FOR GOD'S SAKE WOULD YOU STOP BEING SO ENGLISH?!

The pub is warmer than the streets outside, thick with the scent of smoke, old wood, and spilled ale.

Rain taps softly against the darkened windows, blurring the gaslit street beyond into molten streaks of gold.

It is precisely the sort of place one comes when one has no wish to be found.

Which is why the familiar Irish voice behind you nearly sends your drink sloshing over the rim.

“So this is where you run to.”

Your fingers still around the glass.

Slowly, you turn on the barstool.

And there he is.

James Moriarty stands just behind your shoulder, dark curls dampened by the mist outside, coat collar turned up against the cold, the high color in his cheeks betraying the bite of the evening air. Candlelight from the sconces catches the sharp cut of his face, turning his smile into something far too devious for the hour.

“How on earth did you find me?”

His grin widens as he slips into the stool beside you without so much as asking permission, as though occupying your evening had become a habit.

“I bribed Penny.”

Of course he did.

A short laugh escapes as you lift your glass. “Should I even ask how?”

One dark brow rises.

You tilt your head, studying him over the rim of your drink.

“I assume it involved some shameless display of charm.” Your gaze drifts pointedly over his face. “Perhaps you seduced the information out of her?”

The delight that moves through his expression is almost indecent.

“I am flattered that you should imagine me in such a compromising position.” His accent curls warmly around the words, made richer by the close quarters of the bar.

Before you can answer, he lifts the glass from where you have just set it down and takes an unapologetic sip.

From your drink.

Your stare hardens at once.

“Do not get ahead of yourself.”

His mouth curves against the rim before he lowers it, far too pleased with himself.

“Never.”

Then, with a small clearing of his throat that feels almost theatrical, he relents.

“I simply allowed her to send a sketch of me home to her mother.”

You blink.

He delivers it with such gravity that for one absurd second it almost sounds reasonable.

“She wished to assure her mum,” he goes on, solemn as a priest, “that she had at last secured a suitor at university.”

The laugh that escapes you this time is impossible to contain.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, entirely.” His grin deepens. “I even gave her my better side.”

One finger traces the left side of his jaw with such deliberate vanity that it nearly sends you into another fit of laughter.

“How utterly absurd.”

“And yet,” he replies, settling one elbow against the bar and angling himself a little closer, “it was sufficient to purchase your location.”

Your fingers tighten around the reclaimed glass.

“And now that you have found me,” you ask, turning just enough on the stool for your knees to nearly brush, “what exactly do you intend to do with the information?”

For once, his answer does not come at once.

His gaze moves over your face, slower now, less playful and somehow more dangerous for it.

“At first,” he begins, “I thought perhaps I only wished to prove that I could.”

“And now?”

For a moment, he only looks at you.

“And now,” he admits, a faint smile pulling at one corner of his mouth, “I find myself at a rare loss.”

His attention lingers on your eyes as though he means to uncover something tucked just beneath them.

“As to what my next move ought to be.”

“Mr. Moriarty.” You lean one elbow onto the bar with a small sigh. “You did not truly imagine my impossible game would be so easily won.”

“One was certainly allowed to hope.”

“Hope,” you echo, lifting a hand to signal the barkeep for another round, “is a dangerous thing.”

He watches you with renewed intrigue as two fresh glasses are set before you.

You slide one toward him.

“Then answer me this.”

His fingers close around the offered drink, though he does not lift it yet.

“Where have you been these past few days?”

You take a measured sip of your own before continuing.

“It is rather suspicious that on the very night of your little display at the party, those scrolls vanish from the library.”

“You believe I stole them?”

“No.” The answer comes too quickly to be doubted. “You and your friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, cleared your names of that particular accusation well enough.”

You take another slow swallow, then glance at him over the rim of the glass.

“And then the two of you just so happen to appear at the very same gathering where there is a bomb at my fa—”

The word catches.

You stop yourself too late.

A small silence opens between you.

You recover by lifting your glass again.

“At Hodge’s little gala,” you finish, smooth enough that someone else might have missed the slip.

James lets the silence breathe for a moment. You do not miss the way his eyes narrow, not at the accusation, but at the word you nearly let loose. He heard it. Of course he did.

“You think I planted the bomb?”

He moves past the slip with deliberate grace, though some of the amusement has gone out of him now.

“I do not take you for a madman,” you return evenly. “But I do take you for the sort of person who enjoys placing himself far too close to trouble.”

You lean in, lowering your voice.

“And I think you have a habit of sticking your nose where it does not belong.”

A beat passes before you finish.

“While your friend keeps taking the blame for it.”

James turns the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid shift before he looks back at you.

“You are very interested in where I go.”

You lift your glass, the rim hovering just below your mouth as you hold his stare.

“Only because destruction has an unfortunate habit of following in your wake.”

Your eyes flick pointedly to the hand wrapped around his drink, then return to his face.

“And I have developed a particular interest in avoiding the blast radius.”

“Is that what you are doing?” He leans a fraction closer, voice gone quieter now. “Avoiding me?”

The question lands with far too much intimacy for something put so delicately.

You refuse to look away.

“No,” you deny, matching his tone. “I am merely deciding whether standing near you is worth the risk.”

“And your verdict?”

You tilt your head, letting your eyes drag down his face, to his lips, then back up. 

"The jury is still out."

The next morning, the dining hall feels wrong, dimmer somehow, as though even the tall windows have chosen to let in less light.

Word of Professor Thompson’s murder has already spread through the college like smoke, seeping into every corridor, every lecture room, every whispered exchange. By breakfast, the story has hardened into something uglier still:

Sherlock Holmes has been arrested for it.

None of it makes sense.

And yet around you, the room hums with certainty. Students whisper in scandalized undertones, already reshaping the story into something neat, cruel, and easily digestible. Even Bucephalus Hodge, seated at the front beneath the full weight of his own authority, wears the grave, satisfied expression of a man convinced he is right.

Of course he does.

Your attention drifts toward the dais just in time to catch Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft Holmes, in quiet but visibly strained conversation with Hodge. Mycroft’s posture remains rigidly composed, but frustration shows plainly across his face when he finally turns away.

So his appeal for Sherlock’s innocence has changed nothing.

A few moments later, Hodge rises as well, gathering his papers with the air of a man eager to be elsewhere.

Then movement from the opposite table catches your eye.

James.

He pushes back from his seat and heads straight for Hodge.

A terrible mistake.

Since the scrolls vanished, he has already been moving across perilously thin ice with the dean. The loss of his scholarship was punishment enough. Now his name has been dragged through suspicion as well, and every eye in the university seems to be waiting for him to misstep.

And still, he goes.

What unsettles you most is that he does not wear his usual confidence. There is no sly smile, no amused defiance, none of that infuriating ease he seems to carry into every room. He approaches with something far less familiar written across his face.

Something almost uncertain.

You cannot make out the first few words, but the moment he steps into Hodge’s path, your pulse kicks hard.

Then James reaches out, fingertips brushing the dean’s sleeve to stop him from passing.

Hodge recoils as though struck.

“Do not put your hands on me, Moriarty.”

The words crack through the hall.

James goes still.

For the first time since you met him, he looks genuinely shaken.

“Sorry, sir.” The apology leaves him too quickly, as though even he despises the sound of it.

Hodge draws himself up, already aware of the audience gathering around the spectacle.

“Let us be honest,” he begins coolly. “You have always struggled to fit in here, have you not?”

A wince catches somewhere beneath your ribs.

James swallows and squares his shoulders despite the flush climbing beneath his collar. “I believe I belong here, sir.”

There is something in the quiet dignity of it that makes your chest ache.

You have spent weeks mistrusting him, sparring with him, circling him as though he were a threat waiting to happen.

But no one deserves this.

Hodge raises his voice, making certain every word carries.

“I believe you would do yourself a great service by packing your bags and leaving. Your time at Oxford is over, Mr. Moriarty. Goodbye.”

The sentence lands like an execution.

James steps in front of him again, and this time the desperation shows through the cracks.

His hand presses lightly to the dean’s chest.

“I will do anything, sir. Please—”

“Goddamn it, man.” Hodge jerks back. “Unhand me.”

The hall goes still. Forks pause halfway to mouths. Conversations die unfinished. Every eye turns.

Against every instinct telling you to remain where you are, you rise.

“That is enough.”

Your chair scrapes loudly against the stone floor.

Hodge turns. So does James. And the look on his face—stunned, almost disbelieving—only steadies your resolve.

“He was exonerated of every suspicion,” you call, already crossing the room toward them. “On what grounds do you believe you have the right to revoke his scholarship?”

James shifts toward you at once, panic flashing behind his eyes. “No. Please. You do not need to do this.”

You do not so much as glance his way.

Hodge points toward your abandoned seat. “Return to your table.”

You stop directly in front of him.

“If you revoke his scholarship,” you declare, making certain your voice reaches the furthest corners of the hall, “then I am afraid you must submit yourself to the same standard.”

A murmur ripples outward at once.

Hodge’s face tightens. “What exactly do you mean?”

You take one step closer, close enough now to see the first real crack in his composure.

“I mean that if you intend to strip a completely innocent man of a scholarship he rightfully earned, then you must also strip me of the one I never did.”

Confusion flickers visibly through the room.

“You are making no sense.” Even Hodge’s voice wavers.

A humorless smile touches your mouth. “Oh, I think I am.”

You draw in one breath, the kind that changes everything.

“The only reason I am here at all,” you announce, your voice ringing through the hall clear and irreversible, “is because I am your daughter.”

The words land like a thunderclap.

A fork clatters onto a plate.

Then another.

Whispers erupt at once, hissing through the room in stunned, disbelieving waves.

James does not move.

He only looks at you as though he has never seen you before.

And perhaps, in a way, he has not.

“Is that truly what you want?”

Hodge’s glare pins you where you stand.

For the first time, the full cost of what you have done crashes over you. Your throat tightens. Tears press at the backs of your eyes, not for the scholarship, not even for Oxford itself, but for the final snapping of something that had always been frayed between you and the man standing at the center of the room.

Your father.

Though if you are honest, there was never much of a father there to begin with.

Still, the severing hurts.

You force yourself to hold his gaze and give one final nod. “It is what is fair.”

The words cost you more than you let show.

Hodge studies you for another beat, as though weighing whether you might still falter.

You do not.

At last, his expression hardens.

“Then you may both do yourselves a favor,” he replies, his voice clipped and final, “and pack your things. Leave at once.”

The words strike like poison.

And with that, he turns and walks from the hall without so much as a backward glance.

The doors close behind him with a dull, echoing thud.

The aftermath settles over the room like dust after an explosion. Every eye remains fixed on the two of you.

Beside you, James turns slowly toward the hall at large.

“What are you all looking at?” The words ring into the silence with brutal clarity. “You fucking sheep.”

The room recoils.

A few heads dip. Others hurry to look anywhere but at the two of you.

“James.”

You step closer, the sound of his name cutting through the charged quiet.

He turns back to you at once.

The anger is still there, but it shifts the moment his eyes find your face. It softens, or perhaps merely changes direction.

Your pulse still races. Your hands are colder than they should be. The reality of what you have done is only just beginning to settle into your bones.

You gesture toward the doors with the faintest tilt of your head. “Come on.”

For a moment, he only watches you, as though trying to reconcile the girl from the pub, the girl from the party, with the one who has just burned down her own future in front of the entire university.

Then, without another word, he falls into step beside you.

And together, beneath the weight of a hundred stares and a life neither of you can return to, you walk out of the hall.

About an hour later, you find yourself outside his room.

The corridor is quieter here, far removed from the stunned whispers still no doubt ricocheting through the dining hall below. For one suspended moment, your hand hovers over the wood before you finally knock.

“Come in.”

His voice reaches you through the door, tight and brittle, stretched thin enough to snap.

You set your bag down outside and step inside.

The room looks as though a storm has passed through it. Drawers hang open. Books are stacked in crooked towers across the desk and floor. Shirts, loose pages, and half-folded belongings vanish into a travel satchel with all the care of someone trying very hard not to dwell on what he is leaving behind.

James glances up only once.

Whatever moves across his face at the sight of you seems only to make his motions rougher. Another shirt disappears into the bag. A stack of papers follows.

