Professor Holmes is not a villain.

Reichenbach Falls

“In the end, it comes to this.”

Reincarnated Professor James Moriarty gazed down at the waterfall, reminiscing about the time he faced Holmes.

But sadly, the cold-hearted detective spoke.

“Please give up now, Professor.”

“Give up?”

Moriarty unknowingly let out a laugh as if mocking Holmes. However, Holmes calmly spoke again.

“You taught me to live rationally, so I’m telling you this. You already know it’s all over, don’t you? Please act rationally, Professor.”

“Rationally?”

Holmes shrugged lightly. However, Moriarty, seeing her look, which was like that of a hunter, couldn’t help but take a step back, almost as if pulled toward the edge of the cliff.

“Humans are weak, so they must have children for immortality. And by coincidence, you, Professor, possess a mind that I acknowledge, or rather, one that would be the most compatible with mine in Europe. If we think of the laws of genetics, it would be efficient for you and I to have a child together.”

“Hah!”

He sneered, but Holmes continued.

“I’m saying this rationally. Of course, you will have to go to prison as a criminal. But I can prevent your execution. After all, those in high places probably don’t want that either. So, all you need to do is look at me. In a small prison where only I can enter, all you need to do is look at me. The woman, Moran, being by your side bothered me a bit, but you’re a compassionate person, aren’t you? Nothing happened with Watson, so I can trust you. A compassionate man like you and a virgin like me will have an excellent child to carry on the future. Isn’t this an efficient solution for society?”

He could see the flames of desire in Holmes’ eyes as she gazed at him. But because of this, he couldn’t help but feel self-deprecating.

Perhaps, he thought, a day like this might come. But now, witnessing this final moment, he couldn’t help but let out a hollow laugh.

At Reichenbach Falls, the famous detective Sherlock Holmes and London’s greatest criminal Professor James Moriarty were glaring at each other.

Meeting with Holmes was the worst (1)

All the wicked things in the world are made by the English.

This was one of the few things James Moriarty, the reincarnate, could still remember from his previous life. But he was certain that the person who said this knew nothing about the English.

If someone truly knew the English, they would understand that it’s not the wicked things that the English make, but that the English themselves are wicked beings.

Even the sight before him in this dream served as proof of that.

There were times when dreams were hard to distinguish from reality, but he could always tell when he was dreaming. Unlike the other fools, he knew he was the only one with ordinary intelligence.

Above all, the sight before him could only be explained if it were a dream.

“Jimmy, look straight ahead, focus! I told you not to move or you’ll ruin the picture!”

But those thoughts were interrupted. His current mother, in her strict voice, scolded him.

It was then that Moriarty realized he had returned to his 10-year-old self. After a great famine, his family had fallen into ruin and lived in poverty, but that day, they had borrowed money to rent suits and dress up.

Naturally, he, now back to his 10-year-old self, wore a child’s suit, though it was uncomfortable and hardly fitting. He never imagined he would wear such shabby clothes even in a dream.

He couldn’t help but feel dissatisfied that he was dreaming. Though he knew it was a dream, it was uncomfortable not being able to do anything about it. But this dream would likely make him a puppet, repeating everything until the event was over.

It was boring and foolish, but he had no choice but to follow the dream’s instructions. In fact, both dreams and reality were filled with boring, foolish things and people.

The Moriarty family, including his older brother, younger brother, and parents, were all gathered together, sitting in the living room and staring straight ahead.

Moriarty understood why his mother was scolding him. To take a photo, they had to stay still. They had gone through a lot to hire a photographer for a family portrait, so even a small mistake was unacceptable.

In a world full of magic and strange steam-powered devices, he couldn’t understand why only photography had to be so outdated. He had to remain silent like a wax figure.

In that sense, he envied his younger sister, who was lying on the floor in the dream.

At least she couldn’t feel discomfort because she was dead, and no one was paying attention to her as she lay still.

Yes, she was his dead sister. Unlike him, who was alive, it had been quite some time since her death, and her face was pale, her body cold and stiff. She was nothing more than a corpse lying on the floor.

He couldn’t even remember her face, so he glanced at the photographer and his mother, secretly looking down at his dead sister.

Though it was a dream, the sister he vaguely remembered seemed to be just as she was back then.

‘Was her name… Jane, or was it Sally…?’

He couldn’t quite remember her name. He was not the kind of person to feel affection for his dead younger sister.

In the dream, he never imagined that he would once again take a family photo with his deceased sister, but that was all it was.

Thinking back, even when his sister died, he didn’t feel much of anything.

His younger sister, the youngest and only daughter of the Moriarty family, was five years younger than him and was particularly annoying in how she would always follow him around. He had to treat her somewhat out of obligation, but his parents foolishly assumed they had a good relationship.

So, when his younger sister died, he had to pretend to be sad. Looking back, she was just someone who had never been of any help in his life.

But the 19th-century England he was reborn into was an era where death was widespread. By the time children reached their fifth birthday, two or three would die in every household.

His sister was included in that unfortunate number. Considering that he and his brothers survived the horrific famine that struck Ireland, it could truly be called a stroke of bad luck.

His sister was a small girl who, whether alive or dead, had no real impact.

