"You've come, then."
When I left the hospital lobby and headed to the café where Professor Moriarty was, she greeted me after taking a sip of freshly served coffee.
"You've done well. How does it feel to make a queen your slave…"
Then she suddenly stopped, frowned, and rummaged in her pocket.
"…The coffee's bitter."
Professor Moriarty tore open a portable packet of sugar and dumped it into the cup without mercy.
"Mr. Adler, do you know what sugar and crime have in common?"
As I stared blankly, she tore open a second packet and spoke.
"I'm not sure."
"Both stimulate the brain's pleasure center and make it release dopamine as a reward."
Saying so, she took another sip of the souped-up coffee, then swayed her head side to side with a blissful expression.
"Hmhm… Will you have some of this natural narcotic?"
A perfectly ordinary, cute sight: a woman in her early twenties grinning over sweets. Seen only thus, she didn't look any different from anyone else.
"So that's the feeling you get when you commit a crime."
"To be honest, it's several times stronger. A shiver runs through my whole body and I can barely control myself."
But no matter how cute she looked, Moriarty was Moriarty—the unadulterated incarnation of pure evil.
"Lately, though, I'd lost that feeling. Even twelve sugar cubes in a coffee couldn't put any joy back into life."
She set the cup down beside her and began to stare through me.
"And then you appeared. You, who stimulate my pleasure center just by being in my sight."
Her eyes deepened. Hard to put into words, but if I had to, they were shining darkly.
"It's a feeling I haven't had in a very long time."
A chill crawled up my spine for no reason, but I kept my face as calm as I could, and she tapped the table with a finger, murmuring:
"I didn't even make the queen submit with my own hands, didn't even make her flatten her belly to the floor—and yet my heart is pounding like this."
Her voice was as roused as at our first meeting.
"And I didn't even commit a serious felony like murder, kidnapping, or unlawful confinement. Truly astounding."
"…Turning a queen into a slave seems quite felonious enough, doesn't it?"
"Does it? In any case, this must be the charm of crime consulting. I see it clearly now."
There was something strange in the feeling of staining a novice, still clumsy, Moriarty with my own hands.
Not quite guilt, but a sense that somehow we were being swept together into a vast current.
"Professor."
I closed my eyes for a moment under that indefinable emotion, then opened my mouth again to change the subject.
"If you keep that up, you'll put on weight."
At that, she froze mid-tilt of her head, sugar-coffee in hand.
"…Do I look like that to you?"
In truth she didn't look plump at all. If her usual eating habits were like this, then the sugar she took seemed to go to her chest rather than her waist.
"…A little?"
But if her health failed and she collapsed before she could become the final boss, the world would be in danger—so I said it, and Professor Moriarty adopted a grave face and pondered.
"I'll cut it down to one packet from now on."
She declared so with a slightly sulky face and rose from her seat.
"Then shall we slip away from the crime scene."
Just as she said, it was time to leave this place. Holmes was still over there. If the Professor and she crossed paths now and everything tangled up, it would be a disaster.
"So, how was my crime consulting today?"
We rose together and walked the streets of London, and she threw me the question.
"Shall I give you an evaluation?"
I tossed it back, and she wore an intrigued expression.
"This is my first time being graded by someone."
"I have a question first."
Meeting my expectant gaze, I asked her one thing:
"What were those papers?"
Professor Moriarty had reached out to me at dawn today; there were only hours left until morning—time was tight.
Yet just before the Queen arrived, she bribed a nurse and successfully handed me a dossier detailing various misdeeds of the prince who was to be the Queen of Bohemia's husband.
That dossier played a decisive role in making the Queen submit. By what method had the Professor obtained it?
"I cobbled them together."
"Pardon?"
"Even I can't produce legally admissible evidence within a few hours."
Her answer was shocking.
"But now what's in those papers will become the truth."
"Why?"
"By now, Scandinavia's second prince will have died—addicted to a mysterious mana delivered in an anonymous letter."
"...….."
"The cause will be announced as drug overdose. The evidence the Queen submitted will become the accepted account. The dead cannot object."
In short, she had silenced him by killing him.
Mana, though. Could it be that Professor Moriarty is a mana user as well?
"What do you think, Mr. Adler—this perfect crime I devised specially for you, my assistant?"
As I fell silent in thought, she looked to me with expectant eyes and asked:
"The score for this rehearsal is…"
If I was to shape her into a plausible final boss, I had to be firm here.
"Out of a hundred, only fifty, Professor."
Professor Moriarty's eyes went round, and she tilted her head.
"Why?"
"What do you think?"
"…Because I killed a bad man?"
Her way of thinking seemed off, so I began in the tone one uses to admonish a misbehaving child.
"Because you directly intervened in the case, Professor."
"Ah."
"Because of the curse, every crime you commit becomes a perfect crime, doesn't it? If you overuse that trick, you'll grow bored with it in no time."
"I see. You're right."
She nodded, apparently convinced.
"But you looked to be in danger, Mr. Adler. I had no choice."
"...….…"
"I can't have my portable sugar melting already, can I."
At that, I could only shut my mouth.
"What is it, Mr. Adler? Are you unwell?"
"No."
"Surprising. For you—the man who can get any woman he fancies into bed within a day while strolling through central London—to react like that."
"Please don't sexually harass me, Professor."
"Hah, hahahaha…"
She had had her hands clasped behind her back, head cocked as she questioned me; at my words, she burst into laughter as if it were the funniest thing, and led the way.
"Professor. I said fifty points a moment ago, but honestly the rest was faultless."
"…Was it?"
"The lines you had me deliver, and the way you read the Queen's mind—still attached to me—were both on point. From now on, just don't step in yourself."