“You should not have done that.”

The words come out flat, each one forced past a jaw wound too tight.

You ease the door shut behind you. “And why, exactly, should I not have?”

A bitter laugh leaves him. “Do not do that.”

You remain where you are, fingers still resting against the door. “Do what?”

He turns on you then, finally facing you fully, dark curls already falling loose where his hands have clearly been dragged through them too many times.

“Act as though you do not know what I mean.”

The room seems to draw inward around the space between you.

You lift your chin. “Then enlighten me.”

“Throwing away your scholarship. Your place here. Whatever miserable thread still tied you to Hodge.” His voice catches for the briefest instant before hardening again. “All of it.”

You fold your arms across your chest. “And it troubles you because?”

For the first time since you entered, he hesitates.

It is only a moment, but it exposes the thing beneath the anger. For one dangerous second, it seems he may actually tell you the truth. Instead, he turns away so abruptly the satchel nearly tips. A book lands at the bottom harder than necessary.

“Because it was reckless.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “Reckless?” You push away from the door and move farther into the room. “That is a remarkable accusation coming from you.”

He spins back around at once.

“Yes, reckless. Stupid, if you would prefer the honest word.”

Your eyes narrow. “Stupid of me?”

“Yes.” He steps closer, close enough now that the force of his anger feels almost tangible. “Stupid of you to throw your entire future away for—”

“I did not do it for you.”

You cut him off before he can finish, the words landing faster, and harsher, than even you intended.

The change in him is small, but devastating.

Something in his face gives way, as though the answer has struck a place he had not meant to reveal. He looks away first, turning back to the satchel as though he can bury the reaction beneath movement.

When he speaks again, the words come slower, drawn from somewhere deeper than anger.

“Then why did you?”

You take another step forward until there is hardly any room left between you.

“Because he was wrong.” Your voice holds, but only just. “Because I was tired of standing there while he decided who deserves to stay and who deserves to go, as though people are pieces on his board.”

James lifts his eyes to yours. The anger remains, but now something else burns beside it.

“No,” you continue, holding his gaze and refusing to retreat from the truth as it rises between you. “I destroyed it because I was tired of pretending his power over me meant more than my conscience.”

His breathing stills.

For once, the clever answer does not come.

He studies your face as though trying to find the exact point where obligation ends and something far more personal begins, and from the look in his eyes, he has no idea what to do with what he finds there.

So you spare him the effort.

“Besides…”

You break the stare first and turn toward the door before the room can tighten any further around the two of you.

The door swings open. Your bag waits exactly where you left it in the corridor. You scoop it up and sling it over your shoulder with practiced ease.

“I am already packed.”

When you turn back, his gaze drops to the bag, then slowly returns to your face.

You give one careless shrug, as though you have not just detonated both your futures in the span of a single morning.

“So,” you ask, leaning lightly against the open doorway, “where are we off to?”

His brows pull together. “We?”

You tilt your head. “Well, I assume your immediate plan involves rescuing your friend from prison, and life here has become unbearably dull.” A faint smile touches your mouth. “So, as yet another favor you now owe me…”

He drags a hand through his hair and lets out a breath that almost resembles a laugh. “I should have known this was somehow part of your impossible little game.”

“Only partially.” You step back into the hall. “The rest is simple self-preservation. I have already ruined my life. I may as well make it interesting.”

That earns you a look.

Then he reaches for the satchel on the bed, slings it over his shoulder, and follows you into the corridor.

The two of you stand there for a moment, expelled, disgraced, and somehow more alive than either of you has felt in weeks.

“Now,” you begin, starting down the hall without waiting to see whether he follows, already knowing he will, “where exactly is Sherlock?”

James falls into step beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as you head for the stairs.

“If I tell you,” he asks, glancing sideways, “does that count toward paying off one favor?”

You smile without looking at him. “Not even close.”

And beside you, his laugh follows the two of you down the corridor like the first crack of light after a storm.

The rain comes down in sheets as the two of you make your way through town, turning the cobbled streets slick and gleaming beneath the gray afternoon sky.

Within minutes, the hems of your skirts are damp, your hair beginning to curl from the mist, and your bag grows heavier with every hurried step.

James glances sideways at you, takes in the state of the storm, and, without a word, shrugs out of his jacket.

Before you can protest, he settles it over your shoulders and promptly steals your bag from your hand.

“There,” he decides, already adjusting the strap over his own shoulder.

You pull the jacket closer, the lingering warmth of him still trapped in the fabric, and lift part of it over your head against the downpour.

James moves nearer as the two of you hurry beneath the awnings of shuttered shops and the narrow shelter of alley overhangs.

“I’ll find somewhere for you to stay,” he calls over the storm, pitching his voice above the rain, “and then I’ll sort myself out.”

“Oh.”

He slows at once, boots splashing through a shallow puddle, then turns to look at you properly.

“Oh?” One brow rises.

You tighten your fingers in the borrowed jacket.

“Nothing.” You shake your head, though your steps falter as well. “I only thought…”

He waits.

Rain drums steadily against the awning above you, casting the two of you into a small, suspended pocket of privacy in the middle of the storm.

“What did you think?”

The question comes softer than usual, less teasing than curious.

You are the one who looks away first, your attention catching on the blurred figures rushing past with umbrellas and parcels, on anything but the way he is watching you.

“Well,” you admit, attempting casualness and failing rather badly, “I do not exactly wish to be on my own.”

For a moment, all you hear is the rain.

James says nothing. Then he steps closer beneath the awning, close enough that the weather can no longer reach either of you.

“Alright.” The answer is simple, but certain. “Then you won’t be.”

Your eyes lift to his.

He shifts your bag higher on his shoulder and tips his head toward the street ahead, where a narrow lane disappears between two bookshops.

Just then, a figure slips from what looks to be the side entrance of a nearby theatre, disappearing into the rain with hurried purpose and leaving the door swinging carelessly behind them.

Your gaze snaps to James.

His is already on you.

The same thought passes between you at once.

A grin begins to tug at your mouth. “Well, that seems suspiciously convenient.”

His expression turns instantly wicked.

“My favorite kind of convenient.”

The two of you cross the lane at once, moving through the rain with the easy confidence of people who have never had much respect for locked doors or private property.

The theatre’s side entrance gives with almost no resistance.

Inside, the world changes.

The storm dulls to a softened hush beyond the walls, replaced by the faint scent of dust, velvet, and old wood. Somewhere deeper in the building, footsteps echo and then fade, leaving the backstage corridors dim and deliciously empty.

You glance over your shoulder at James.

He looks far too pleased.

As though breaking into a theatre in the middle of a thunderstorm is exactly the sort of afternoon diversion he might have hoped for.

The two of you wander through narrow backstage passages lined with ropes, painted scenery, and abandoned set pieces until a half-open door catches your eye.

You slow.

Then push it wider.

Inside is chaos of the very best kind.

Racks of elaborate costumes spill through the room in silks, military jackets, velvet cloaks, and beaded gowns. Shelves overflow with masks, swords, candelabras, wigs, and mysterious props from a hundred unfinished stories.

A treasure trove.

You glance back at him and lower your voice into conspiratorial softness.

“Psst.”

James steps closer and peers over your shoulder into the room.

His grin appears at once.

“The penthouse suite.”

A laugh escapes you.

“I do have expensive taste.”

You throw him a wink and slip inside, disappearing between hanging coats and trailing fabrics.

The room glows beneath the soft, filtered light falling through the high backstage windows, while dust drifts through the air like flecks of gold.

Behind you, James follows, letting the door drift nearly shut.

The chill settling into your bones becomes impossible to ignore once the two of you finally stop moving.

The costume room may be dry, but your skirts still cling damply at the hem, and the rain has long since found its way beneath your sleeves. You fold your arms against the cold and let out a frustrated groan.

“I need to change before I catch my death.”

The words leave you, and only then does the full absurdity of the situation properly settle in.

You are alone in a small, dim room with a man whom, mere weeks ago, you could barely stand.

Now he is somehow the only person in the world you trust enough to be stranded with in a hidden room full of silk and secrets.

For once, James looks genuinely at a loss.

His gaze flicks toward the racks of costumes, then to the half-closed door, then back to you, as though this particular circumstance has presented itself without any useful instructions.

“I…” He lifts one hand in a vague, unfinished gesture.

You point toward the far wall. “Go stand over there.”

His brows rise.

“And face it.”

That earns the faintest movement at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You roll your eyes, though the smile threatening at your lips is harder to suppress than it ought to be.

James crosses to the other side of the room and stops beside a row of military coats and painted helmets. With exaggerated obedience, he turns to face the wall and clasps his hands behind his back like a schoolboy being punished.

Satisfied, more or less, you slip out of your damp outer layers and crouch by your bag in search of something dry.

The room stirs softly with the whisper of silk and velvet.

Behind you, James remains still.

Far too still.

Which is why the sudden sensation of being watched prickles along the back of your neck.

You pause.

Then glance over your shoulder.

And catch him staring.

Not merely looking. Staring.

His attention moves over you with shameless concentration, taking in the cinch of your waist, the rigid lines of the corset, the measured rise and fall of your breathing against its hold.

You straighten at once and plant a hand on your hip.

“Ahem.”

His throat works once.

For a rare moment, James Moriarty appears to have no answer prepared.

Then, with composure arriving just a little too late to be convincing, he inclines his head.

“In my defense…”

You lift a brow and wait.

He looks away for half a second, as though searching for some respectable end to that sentence and finding none.

“There is, admittedly, no very good conclusion to it.”

You keep your hand on your hip.

His eyes return to yours, darker now, the usual easy mischief tempered by something that sits lower and feels far less safe.

“I was only looking…” He stops, closes his eyes briefly, then shakes his head. “No. That is worse.”

“Considerably.”

“Yes.” His mouth threatens at a smile despite himself. “A disastrous opening. Allow me another attempt.”

You say nothing.

He draws a breath and gestures faintly in your direction, as though the sight of you has made language distinctly less reliable than usual.

“You are…” He stops again. Tries once more. “It was not my intention to stare.”

“Yet you did.”

“Yes.” This time he does not try to evade it.

You snatch up your wet skirt and fling it at his chest.

“Turn around.”

James catches the skirt on instinct, blinking once before a laugh escapes him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies again, this time with far more amusement than innocence, and turns obediently back toward the wall.

Not before you catch the grin tugging at his mouth, of course.

Infuriating man.

You shake your head, heat climbing into your face despite the cold, and reach back into your bag for something dry.

Behind you, his voice drifts over one shoulder.

“For the record—”

“Do stop talking,” you cut in.

“You cannot possibly be serious.”

You stare at James across the candlelit clutter of the wardrobe room, half expecting him to break into that crooked grin of his and admit this is only another one of his impossible little jokes.

He does not.

Seated opposite you atop one of the sandbags scavenged from the stage, he only gives a calm, maddening nod.

“Indeed.”

The room glows gold around him. Candlelight flickers over velvet sleeves, painted masks, and gilt helmets stacked crookedly on the shelves. Beyond the small high windows, rain still taps faintly against the glass, but in here the air has gone warm and close.

You blink at him.

“That is your plan?” you ask. “To dress as a woman and break into the prison?”

“As I have just said, yes.”

A disbelieving laugh escapes you as you push upright from where you had been perched against a trunk of costumes.

“And where, exactly, do I fit into this grand scheme?”

James leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees as though the answer ought to be obvious.

“Here.”

You wait.

He holds your gaze.

“Where it is safe.”

For a beat, you simply stare at him.

Then something hot and immediate catches fire beneath your skin.

“Safe?”

The word leaves you so quickly it nearly cracks. You rise to your feet in one furious motion, skirts stirring around your ankles as you step away from the sandbags and into the center of the room.

“Safe,” you repeat, laughing now in that dangerous way that is not laughter at all. “You think I came all this way, sacrificed my future, my name, what little remained of my reputation, hid myself away in this absurd little den with you, the most vexing man I have ever met—”

“I am touched by the distinction.”

“Do not interrupt me.”

That lands cleanly enough to silence him.

You keep going, too angry now to stop.

