with the complex array of emotions that could arise between people. That might be why Sherlock felt so confused facing Professor Moriarty.
No, it couldn't be. He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't.
The girl tried her best to force her thoughts in the direction she wanted. But Moriarty broke the silence. Even though she had so desperately wanted him to speak, in that moment, Sherlock could only scream inwardly that she wished he would stay silent forever.
"What are you talking about, Sherlock?"
Not a denial, not an affirmation—just a question. Yet Sherlock had already read the answer in Moriarty's expression. No, the man had allowed the girl to read it there. She knew that. And so, without realizing it, she bit her lip hard. Her still-childish body didn't draw blood, but her small fists trembled as if they might shatter at any moment, clenched so tightly.
Why had she only realized it now? Why would her professor do such a thing?
A flood of questions arose. Sherlock suddenly understood why women her mother's age so often fainted. There was this image of women who fainted at the drop of a hat, so whenever they wanted to escape, they had to pretend to faint to get away. But unfortunately, the girl couldn't do that. Sherlock was resilient, and that very resilience now turned into tragedy for her.
"Professor, it was you, wasn't it?"
The same question spilled from Sherlock's lips again, word for word. But unlike before, it roared out like a beast howling at a human beyond iron bars. That was why Moriarty responded with a mysterious smile. No matter how much a caged beast bared its teeth, it couldn't bite the person outside.
Moriarty shrugged nonchalantly and tried to call to the girl.
"Sherlock."
"Don't call me by my name!"
This time, even Moriarty was a little startled. He knew the girl couldn't do anything yet, but her sudden ferocity made him step back half a pace without thinking. Still, he held the absolute advantage. He was the professor, and the foolish young girl before him was a student who had much to learn. He could afford to be lenient with a disciple's confusion—especially if that disciple was his favorite, special one. He could indulge her tantrums as much as needed.
"All right, Holmes. Coming here out of the blue and asking something so strange... I really don't understand what you're getting at."
Over the past few months, the girl had opened her heart to him enough to allow him to call her by name. The young girl might not have fully realized it yet, but perhaps the man before her was her first love. So even though she had snapped at him, hearing him call her "Holmes" now created a strange distance that left her feeling oddly bereft. And that feeling infuriated her—that she was still captive to such emotions.
But emotions were irrational by nature, mere chemical reactions in the brain that she neither liked nor could control at will—reactions she might even come to despise. At the same time, her rage was so intense it nearly overwhelmed her senses.
So the girl took a deep breath and spoke.
"I found this... in Father's study, Professor."
She pulled the crumpled letter envelope from her pocket and shook it. Moriarty's expression showed no change as he glanced at it. His brazenness made Holmes grit her teeth slightly before she continued.
"At least the envelope shows it's addressed to Mother... but there's no sender. Just the handwriting... the handwriting is the issue."
"At least it's not mine, Holmes. You've seen it often enough over the past year—you know my handwriting doesn't match."
"You taught us in class once. From The Count of Monte Cristo—that a right-handed person writing with their left can disguise their script. It's exactly like that."
"...Holmes, Dumas's novels are popular in England too. Now that you mention it, it does look like someone imitating that... but you're saying I wrote it based on that alone?"
Sherlock glared at Moriarty instead of answering. They both already knew the truth. Their relationship wasn't the kind that mere words could capture; it had endured thirteen years. At least, the girl could tell he had already affirmed it under her interrogation.
Moriarty subtly pulled out his pocket watch, checked the time calmly, tucked it back into his vest pocket, clapped his hands lightly, and opened his mouth with a broad smile, as if starting one of their home lessons.
"Well, all right, Miss Holmes. Now that I think about it, we still have time. Since we're parting ways anyway, why not have one last lesson? Shall we sit?"
"Shut up and talk!"
"We're not going to see each other for a while—don't be so harsh, Holmes. If your mother were alive, she'd tell you to speak like a lady, wouldn't she? Oh, sorry. My mistake."
As Sherlock flinched, looking ready to lunge at the mention of her mother, Moriarty tilted his head as if apologizing for a tasteless joke. And with that, he began his final lesson.
