Miss Holmes, the Professor Is Not a Villain

17 – The Girl Becomes a Detective

From that day, the girl was completely devastated. She didn’t crumble, but it was clear that she was broken somewhere.

Ordinary people would never notice this, of course. To the eye, Sherlock was an ordinary-looking girl who was no different from before.

She was probably much further from being ordinary due to her possession of a certain beauty that one couldn’t forget, a trait strongly inherited from some fairylike ancestor.

In British society, such individuals often had a unique presence enough to be the talk of the town and were always stunningly beautiful, even spawning false rumors of eternal youth.

But Mycroft knew better than anyone that her strangeness wasn’t of that sort. To detect that she was genuinely shattered, one needed sharp intuition and deduction skills beyond those of ordinary people.

As it happens, Mycroft had both.

Sherlock, his sister, his beloved youngest sibling, was undeniably shattered from that day. As a brother, he was certain of that.

Of course, facing the sudden tragic incident that befell the Holmes family, anyone might break. Even Mycroft was profoundly affected by the abrupt death of their beloved parents, which left him with many wounds, despite trying hard not to think about it.

But even if you’re hurt, even if you’re scarred, you heal as a person. Even if you’re sad, weep right away, but over time, even that sadness fades, beautiful and sad memories blur, past wounds become scars, and everyone moves on, remembering them from time to time.

Mycroft was no different from others when it came to this matter. He was undeniably exceptional in many regards, and was not one to crumble in the face of his emotions, regardless of how sorrowful they may be.

Sherlock, Sherlock, however, was different.

Of course, this did not mean that his beloved sister had broken down due to the insurmountable grief she faced upon the tragic departure of their parents.

If that were the case, perhaps Mycroft may have had less to worry about. Given that Sherlock was as much, if not more, determined than he, Mycroft was confident that she would be able to quickly overcome her challenges.

But the reason behind Sherlock’s breakdown was undoubtedly different – a fact that Mycroft was instinctively aware of.

When their parents suddenly passed away in an accident, Mycroft was 15 years old—an age he now realized was too young. Of course, he was older than the 8-year-old Sherlock, yet they were both incredibly young at the time.

Mycroft couldn’t escape the sense that he was eternally trapped on the outside of some event.

While he too was blessed with observation skills and instincts arguably superior to those of Sherlock, he could clearly sense that their parents’ tragic accident was not as straightforward as it seemed.

However, he couldn’t prove it. Despite his suspicions, he logically had to accept that it was a tragic accident.

It was a fact that their father had a somewhat inappropriate habit. It was also plausible and likely that one day this habit would overtake him, resulting in him loading real bullets and causing a horrible accident.

But was that the whole truth?

Mycroft couldn’t be sure. But at the same time, he couldn’t delve deeper. Although he instinctively knew it involved Sherlock, if he were to ask about it, his sister would definitely crumble.

This was an intuition he could trust.

Yet, he could be certain about the cause of Sherlock’s breakdown.

It was all because of him.

The man who came to their home as a tutor.

James Moriarty.

Sherlock didn’t fall apart after the death of their parents. It was clearly after the day that man returned to Oxford that Sherlock seemed entirely broken.

James Moriarty. The talented man, perhaps even more extraordinary than Mycroft and Sherlock, had been appointed as a math professor immediately after leaving the Holmes household.

Infrequently, Mycroft would come across news about the young mathematician Moriarty, who was attracting attention from the Royal Society and various mathematical circles in Europe through publishing various papers.

Even after he arrived in Cambridge, he heard his name from his colleagues studying mathematics. But was that really all?

The broken Sherlock only behaved as if her life existed for her occupation as a detective.

Even though he was Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft couldn’t do anything for her.

In that respect, he couldn’t help but be thankful for their elder brother, Sherrinford, despite his average capabilities he had their parents’ resemblance.

Whenever Mycroft found human relationships unfamiliar, Sherrinford took good care of his siblings in their parents’ stead. He silently supported Sherlock, and may have followed some innate intuition like his siblings.

Thanks to the presence of Sherrinford, at least, Sherlock didn’t break completely.

So now, Mycroft thought, let’s do what I should do, what I should do as an older sibling.

Like many second sons of rural landlords, he began his life as a civil servant in London. But he was certainly extraordinary, just like Sherlock.

Mycroft himself was clearly a civil servant, a job that wasn’t quite fit for a detective. But he could at least create and lead a place to help his sister who was trying to live in a unique kind of new work as a detective.

That’s why Mycroft, the Holmes sisters, began walking their respective paths, destined to arrive at one place.

Shortly after the tragic ‘accident’ that claimed the Holmes parents, Sherrinford had to care for his younger siblings as the eldest of the trio.

But there were unquestionably limits, given he was still quite young, so ultimately Mycroft and Sherlock had to leave for boarding schools.

Of course, he was a considerate eldest sibling and head of the family. He thought that without him, the healing of the wounds left in the family would’ve taken a much longer time.

But even at the boarding school, in a strict institution for young ladies, Sherlock, who was doing better academically than anyone, was never at peace.