“And after all of that, you imagine I did it so I might sit quietly in a costume room while you run off and play the hero?”

His jaw tightens.

“It is not about heroics.”

“No, of course not. It is only the usual male disease.”

He blinks once. “I beg your pardon?”

You step closer.

“That incurable belief that because you are a man, you must therefore also be my keeper.”

James rises at once.

The movement is so immediate it sends the nearest candle flame trembling.

“That is not what this is.”

“No?” You tip your chin up at him. “Then do explain it to me, because from where I stand it looks very much like you ordering me to stay behind while you charge off and decide what risks I may or may not take.”

“I am trying to keep you alive.”

“And I am trying to remind you that my life is not yours to manage.”

The room goes still.

He takes a step toward you.

You do not retreat.

“You think this is some trifling matter of pride,” he begins, his voice lower now, every trace of flippancy burned away. “It is a prison. If something goes wrong—”

“If?” You cut across him. “With you, something is always going wrong.”

“That is precisely my point.”

“And yet you remain convinced that you are the safer choice?”

His mouth flattens.

You let your gaze travel over him with deliberate insult.

“You? In a gown?”

Irritation flashes across his face.

“Cruel.”

“No. Honest.”

“I could be convincing.”

You laugh outright. “With those shoulders?”

His eyes narrow.

“I have been called graceful.”

“By whom? The blind?”

That nearly does it.

He steps closer again, and now there is hardly a breath left between you.

“Mock me all you like,” he replies, “but you are not going.”

Your temper flares hotter at the finality in his voice.

“Do stop speaking to me as though I require permission.”

“You require protection.”

“I require a partner,” you snap, jabbing a finger into the center of his chest. “Not another man deciding he knows best.”

His eyes drop briefly to where your hand presses against him.

“And if I do know best in this instance?”

You shove him back.

Not hard enough to send him anywhere.

Hard enough to make your point.

“That,” you inform him, “is exactly the sort of thing a man says when he has run out of intelligence and must fall back on arrogance.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but there is no real humor in it.

“You think this is arrogance?”

“I think it is insufferable.”

“I think,” he fires back, stepping forward so quickly your knees nearly catch against the sandbag behind you, “that you are being deliberately impossible because you cannot bear the idea of my being right.”

You move to brush past him.

He catches your arm.

Not hard enough to hurt.

Just enough to stop you.

The force of it turns you back toward him, and in the span of a breath his face is there, far too close, candlelight flickering over the hard line of his cheekbone, the damp dark of his curls, the anger still alive in every inch of him.

“We are not finished.”

Your pulse stumbles.

You lift your chin, refusing to let him see it.

“Perhaps you are not,” you answer, though your voice comes quieter now, thinned by the sheer nearness of him. “I am.”

His fingers tighten once around your arm.

A warning.

A plea.

You cannot tell which, and that only infuriates you more.

Your gaze drops, traitorous and helpless, to his mouth.

Only for a second.

Long enough to catch the slight parting of his lips, the breath he seems to lose as though he feels the weight of your attention there.

When you lift your eyes again, he is already watching your mouth.

The room seems to recede around you. The rain softens to nothing. Even the old floorboards, forever groaning beneath the weight of the theatre, seem to hold themselves still.

There is only the unbearable awareness of his hand on your arm, and the fact that neither of you has stepped away.

“You are intolerable,” you tell him, though it leaves you sounding far too much like a confession.

“So are you.”

He leans in closer still, until the words nearly graze your lips.

Your pulse lurches hard enough to make you dizzy.

His eyes lift to yours, searching for something there—permission, perhaps, or the strength to resist—before dropping to your mouth again with a hunger so quickly restrained it becomes more dangerous for being held in check.

“Let go of me,” you whisper.

His gaze dips, and something darkly amused flickers there.

“You first.”

You frown and follow his eyes downward, only to find your hand twisted into the front of his shirt, your fist bunched tight in the fabric just below his collar.

You do not remember reaching for him.

You should let go.

You know you should.

Instead, your fingers tighten once, a tiny, involuntary pull that draws him half an inch nearer.

His breath catches.

This time you hear it.

This time you see it.

The effect of you on him burns plain as flame.

And for one suspended second, it all feels inevitable.

Your grip loosens at last, sliding from the rumpled fabric only to settle briefly against his chest as you rise onto your toes, closing what little distance remains. His eyes fall shut at once, as though he has already surrendered to whatever ruin you mean to make of him, as though every nerve in him has gone waiting and awake for your mouth.

You feel the moment he gives in.

In the hitch of his breath.

In the flex of his hand at your arm.

In the way his entire body stills around the anticipation of you.

And then, cruelly, you turn your mouth to his ear instead.

“Match point, Mr. Moriarty.”

The words ghost over his skin.

By the time he opens his eyes, you are already slipping from his reach.

You leave him standing there, stunned and breathing hard, looking as though victory has just been snatched from him at the very edge of his fingers, while you disappear behind one of the folding screens used for changing.

The divider rattles softly as you step behind it and reach for your nightgown.

“You should get some sleep,” you call, light enough to disguise the fact that your own pulse is still thundering from what nearly happened. “You have an early morning prison break to prepare for.”

Silence.

You pull the gown over your head, the fabric slipping cool over skin still overheated from him.

When you glance back over the top of the screen, he has not moved.

He is still facing the spot where you left him, shoulders drawn tight, shirt askew where your hand had fisted in it, looking less like a man than a bow strung to its limit.

At last, his voice cuts through the room, controlled only by visible effort.

“What exactly is this game of yours called?”

You pretend to consider the question as you smooth the nightgown into place.

Then you smile to yourself.

“Call it a study.”

He turns at last, just enough to see the top of your head and your eyes above the divider.

“A study in what?”

You meet his gaze over the screen.

Let him see the satisfaction in your smile.

“A study in enmity.”

taglist: (if i have missed anyone, please let me know!)

“It is with great delight that I announce this term,” Bucephalus Hodge proclaims from the front of the dining hall, his voice carrying easily over the glitter of silverware and the afternoon light pouring through the tall windows, “the opening of my new science building. A brilliant addition to this already illustrious university.”

Around you, the students practically drink in every word.

Their faces tip toward him with open admiration, eager and shining, exactly as he expects.

Your gaze drifts over the sea of upturned faces before, inevitably, landing on him.

Already, he is fixed on the dais with that razor-edged intensity that never quite leaves his expression—still as a portrait, yet never passive. There is always the suggestion of motion beneath the surface, as though his mind is three steps ahead of the room and quietly inconvenienced by having to wait for the rest of the world to catch up.

At the front of the hall, Hodge raises his glass higher. “Now, scholars… on your feet.”

The room rises in a rush of rustling robes and scraping chairs, and you stand with them, smoothing your palms over the skirts of your gown as applause swells around you.

“I present to you my Hodge Scholars,” he announces grandly to the distinguished men seated beside him. “Take a good look.”

The hall erupts, the sound rolls up into the vaulted ceiling in waves—pride and praise and blind devotion.

And through all of it, your attention catches on him once more.

This time, he is already watching you.

Beneath the brim of his cap, unruly dark curls fall over his forehead, impossible to tame, softening nothing of the keen intelligence in his face. His mouth curves—not quite a smile, something more knowing than that—and his gaze remains with a disquieting sort of amusement, as if you are the far more compelling spectacle than Hodge’s performance at the front of the room.

For one unnerving beat, it feels intentional.

Like he means for you to notice.

You are the one who looks away first, forcing your attention back to the dais just as Hodge’s voice sweeps through the hall again.

“These students,” he continues, sweeping a grand hand toward the assembled tables, “will be generals, prime ministers, leaders who guide our world into the twentieth century. Enjoy learning. Enjoy your youth. Welcome.”

Lunch resumes in a bright clatter of silverware and conversation, plates passed down the table, goblets refilled, voices rising with the easy thrill of the new term.

The girl beside you—Penny, you recall from your first introductions—nudges your arm with poorly concealed excitement.

“Is he not the most intriguing man you’ve ever seen?”

You follow the pointed tilt of her head, though of course you already know exactly who she means.

“James Moriarty. Ugh,” Penny sighs dreamily. “Even his name is spectacular.”

You let out a quiet scoff, reaching for your goblet to hide the tinge of irritation.

“Do not fall for his traps, Penny.” The warning leaves you as you risk one last glance across the table.

As though he has heard it from this distance, his eyes find yours yet again.

This time, his brows lift ever so subtly, almost teasing, almost...provoking.

You tighten your fingers around the stem of your glass.

“He is a rake.”

At last, the students are dismissed, the long tables emptying in an eager tide of robes and chatter as everyone begins funneling toward the doors for their first course of the term.

You rise with the rest, gathering your skirts as you ease into the slow-moving line of scholars winding its way out of the dining hall.

The vaulted room feels narrower now—crowded with bodies, voices, and the restless electricity of new beginnings. Penny remains at your side for another moment, prattling on about professors and schedules, before a cluster of girls sweeps her ahead, their laughter trailing brightly into the corridor beyond.

For the first time all morning, you find yourself briefly alone in the procession.

Or so you think.

“A rake, is it?”

The words arrive in a baritone beside your ear, velvet-smooth and threaded with that rich Irish lilt of his—the blurred consonants, the almost musical cadence, the amused skepticism turning each syllable into something far too intimate.

Your breath catches.

For one mortifying second, you close your eyes, already knowing exactly whose voice has slipped so effortlessly into your space.

Then, despite every better instinct, you glance over your shoulder.

James Moriarty is directly behind you.

Far too close.

Up close he is even more unnerving—the sculpted planes of his face, the clever, watchful eyes that never seem merely to look but to dissect, and that infuriating tilt at one corner of his mouth that suggests he is forever in possession of a joke no one else has yet understood.

“I confess,” he begins, his accent wrapping warmly around the words, “I had imagined a far crueler first judgment.”

The line shifts forward again in a rustle of robes and scraping shoes, forcing you onward, but he keeps perfect pace behind you, matching every step as though this, too, is some private game he has already decided he intends to win.

You face forward, schooling your features into composure even as heat prickles along the back of your neck.

“Rake was me being charitable.”

A quiet sound slips from him, somewhere between a laugh and a hum of approval.

“Was it?” he asks. “Then I should very much like to hear what you call me when you stop being kind.”

The line bottlenecks near the great doors, compressing the space until the warmth of him hovers at your back, close enough that every nerve in your body becomes newly aware of his presence.

“As first impressions go,” he continues, lowering his voice until it brushes the shell of your ear, “being called a rake by the most inscrutable girl in the hall is far more interesting than the usual simpering admiration.”

You lift your chin, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered.

“And what makes you think I care whether you find me interesting, Mr. Moriarty?”

That crooked smile returns, slower this time, touched with something almost wicked.

“Because,” he replies, as sunlight from the corridor slips across the angles of his face and the line inches forward again, “you kept looking.”

You let out a quiet laugh, turning just enough to meet his gaze fully now.

“You were seated at an entirely different table,” you remind him, letting challenge thread through every word. “How can you be so certain it was you I was looking at?”

For the first time, his smile opens into something openly devious.

There it is. The opening he wanted.

His gaze moves over your face with deliberate patience before returning to your eyes.

“Because,” he murmurs, his accent dropping lower, silk over steel, “every time you looked away, you did it like you’d been caught.”

For one suspended moment, the crowd seems to divide around the two of you, as though the tide of students bends instinctively around whatever current has risen here.

Then, with a calmness that feels almost insolent, James lifts a hand.

Your breath snags.

His fingers brush the tassel of your cap, the touch feather-light as he catches the silken strands between his thumb and forefinger. He lets them slide slowly through his grasp, the smallest ghost of contact grazing your temple in the process.

It is such a harmless gesture in theory.

Yet the intimacy of it lands like a spark thrown too near dry kindling.

“Enjoy class,” he whispers, far too pleased with himself.

The look in his eyes tells a different story.

He means to unsettle you.

He means to linger.

He means to see what you will do with it.

Before you can gather a reply cutting enough to leave its mark, he releases the tassel with a lazy flick of his fingers and slips past you, his shoulder brushing near enough to send another wave of heat down your spine.

Then he is gone.

