Professor Holmes is not a villain.

The maid Sally, who single-handedly managed almost all the household chores in the Holmes household, couldn’t help but be surprised at the rare sight of young Miss Sherlock.

At seventeen, like many maids in her position, Sally worked as a housemaid earning fifteen pounds a year, solely responsible for running the Holmes vicarage.

The work was grueling, but fortunately, the Holmes family of four were all kind-hearted. In particular, Mrs. Holmes was naturally gentle and incapable of being harsh.

However, the Holmes children each had their peculiarities. Master Mycroft, for instance, was usually so unmotivated that he caused little trouble, but the youngest daughter, Miss Sherlock, was somewhat of a challenge.

This didn’t mean Miss Sherlock was malicious by nature. In fact, from living with her, Sally could tell that the young lady was inherently kind.

However, there were moments when Miss Sherlock exhibited traits that were uncharacteristic of a girl her age and, at times, downright strange.

Running around like a tomboy, completely oblivious to the mud covering her from head to toe, wasn’t all that unusual. After all, she was only eight years old, and at that age, the line between boys and girls was often blurred.

What stood out, however, was how Miss Sherlock sometimes seemed almost magical in her ability to deduce various things about Sally, to the point of being suspiciously accurate.

At first, Sally had wondered if Miss Sherlock might be like those rare individuals said to be born as witches.

She later learned she wasn’t the only one with such thoughts—Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had even had their daughter examined. The results revealed that while Miss Sherlock had fae ancestry, she was otherwise an ordinary human.

Given her somewhat unusual nature, it was surprising to see Miss Sherlock sitting so quietly in her room today, waiting for someone.

“…Are you really waiting for Mr. Moriarty like this?” 

“Yes. Mycroft’s lesson still has twenty minutes left, Sally.” 

Sally couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the young lady quietly waiting for Mr. Moriarty.

After all, she herself had admired a dashing young college student when she was that age.

“Well, it makes sense. Mr. Moriarty is handsome. And did you know? He’s going to become a professor at Oxford soon! Handsome, with a bright future—I mean, how could someone like me not find him interesting?”

“…Sally, you?”

For a moment, Sally didn’t notice the flicker of fire that sparked in Sherlock’s eyes. In truth, even Sherlock herself wasn’t fully aware of the feeling, so Sally couldn’t be blamed.

But soon enough, like a child upset at someone for taking her toy, Sherlock grumbled at Sally, who, understanding it all, simply finished her cleaning and left the young lady’s room.

The expected time arrived.

A knock sounded from beyond the tightly closed door. Sherlock, who was well-acquainted with the subtle habits and footsteps of everyone in the household, immediately knew it was Mr. Moriarty.

She jumped up instinctively, her face lighting up with a bright smile as she moved to open the door and greet him. But as soon as she realized how childish her actions seemed, she forced herself to put on a neutral expression, determined to act as though she hadn’t been waiting for him at all, and greeted him with practiced composure.

“Welcome, Mr. Moriarty.”

“From today, you should call me ‘teacher.’”

But the girl was still just a child. Despite her efforts to maintain a calm demeanor, there was an unmistakable hint of excitement in her voice as she welcomed Moriarty into her room. Noticing this, Moriarty simply smiled.

“All right, teacher, Mr. Moriarty! Is that good enough? Now, hurry and tell me, how did you know my mother wouldn’t buy me candy?”

“Are you still curious? Don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out yet, Miss Holmes.”

“…Just call me Sherlock. I have figured it out… I just want to hear it directly from you, Mr. Moriarty!”

“Is that so? Then why don’t you share your reasoning first?”

There was a brief silence.

Moriarty couldn’t help but acknowledge how truly fascinating and entertaining this small girl was. She was a delight to tease.

She was undoubtedly a clever child, but she was inexperienced. He didn’t blame her for that inexperience; it was simply a result of her youth, not the stupidity he loathed in others.

That didn’t mean he refrained from teasing her, of course. Even now, as the girl hesitated and fidgeted, struggling to argue back against his playful provocations, Moriarty found himself smiling.

Finally, the brilliant girl admitted defeat in a manner that was oddly mature for her age. More accurately, her boundless curiosity had overcome everything else.

“Phew… Fine, I’ll admit it, I couldn’t figure it out. So please, just tell me, teacher. After all, it’s your job to teach me, isn’t it? So, hurry up and explain.”

“…Before that, how about we formally introduce ourselves first, Sherlock? Everything has an order, after all. Even though I volunteered to teach you without pay, there are still rules to follow. I’m James Moriarty, 21 years old, a university graduate, and an aspiring mathematician. My likes… well, I don’t particularly have any. Dislikes? Certainly fools, and of course, boredom.”

“That last part is just like me. I see—you’re quite special too, teacher.”

Children often feel a burst of happiness when they discover similarities with others. If Sherlock had been able to read this thought, she might have snapped at Moriarty in an effort to keep pretending to be an adult.

But instead, she nodded and smiled, looking every bit her eight-year-old self.

“So, your introduction?”

