Miss Holmes, the Professor Is Not a Villain

1 – Meeting with Miss Holmes was the Worst (1)

All the vile things in the world are made by the British.

It was one of the few things that the reincarnated James Moriarty could remember from the faint memories of his past life, but he was sure that the person who said it didn’t know anything about the British.

If they truly knew the British, they would have known that the British people themselves were vile, not just the things they created.

The scene that appeared in his dream was proof itself.

Sometimes a dream can be so detailed that it’s hard to distinguish it from reality, but he immediately knew he was dreaming. Unlike the other fools, he knew he is one of the few with an ordinary intelligence.

More than anything, the scene before his eyes was too absurd to be explained as anything other than a dream.

“Jimmy, look straight, focus! If you move, you’ll ruin the picture!”

But such thoughts had to be temporarily set aside. His mother, in her younger years keeping her son’s past life, scolded him sternly.

Only then did Moriarty realize he’d reverted back to his 10-year-old self. The family had fallen into poverty after the Great Famine, but that day was when all of them had borrowed presentable suits from the neighborhood, despite their debts.

Naturally, as a 10-year-old boy, he also had to wear a child’s suit, which was awkwardly becoming of him but uncomfortable to the extent. He never imagined he’d have to wear it again, even in his dreams.

He was greatly dissatisfied with dreaming. Even though he was aware it was a dream, not being able to do as he pleased was truly uncomfortable. Yet, it seemed the dream was determined to make him a puppet, repeating everything until the day’s events were over.

It was boring and stupid, but he had no choice but to follow the dream’s instructions. In reality, it was no different—filled with boring and stupid things and people.

Including his elder and younger brothers, there were the three Moriarty siblings, their mother, and father. All the living family members had gathered and sat tightly together in the living room, staring straight ahead.

He could understand why his mother was scolding him. They had stretched their budget to hire a photographer for a family photo, so even the smallest mistakes were inexcusable.

In a world where magic existed and strange machines brimming with steam moved, he couldn’t understand why only photography remained antiquated. But he had to remain still and silent, like a wax figure.

In that regard, Moriarty envied his younger sister lying on the floor in his dream.

At least she was dead, thus, she didn’t have to feel uncomfortable. Nobody minded her even if she just lay there.

Yes, his dead younger sister. Unlike him, who was still alive, her face was pale and cold, her body had long since stiffened. A mere object that no longer resembled his little sister lay on the floor.

Her face didn’t recur in his memory so he quickly glanced at the floor, making sure the photographer and his mother did not notice his dead sister.

Even in his dreams, his faintly remembered sister remained just as she had been during that time.

‘Was her name…Jane or was it Sally…….’

He couldn’t recall the name exactly. He was not an emotional person to care much about his dead sister.

Even in her dreams, she never expected to take another family photo with her deceased younger sister, but that was it.

Reflecting back, there were also no particular emotions when her younger sister died.

She, the youngest and only daughter of the Moriarty family, was under five and tediously clung to her. Dealing with her sister was a duty undertaken without any affection, yet their parents foolishly mistook their relationships as good.

So, when her sister died, she had to feign grief. On retrospect, the sister had never been more than an existence of no real help to her.

However, the 19th century England where she was reborn was a time rife with death. Families lost two to three children before they even turned five.

Her younger sister was included in such unfortunate numbers. Considering that she and her brothers survived the catastrophic famine that swept Ireland, it was truly unfortunate.

Her younger sister was a common little girl with no impressed feelings, in life or death.

She couldn’t understand the crying, foolish brother back then, and she still doesn’t, but being clever, she didn’t let it show. Rather, she had to imitate them.

Even in a life accustomed to death, showing such was certainly not good. Moriarty justified to herself that she couldn’t feel familial love for her present family because she was reborn.

But even with that, the sentiments of 19th century English people were a series of bizarrely hard-to-understand events.

When her younger sister died, like other Britons, her parents in this life had the maid wash the dead sister, dress her in her best clothes, and call people to photograph them.

Exactly like the spectacle happening in the dream currently.

