The Meeting with Miss Holmes Was the Worst (5)
Sally, who single-handedly handled nearly all the household chores for the Holmes family, couldn't help but be startled by the rare sight of Miss Sherlock. At seventeen years old, she earned the standard fifteen pounds a year as a housemaid, shouldering the entire workload of the pastor's estate alone. The work was grueling, but fortunately, the Holmes family were all kind people—especially Mrs. Holmes, who was inherently good-natured and never cruel. However, each of Mr. Holmes's children had their quirks. Young Master Mycroft lacked motivation even on ordinary days, so he was no trouble, but the youngest daughter, Miss Sherlock, was a bit of a handful.
It wasn't that Miss Sherlock had a vicious temperament. In fact, living with her had shown Sally that the young lady was truly kind-hearted. Still, there were times when she displayed traits utterly unbefitting a girl her age, and undeniably peculiar ones at that. Playing outside covered in mud like a tomboy wasn't all that unusual—she was only eight, after all, and at that age, the line between boys and girls was often blurred. But Miss Sherlock occasionally deduced intimate details about Sally with such uncanny accuracy that it almost seemed like witchcraft. At first, Sally wondered if she was one of those born as witches, like the tales claimed. And she wasn't alone in that thought; she'd learned that Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had even examined the girl, only to conclude she had fairy ancestors but was otherwise an ordinary human.
Seeing such an unusually well-behaved Miss Sherlock, sitting quietly in her room waiting for someone today, was nothing short of astonishing.
"...So you're waiting for Mr. Moriarty like that?"
"Yeah, Mycroft's lesson won't end for another twenty minutes, Sally."
Sally couldn't help but smile at the sight of the young lady primly seated at her desk, awaiting Mr. Moriarty. She remembered having a dashing young university acquaintance herself at that age.
"Well, he is handsome, isn't he? And get this—he's about to become a professor at Oxford! Handsome, promising future... even someone like me couldn't help but take notice."
"...You, Sally?"
For a fleeting moment, a spark flared in Sherlock's eyes, but Sally didn't notice. Even Sherlock herself wasn't aware of the emotion, so she couldn't be blamed. Still, like a child resenting someone who stole her doll, Sherlock grumbled at Sally, who nodded understandingly, finished cleaning, and left the room.
The appointed time arrived. A knock echoed from beyond the firmly shut door. Sherlock, attuned to the subtle habits of the household's footsteps and mannerisms, knew instantly it was Mr. Moriarty. She jumped up with a beaming smile, eager to fling open the door—but catching herself, she forced a blank expression, pretending she absolutely hadn't been waiting, and greeted him coolly.
"Welcome, Mr. Moriarty."
"From today, you should call me Teacher."
Yet she was still just a child. As the girl led Moriarty into the room, her voice brimmed with irrepressible excitement, which he naturally picked up on, responding with a mere smile.
"Fine, Teacher—Moriarty Teacher! Happy now? So tell me quickly: how did you know my mother wouldn't buy me candy?"
"Still curious? Don't tell me you haven't figured it out, Miss Holmes?"
"...Call me Sherlock. I did figure it out! I just... want to hear it straight from you, to confirm if my guess was right!"
"Is that so? Then share your deduction first."
A brief silence fell. Moriarty had to admit the little girl before him was endlessly intriguing and amusing. She was truly fun to tease. Undoubtedly clever, but immature. He had no intention of faulting her for that—unlike fools, she was simply young. Of course, that didn't stop him from teasing her. The sight of her hesitating, lips pursed as she tried to muster a retort to his mockery, naturally drew a smile to his face. And the exceptionally bright girl ultimately admitted it in a way uncharacteristic of her age—or rather, her curiosity overpowered everything.
"Sigh... Fine, I didn't figure it out. So please tell me, Teacher. You're supposed to teach me, aren't you? Come on, teach me."
"...Before that, how about we properly introduce ourselves first, Sherlock? Everything has its order, even if I volunteered as your unpaid tutor. I am James Moriarty, twenty-one years old, a university graduate, and aspiring mathematician. Likes... nothing in particular. Dislikes: fools, of course, and boredom."
"We match on that last one. You're pretty special yourself, Teacher."