Swallowed by the tide of dark robes and echoing voices pouring into the corridor beyond, as though he had never been there at all.

Except your pulse refuses the illusion.

And all through the walk to your first lesson, you can still feel the ghost of his touch near your temple—light, maddening, and altogether too easy to remember.

By the time the evening welcome gathering is in full swing, you have spent the better part of an hour artfully avoiding Peregrine’s attention.

Every time his voice drifts too near, every time you catch sight of him weaving through the crowd, you turn in the opposite direction, slipping between clusters of laughing students, ducking beneath raised glasses, letting the crush of bodies swallow you whole.

At last, after no small amount of effort, you manage to wedge yourself through the crowd and reach the bar.

At last.

Or so you think.

The bartender passes in front of you once.

Then again.

And somehow manages to look everywhere but at you.

“Excuse me?” you call, pitching your voice above the din of music and conversation.

He keeps walking.

You lean forward over the bar. “Excuse me?”

Still nothing.

A frustrated breath escapes as you tip your head back with a groan.

“For fuck’s sake.”

“Leave this with me.”

That maddening Irish accent brushes your ear once more, smooth as smoke and just as invasive.

Your eyes slide sideways and a slow sigh leaves you. “Just what I needed.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m wounded.”

He mutters something to the gentleman wedged beside you, and the poor boy startles before abruptly shifting away, leaving just enough room for James to slip into the newly opened space at your side.

He moves like he belongs there.

Like he belongs anywhere he pleases.

Before you can ask what exactly he thinks he is doing, he bends over the polished wood of the bar with shameless confidence and reaches for three glasses, a bottle of whiskey, and then—

Your breath catches.

A tiny vial of something suspiciously green.

Your gaze snaps to his hand. “Is that—”

“Shhh.” He cuts in without looking at you, his voice dropping into conspiratorial softness as he tips a measured drop into the glasses.

Then he slides one toward you.

“It’s a Sazerac.”

The amber liquid catches the golden light, deceptively innocent.

You arch a brow, glancing from the drink to him. “And should I trust anything you hand me, Mr. Moriarty?”

His eyes flash with unmistakable mischief.

“Certainly not.”

He lifts his own glass.

Annoyingly, that only makes you want to take yours more.

A reluctant smile ghosts across your mouth as you raise it. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” The rim of his glass taps against yours.

Then he turns with effortless ease and lifts his drink once more toward a young man standing just beyond your shoulder.

Tall.

Strikingly out of place.

And then, as though summoned by the disturbance itself, Peregrine appears.

He cuts through the crowd with the confidence of someone convinced every room belongs to him, his expression darkening the moment his gaze lands on the unfamiliar face.

“You’re the scout,” he accuses, suspicion clipped into every word.

The young man inclines his head with maddening calm. “Indeed.”

Peregrine’s eyes narrow. “How exactly did you get in here?”

“I invited him,” James supplies smoothly before the tension can gather any further.

His tone is careless, almost bored.

The lie is so elegant it nearly sounds true.

You nearly laugh, because you know perfectly well neither of them had any formal invitation to begin with.

Peregrine’s attention shifts to James. “And who, pray tell, invited you?”

You take a slow, deliberate sip of your drink, letting the whiskey burn pleasantly down your throat as the silence stretches.

James parts his lips. “No one—”

“Oh, don’t be coy. I did.”

The words leave you before he can finish.

You step forward, your shoulder nearly brushing James’s as you place yourself squarely in Peregrine’s line of sight.

The lie comes easily.

Far too easily.

“He’s with me.”

For the first time since you have known him, James Moriarty goes still.

His gaze cuts sideways to you, and for once the usual devious demeanor is gone, replaced by something rarer.

Surprise.

As though he had not anticipated you to step into the game beside him. As though, for one brief and delicious moment, you have managed to wrong-foot him.

Peregrine studies the two of you, displeasure sharpening every line of his face.

“If I wished to socialise with a cleaner,” he drawls, eyeing the young man beside James with open disdain, “I should simply throw a party in the servants’ quarters.”

A laugh slips from you before you can stop it.

“That sounds infinitely more entertaining than this one.”

The scout beside James smirks into his glass, while James’s own mouth tilts with immediate approval.

“He may be a cleaner,” James replies, his accent lending the words an almost lazy elegance, “but he is an exceptionally clever cleaner.”

Peregrine’s jaw tightens.

His gaze swings back to you, irritation now fully soured into offense.

“If you do not mind,” he begins stiffly, “I should like to ask your friends here to leave.”

“I do mind, actually.”

You set your glass down and take another step forward, unable to resist the spark of sly inspiration already gathering shape.

“In fact,” you continue, a smile curving slowly at your mouth, “I have a better idea.”

Peregrine narrows his eyes.

“If you can outsmart my friends here, they will leave without protest.”

The challenge lands between you like a gauntlet thrown at his feet. For a beat, the room seems to hush around the four of you. Then James buys in at once, sliding seamlessly to your side as though the two of you have always played the same games.

“Excellent,” he purrs, eyes brightening with evident delight. “Take a good, long look at our friend here and tell us what you can glean.”

He gestures toward the scout.

“Then,” he adds, that maniacal half-smile returning in full, “he shall return the favor.”

Peregrine squares his shoulders, clearly too proud to refuse now that the trap has been set.

“And who, exactly, decides the winner?”

“Oh, I do.”

The voice cuts in crisp and amused.

Edie—Hodge’s ever-watchful assistant—steps elegantly into the circle, her gaze flicking between each of you with instant interest.

A small crowd has already begun to gather, drawn by the scent of competition.

“I should be delighted to judge.”

You glance at Peregrine, no longer bothering to hide the satisfied glint in your eye.

“On your marks,” you begin, stepping back toward James’s side.

Your shoulder brushes his.

“Get set…”

Peregrine’s attention fixes.

You tilt your head, smiling sweetly.

“Go.”

And as the game begins, you can already feel James beside you nearly humming with pleasure, as though the prospect of watching someone be publicly dismantled is his preferred form of entertainment.

Which, you suspect, it may well be.

He leans closer, just enough for the warmth of him to graze the edge of your sleeve.

“Thank you.”

You keep your eyes fixed ahead on the two young men circling each other in verbal battle, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking his way.

“I do my best work when I am owed a favor.”

“A dangerous philosophy.”

“Only for the people foolish enough to underestimate me.”

Beside you, you can feel rather than see the way he angles himself closer, his attention dividing between the contest before you and the far more private one unfolding at your side.

“And what sort of favor,” he asks, his voice lowering until every word feels poured rather than spoken, “does a girl like you collect?”

Now, finally, you turn, letting him sit in the silence. Letting him wonder.

“That depends.” Your voice stays calm despite the traitorous beat of your pulse. “How valuable do you imagine yourself to be, Mr. Moriarty?”

“Ah.” His eyes dip briefly to your mouth before returning to your own. “So that is the game.”

Your chin lifts. “Were you under the impression there wasn’t one?”

The contest in front of you continues, voices rising, laughter following each clever observation, but it feels distant now. Secondary to the charged space between your shoulder and his, where another kind of contest has quietly taken hold.

One with no clear rules.

And, more dangerously still, no obvious victor.

“I do hope,” he says, leaning in just enough for only you to hear, “you intend to make it difficult for me.”

A smile traces your lips.

“Oh, James.”

Your gaze darts toward the duel, then returns to him with quiet promise.

“I intend to make it impossible.”

The words have barely left your mouth when the crack of a fist against bone shatters the charged little world the two of you have built at the edge of the room.

Peregrine’s fist collides squarely with James’s friend’s jaw.

The sound snaps through the gathering like a gunshot.

Gasps ripple through the nearby students as the carefully curated civility of the evening dissolves into chaos.

You tilt your head toward the fight.

“I do believe your friend could use some assistance.”

Beside you, James releases the most theatrical sigh.

“Tragic. I was having such a lovely time.”

He presses his glass into your hand for safekeeping with infuriating confidence, as though there were never any doubt you would hold it for him.

Then he turns.

What happens next is almost unfairly quick.

James steps into the fray with the same graceful precision he brings to conversation, all easy balance and startling speed. Peregrine barely has time to register him before James’s fist lands cleanly across his cheek in a strike so neat it feels almost insulting.

The sound of it sends something wicked sparking to life inside you.

To your private shame—and very real bliss—a laugh tumbles free.

Another one of Peregrine’s friends lunges at James.

Misses.

Lunges again.

Misses again.

James ducks both attempts with ease, moving like he had anticipated each blow before the thought had even formed. Then, with a swift, brutal drag of his fist upward, he sends the man sprawling backward into a cluster of horrified scholars.

For good measure, James gives the next overeager fool a careless shove just as the boy works up the courage to join in, sending him stumbling into the crowd before the fight can even begin.

Show-off.

He turns back to you, curls disheveled now, breath just slightly uneven, and somehow the chaos only makes him look more alive.

“Until next time?” 

You glance at the glass still in one hand, then toward the abandoned bar.

“For the road.”

You snatch up a bottle of whiskey and toss it toward him.

He catches it one-handed without looking.

That, more than anything else tonight, makes him laugh.

Then, with one last lingering look cast your way, he and his companion disappear into the flood of bodies rushing from the hall, swallowed by laughter, shouts, and the thrill of scandal.

And though the room still hums with the wreckage they leave behind, all you can think about is the certainty that next time cannot come quickly enough.

Wallace looked at her from over his shoulders as he passed by with Gilden's coffee, wiggling his brows playfully. She ignored him.

"Come, Mr. Holmes," she motioned for him to follow her to her desk, where she pulled up a chair for him. "Can I get you anything?"

He sat across from her, fidgeting and full of nervous energy. "No, no, thank you."

She sat back in her chair, "Tell me what happened, Mr. Holmes."

"My brother," he started with a sigh, "Was arrested this morning for a crime he did not commit. The murder of Professor Thompson."

She narrowed her eyes, "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I am his older brother, and I practically raised him. If he was lying, I could tell, Miss Gilden," Mycroft said calmly. She nodded, holding a hand up to signal him to continue. "Sherlock told me that Princess Shou'an was the last person he remembers seeing last night. When he woke up, he had Thompson's blood on his face, and his knife was found in Thompson's back. Of course, I have spent the morning speaking to the police at Oxford Prison, who are utterly useless and refuse to look any further into the crime or take Shou'an in for questioning. I believe the constable is still at Oxford, so that will be my next stop after I leave," he seemed to be talking mostly to himself now.

She wrote bullet-points down in her notebook as fast as she could. "And you," she looked up at him, "Want me to publish your story?"

Mycroft looked down at his hands, "I simply want you to mention that Sherlock is only a suspect. He has not been convicted, and the investigation is ongoing. I know how the press is, and I do not want him to be labeled as a murderer and…" he took a deep breath, "Our mother reads your paper. She is in the local asylum. I worry for her health if she were to read such a thing."

She observed him, but detected no deception in either his face or tone. He looked broken, exhausted even, and she could not bring herself to deny him.

"Mr. Holmes," she reached across the table and placed a comforting hand on the desk in front of him, "I am a copyist. I will have a newspaper made with the story omitted completely, and you can deliver it to your mother yourself if that is what you wish."

His eyes darted up immediately, big, blue pools filled with a tenderness that made her heart warm. "Is that alright?" he asked, "I will make sure you are compensated-"

Her hand came up from the desk to give a placating gesture, "The only compensation I need is that you allow me to come with you to see the constable, sir. From what I remember, you have the power to open doors."

He glanced out the window, "I do not think you should become involved. I… I spoke with Professor Hodge, and he led me to believe there is some… larger conspiracy behind this crime. You are a lady, and you should not be swept up in this."

She scowled, "That is supposed to discourage me?" she stood up from her desk, "Mr. Holmes," she said, "If you do not allow me to come with you, I will follow you and break in myself. If I am caught, so be it. Perhaps I will get an interview with your brother after all."

He stood as well, shaking his head and sighing, "Very well. Shall I fetch a cab?"

"No, do not," she dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand, "It is but a short walk, Mr. Holmes. And you could do with some fresh air and exercise," she teased, "Let me fetch my parasol and tell Mr. Gilden where I am going."

Soon, she was walking beside him on the cobblestones outside, making their way to Oxford.

