The Girl Becomes a Detective

The girl became a detective, and from that day forward, she was utterly broken. She didn't crumble, but something inside her had clearly shattered. Of course, ordinary people could never notice it. Outwardly, Sherlock appeared no different from before—at least, she seemed ordinary enough. With fairy blood prominent in her ancestry, she possessed an unforgettable beauty that set her apart from the common folk to begin with. In British society, such individuals often drew whispers in high society, commanding a singular presence and rumors of eternal youth that kept them eternally beautiful. But Mycroft knew better than anyone that this wasn't the kind of strangeness they were dealing with.

To truly discern that Sherlock had broken, one needed an acute intuition and deductive reasoning beyond what ordinary people possessed. Fortunately, Mycroft had both. His little sister, the beloved youngest of the Holmes family, had undoubtedly shattered from that day onward. As her brother, he could sense it clearly.

Of course, in the face of the sudden tragedy that struck the Holmes household, anyone might break. Even Mycroft had tried not to dwell on it, but the abrupt death of their beloved parents had affected him deeply, leaving scars. But people heal from wounds, even if scars remain. They weep bitterly at first, but before the relentless march of time, even that sorrow fades. Beautiful, painful memories blur into the past, becoming scars that occasionally ache but don't stop anyone from living on. In this regard, at least, Mycroft was no different from others.

He was superior in many ways, and no matter how grief-stricken, he was not the type to collapse under its weight. But Sherlock—Sherlock was different. Not that his beloved sister had failed to overcome the tragedy of losing her parents and thus broken; if that were the case, Mycroft might have worried less. She was as strong as he was—in some ways, even stronger—so he was confident she could recover quickly. No, it was something else. Mycroft's intuition told him the cause of her breaking was entirely different.

When their parents died in that sudden accident, Mycroft had been fifteen—far too young, in hindsight. Compared to eight-year-old Sherlock, he was closer to adulthood, but they had all been so young. Mycroft couldn't shake the feeling that he was lingering on the periphery of some event. With his own superior intuition and powers of observation, he too sensed something off about their parents' tragic accident. But he couldn't prove it.

Above all, despite his nagging suspicions, reason demanded he accept it as a tragic accident. It was true their father had some imprudent habits. It was entirely plausible that one day, unable to contain his anger, he had loaded real bullets and caused a horrific mishap. But was that the whole truth? Mycroft couldn't be sure. And yet, he couldn't dig deeper. His instincts linked it to Sherlock, but asking her about it might truly make her collapse. That much, he knew intuitively.

But he was certain of one thing: the cause of her breaking. That man. The tutor who had come to their home. James Moriarty.

It ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wasn't after their parents' death that Sherlock broke. It was the day that man left for Oxford—the day she shattered completely.

James Moriarty. Shortly after departing the Holmes household, he had been appointed a professor of mathematics at Oxford, a talented man perhaps more extraordinary than Mycroft or even Sherlock. Mycroft occasionally heard news of the young mathematician Moriarty publishing papers that drew attention from the Royal Society and mathematical circles across Europe. Even after coming to Cambridge, he heard the name from colleagues researching mathematics.

But was that really all there was to it? The broken Sherlock acted as if her entire existence served only one purpose: to be a detective. Though her brother, Mycroft could do nothing for such a sister. In that sense, he was grateful for their eldest brother Sherrinford, who, though ordinary, resembled their parents. While the socially awkward Mycroft hesitated, Sherrinford had stepped in as a parental figure, quietly supporting his siblings. Perhaps he too had followed some innate intuition, like them. Thanks to Sherrinford, at least Sherlock hadn't shattered completely, root and all.

So now, it was time for Mycroft to do what he must—as a brother. He had begun working as a civil servant in London, like many second sons of rural landowners. But he was as extraordinary as Sherlock. A detective's life didn't suit him; he was cut out for civil service. Still, he could carve out a position to support and guide his sister in her unique new calling as a detective.

And so, Mycroft and Sherlock each set off on their paths, destined to converge one day.