‘I am a killer. I killed mom and dad.’

Even when she was half-focused in class and secretly reading about criminals in the library or what she got from her brothers, or when she was sneaking off to smoke cigarettes or drink alcohol for daily stimulation with top students in the secluded buildings, or even when she was secretly shooting a needle into her thin arm under her blanket on her bed, Sherlock was always engrossed in one thought.

‘No, we killed together. That man, only I can stop that man.’

Sherlock was certain. In her remaining life, there would be only that man. Only she can stop and ruin him

This was an intuition almost akin to madness. If anyone asked why, Sherlock would simply reply that it had to be done.

However, her opponent was not so simple. She would surely be able to bring that man down only by sacrificing everything she had. Therefore, Sherlock had to think of that man at all times.

What about after that?

What would happen after she defeated James Moriarty, that villain?

Sherlock couldn’t easily answer this question. In the adventure and crime novels she loved to read during her childhood, detectives were usually closer to minor characters who exit the scene along with the villain after revealing his crime.

Sherlock may have vaguely thought about the end of her life. Suicide would surely be a sin, but she was already a sinner who had caused her parents’ deaths, so there was no problem with adding more sins.

She was no longer afraid of death nor falling into hell. She would surely burn together with Mr. Moriarty at the bottom of hell.

That man would surely use wicked tricks to escape from the fire of hell even after falling into hell, so she would have to bind him with her own chains.

Of course, there are always limitations to hatred. Emotions, composed of tiny brains and chemicals, are prone to become fainter and fade.

But the more that happened, the harder Sherlock felt she had to feel guilty.

Every time she felt miserable in the boredom of life, she felt as though she shared the same feelings as that man, so she had to whip herself.

As she did so, Sherlock found herself becoming more and more cynical and focused on solving mysteries, unlike when she was a child, fighting for justice.

While learning to act and disguise, she felt disgusted with herself whenever she thought about how easy it was to deceive people, like that man.

But even then, Sherlock couldn’t stop learning those methods and taking pleasure from them.

The most painful part was having to face the man using the techniques he had taught her. But Sherlock had to rationalise it to herself.

From some point, she found herself adding a small sense of joy as well, unknowingly. There was definitely something broken about Sherlock Holmes.

＜The Eastend transforms into a street of werewolves! Endless incompetence of Scotland Yard?＞

That’s the man’s doing. But if that’s not the goal, then what is he trying to draw attention to? Ah, of course it’s this.

Such a man, entertaining, intricate, elegant, and beautiful. He’s indeed a heinous villain.

He’s certainly different from other idiots. He’s a special man. It has to be him.

＜Smith-Stanley cabinet scandal first reported! The hidden reality of gambling circle in Downing Street!＞

It eventually led to politics. It’s a natural conclusion. That man wouldn’t be satisfied just being a street urchin. It’s getting more difficult to handle, but I have to.

Only I can face this man. Only I can.

So I won’t forgive anyone else who catches him first. Only I can catch you, only I can reveal and wreck your identity. I cannot yield to anyone.

＜Traffic police captain, Lestrade’s shocking statement? “It is speculated that an entity or organization similar to Napoleon is operating behind the current crimes in London.” Scotland Yard denies this statement and takes disciplinary action.＞

It’s an international link, and at the center of all crime. The Napoleon of crime.

That’s indeed a wonderful term. For this man who newly created this vast kingdom of crime, it’s suitable to put his name as a formidable foe. The opponent who’s worth dedicating my everything to, indeed.

Maybe, could it possibly be fate? Although I’m always cynical about beliefs and superstitions, there was a moment where I felt sure.

When learning simple magic or solitary learning shooting, boxing, all sorts of martial arts that are unfit for a girl during holidays with the help of her brother Mycroft, Sherlock always thought. Having fairy ancestors must have been a definite advantage. If I were a normal girl, it would’ve been difficult to have such a rough profession as a detective.

But now, even if sturdy adult men rushed, she could beat them all down. It was preparation to become a hunter, only to hunt that man.

Of course, she did not forget to thoroughly read all sorts of magazines and newspapers issued in London. The crime-filled heart of Europe was filled, from some day onwards, with beautiful riddles one by one.

Ordinary people wouldn’t have known. Only I could have known it.

Of course, still Sherlock knew well that she couldn’t be a full-fledged detective. The mysteries she encountered in the boarding school through magazines were lacking too much evidence and investigation to resolve.

But how many times has she thought of that man in her head? Even when she’s intoxicated with medicine, his apparition appeared.

One thing was certain.

I need Mr. Moriarty. Detective Sherlock Holmes needs Professor James Moriarty.

It has to be him. I’m the only one who can solve the riddles he brought up, the only one who can confront him.

I cannot allow anyone but him.

Upon turning 18, Sherlock Holmes beamed as she read a newly arrived letter from Oxford University.

It was a letter congratulating Sherlock Holmes on her admission to the special class for ladies at Christ Church College, Oxford University, a letter too obvious.

He must be waiting for me. He must be.