"Tell me about your family, Mr Holmes," she implored, "I must admit I have not had time to consult the archives."

Mycroft watched her intently as she spoke, and blushed softly when she caught him, clearing his throat and looking forward again. "My father is a scientist. He is currently working in Venice. Our youngest sister died when Sherlock was a boy, and our mother was taken with grief. My father thought it would be safest for her in the asylum, as he was unable to take care of her. We visit her often. Sherlock is very close with her."

"And you?" she prodded gently, "Did your father take care of you?"

"No. He went abroad. He arranged a government clerkship for me in London when I was sixteen, and Sherlock was sent to a boarding school."

"I am sorry, Mr. Holmes, " she tried to imagine a younger version of him, sent to work while his father abandoned him and his younger brother, "That must have been very difficult for you."

Mycroft looked down at her again, taken aback by her response, as if he had not considered how terribly sad his family life sounded. "Yes, I… suppose it was."

She gave him a soft smile. It did not take long before they reached the campus. He led her through the various frantic officers and professors until they reached Lestrade.

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade glared at him, "I take it you have heard of your brother's escape?"

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft countered, tensing up beside her.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes has escaped from his cell."

"Escaped?" he retorted angrily, "What do you mean 'escaped?' My understanding was that nobody could escape from Oxford jail."

He engaged in passionate conversation with both Lestrade and the new detective, whose name she made sure to write down. She absorbed the information, Sherlock had escaped with an accomplice dressed as a washerwoman, who she privately assumed to be James Moriarty (based on his drunken ramblings about how brilliant Sherlock was the night prior). Yet, as she watched Mycroft pace back and forth, frustrated and demanding more information, she had trouble focusing. He looked utterly captivating like this. Angry and full of passion. It reminded her of how he had scolded her after the bomb at Hodge's gala. She realized after a moment that she was unabashedly staring at him with a stupid smirk on her face. He caught her eye and glared at her, and she put her hands up placatingly.

"Mr. Holmes," she spoke up, "Forgive me, but perhaps Sherlock may have visited your mother. You said that you see her often, and that Sherlock is particularly close with her."

"That…" Mycroft pondered it for a moment, "Is the next logical step, Miss Gilden. He would not have gone far without telling her."

"Then let us make haste, yes?" she nodded towards the constable and detective. "If you are so inclined."

Mycroft was suddenly aware that he had not yet introduced her. "Apologies," he said, "This is Miss Gilden of the Oxford Journal."

"I must admit I am just a copyist, Constable," she smiled innocently at Lestrade, "Mr Gilden has a headache, and none of the male workers were available to come visit today."

Mycroft's lip twitched upwards as Lestrade nodded at her.

"You're a terrible liar," he muttered under his breath as they made their way to the street.

"Not too terrible. They seemed convinced, did they not?"

"I believe Lestrade was rather distracted," Mycroft grumbled.

Constable Lestrade most graciously offered to escort them to the asylum in their carriage. Mycroft rolled his eyes as Lestrade helped her inside. The trip to the asylum was swift. Mycroft concluded that his mother knew nothing of Sherlock's escape, and with a few snide comments from the idiotic detective, they were on their way back to Oxford. Lestrade had offered to have her dropped off at the Journal, but she declined, citing her need to stretch her legs. Mycroft seemed particularly somber ever since he returned from his mother's room, and it pained her that she could do nothing to help him. She shook the thought away. He was a gentleman, and she had no business developing a friendship with him.

"Well, this is where we part, Mr. Holmes," she turned to him as he offered his hand to assist her out of the carriage. "It has been a joy," she added, "But I fear I must return to my employer. The story will not write itself, and of course, your special edition of tomorrow's paper."

As she looked into his eyes, she once again found herself defenseless. It was as if her soul was reaching out of her body for him and silencing her rational thought. It was a strange hunger to tease him, to push him, to fight with him, to comfort him. Mycroft Holmes had captivated her against her will. All she could do was school her expression and pray that the feeling would eventually dull enough that she could make her brain function properly around him.

"I will walk back with you," he insisted, "You cannot go alone."

"I assure you that I can, but you can tag along if you wish," she laughed, bounding ahead of him, "Do keep up, Mr. Holmes!"

"I-" he huffed, "Must you run, Miss Gilden?"

She turned around, the soft breeze pushing her hair into her face as she walked backwards, "Do pick up that damned cane, Mr. Holmes," she teased, "You would be much faster without it."

Mycroft blushed, and laughed despite himself, he looked around before lifting his cane off the ground and jogging after her.

She giggled, "There you are! Very good, Mr. Holmes! We will make an athlete of you yet!"

He fell into pace beside her and held out his arm. She sighed, taking it and slowing down to his pace. The sun hit their faces without the shield of the parasol that she held at her side. Mycroft peered down at her with a chuckle. "You are the most vexing woman I have ever met."

"Thank you sir," she gave a small curtsy, "It is an honor to hold such a crown. Trust that you are just as aggravating."

"Me?" he guffawed.

"Her majesty's foreign office," she said the phrase in an exaggeratedly posh accent. "You are the absolute worst!"

He laughed again. His laugh, she thought, could make any woman swoon. It was deeply unfair.

"Yes, well, I will see you tomorrow morning then?" he asked as they reached the door to the Oxford Journal.

"Bright and early," she replied, "It will be ready for you by six in the morning, Mr. Holmes."

And so she sat at her desk, drafting the article about Professor Thompson's murder both with and without Sherlock's name being mentioned. She ignored Wallace's teasing, waltzing around her with a fake replica of Mr. Holmes' mustache while she worked.

Mycroft was punctual, arriving at exactly 6:05 the next morning. "There you are, Mr. Holmes," she greeted, grabbing the newspaper from her desk. "Oh dear," she gave him a once-over, "You look exhausted."

"Well, my little brother is on the run," he said dryly, "And I lost my job at the foreign office."

Her lips parted in shock, "How on Earth did you manage that?"

He gave her a tired glare, "I was caught listening in on Professor Hodge's conversation with his colleagues."

"You got caught spying?" she clarified.

He pursed his lips, "More or less. I-" he sighed, "Hodge told me that it "suited his purposes" that Sherlock stayed locked up. I merely thought that if I were to learn what those purposes were, I would be better equipped to help him."

Her heart broke at the pain in his voice. "That is very sound, Mr. Holmes," she assured, placing a hand on his shoulder, "You love your brother very dearly, it is only natural you would do all in your power to help him. Hodge is a cold, unfeeling man with the common sense of a garden mouse. I would be glad to be rid of him."

"I must get my job back," he said, "It is the only way I can provide for both Sherlock and myself."

"And I have confidence that you will," she replied, "You have all the makings of a high-ranking government official. I have no doubt that you will make it there, Mr. Holmes."

He gave her a weak smile in the dim lamplight of the newsroom. The sun had only just barely begun to rise.

"Go now, Mr. Holmes," she insisted, "Would not want you to be late, now would we?"

"No," he seemed startled for a second, as if he had forgotten why he was there. He reached into his pocket and took out a number of shillings. "Here, for your work."

"Did I not tell you that the only payment needed was your cooperation in letting me tag along?" she replied, pushing his hand away, "Besides, it is you that needs to save money, Mr. Holmes. I am employed, you are not."

He sighed, and put the coins down on the front desk, bowing before taking his leave of the place.

"Prima!" Mr Gilden did the unusual honor of gracing the newsroom with his presence later that day. "How very well you have done, my dear! I just had a former colleague of mine send an express demanding where we sourced out information on the Holmes case!" he patted her on the back.

"Thank you sir," she put her pen down, "I am glad you are pleased.

"She has done exceptionally well!" Wallace added, "Mr. Mycroft Holmes made sure to see her back himself yesterday afternoon."

Mr. Gilden raised a brow. "Is that so, Prima?"

"You know, we are well acquainted enough that you can call me by my christian name, Mr. Gilden."

"And I would do so," he said, leaning on his walking cane, "If I could ever remember it," he looked down at her over his spectacles, "Now, answer the question, if you please."

"Yes, he insisted upon walking back with me," she said, feigning indifference, "You know how gentlemen are about that sort of thing, Mr. Gilden."

Gilden gave a small "hmph," and nodded, "Very well. But I know how ladies are, Prima. I do not want you getting carried away in your poetry and giving yourself false hopes."

She bit back a grimace at his belittling her down to a woman prone to hysteria. He meant no offense, she was sure, but it aggravated her nonetheless. "I assure you, Mr Gilden, that will not be a problem. I am not so weak as to be in danger of falling in love with a man such as Mycroft Holmes."

He merely smiled, and turned to limp back into his office.

"Sorry, darlin," Wallace said sheepishly from his own desk, "I was just teasin."

"I know Wallace," she smiled, "It's alright."

It was not alright. Not alright in the slightest. Something was very wrong. Something was causing a large pit of dread in her stomach when she thought about the fact that there was no reason for her to see Mr. Holmes again. "I think," she stood and straightened her skirts. "I think I will take a short walk, Wallace."

He stood as well, "Of course," he said, "I'll handle your copies today, Pri. You go into town. Buy yourself something, yeah? Might as well, since his royal highness insisted upon paying you personally."

She snorted, "Very well. It is the least you could do after that stunt with Mr. Gilden."

Wallace shot her an apologetic look, and she made her way out onto the street. It was daylight, so she needn't be too vigilant, but still her eyes were trained on her surroundings. A lady could not ever be too careful when walking alone.

The streets were a refreshing change of pace. The leaves were falling from the trees with the first signs of autumn, which was always a beautiful sight. She passed a gentleman's outfitters on her stroll, and it briefly occurred to her that she ought to purchase a new hat for dear Wallace, whose old bowler was tattered beyond recognition. She stepped inside the shop, and stopped in her tracks as she saw the backs of two familiar heads.

"You're that Sherlock Holmes. You murdered that professor!" the woman behind the counter was saying. Her face was one of both fear and confrontation.

"Yes, I do see the resemblance-" James started as Sherlock began to back away.

This is ridiculous, she thought. It is utterly ridiculous that she is about to get these two out of this predicament. And yet, she spoke up.

"William!" she smiled brightly as she approached Sherlock, touching his shoulder lightly, "Is that you?"

Sherlock stared, bewildered at her. James caught on much quicker.

"You know this young lady, Will?" James grinned.

"So sorry to interrupt, madam," she told the shopkeeper, who was even more confused than before, "It is just that we used to play together as children! I would recognize him anywhere! I have not seen you in so long!"

"Oh," Sherlock cleared his throat, "Yes! Yes, of course! How is the family, Margret?"

"Very well," she assured, placing a hat on the counter along with the coin that Mycroft had given her earlier that day. She looked up at the shopkeeper, "Such a small world, is it not?"

The shopkeeper gave a nervous laugh, nodding as she rang her up.

"Come, we have much to talk about, Will. And you must introduce me to your friend," she motioned for them to follow her out of the shop.

"Miss Gilden!" James laughed after the door shut behind them, "A brilliant display!"

She rounded upon Sherlock, pressing a finger to his chest. "What on Earth is the matter with you?" she demanded, "Your brother is worried sick, you know?"

"Mycroft?" Sherlock cocked his head, "You know Mycroft?"

"Yes, we are acquainted," she replied, "And you two," she pointed at the both of them now, "Are going to come with me and show him that you're alright."

"We were just on our way to his house, if you would like to tag along," Sherlock said placatingly.

"Yes, I very well will tag along," she retorted, "If only to make sure you do not run off again."

She accepted James' offer to carry her things, and they set off into town.

"You know, if you really are a murderer," she said to Sherlock, "And you do kill me, you will lose the only journalist that believes you to be innocent."

James laughed, "Sherly can't throw a punch on a good day, let alone stab a man to death."

"And you, Mr. Moriarty?" she countered, "Will you kill me?"

James put a finger to his chin in an exaggerated thinking gesture, "No, no I think not."

"Good," she said, "Wallace would be upset with you."

Sherlock's head turned to James, "Who is Wallace?" his brow furrowed.

"He is a friend of mine," she interjected on James' behalf, "We all met at the pub while you were with Shou'an."

James gave her a grateful smile, to which she only nodded.

