Professor Holmes is not a villain.

Thus began their first lesson. A monumental first session between the girl who would one day become the world-renowned detective of England and the man who, in another fate, might have been her greatest adversary, the Napoleon of Crime.

However, despite such grandiose titles, there was a moment of silence. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, rather, it stemmed from their personalities.

By coincidence, the two of them were observing each other again. Though it lasted only a brief moment, the silence was unmistakable, and both of them recognized it.

They knew what the other was doing. Of course, Moriarty still held the advantage. Objectively speaking, he was an adult, and even at the bare minimum, had over thirteen years more experience than Sherlock.

Did the girl realize this? She certainly did. She was intelligent enough to be aware of her own shortcomings.

But at the same time, there remained a childlike side of her that resisted fully accepting it. And that was natural. No matter how much Sherlock thought of herself as smarter and more mature than the foolish adults around her, she was, after all, only eight years old.

Perhaps they gleaned something from each other in that moment. Likely so. Yet when the silence ended, they began what seemed like an ordinary first lesson, as though nothing had happened.

Sherlock furrowed her brow slightly without realizing it but tried not to show her irritation. She knew her tutor was still teasing her, but she was also certain that reacting would only give him the satisfaction he wanted.

For once, a faint sense of competitiveness stirred within her. It was a feeling Sherlock had never experienced before.

Was she upset? No, she wasn’t. In fact, she was enjoying herself. Even as she realized she was losing to the man in front of her, it was fun. She found herself looking forward to what other amusing things might come from her new tutor’s mouth.

It was truly a strange feeling. They hadn’t even known each other for three days, yet Sherlock already felt as if this man were a family member she’d known for a long time.

Of course, the girl didn’t yet know the precise reason for this. In truth, even if she were given the answer now, no one could say with certainty that it was the right one. Some might consider it merely the planting of a seed.

But from Sherlock’s perspective, her new tutor was someone worth being interested in. That was why she had acted so uncharacteristically, throwing a tantrum before her father to insist on learning under Mr. Moriarty, a rare display of childish and irrational behavior.

Recalling that moment and the emotions tied to it made her blush with embarrassment, but even so, she didn’t regret it for a second.

The man before her was undeniably special.

And, as if to meet her expectations, Mr. Moriarty spoke again. Each word from his mouth was so captivating that Sherlock found herself more focused than she ever had been, even when reading her favorite gothic novels.

“This is actually my first time working as a tutor. But I don’t think there’s much need to teach you things like reading or writing. Judging by how you’ve been secretly reading serialized novels, I’m sure you’re quite proficient at that.”

“Of course. I read much better than all the fools around me.”

“Fair enough. In that case, there’s no need to teach you foreign languages either—Latin or French, for instance—”

At that moment, Sherlock interrupted him like a lark suddenly chirping. It was a declaration in its own way, a demand that he teach her something special because he was special, someone she deemed worthy of her recognition.

But the description of her chirping like a lark was quite literal. She spoke fluent French so rapidly and in such a high-pitched voice, characteristic of her youth, that it sounded like a bird’s chattering.

Naturally, Moriarty, being fluent in several foreign languages himself, understood her perfectly. He responded briefly in French as well.

“You already know it, then?”

The girl replied in English once more.

“My grandmother is French. She’s also the sister of Vernet, the court painter of France.”

“Ah, I see. But honestly, for someone like you, such a background doesn’t really matter much, does it? As you probably know, there’s no real need to invest much time in learning foreign languages. Spend about three weeks studying on your own, and you’ll pick it up easily.”

“Well, I suppose so.”

“That’s why there’s no need to bother teaching you something tedious like Latin.”

Both Moriarty, who spoke so casually, and Sherlock, who nodded in agreement, were engaged in a conversation entirely removed from the common understanding of most people. Yet, to the two of them, it was the most natural exchange.

After all, Moriarty himself had mastered German, Italian, and Russian through self-study, each taking him about three weeks.

Sherlock, while she hadn’t yet attempted such a feat, was confident she could do the same if her tutor said so.

“Well, I’ll still teach you some math. After all, it’s my profession. I’m already teaching it to Mycroft, your brother.”

“Math, huh? It doesn’t sound very interesting. By the way, do you like math, Mr. Moriarty?”