Children often beam with delight at similarities. If Sherlock could read his thoughts, she'd have snapped at him in her adult imitation. But nodding with a smile, she looked every bit the eight-year-old.
"So, your introduction?"
"Well, as you know, I'm Sherlock Holmes, eight years old. Likes: observing things, playing outside, and adventure novels? Mom hates girls reading that stuff, but I sneak them with my allowance. Dislikes: same as you, Teacher."
"I see—you do seem fond of them. Detective stories, right, little detective? That's why you grilled me about being a villain. Oh, and to repeat: your teacher is not a villain, Sherlock."
The serials in so-called Penny Dreadfuls—cheap magazines costing just a penny per issue, hence the name. Obsessed with sensationalism to sell, they flooded the British publishing world with grotesque tales, crimes, murders, and detectives that cultured folk decried as horrific. Often scorned as vulgar, they outsold even Charles Dickens's bestsellers, so Moriarty was well aware. Little Sherlock, mimicking a child detective by suspecting and interrogating him as a villain, even resembled those stories' protagonists.
But she wasn't fooled by his teasing. Blushing, she grumbled anyway.
"Th-that's not important! Anyway, tell me now—introductions are done."
"What I must teach you is reading, writing, and some mathematical knowledge—"
"Teacher!"
As Moriarty teasingly veered off again, Sherlock couldn't hold back. She stood, raising her voice—perhaps intending to show anger. To others, it just looked like an eight-year-old's tantrum. And since she was a pretty girl, it resembled a cute animal striking a pointless threat pose. Moriarty stifled a laugh. But he sensed she was on the verge of real anger. Pushing too hard wouldn't do. Teasing needed balance with reward, so he spoke calmly.
Realizing her tutor was finally unveiling the secret she'd craved, Sherlock slyly sat back down, eyes sparkling as she hung on his every word.
"It was your eyes."
"My eyes?"
Sherlock blinked involuntarily. Anyone would call them jewel-like: gray, but thanks to her fairy blood, a red glow flickered near the pupils with her emotions.
Moriarty continued. "Your observational stance is good, but you don't yet realize that while you're observing others, someone might be observing you. When you quickly scanned me and my room, your gaze lingered on my desk for a split second. There was only my paperwork and a jar of lemon candies on it."
"...I could have been observing the papers. Even if I look eight, inside I'm an adult, you know?"
"Don't you think even you find that unconvincing?"
"...Go on."
"You could meet your mother right from the start here. Ordinary woman—perhaps a good mother to you, but boring, mismatched. And this is a pastor's home, living ascetically. Strict tendencies; up to here, it's intuition, but following?"
"...Intuition. Impressive—you're fit to be my tutor, Mr. Moriarty. But that alone doesn't connect to her banning candy for me."
"When we first met, think back to your state, not mine, Sherlock. Covered in mud from playing outside. To a strict person, that was rude. Bursting in, calling a guest a villain, entering his room uninvited. From that, you're clearly the wild youngest daughter, right? Strict pastor's wife and scatterbrained little girl—what's their dynamic? Obvious, and not uncommon."
"So the candy?"
Moriarty met the girl's stare, then said casually, "That was just an intuitive guess."
"...What?"
"But it was right, wasn't it, Sherlock? Little detective, you're still young—don't argue, eight is young. So in this less-than-a-year we'll have, we'll learn such things. What do you think?"
To her teacher's words, Sherlock nodded instead of replying. She had no choice. Unthinkingly, as if entranced, she could only stare at the man before her. Childlike. Like a child discovering an idol or truly meeting Santa Claus, she fixed her gaze, drinking him in. Special. Truly special. Sherlock thought. And so she wanted to learn from him, befriend him, know him. Childlike thoughts. Not entirely, perhaps. But as Moriarty said, an eight-year-old lacked the time and experience to realize.
Moriarty nodded, satisfied with her reaction. Even he couldn't know everything. Smart people often made foolish mistakes. If he were truly Holmes's nemesis, he'd know his actions were idiotic: personally raising his greatest foe, the one who might destroy him. But he had no intention of being a mere villain. That was too boring—utterly dull and worthless compared to teaching this girl.