She found them to be stimulating company for the long walk to Mycroft's townhouse. James was very lively, and seemed to bring out those same qualities in his companion. They asked several times how she knew Mycroft, but she did not wish to trip over her words, and so she avoided the question altogether. She was faintly aware that this made their relationship look much more suspicious than it was. Still, she learned that Princess Shou'an was the one killing the scientists, and that they were going to ask Mycroft when she had first arrived.

When they arrived, Mycroft was not in, and so they waited outside until his carriage pulled in the drive.

"You two wait a moment, please," she instructed, "So he does not faint with surprise, yes?"

"That is not necessary-" Sherlock smiled, going to push past her. She sighed,it is no wonder Mycroft was so peeved by him.

"Mr. Holmes!" she called out, jogging in front of Sherlock and up the steps behind Mycroft. Mycroft visibly jumped, which made her smile. "I have brought you a gift."

"Miss Gilden?" he smiled incredulously.

"When exactly did Shou'an first arrive in England?" Sherlock's voice came from behind her, and Mycroft jumped again.

"For the love of God!" Mycroft seethed, his smile dropping immediately as if he had been caught, "Why can't you ever start a conversation the way normal people do?" He glanced around before pointing at the door, "Get inside," he ordered dangerously. She bit her lip with a smile.

She followed the two brothers into the house, herself and James lagging behind while they bickered back and forth.

"I see now why you tagged along," James had a knowing look in his eye when he spoke in a hush tone.

She rolled her eyes, "Why is that, sir?"

"Just James is fine, love," he smirked. "We are friends, are we not?"

"Are we?" she laughed, "We have met only twice."

"Yet I can read you like a book, Miss Gilden. Is that not the very essence of friendship?"

"You have read nothing, James," she replied, "Mr. Holmes is a gentleman. But I am no lady. Also, he is rather trying at the best of times," she tried to sound convicted.

"I see," he whispered, "Another thing we have in common then. We can look, but not touch." He nodded at Sherlock.

She gave him a warning look, "James, you must be more subtle. It is not… safe for you to be so forthcoming."

James smiled, "You had already worked it out. Besides, an accusation is nothing without proof, which there is none."

They turned into the drawing room, to which she settled in an armchair. James brought them all brandy, and she watched with eager eyes as Mycroft berated his brother. Mycroft seemed surprised at the news that Shou'an was the murderer, but seemed to accept the explanation, and suggested that they speak to Ezra Hornsby, who accompanied the princess to Oxford.

"Forgive me," she interjected, "It is not that I doubt you. It is just… Actually it is in fact that I doubt you. How is it that you found her out?"

"It was simple," Sherlock said from where he was reclining on the sofa, "She was the one who planted the bomb, the scrolls were merely a distraction. There were remnants of a photo in her fireplace. We tracked down the photographer, and found the photo-"

"Sherly," James pointed his glass at him, "It is not our story she doubts. It is your ability. Miss Gilden does not know your mind as we do. Go on," he cooed, "Show off."

"Do not!" Mycroft growled, "Do not encourage him."

She looked between the two of them, smiling widely at Mycroft's annoyance. She turned to Sherlock, "Do go ahead, Mr. Holmes," she encouraged.

"Sherlock," Mycroft corrected in a grumble. He blushed when she looked questioningly at him. "I am Mr. Holmes. He is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock looked utterly elated as he stared playfully at his brother, "Do not be jealous, brother dear."

"Mr. Holmes," she said to Sherlock, "Do ignore your brother and focus on the task at hand."

Sherlock stood, circling her like a vulture. She felt very vulnerable as his eyes flickered over her, darting back and forth.

"Do not say anything untoward," Mycroft warned him.

"Would you wish to demonstrate instead, brother dear?" Sherlock offered. "You are just as capable as I."

"But not at all as willing to embarrass myself," Mycroft replied.

"I am confused," she admitted.

Sherlock spoke again, "Miss Gilden, you are employed as an assistant in a newsroom are you not? You are a typist, yes, as we can see by the callouses on your fingers. They are on both hands, so that rules out their being formed by an instrument such as the violin. But you are not only a typist, are you? You have ink stains outside the pocket of your dress, which suggests that you usually carry a notepad of some sort. That, along with the different varieties of mud on your petticoat, suggest you travel for work. A woman, however, cannot be an investigative journalist, so you would have to be an assistant that takes on a variety of jobs. That is how you met my brother, is it not? You also need to invest in a new hairbrush, Miss Gilden. Yours is fraying, you can see its traces in your hair."

Her jaw had dropped while he was speaking, and she chortled in response. "That was… brilliant, Mr. Holmes! However can you tell the difference between different kinds of mud?"

Sherlock turned pink at the praise, and bowed, "Practice, Miss Gilden."

"Are you quite done?" Mycroft hissed.

"Oh, do settle down, Mr. Holmes," she told him, "Your brother has proven himself. Let us find Mr. Hornsby."

"It is late, Miss Gilden," Mycroft sighed, "You need your rest. You should return home."

"Says the man who has not had a full night's sleep in two days," she challenged, "You are the one who brought up Mr. Hornsby. I will be interviewing him with or without your blessing."

James has to physically drag Sherlock away from the edge of the tower’s windows, down the stairs and away from the scene before a crowd forms and they risk being surrounded and chased by police.

They somehow manage to make it back to their base of operations despite Sherlock going catatonic from shock and grief.

James pours them both a drink and stays quiet, giving Sherlock room to process the night’s losses before he tries to push the man to move forward. He offers Sherlock the glass and Sherlock takes it pensively, staring morosely at the glass of whiskey as though it might hold the key to bringing his sister back.

“We led her to him, James.” He finally whispers after minutes of complete silence. “It is our fault Enright and my sister are dead.”

James takes the glass and downs it in one go, pouring himself another serving of whiskey.

“Sherlock, I do not want to make light of your pain, but we cannot control her actions. I take your point, but you cannot blame yourself for —” James finds himself hesitating. Putting it in words seems too final for how quickly everything unfolded. One moment Miss Holmes was quipping with him, laughing and plotting, and the next she dives off a tower after a man some assassin-princess wants dead and just like that, she is gone. “We can only control our own actions. We must move forward, we must win because lives are at stake. We have to do this to avenge your sister, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nods, eyes glassy as he stares down at the drink in his hand before downing it.

James thinks perhaps now he will have some semblance of spirit back, at least enough to solve the mystery of Shou’an’s motive, but then Sherlock goes stock still once more, glass slipping from his fingers. James catches the thing before it hits the floor, but his eyes remain on Sherlock the whole time.

“How do I tell Mycroft we’ve lost another sister?” His voice is pin-drop quiet, and if James weren’t close enough for their knees to be touching, he doubts he would have heard. “How do I tell Mother she’s lost another daughter?”

Sherlock stares at the ground, too still, too quiet, and James, for once, finds himself at a loss for words.

---

“I’ll thank you to unhand me, young woman.” Professor Enright complains as [Y/N] all but shoves him through the door of her flat.

Was it the brightest idea to bring a dead man walking to her living quarters when she knew an assassin was hunting for him? No, but she was out of options. It was either this or call her handler, and she certainly did not have to explain why she was doing charity work to the man who’d taught her to receive her payments up-front. Better this way, anyhow — she could look out for Enright while her brother and his friend studied the chess board and figured out where each piece was meant to land. She would leave the problem-solving and deductive reasoning to Sherlock. He was always the brightest among them as Father liked to remind her in the very infrequent letters she’d received from the man.

“I’d rather like to remind you, Professor.” She says in that tone that warrants no argument, the one she saves for marks and criminals. “It is only by the grace of myself, my brother and his acquaintance that you live. When you complain about your bruises and dislocated shoulder, please recall the alternative was very well a cracked skull and broken spine.”

The professor bristles at the reminder, as all men of his status do, that he was saved by a girl more than half his age, but she ignores it and opts instead for the wooden box hidden in her wardrobe that contained the medical supplies she kept on hand. She does not bother with politeness tonight, placing it down roughly by the table next to the chair the professor has situated himself in.

“I’m sure a man with your intellect can deal with a few broken bones and the like.” She says as she turns her back to him.

“You know, women your age should comport themselves with more politeness than you have dispensed tonight, young lady.” Professor Enright corrects because of course, that’s his concern and not the fact that she saved his life.

“Ah, my apologies, Professor. Next time, I will politely step aside when someone is dangling you from atop a bell tower instead of jumping out to catch you.” The smile she turns on the professor drips with sarcasm. The professor huffs but says nothing more on the manner, so she turns to sit at her vanity, assessing the damage of their less-than-graceful landing.

There is a cut across her face from when she redirected their fall towards a tree near the path of their initial fall trajectory, in case their killer was watching. The tree would have hid their bodies and the sound of crashing, but it also had the effect of being extremely woody and one of the branches seems to have caught on her face during their descent. She sighs and grabs a kerchief on her vanity. She usually tries to avoid facial wounds. Her handler had told her to be careful not to disfigure herself lest she get saddled with the more background unsavoury work that women who were no longer appealing to general society were relegated to. She applies some of the same ointment on the wound, once the bleeding has mostly stopped, to prevent it from scarring once it healed completely.

She stares once more at her reflection in the mirror, looking for other faults in her appearance. She needs to look more than presentable — impeccable, deadly. Not a hair out of place. Currently, she looks the opposite, with her hair wind-swept from the fall, a chaotic bird’s nest on her head escaping from updo she had meticulously styled just that morning. She sighs. There is no time to fix this if she wants to leave now and still catch wind of Enright’s would-be killer. She takes her hairbrush and the wax on her desk and does what she can with the hairs poking out from her earlier tumble. She ignores the sting on her hand as she holds the hairbrush, rope burn from when she’d manoeuvred the well-placed (definitely by their killer) rope to soften their landing without gloves on. Her shoulder stings on the arm where she caught most of the professor’s weight earlier. She winces every time she has to move her arm over another section of hair, but she breathes through her nose and blocks out the pain.

There is work to be done. She does not have time to sit around and lick her wounds if she is to find the assassin who drugged her little brother, framed him for murder, and almosted killed Professor Enright tonight.

“And where are you off to young lady?!” Professor Enright calls out to her when she stands from her vanity. “I was nearly killed tonight! Didn’t you say you would protect me? You shouldn’t be leaving me here alone, unarmed!”

“Professor, your killer thinks you dead for now. Calm down before you alert the neighbours to your presence.” She reminds him without turning back. “As for myself, I shall be out, looking for your would-be assassin. Please make yourself comfortable in my absence.” She does not stick around to hear his reply.

---

The air is cold from her vantage point, but it isn’t cold enough for her hands to freeze over yet, practiced as they are to exposure in these kinds of conditions. They do not shake when they hold her pistol. Her eyes study the darkened streets as she quietly creeps up on a small figure. She makes no sound, of that she is certain, so the figure must be well-practiced in a similar capacity for her to notice.

“I never did get your name.” The woman speaks first. She does not turn when she addresses her. [Y/N] notes an accent in her voice — Chinese. She files that somewhere in her mind, flitting through the accents she is familiar with to try and identify which part of China might form those specific sounds with the attached syllables.

She remembers the research in Enright’s office pertaining to minerals in the Gansu corridor.

“Nor did I.” [Y/N] responds in Mandarin, dropping in front of the woman with polished mastery that comes from years of falling face first on concrete.

“I don’t suppose you’d believe that I am Shou’an?” The woman says in a lilting fashion like a question. [Y/N] tries to place the name and finds in her memory a portrait, being pressed to her hand, small but detailed. The name Shou’an at the bottom is followed underneath by a title ‘Princess of Qing’. That was supposed to be her mission before she was called away on another matter — eliminating some minister pocketing funds meant for the creation of weaponry.

‘Make it look like an accident’, her handler had said.

She squints to look at the woman before her, studying each feature on her face and comparing it to the card in her memory. Unless her memory serves her wrong, which it cannot, not when she has relied on it for so much of her work, this is not the Princess of Qing standing before her.

“Who are you really?” She asks against her better judgement. She is not supposed to ask questions. Questions beget doubt, beget guilt, and a plethora of other emotions that do not belong in her line of work. All she needs are facts, and the facts before her are as such:

This woman is pretending to be the princess of the Qing Dynasty.