So, at the time, he couldn’t understand his foolish brothers and sisters crying so sorrowfully, and even now, he couldn’t understand it, but being clever, he didn’t show it. In fact, he had to mimic them.

Even though he was used to a life surrounded by death, it wouldn’t have been good to openly show such a thing. Moriarty convinced himself that, since he had been reborn, he couldn’t feel any familial love for his current family.

But even he found the sensibilities of 19th-century English people to be an incomprehensible series of bizarreities.

When his sister died, his current parents, like other English families, had a maid wash the body, dress her in the best clothes, and then had someone come to take a family photo.

Just like the scene unfolding now in the dream.

It was a common experience for the English living in the Victorian era. If a child died young, the family would take a picture with the deceased child’s body, or with the stiffened body of a deceased parent.

It was supposedly meant to honor and remember the deceased, but it was a bizarre and inefficient way to do so.

He could never understand the meaning of the act of applying makeup to the dead sister’s body to make the photo come out well, or propping her up with a bouquet of flowers to indicate she was deceased, all while laying her on the floor as though asleep.

However, the existence of his dead sister was useful in this instance.

He only had one younger sister, and since she was the only one dead, he could immediately tell he was dreaming.

Unless something like the revival of the dead occurred, just like in the grotesque novels that fools read, the act of taking a family photo with his deceased sister would never happen again.

“Now, let’s take one more shot, Mrs. Moriarty. And Mr. Moriarty, how about changing your pose? Kneel beside Miss Jane, yes, that’s it. Gently look down at her as you normally would, so it’s easier to remember her.”

From the photographer’s chatter, it seemed his sister’s name was Jane.

However, the boredom didn’t fade. He tried to stifle a yawn and continued waiting for when he would wake up from the dream.

Fortunately, the dream didn’t last long. Perhaps because he had realized it was a dream, the scenery soon began to blur. And from afar, a voice from reality could be heard.

“Moriarty, wake up.”

“…How long have I been asleep?”

“About 20 minutes. We didn’t wake you up on purpose, since there were a few others who collapsed from drinking anyway.”

Rubbing his eyes, Moriarty turned toward the voice, and as always, he saw a familiar foolish face. He didn’t quite remember the name. In fact, he had never lived in such a foolish manner that he couldn’t remember people’s names, but the person in front of him was no different from all the other fools, so there was no need to remember the name.

Of course, the other person didn’t have telepathy, so Moriarty spoke.

Unlike himself, it was clear that the person thought they were on friendly terms. Of course, he didn’t bother correcting the misunderstanding. That misunderstanding often worked in his favor.

“Did Dodgson, the stammerer, annoy you yesterday?”

“Not really. We just talked about life after graduation.”

Professor Charles Dodgson was a professor of mathematics at Christ Church, Oxford, where they studied. While he wasn’t truly a stammerer, his shy personality led him to stutter during meetings, so mischievous students often called him a stammerer.

When the topic of life after graduation came up, the other person spoke with interest. Unlike Moriarty, who had graduated early, he still had more time left at the university.

“If I were you, I would’ve stayed at school and kept researching. You’d be getting paid, and the professor position would be guaranteed for you.”

“…I’m thinking of taking a sabbatical. And Dodgson said that if I publish a good paper or two, they might give me a position. He kind of likes me.”

“So, have you thought about the job I mentioned? If you’re going to do nothing, why not spend a year making money? Teaching kids, you’d have plenty of time left.”

Moriarty fell silent for a moment, considering. It was due to a small dilemma.

The other person’s words weren’t wrong.

It was boring, but he had a decent path laid out for him. He was smart enough to graduate early, and though it all started with a scholarship, he had talent in mathematics. He had even been recommended by professors like Dodgson, so it was possible for him to stay at the university after graduation and prepare for a career in research and teaching.

Logically, that was what he should do. It was a small but steady salary. Given that he couldn’t expect any support from his family after the Great Famine, it was risky to take any unnecessary risks.

But he didn’t want to do that. He wanted, in an uncharacteristic way, to leave the school for a while, and he planned to do so now.

Why was that? Perhaps it was because of the boredom. His life, since being reborn, had always been boring. Ireland had been terrible, Oxford was a den of fools who thought they were smart, and London, needless to say, was full of garbage. The streets were filled with trash, and it was a city where trash lived in a boring manner.

Perhaps he had gambled in the hope that it might alleviate his boredom. But already, he sensed that the gamble had failed, and he regretted it.

He was in a position where he had to worry about making a living. So, the suggestion from the person in front of him to become a tutor was a choice he had to take.

Still, the reason he hesitated was that he didn’t like the idea of being a tutor.

Teaching foolish kids would be even more boring than spending time with old men at Oxford.

But again, he had no choice.

“I’ll do it.”

“Good, I knew you’d say yes. I’ve already told Holmes about it.”

“…Holmes?”

“Oh, I didn’t mention it? It’s to tutor Holmes’s second son.”

The person continued to babble while sipping on his beer, but Moriarty didn’t listen.

He found himself muttering Holmes’s name over and over. Perhaps it wouldn’t be boring after all, he thought.

However, even he couldn’t have imagined the existence of Sherlock Holmes, the youngest daughter of the Holmes family, when he went to tutor for the job.