Right after the Holmes couple's tragic "accident," Sherrinford, as the eldest, had to care for his young siblings. But there were limits, and being still young himself, Mycroft and Sherlock eventually had to go to boarding schools. He was a kind eldest brother and head of the household; without him, the wounds left in the home would have taken far longer to heal.

Even at the strict boarding school for young ladies, where she excelled academically beyond all others, Sherlock could never find peace.

I'm a murderer. I killed Mom and Dad.

Whether half-heartedly studying while secretly poring over records of criminals obtained through the library and her brothers, or sneaking with classmates to hidden corners of buildings to smoke cigarettes, drink, and chase everyday thrills, or carefully injecting a needle into her pale, slender forearm under the covers in bed—Sherlock was always consumed by one thought.

No, we killed them together. That man. Only I can stop him.

Sherlock was certain. The rest of her life would revolve solely around that man. Only she could stop him, bring him down. It was an intuition ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bordering on madness. If asked why, she would simply say it was the natural order of things.

But he wasn't that simple an opponent. She would have to devote everything she had to defeat him. Thus, she must always think of him. And after that? What came after toppling James Moriarty, that villain? Sherlock couldn't answer readily.

In the adventure and crime novels she loved as a child, detectives were side characters who typically unmasked the villain and then vanished alongside them. Vaguely, she might have contemplated her life's end. Suicide was a sin, but she was already guilty of her parents' deaths, so adding more sin was no issue. Death, even falling ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to hell, no longer frightened her. She could burn at the bottom of hell with Professor Moriarty. Surely, even there, he would scheme to escape the infernal flames. So she must chain him like iron shackles.

Of course, hatred alone had its limits. Emotions, mere chemicals in a tiny brain, inevitably faded and dulled. But in those moments, Sherlock had to feel even more guilt. Whenever life's boredom brought misery, making her feel akin to that man, she had to whip herself. Yet increasingly, unlike her childhood self fighting for justice with righteous anger, she grew cynical, immersed in solving riddles for their own sake.

Learning acting and disguise, realizing how easily people were fooled, she hated how it made her feel like him. But she couldn't stop learning and enjoying those methods. The most painful part was using what he had taught her against him. Still, she rationalized it. Before long, a hint of pleasure crept in unbidden.

Sherlock Holmes was undoubtedly broken somewhere deep inside.

That man's doing. But not the goal—what's he distracting attention for? Ah, of course. So like him—intriguing, intricate, elegant, beautiful. Truly, a heinous villain. Different from the idiots, a special man. He has to be the one.

Politics now, inevitably. He wouldn't settle for mere street urchins. Getting trickier, but she had to face him. Only she could. If caught before ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠her, unforgivable. Only she could capture him, expose him, destroy him. No yielding.

International links, the center of all crime. Crime's Napoleon. A brilliant phrase. The architect of this vast criminal empire—fitting as her destined adversary. Worth devoting everything to. Or perhaps fated? Cynical toward faith and superstition, yet she believed it instinctively.

Learning simple magic, or during breaks mastering marksmanship, boxing, martial arts—unseemly for a lady—self-taught or with Mycroft's help, Sherlock always thought the same. Her fairy ancestry helped. An ordinary girl couldn't handle a detective's rough life. But now, she could fell even burly adult men. Preparation for hunting that one man.

She never neglected poring over every magazine and newspaper from London. Europe's crime-filled heart had begun filling with beautiful riddles. Ordinary folk couldn't see it. Only she could unravel them.

Of course, Sherlock knew she couldn't fully operate as a detective yet. Riddles from magazines at boarding school lacked evidence and investigation. But how many times had she envisioned him in her mind? Even in drugged haze, his phantom appeared. One thing was certain: She needed Professor Moriarty. Detective Sherlock Holmes needed James Moriarty. He had to be the one. Only she could solve his riddles, face him. No one else would be forgiven.

Eighteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes smiled as she read the freshly arrived letter from Oxford Christ Church College.

He was waiting for her. He had to be.