This woman drugged Sherlock and framed him for the murder of Professor Thompson.

This woman is behind the murders of Professor Thompson, Roberts, and almost killed Enright, had [Y/N] not intervened.

Even as she lists the facts in her head, questions arise that she feels the need to ask before she decides to be rid of the problem before her. Why frame Sherlock of all people? Why murder the professors? What common thread do they weave for the fake princess to wish it cut short?

“Is that really so important? I know you won’t kill me.” Not-Shou’an taunts in the same tone she’d heard her use on Sherlock at the bell tower when she and the professor were hiding, pressed upon the ground, in the hedges.

“Would you like to test that theory, Princess?” She asks, jovially, her smile catching to form crescents in her eyes. She does not know how well the not-princess can see her expression in the dim glow of the gaslight, but it seems that not-Shou’an sees enough to falter.

“You framed my brother for murder. Normally, I would shoot you and be done with it, but this whole puzzle intrigues me.” [Y/N] leads the conversation, pistol never faltering in front of her. “Give me an interesting enough story, and I might even consider letting you go. I’ve been known to be magnanimous.”

Her voice balances between venomous and gay, lips grinning all the while.

Something shifts in not-Shou’an’s expression, from the face of a hardened killer to something almost soft, maybe even sad, scared. It is not an expression [Y/N] is unfamiliar with among the people she has killed with her hands. It is why she prefers poison over most other weapons. That expression has an annoying habit of softening her heart, of making her falter even for just a moment.

“My name is Xiao Wei. I apologise for framing your brother for murder, but he only stood to get in the way of my plans.” Xiao Wei explains slowly, hesitantly. Something softens in Xiao Wei’s tone when she mentions framing Sherlock, and [Y/N] almost believes she might actually regret it. 

“Your plans of murdering the four professors? Why?” She cuts in, harsh and unforgiving. She has no time for this act. There will be no mercy for the woman who put Sherlock in unimaginable danger and ruined [Y/N]’s scholarship at Oxford.

“I come from the village of Tai’an in Gansu. What the scientists are working on, they first tested it out on my village. On my parents. An odorless gas that, in the right quantities, can kill anyone in a matter of seconds.”

Xiao Wei’s voice wavers when she mentions her parents, but she studies the woman’s expression, looking for any sign of falsehood, of a twitch of something that might betray a lie, and find cool stone instead. The pistol falters.

Xiao Wei steps forward.

“Your government found a mineral buried deep beneath my people’s lands, and Professor Malik found a way to transform that mineral into a creeping death, a weapon your government has developed under Bucephalus Hodge’s instruction.”

[Y/N] stands there and finds herself on a precipice. She knows enough, has seen enough of Her Majesty’s government to know better than to doubt Xiao Wei. Still, she tries to wrap her head around the idea of such a thing, a weapon of mass destruction that can kill an entire village in a matter of seconds.

[Y/N] has seen death, has been its governor, but her stomach drops at the thought of it and she cannot control the shake of her hands any longer. The pistol falls, and Xiao Wei lunges for it, but before she can catch it or aim it at her, [Y/N] throws her a bone. Or rather a key.

Xiao Wei looks at her in confusion, catching the key in one hand, holding the pistol in the other.

This is by far the stupidest thing [Y/N] has done in her life, and that includes signing a contract at fourteen to be one of Her Majesty’s hired hands.

“One last question.” She demands, despite knowing that Xiao Wei holds all the cards now. She has her pistol and the key to her flat. Surprisingly or perhaps not anymore, when she has learned so much about this woman’s motives in the last few minutes, Xiao Wei relents and gestures with her pistol to ask it.

“Why frame Sherlock for murder?” She asks, despite seeing mostly where the pieces of the puzzle might land. She needs the confirmation.

“He prevented me from killing the professors during the bombing. I assumed if he was free, he would do it again. It’s almost disappointing that he hasn’t, but I’m not complaining.” Xiao Wei explains lightly, gesturing with the pistol in her hand at the same time.

“Now, I have a question for you, Miss Holmes. What did you just give me?” She holds out the key and [Y/N] has a moment’s hesitation before she makes up her mind.

She spells out an address for Xiao Wei and the woman nods, the bewildered expression on her face mirroring [Y/N]’s own. She might be a fool to show this much trust to a woman who has tried to get her brother hanged for murder, but she also can’t stand by and do nothing with the knowledge that this woman’s entire family is dead because of her government.3

“When you decide to be rid of Enright, please do it far from my flat. I’d rather not have to hire cleaners. God knows they don’t pay me enough to afford that.”

The stone façade of Xiao Wei’s face cracks and she smiles, bright and genuine, and [Y/N] thinks she rather likes seeing the woman like this. It suits her better to smile. How unfortunate that both of them have found themselves in positions that do not afford them such luxuries.

When Xiao Wei turns to leave, [Y/N] finally collapses on the ground and sobs.

---

James is familiar with grief. He’d lost both of his parents when he was but a wee lad. He’d had his father longer, but not by much. The point being, he knew what it was to grieve and how grief had morphed the passage of time.

When his mother died of consumption, he had wailed for what seemed like hours in his father’s arms before his old man finally grew sick of his wailing and had left him alone in their house while he went off to the pub to drown out the loss of his wife.

Sherlock’s grief took a different shape. In the days since he’d met the man, it was rare to see him so still. Usually, his stillness came with some big revelation, a clue they had missed or a crucial piece of information resurfacing to the top of Sherlock’s mind to help them solve the mystery. Now there was no revelation waiting. Only silence.

The sun had risen long enough that James could hear the clopping of carriages passing and feet busying the streets outside. It must be sometime mid-morning, but he does not check the clock. Doing so makes the life they had lost seem all too real, and although James had only known the woman a short time, it feels strange to acknowledge that she would already be gone.

James paces in front of Sherlock trying to think of ways to get his friend back on track or some plan to catch Shou’an before she killed any more people, but nothing comes to him. He considers for a moment, taking the glove in Sherlock’s hand and examining it himself, but the man’s grip on it is tight. James isn’t quite sure he is even aware he is still holding onto the thing.

“I think…” Sherlock speaks for the first time in hours. The glove drops from his hand to the floor. He does not notice it at all. “I should like to rest for now, James.”

He stands, his movements rote, and heads for one of the mattresses. James’ gaze moves with Sherlock until the man finally lies down and turns his back towards the rest of the room. Immediately, he goes for the glove, turning over the button to see the label sewn into the fabric.

He decides to wait until Sherlock’s breathing has evened out to visit the shop and see if he can’t find out more about the owner of the glove.

His plan is sound, as sound as any plan can be when they’re working with such little information, but it relies on Sherlock being asleep, and in that moment, the quiet of their little room is interrupted by knocks on the door.

The last time someone had knocked on that door was the day before, when Miss Holmes had walked in with a basket of breakfast and a smile. James knew it would not be so anymore, so he grabbed a bat from a corner of the room, glancing at Sherlock, who had sat up but made no move to answer the door.

“Sherlock, I know you’re grieving and I’m trying to respect your pain, but could you…?” He gestures his head towards the door, bat raised, telegraphing his movements.

Sherlock does not say a word, but he stands at least and slowly makes his way to the door.

“Sherlock? Are you there? It’s [Y/N]!” The figure on the other side knocks again, and this time Sherlock bounds to the door, throwing it open like its very existence was an affront to enclosures.

“Sister!” He wastes no time pulling the ghost in front of them into a spine-crushing hug and the ghost laughs heartily, a sound that contrasted the absolute silence within these walls just moments ago. Indeed, the sound bounces off the walls and seems to cut through the tension in the air thoroughly, and James does nothing to fight against the smile on his face even as a million different questions poke around in his brain.

Sherlock leads her into the room, arm wrapped around her shoulders, and James notices immediately the way she flinches from the touch, leaning away as though it hurts to be held.

He also notes the gash on her face and the dry tear streaks in her eyes. Indeed, even though she had managed to survive, there is a hollowness in her expression that brings James some amount of concern. If she and Enright had survived the night, why did she look so miserable?

“Are you alright, Sherlock?” She examines her brother’s face even as she allows herself to be ushered into a chair. The question feels silly given it was her who had jumped off the bell tower and not Sherlock, and his friend clearly thinks so too.

“Am I— Am I alright? I should be asking you that!” Sherlock presses, kneeling next to her, his hands holding hers and again, she flinches, subtle enough that Sherlock in his frantic state does not notice, but James can put the pieces together, and he busies himself with finding the basket from yesterday and the box of medical supplies he’d spotted somewhere in the room when he’d first surveyed his new living arrangements.

“I’m alright, Sherlock. Really, you needn’t worry so much.” James hears her soothing Sherlock as he rummages around the small corner they’ve put their things in to find the medical supplies. He can imagine her caressing her brother’s face, a soft smile on her expression as she says this. James puts his focus onto the task at hand.

“I thought you died! When you and Enright fell, I thought—” Sherlock chokes and James does turn at this, to observe, to prepare himself to step in with a quip to lighten the mood.

“Oh, brother dear.” She whispers softly, and she brings Sherlock up into an embrace, even as James spots the grimace in her expression. Every move of her arm pains her, clearly a result of surviving the fall. “I’m alright, I’m alive.”

“How did you survive? And where is Enright? Is he alive as well?” Sherlock asks, all good questions that James would also like answered, but he turns his back to them, half-listening as he returns to searching for the medical supplies.

“There was rope that Xiao— the assassin used to climb up the tower. I’d caught the professor and used it to stabilise our landing. We hid in a tree after to steer clear of his would-be murderer.” She explains and James notes the way she stumbles on addressing Shou’an. He hopes Sherlock notices it too.

“And Enright? Where is he now?” Sherlock presses and she hesitates only a moment — James isn’t even certain she really hesitates or if his mind has made up a conspiracy and is filling in the blanks — before she answers.

“I left him at my lodgings on London Road. He should be safe for the time being.” She falls silent, and when James turns, medical supplies in hand, he finds the characteristic smile on her face gone, a line on her lips instead and a pensive furrow of her brows as she stares at the hands on her lap. Sherlock still grips her hands as though she will evaporate the moment they part.

“Listen, Sherlock, I need to tell you—”

“Now, Miss Holmes, I know this may be forward but—”

They speak over each other and then glance at each other, and Miss Holmes smiles sheepishly.

“Please, go on, Mr. Moriarty. I can wait.” She says simply, though James can see a twitch in her jaw even as she says this. She smiles pleasantly, nonetheless.

“I’d hate to be so forward, Miss Holmes, but could you remove your gloves and your jacket? I noticed you flinching earlier and I can’t help but think we’d be poor hosts to let your injuries fester.” He returns the smile, setting the medical kit on the table and Sherlock immediately jolts into action, his brain seeming more alert now, noticing the tight knit of her shoulders and how her fingers seem to cover a particular spot of her palm even as she holds Sherlock’s hands.

“Ah, thank you, but it really isn’t necessary. I shouldn’t stay for long anyway.” She says, standing as she tries to brush them off, but Sherlock in all his concern, gently pushes her down and takes the glove off her hands anyway.

“No, [Y/N], let James and I take care of you now. Like you said, Enright will be fine.” Sherlock assures, but it does nothing to relax the tenseness in her back as she sits.

James takes out a piece of cloth and wets it with alcohol, passing it to Sherlock, who turns his sister’s hand around. There is a large cut across her palm and her fingers similarly are red where the friction of the rope must have irritated skin. She winces as Sherlock applies the rag onto the cut and then breathes through the pain, as though practiced in mitigating her natural responses.

James files all this into a growing ledger pertaining to the minutiae regarding one Miss [Y/N] Holmes that he cannot help but notice in their every interaction. The way she smiles just so, how she refuses to call him by name but also has no qualms with him holding her hand. The way she’d jumped off a tower to save a man she barely knew with little certainty she and the man she was saving would make it. The way she brushes off all her actions as if her survival was nothing short of a miracle.

Sherlock cups Miss Holmes’ cheek, his fingers brushing over the gash across it.

“I’ve treated that already, please don’t touch it.” She says sharply and Sherlock immediately pulls his hand away, frowning.

