The Meeting with Miss Holmes Was the Worst (6)
Thus began the first lesson between the two. It was a monumental first class between the girl who would one day become the world-renowned detective of future Britain and the man who might well become that girl's greatest adversary—the Napoleon of crime she was destined to confront.
Yet despite such grandiose titles, a brief silence fell. It wasn't uncomfortable, of course. It stemmed from the temperaments of the girl and the man. Coincidentally, the two were once again observing each other. It was only a fleeting moment, but the silence existed, and both acknowledged it. They knew exactly what the other was doing.
Of course, Moriarty still held the advantage. Objectively speaking, he was the adult compared to Sherlock, with at least thirteen more years of life experience. Did the girl realize this? Of course she did. The child was clever, sharp enough to recognize her own shortcomings. But at the same time, she harbored that childlike reluctance to fully accept it. It was only natural. No matter how much Sherlock considered herself smarter and more mature than the foolish adults around her, she was still just eight years old.
They might have read something in each other. Quite likely. But when the silence broke, the two began their seemingly ordinary first lesson as if nothing had happened. Sherlock frowned unconsciously but forced herself not to show it. She knew Professor Moriarty was still testing her. Revealing her irritation would only play into his hands. Uncharacteristically, a spark of competitive spirit stirred within her—a feeling Sherlock had never experienced before.
Was it unpleasant? Not at all. In fact, she rather enjoyed it. Even knowing she was losing to the man before her, it thrilled her. She found herself eagerly anticipating what delightful words might next spill from this stranger's lips. It was truly odd. Though they'd met less than three days ago, Sherlock already felt as if the man before her were family she'd known for years. Of course, she didn't yet know the exact reason why. In truth, no one could confidently say what that reason was—not even now. Some might dismiss it as merely the seed of something that could become a trigger.
But from Sherlock's perspective, her new tutor was a man worth her interest. That's why she'd thrown a tantrum in front of her father—something utterly uncharacteristic and childish for her—just to study under Professor Moriarty. Recalling those emotions and memories made her cheeks flush with embarrassment, but even so, she had no regrets. The man before her was undeniably special. And true to her expectations, Professor Moriarty opened his mouth once more.
His every word was so captivating that she paid more attention than she ever had to her favorite gothic novels.
"Being a tutor is actually my first time too, but I don't think there's any need to teach you reading or writing. If you're sneaking peeks at magazine novels behind your mother's back, you must be quite good at it already, right?"
"Of course. Better than all the idiots around me."
"Yes, I imagine so. That said, no need to bother with foreign languages either—like Latin or French—"
At that, Sherlock chirped in like a lark, cutting Moriarty off. It was a declaration of sorts: You are special enough for me to acknowledge, so teach me something special. And the "like a lark" description was quite literal. In an instant, fluent French poured from the girl, its rapid rhythm and her high-pitched voice making it sound like birdsong chattering away.
Of course, Moriarty himself was fluent in several languages, so he understood her perfectly. He replied briefly in French as well.
"You already know it, then?"
Sherlock switched back to English.
"My grandmother's French. She's the sister of Bernet, the court painter."
"I see. But for a girl like you, such backgrounds hardly matter, do they? As you know, there's no real need to invest much time in learning languages. A few weeks of self-study, and you'll pick them up easily."
"Well, sure."
"So no need to drone on with something tedious like Latin."
Moriarty spoke casually, while Sherlock nodded along thoughtfully, but their conversation was utterly detached from common sense—at least for ordinary people. Moriarty himself had mastered German, Italian, and even Russian through just a few weeks of self-study each. Sherlock hadn't tried it yet, but if her professor said so, she was confident she could do it too.
"Still, I'll teach you some math. It's my profession, after all. I'm already tutoring your brother Mycroft."
"Math? Sounds boring. But come to think of it, Professor Moriarty, you must like math?"
"Not at all."
"Pardon?"
Startled by the professor's blunt immediate response, the girl blurted out a reflexive question. Sensing his slip, Moriarty shrugged lightly and elaborated.
"It's just for making a living. I have the talent for it. And a math professorship—something you might not fully grasp yet—brings a decent social reputation and position. I don't particularly like math itself. Solving problems... doesn't interest me much, honestly."
"If math is about solving problems, that does sound a bit intriguing. I like that sort of thing."
"Ah, so we differ in how we approach problems, Sherlock."
Another brief silence fell. It was a perfectly casual answer, but both instinctively felt the need for a pause. Sherlock couldn't yet pinpoint why. Uncomfortable with the quiet and unwilling to waste time learning something dull from this extraordinary man, she ventured cautiously once more.
"By the way... do we really have to learn anything specific? Just talking with you like this is fun enough for me. Isn't it for you?"
"Well, it is fun for me too. No lie."
"Right? So instead of something boring, um, that intuition—how exactly do you cultivate it?"
She's still so young. Truly a child. Moriarty thought, watching the whining girl. Of course, it was natural given her age. But she was Sherlock Holmes. Why was he investing so much interest in her? He found it strange but couldn't quite pinpoint the reason. One thing he was certain of: this girl before him would surely be one to alleviate his boredom.
How dull and insignificant the past twenty years of his life had been. In that sense, a year teaching this exceptional girl would undoubtedly hold value. But it wasn't enough. He couldn't say exactly what he was comparing it to, but she still fell short. It was natural for a child. Yet to grow into the world's greatest detective, she needed his proper guidance. He couldn't teach her everything, of course. But she was sharper than anyone he'd met; with just a nudge in the right direction, she'd blaze her own trail. Moriarty was certain of it.
He didn't know why he—a future math professor facing a life of mundane tedium—was going to such lengths, but he was convinced. Truth be told, his thoughts hadn't reached that far. Rationally, there was no reason to treat her this way. Yet he pressed on.
"Learning can be boring, but if you truly want to cultivate and use intuition, you'd best study diligently whatever comes your way."
"What do you mean?"
Moriarty paused in thought. Then, savoring the riddle like a mystery the girl couldn't resist, he spoke.
"Our detective, Sherlock, discovers the scene of a murder. The body was clearly killed by a gunshot. You survey the site, spotting clues the dim Scotland Yard inspectors overlooked, one by one."
Moriarty continued, feeling Sherlock's eyes sparkle and fix on him the moment his tale began. He glanced at her slyly and nearly laughed at how she followed his every head movement like a curious fox kit.
"Then you, Sherlock, find a new clue. The fools forgot to even check the walls. It was in a corner, easy to miss, but there—written in the victim's blood—you spot a message. Undoubtedly left by the killer."
"What message?"
Moriarty savored Sherlock's eager gulp and prompt, drawing out his words slowly.
"Five letters. R. A. C. H. And E. RACHE. Now, Sherlock, what did the killer intend by leaving this?"
Sherlock's eyes gleamed. Professor Moriarty was truly special. She'd never known an adult quite so in tune with her. Of course, someone might point out that an eight-year-old hadn't met many people. But the girl was certain: in all her life ahead, this man would remain one of the most extraordinary figures, etched in her memory until death.
And so, for the teacher who'd offered her this riddle, she racked her brains diligently. Though only seconds passed, her brilliant mind swiftly calculated every possibility—a feat beyond ordinary folk. Slowly, cautiously, she opened her mouth.