"Then what should I do next time something like this happens?"
She paused, looked back, and asked.
"I'd hate to get points knocked off by you again."
I thought for a moment at her smiling question, then answered in a low voice.
"Let's start weaving a web in London's back alleys."
"A web?"
A plausible final boss always has compelling lieutenants.
"We're crime consultants. We need subordinates who will bloody their hands in our stead."
"...…."
"Let's build the underworld organization that will one day plunge London into darkness, Professor."
At that, Professor Moriarty's eyes began to shine darkly again.
"As expected, you're the best assistant."
Was my getting used to that look a good sign—or a bad one?
.
.
.
.
.
A few days after the "Scandal of the Queen of Bohemia" case ended.
This is the scandal that shook the Kingdom of Bohemia, and the tale of how Charlotte Holmes's crafty plan was ruthlessly shattered by one man.
At the lodging house at 212B Baker Street, Rachel Watson was pounding away at the typewriter with an absorbed expression.
Holmes often sneered with her characteristic arrogant smile that men were not wise, but since this incident I have never heard her say such things.
Reaching that passage, she puckered her lips to keep from laughing and focused on writing.
And when speaking of Isaac Adler or that halved photograph, Holmes would always bestow upon him the honorable title of "That Man"…
"Hey, Watson."
"Eek?"
From behind her, Holmes's level voice sounded out of nowhere.
"Wh—when did you get here?"
"Just now. That aside, did you not make a promise with the Queen? That the incident would not be published as a story."
"I'm only writing it as a hobby. So our descendants in the future can read it."
"…Must you?"
Holmes frowned as she asked, and Watson answered with a mischievous smile:
"It's the story of our Miss Holmes's first love—of course it must be recorded."
"I think you misunderstand. I don't love him. It's just an unsolved riddle…"
"Sure, sure—then let's change it to the story of your 'first defeat.'"
At that, Holmes spoke, suddenly very serious.
"Watson."
"Hm?"
"I haven't lost yet."
Silence began.
"I just got my enrollment papers. I can probably matriculate within a few weeks. So if I enter there and meet the man who ran away… then…"
Watson stared as Holmes trailed off and slid her gaze aside, then puckered her lips again and murmured inwardly:
"So Holmes has a cute side, too."
From the first time they met, the arrogant genius girl had disparaged Dupin, the founder of the Auguste Academy, as a woman with slow wits.
And as if to prove she wasn't wrong, she'd solved a multitude of cases in just a few days, then "donated" most of the credit to the police like alms—this monstrous child.
With a manner too adult for her frame and age, with languid, ravaged eyes that saw through everything—until a few days ago, she had been someone Watson could not approach.
"…If I do that, at worst it's a draw. Do you see my point now?"
But that child who seemed to have seen it all was now flaring up, rambling on like a peer in adolescence.
'Thank goodness.'
When there was no case, Holmes always lay about listlessly, and no matter how much she was scolded, she continued dangerous experiments with mana stones.
But lately, none of that was visible.
The present Holmes was fired up—thanks to Isaac Adler, the first person ever to hand her a loss.
'…But that man is dangerous.'
Even so, Watson couldn't help but worry.
It was true she'd seen an unexpected side of Isaac Adler in this case—but it didn't change the fact that he was still the greatest scoundrel and piece of trash in London.
"And my going to the academy isn't only because of 'That Man.'"
"What?"
"There are rumors of suspicious incidents occurring within the academy lately. So I'll take the opportunity to investigate…"
"Right, Holmes. You're always right."
Watching Holmes with a touch of concern, Watson then flashed a sly grin and threw a little fist pump.
"You can do it!"
Now was the time to trust Holmes.
She might still be immature mentally, but she was nevertheless London's greatest detective.
"Hm-hm."
And as she narrowed her eyes at Watson, Holmes proved it once more.
"This isn't the time to tease me, Watson."
"…Huh?"
"Because the one with a man is you, not me."
Watson froze with her hands still on the typewriter.
"W-what? Wh-what are you talking about, Charlotte?"
"If I were you—and secretly seeing a man—I wouldn't be dashing out in the middle of the night claiming there was an emergency patient at the hospital while reeking of perfume."
"T-that? That's just a strong scent I sprayed during the day…"
"And a bouquet wouldn't be sticking out of your doctor's bag in place of a stethoscope."
"..."
"If that goes on for weeks, even that thickheaded Inspector Lestrade—let alone me—would catch on."
"W-what are you even saying."
The red climbed higher and higher up Watson's face as Holmes went on, and finally she sprang up and pushed Holmes toward the door.
"Okay, time for you to head out. You said you were going to get your uniform fitted."
"Just got it fitted."
"Then go eat downstairs. Mr. Hudson's laid out a meal."
Thus Watson ushered Holmes, who scratched her head, out of the room.
"Even if we're not 'dating'…"
She glanced around, then, cheeks flushed, began to type again.
It's been a while, darling.
"Still, even Holmes makes me worry."
She switched the typewriter from writing to receiving mode and slotted in a low-grade mana stone as she spoke.
"…If only Isaac Adler were as kind and pure as he is."
.
.
.
.
.
"What is it, you?"
"...…"
I had arrived with Professor Moriarty at the Auguste Academy and was about to go in when something strange happened.
[It's been a while, darling.]
I lifted my suddenly tingling hand without thinking—and saw the message hovering there.
[The evening of the 21st. Let's meet at our usual place at 7 p.m.]
A dizzy spell washed over me, and I squeezed my eyes shut.
"…Who the fuck are you."
I had completely forgotten that the original Irene Adler had a fiancé.