“Your shoulder is hurt.” Sherlock points out once he finishes treating and bandaging the cuts on her hand. So he did notice her flinching just now.

“It’s fine, Sherlock. I’ll live.” She sighs, rolling her eyes, but Sherlock has already reached for the gauze and the wet rag.

“James, please look away.” He directs and James chuckles but he turns his back without a word, winking at Miss Holmes, who giggles along with him.

“It’s fine, Mr. Moriarty. You can look, I don’t mind.” She teases, and James can already picture Sherlock turning scarlet. He is almost tempted to take the offer, but he knows well enough not to test Sherlock’s or Miss Holmes’ boundaries, not when the latter has been so gracious to him and the former is his best friend.

“Sister!” He admonishes and clearly takes it out through his bedside manners if the way she takes a sharp inhale just a moment after is any indication. He at least has enough remorse to apologise for the rough handling.

“Sherlock, ah—” She winces verbally as Sherlock seems to hit a particularly sore point of her shoulder. “I need to tell you both something.”

“What is it?” Sherlock asks.

She speaks haltingly, whether because of her injuries or some other reason, James has difficulty parsing.

“I spoke with — ah. I spoke with Shou’an. I met with her tonight. She — hng —  explained a few things to me. Mr. Moriarty, you may turn now.” He obeys without hesitation and just in time, he sees a mite of skin exposed as she buttons her blouse back into place, clearly unconcerned with the eyes on her.

Sherlock clears his throat, but James finds himself taken with landscape of skin before him, the blossoming bruise edging toward her collarbone indicating just how severe her shoulder injury was. It says something about her character and her actual physical strength that she was able to mask such an injury for so long, and that it was the only injury she sustained when dangling from rope holding onto a man twice her size. James licks his lips as he watches her delicate hands (hands that have carried more weight than a woman her size and stature should be able to) button her blouse closed, stares openly at the skin of her collarbone, the patchwork of purples and reds begging to be caressed. He takes a step forward.

“James.” Sherlock calls out, his voice terse. Miss Holmes has almost completely buttoned her blouse now, either unaware of James blatantly watching her or unruffled by the attention, she does not make known, but Sherlock steps in between them so clearly he minds.

“I really need to go soon.” She says, suddenly in a hurry as she stands to check the clock behind James. “But okay, here is what I learned from Shou’an. Or rather Xiao Wei.”

She explains the weapon of mass destruction that Hodge and the government funded, the tie  between the four professors being their research into a mineral in the Gansu corridor that has the power to kill a man in a matter of seconds. She speaks haltingly, like the gravity of the situation is only now hitting her and suddenly she indicated no desire to hurry out of their little hovel.

Sherlock sits across from where Miss Holmes has collapsed on the chair after her account of events. They are quiet for a moment before Sherlock asks the important question.

“And you believe her?”

Something like betrayal flickers across her face for a miniscule second, but it is gone as though it never happened. Her facial muscles do not smooth and her fingers do not twitch because there was no movement to indicate otherwise anyhow.

“Sherlock.” She calls out quietly, but severely. “It is not up to me to tell you what to believe, but trust me when I say that it exists.”

“Do you have evidence? Did she bring you proof?” He presses, and she looks at him, and it is the first time that James sees something like true irritation twitch upon her face.

“What Sherlock means to say, is that as much as this information all conveniently ties things up nicely in a bow, it also makes Shou’an’s —”

“Xiao Wei.” She corrects insistently.

“Xiao Wei’s,” James relents. “— motives seem more heroic than her actions would betray, don’t you think? It’s all rather convenient how favourable it paints her.” James suggests and Miss Holmes does not huff like a petulant toddler, but she does jut her lip out almost in a pout before her expression smooths over once again.

“Well, whatever you believe is your choice, Mr. Moriarty. I have to go now. I’ve said what I needed to say.” She does not relent, but she does not fight them either.

“Find your evidence, that is what you’re so good at, Sherlock.” James could spend hours picking apart the hint of bitterness in her tone as she says goodbye. Sherlock, James notes, looks stricken by the turn of events.

“Sister, I do not—” He makes for her hand, the one not injured, and she squeezes his hand in kind before she lets it go.

“I have said that I must go, and I really do have to be somewhere right now, Sherlock. Please.” She insists, stepping away from him. She hides her annoyance well, but the sigh in her voice and rigidity of her shoulders informs James that she is more than a little frustrated to not be believed. “You have your answers now. If you don’t believe it, then find any other reason why it might be so.”

“Why do you believe Shou’an—” Sherlock begins to ask, and is cut off by a sharp correction from Miss Holmes.

“Xiao Wei. Her name is Xiao Wei.” She says firmly, stubbornly refusing to face Sherlock, back turned to the both of them so James cannot read her expression.

“Why do you believe Xiao Wei’s story so readily? I don’t understand. In case you’ve forgotten, she tried to have me hanged for murder!” Sherlock gestures wildly, his voice rising. Miss Holmes flinches at this but still does not turn to face Sherlock.

“I should go.”

“Wait, your flat, where is it?” Sherlock asks suddenly and James notices the way Miss Holmes’ shoulders rise at the question as she begrudgingly gives them an address.

“Feel free to make yourselves welcome. I won’t be home for a while anyhow.”  If she sounds a little acerbic when she welcomes them, neither of the two men point it out and let her leave without further protest.

When she finally leaves, Sherlock’s expression clouds into something agonised, his brows pinched in and mouth curving downward. It is still better than the devoid sorrow on Sherlock Holmes’ face just an hour earlier, but James likes this expression much less than Sherlock’s other expressions.

“Come, James. Let us visit Professor Enright and see what he knows.”

---

When they arrive at the street Miss Holmes had given as her address, they arrive in time to a crowd forming around an accident in the middle of the street.

“Did you see what happened?” James hears someone asking another person in the throng of nameless individuals. He listens into the conversation even as he and Sherlock try and push their way through the crowd to get a better view.

“Poor man, got run over by a carriage.” Someone explains to a different person in the crowd as they head closer.

“And the driver? Where’s the man responsible?”

“That’s the thing, no one was driving the horses!”

They finally make it to the front of the throng of people and Sherlock goes rigid.

“James.” He says breathlessly, and he doesn’t have to say more.

“Yes, Sherlock. I see.”

They had come in time to see Professor Enright dead on the street, his skull caved in by a horse’s hoof and his body crushed under the wheels of the carriage.

---

[Y/N] tries to shake off the mix of dread and irritation she feels before she steps into her regular meeting place with her handler. She had begged off a few hours to make contact with Sherlock when her handler had called for her right after she’d spoken with Xiao Wei, and her handler had been gracious enough to allow it, but now she was running late for an assignment briefing and that never happened.

She walks into the pub two streets down her flat, hoping she doesn’t run into Sherlock or Mr. Moriarty on the way there, both of whom she’s certain are on their way to her address to find a dead Enright somewhere suspicious enough that they might think it her doing.

That’s a problem for another time. Right now, she has work to do.

When she enters the pub, she sits at the bar next to a gentleman nursing a pint at noon.

“This is a first, doll. You’re late.” Her handler mutters under his breath, just enough for her to hear and no one else.

“A lemonade, please.” She calls to the bartender, and the bartender nods at her. She waits for her drink to be poured and served before replying.

“Yes, well. It won’t happen again. I just needed to make sure Sherlock was okay.”

Her handler hums and she watches from the corner of her eye, as she sits facing forward, him sip his beer thoughtfully.

“That’s the bloke they arrested for the murder of that Oxford professor, isn’t it?” He asks carefully and [Y/N] is distinctly aware in that moment that she’s being watched, monitored for a reaction.

“He didn’t do it, sir. I know my brother. He’s too soft-hearted to kill.” She responds in a measured capacity, keeping her back straight and her eyes on the drink in front of her.

“I would’ve said the same thing about you six years ago, [Y/N]. People change. Tell me when was the last time you saw your brother before now?”

She watches her handler’s mannerisms with careful consideration. Sebastian Moran is not a man who can be swayed by conjecture. It was after all he who taught her how to separate one’s emotions from the work they had to do.

She is spared from answering his question and exposing her softness (He’s right after all, she hasn’t seen Sherlock since they were children. All she has are letters and letters aren’t a substitute for real human connection. She can’t really say she knows her brother.) when he begins talking anew.

“Nevertheless, I suppose given what you know of the case, you’ll like your new assignment.” He speaks with amusement in his tone that makes her nerves stand on edge. Sebastian Moran is not a cruel man (after all, he’d been the one to step in when she was fourteen and a man had — she shakes her head away from the haunted corners of her memories). Sebastian Moran is not a cruel man, but she is aware of his particular brand of ironic humour.

She takes his word with a measure of scepticism, knowing it may well be an assignment that will have her seeing the actual trenches of a battlefield (not that they would ever send a woman to such a place, but she hadn’t counted much for a woman since that day when she was ten and four).

“It concerns the murder of that Professor Thompson and then Roberts after him, and I suspect Enright as well since we have yet to hear from the man in over a week since Thompson had that knife shoved in his back. We’ve reason to believe a special government project is in jeopardy as all the scientists involved have shown up dead.” He explains carefully, watching from the corner of his eye for her reaction. She keeps her face carefully blank, not giving away what she knows and does not know.

Moran shrugs and takes a sip of his beer, smiling.

“You’re right. Sherlock didn’t kill Thompson. At least, we have every reason to believe he didn’t, but of course, it isn’t as simple as letting him walk free. Hodge has reason to believe that Mr. Holmes might get in the way of his negotiations with the princess of Qing. We see no reason to refute this.”

She listens without saying a word even though every part of her wants to argue otherwise. She has a plethora of questions she wants to ask, but instead she takes a sip of the lemonade and makes a face at the sourness pouring down her throat. Moran chuckles at the dour expression on her face.

“That said, with the murders happening in rapid succession, it’s entirely likely they’ll target the last remaining connections to the project. Protect Malik and protect Hodge. That’s your assignment. Find the person responsible for killing the other professors before they can ruin any more of the project and have them arrested.”

“That’s new. I’m not to kill them?” She finally interrupts Moran, and he looks at her for the first time since their meeting, grinning.

“You really are my girl.” He whispers, a rare sort of affection on his face and [Y/N] flushes, staring down at her lemonade.

“I just meant, sir. I’m not exactly used to ‘protect’ and ‘bring to the constable’ sort of roles. Why would they even work with me? You know how Oxford police is about… women in general.”

Moran chuckles again, and [Y/N] watches him shake his head from the corner of her eye.

“I’m aware. I’ve arranged for you to follow Hodge as a representative of the defence minister. Just say you’re there to keep the office updated about everything that’s happened so far.” He reaches into his briefcase and proffers a folder to her. “The rest of the details of your assignment are there. Do you have any further questions, Miss Holmes?”

“…What exactly is this secret project, sir? And would Hodge even want me there? The last time I spoke to the man, he had me kicked out of Oxford for the crime of being associated to Sherlock Holmes.” She finally glances at Moran briefly, and feels a little relief to see the levity in his eyes, even if his face no longer betrays the same sort of amusement.

“Yes, I did hear about that incident when I spoke with the man. A mistake, I assure you, and one we will right once this whole debacle is over, I promise. For now, just do as you’re told, Miss Holmes. Hodge won’t say more when you tell him who you’re there to represent.” Moran says firmly and she knows then that the window for any questioning has closed.

She catches herself before a sigh finds its way out of her mouth. Moran may like her, but he does not appreciate indecorous behaviour. She nods instead, and Moran claps a hand to her back for the briefest moment before he picks up his suitcase.

“Best of luck, my dear. You’ll do as well as you always do.” The well wishes are almost appreciated if she didn’t see it for the thinly veiled threat that it was. She must perform her work in the same capacity she always does or face unimaginable consequence for any failure on her part.

She thinks about Xiao Wei and the business with the odorless gas she mentioned. It’s easy to pretend herself a nationalist when she is usually tasked with killing corrupt lords and drug smugglers threatening the country with their distribution of vices and promotion of wicked conduct. It is much harder to ignore a pleading woman with a dead village and the notion that she has to protect the people responsible for her village’s death.