“No, not at all.”

“What?”

Surprised by her tutor’s unexpected reply, the girl couldn’t help but ask again. Sensing he may have made a misstep, Moriarty shrugged lightly and explained.

“It’s purely for a livelihood. I happen to have a certain aptitude for it. Also, being a math professor, something you may not fully understand yet, provides a decent amount of social respect and standing. But as for math itself? I don’t particularly like it. Solving problems doesn’t really interest me.”

“If math is about solving problems, then it seems a bit more appealing. I happen to like that sort of thing.”

“Well, in that case, our perspectives on problem-solving are quite different, Sherlock.”

Another brief silence followed. It wasn’t an awkward response, yet both instinctively felt the need for a moment of quiet. Sherlock didn’t yet know why.

But because she found the silence uncomfortable, and because she felt it would be a waste to spend time learning something boring from this extraordinary man, Sherlock cautiously spoke again.

“By the way… do I really need to learn something? Honestly, just talking with you like this is fun enough for me. Don’t you feel the same, Mr. Moriarty?”

“Well, I do find it enjoyable. That’s no lie.”

“Right? So instead of learning something dull, why not—yes, why not teach me intuition? How do you develop intuition?”

So young. Truly still just a child.

Moriarty thought this as he looked at the whining girl. Of course, given her age, it was only natural. But this girl was Sherlock Holmes.

Why was he so focused on this young girl before him? The reason eluded him, strange as it was.

Yet one thing was certain: this girl was undoubtedly someone who could alleviate his boredom.

How dull and insignificant the past twenty years of his life had been. In that sense, the coming year spent teaching this remarkable girl would undoubtedly prove far more meaningful.

But it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t say exactly what he was comparing it to, but in his view, the girl was still lacking.

It was only natural since she was a child. However, if she were to grow into the world-renowned detective of the future, he felt it was necessary to provide her with the right guidance. Of course, he couldn’t teach her everything.

Yet Moriarty was certain of one thing: this girl was the most brilliant person he had ever met. With just a bit of direction, she would undoubtedly carve her own path forward.

He didn’t understand why, standing on the threshold of a mundane, uninspired life as a math professor, he felt so compelled to do this. But he was certain of it.

In truth, the correct way to put it was that he hadn’t thought that far ahead.

Rationally, there was no real reason for him to go to such lengths for the girl before him. Even so, he didn’t stop.

“Learning something can be boring, that’s true. But if you really want to develop your intuition and put it to use, you should devote yourself to learning anything and everything with diligence.”

“What does that mean?”

Moriarty paused for a moment, lost in thought. Then, as if savoring a mystery he knew would intrigue her, he spoke.

“A murder scene is discovered by our detective, Sherlock. The body shows clear signs of having been shot. You observe the scene and begin to uncover clues that the foolish Scotland Yard officers overlooked, one by one.”

As soon as he started speaking, Moriarty could feel Sherlock’s sparkling eyes fixed on him. Her fascination only grew as he continued.

He glanced at her briefly as he spoke. She was following his every move, tilting her head in time with his own, much like a curious young fox. He had to suppress a smile.

“Then, Sherlock, you discover a new clue. The foolish officers seem to have forgotten to examine the wall. It’s an easy spot to miss, but you find writing in the victim’s blood on the wall—a phrase, clearly left by the murderer.”

“What does it say?”

Sherlock swallowed hard, urging her teacher to continue as she leaned forward in anticipation. Moriarty, enjoying her eagerness, finally spoke.

“Five letters. R. A. C. H. E. RACHE. Now, Sherlock, what could the killer have intended with this message?”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled. There was no doubt in her mind—Mr. Moriarty was truly a remarkable person. She had never met someone, let alone an adult, who matched her so well.

Of course, someone might point out that an eight-year-old girl hadn’t had the opportunity to meet many people yet. That was only natural.

But Sherlock was certain. This man would undoubtedly remain one of the most extraordinary people in her life, someone she would remember until her dying day.

Determined to solve the riddle her teacher had posed, she began thinking intently. Though only a few seconds had passed, her brilliant mind rapidly considered every possibility.

It was something an ordinary person could never do.

Slowly, yet cautiously, the girl opened her mouth to speak.