"Well, all right. The tragic fate of Mr. Holmes and Mrs. Holmes is truly regrettable, Miss Holmes. So... everyone around here knows that when Reverend Holmes has a bad fight with his wife, he has this rather inappropriate habit of pointing an unloaded gun at her. Of course, the gun is usually kept safely in his room, but coincidentally, everyone in the household knows where the room key is, and the bullets are in the safe... but opening a safe like that is child's play—not a bank vault, after all. At least for you, Mycroft, or someone like me, right?"
Sherlock fell silent. Instead, she glared at him murderously. Moriarty continued the lesson, feeling a twinge of disappointment.
"Mrs. Holmes wanted a bit of excitement—a simple tea time with a young man, a little deviation from routine. That alone would give the reverend grounds to argue, but what if someone stoked his jealousy further? Whispering winds of infidelity from the sidelines, pretending to flirt just enough in front of him. Oh, it would be hard for an ordinary person—they'd have to be careful not to arouse suspicion. Only someone like you or me could pull it off, Sherlock. We have so much in common, don't we?"
Another silence fell. It was a bit boring. By now, the girl should have lost half her reason and tried to throttle him. Disappointing, but since there were more entertaining reactions to come, Moriarty pressed on.
"To ensure it all aligned perfectly, someone sent that letter you found—with disguised handwriting. More precisely, they slipped it onto Reverend Holmes's desk. It was addressed to Mrs. Holmes on the envelope, but really meant for the reverend. Reading that somewhat inappropriate content would make him unable to contain his suspicion and rage—he'd grab the gun and storm off to find his wife in a frenzy. Of course, he might have had a drink or two to calm his nerves along the way, but no big issue. People are careless with habits; he wouldn't think to check if the gun was loaded. And the letter paper? It wouldn't leave evidence behind, would it? The kind you love so much."
Fortunately, his student finally spoke. Moriarty understood why professors lit up when a question prompted a response.
"Father... values the family's honor above all. No matter how angry, he'd destroy the letter himself as improper. He must have thought showing it to others would make everything irreparable. He believed he could persuade Mother as always, or vent his anger and resolve it. Anyone like you... could calculate all that."
"And then, regrettably, tragedy struck. The esteemed reverend and his wife went to heaven a bit early, and you three siblings gained your freedom. Congratulations, Miss Holmes. At least your eldest brother Sherrinford is sensible—he'll support and cherish you no matter what path you choose. Your dream of becoming England's greatest detective—no, consulting detective? You can make it happen."
Moriarty clapped concisely. But it was sincere. He genuinely wished the best for the girl's future. Sadly, she either didn't recognize it or pretended not to, simply glaring at him with murderous intent.
Everything was still a whirlwind of confusion for Sherlock. Even for the cleverest child, fully grasping what had happened was overwhelming. The sudden, tragic parting from her parents was burden enough for the girl. Accepting that the architect of it was the man she had admired and loved was even harder.
But her cool, analytical mind refused to deny the truth. And sadder still, the intuition he had helped cultivate pointed squarely at him as the culprit—once all impossibilities were eliminated, as he had taught her.
Was that why? Even as she glared at Moriarty with killing intent, tears flowed unbidden from one of her eyes. She couldn't fully accept the betrayal from the man she still admired, nor understand why he had done this. But with her innate sense of justice, she knew what she had to do.
"I... I trusted you. I liked you. I don't... don't know why you'd do this, but... but! I know for sure now—you're a villain. A terrible villain!"
But Moriarty's response was the kind a young girl would struggle to comprehend. Instead of answering, he sighed deeply, like a professor spotting a student's novice mistake. The girl could only be flustered. What did he mean, even now?
The game was already over. She had exposed Moriarty's wicked scheme, and even if he lunged in rage, she was confident she could escape to the mansion. She wouldn't repeat the naive mistake from their first meeting. She began backing away slowly to widen the distance.
Fortunately, she was nimbler than most her age, and she knew from the past year that the professor wasn't much for athletics. But his reply stopped her in her tracks.
"Miss Holmes, your professor is no villain."
To the detective Sherlock Holmes, Professor Moriarty said with a smile.