“Well, as you know, I’m Sherlock Holmes, and I’m eight years old. My favorite things are observing, playing outside, and adventure novels. Of course, Mother disapproves, saying girls shouldn’t read such things, but I secretly use my allowance to buy them anyway. My dislikes are the same as yours, Mr. Moriarty.”

“I figured you’d like those things. You seem particularly excited about detective stories, little detective. That’s probably why you questioned me about being a villain. Ah, let me say again—I’m not a villain, Sherlock.”

The so-called penny dreadfuls—serial novels published in magazines—were inexpensive, costing only a penny per issue, and were often referred to as such. To attract readers, they focused on sensational stories, filled with tales of the bizarre, crimes, murders, and detectives, works that cultured people often found appalling, yet they dominated the British publishing world.

Though sometimes criticized as vulgar, these novels often outsold even the bestsellers of the famous Charles Dickens. Moriarty was, of course, aware of them.

After all, young Sherlock’s behavior, mimicking a child detective, questioning and suspecting Moriarty of being a villain, bore a striking resemblance to the detectives in such stories.

But Sherlock wasn’t oblivious to the fact that she was being teased. Her face flushed, and she grumbled in protest.

“That—that’s not important! Anyway, just tell me already. We’ve finished our introductions, haven’t we?”

“I’m supposed to teach you reading, writing, and some basic mathematics—”

“Oh, teacher!”

As Moriarty tried to deflect the conversation again, Sherlock couldn’t contain herself. She stood up, raising her voice.

Perhaps it was her way of expressing anger. But to others, it looked no more than a tantrum from an eight-year-old girl.

What’s more, given that Sherlock was a pretty young girl, her display of indignation came across as more endearing, like a cute animal striking an unthreatening pose.

Moriarty had to stifle a laugh. Yet, he could tell she was on the verge of genuinely getting upset.

Pushing her too far wouldn’t do. Teasing required balance—a mix of jest and reward. Moriarty quietly began to speak.

Realizing her tutor was finally about to reveal the answer she sought, Sherlock slowly sat back down, her eyes gleaming as she focused intently on his every word.

“It was your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

Sherlock blinked, repeating his words unconsciously.

Her eyes were often described as gem-like. Though gray in color, thanks to her fae ancestry, a fiery red glint occasionally flickered near her pupils, depending on her emotions.

Moriarty continued.

“Your observational stance is impressive, but you don’t yet realize that sometimes, while you’re observing others, they might be observing you. When you quickly glanced at me and my room, even for just a moment, I saw your gaze linger on my desk. On that desk were only my notes and a jar of lemon candies.”

“…I might have been trying to observe your notes. Just because I look like an eight-year-old girl doesn’t mean my mind isn’t mature.”

“Do you believe that explanation yourself?”

“…Please, continue.”

“I met your mother the first time I came here. She’s an ordinary person, perhaps a good mother to you, but someone who doesn’t quite match you. She’s a dull person. Also, this is a vicar’s household, isn’t it? They live a somewhat austere life, with a certain strictness. Up to this point, it’s largely a matter of intuition, but are you following?”

“…Intuition, huh. You truly are qualified to be my tutor, Mr. Moriarty. But even so, that alone doesn’t seem enough to connect it to my mother forbidding me from having candy.”

“When you and I first met, don’t think about my appearance, think about yourself, Sherlock. You were covered in mud from playing outside. From the perspective of a strict person, it was rude behavior. You immediately accused a guest of being a villain and barged into the guest room. Just from this, Sherlock, you’re clearly the mischievous youngest daughter of the household, aren’t you? A strict vicar’s wife and a rambunctious youngest daughter, what kind of relationship would they have? It’s obvious. This isn’t exactly uncommon.”

“So, what about the candy?”

Moriarty fell silent for a moment, meeting the girl’s gaze directly. Then, with perfect nonchalance, he said:

“That was just an intuitive guess.”

“…What? That’s it?”

“But I was right, wasn’t I, Sherlock? Little detective, you’re still young, don’t argue otherwise. Eight years old is young, after all. That’s why, for the short time we’ll have together, less than a year, you’ll learn things like this. What do you think?”

In response to Mr. Moriarty’s words, Sherlock didn’t answer but nodded her head.

The girl couldn’t help it. She found herself staring at the man before her, almost as if in a trance.

It was a childlike expression. As though she had discovered an idol or was a child meeting Santa Claus in real life, she fixed her gaze on the young man before her, trying to take in everything about him.

Special. Truly a special person.

That’s what Sherlock thought. And because of that, she wanted to learn, to get closer, to know more. It was a very childlike thought.

Of course, not everything about it could be called childish. But as Mr. Moriarty had said, an eight-year-old girl simply didn’t have enough time or experience to realize these things yet.

Moriarty, satisfied with Sherlock’s reaction, nodded as well. Though even he couldn’t know everything.

Sometimes, even the smartest people made the most foolish mistakes.

If Moriarty truly was Holmes’s nemesis, he would have realized how foolish his actions were now.

What he was doing was quite literally nurturing his greatest enemy—one who might eventually bring about his downfall.

But he had no intention of becoming a villain. None at all. Such a role was far too dull.

Compared to teaching the girl before him, it would be excruciatingly boring and utterly meaningless.