Living in the Victorian age, all Britons experienced this at least once. If a child died prematurely, with the dead child’s corpse, if an adult in the family passed, with the stiffened adult, the entire family was photographed with the corpse.

It was an eerie and inevitably inefficient way to remember and commemorate the deceased.

She could never understand the meaning of making the deceased sister’s corpse decent for a monochrome, dull photo, let alone applying makeup and placing a bouquet to indicate death as if lying asleep.

But the existence of her deceased sister had clear utility this time.

As she only had one younger sister, and one dead younger sister, she immediately figured out that she’s dreaming.

Unless some event happened, typical of the weird novels idiots love to read, like the corpse coming back to life, the event of taking a family photo with her dead sister couldn’t happen again.

“Let’s take another shot, Mrs. Moriarty. And Mr. Moriarty, perhaps change the posture? Knee beside our Miss Jane, good, good. To remember Jane well, look down kindly as usual!”

Judging by the talkative photographer, it seems her younger sister’s name was Jane.

But, the boredom hadn’t disappeared, and she had to patiently wait for the time to wake up from the dream, swallowing a yawn.

Fortunately, the dream didn’t last long. Whether due to realizing it’s a dream, the scenery began to blur soon. And someone’s voice came from reality.

“Moriarty, wake up.”

“……How long have I been asleep?”

“About 20 minutes. Everyone intentionally didn’t wake you up, there are one or two guys drunk and passed out here anyway.”

Rubbing her eyes, she turned to where the voice came from, and as always, a stupid face came into view. Couldn’t remember the name explicitly. Although she never lived dumb enough to forget people’s names, there was no need to remember the name of the idiot in front of her who was no different from other idiots.

Of course, as the other person didn’t know how to read minds, she spoke looking at him.

It was clear that the other person thought they were somewhat close friends. Of course, she didn’t rectify that misconception because that delusion occasionally benefited her.

“Did Dodgson, that stutterer, bother you yesterday?”

“Not really. Just talked about after graduation.”

Professor Charles Dodgson was a mathematics professor at Christ Church, Oxford University, where they were studying. He wasn’t really stuttering, but due to his meek nature, he often stuttered during a consultation, leading to mischievous students nicknaming him ‘Stutterer’.

When the talk about post-graduation came up, the other person opened his mouth as if it was interesting. Unlike Moriarty, an early graduate, he had to stay at school longer.

“If I were you, I would have just stayed at school and did research. Earning money and securing a professor’s place.”

“…… I think of it as taking a sabbatical early. And Dodgson said, if I give one or two good papers, they’ll probably give me a place. Dodgson kind of likes me.”

“So did you reconsider the introduction I mentioned? How about earning some money while spending a year when there’s not much to do anyway? It’s teaching a child, so there’ll be a lot of free time.”

In response to his words, Moriarty was silent for a moment. Of course, that was due to a small struggle.

In fact, he was not wrong.

A boring yet decent path was already paved for her. With a good head enough to graduate early, she had some talent in mathematics, even though she started it because of the scholarship. Since she got recommended by professors like Dodgson, she could have prepared for a professorial path by continuing research after graduation.

Common sense demanded she do just that. It was a job earning a small salary. Since they couldn’t expect financial support from their fallen family after the famine, they couldn’t blindly venture.

Despite that, like her, without any thought, she decided to temporarily leave school and was now about to do just that.

Why had he done it? Probably out of boredom. Life had always been monotonous since his rebirth. Ireland was horrifying; Oxford was a sanctuary for fools who fancied themselves intelligent. As for London, it goes without saying – the streets were brimming with trash, and the city was an enormous wasteland where the refuse lived their tedious lives.

Perhaps he had gambled on the thought of relieving this boredom, yet he already had a hunch that this gamble had failed, and he was feeling some regret.

His immediate concern was making a living. Therefore, the offer from the man before him, suggesting he consider temporary work as a private tutor, was something he just had to seize.

What made him hesitant, however, was the fact that the thought of being a tutor wasn’t appealing.

Teaching a dumb kid was bound to be more tedious than spending time with the old men at Oxford.

But, to reiterate, he no longer had a choice.

“Fine.”

“Great, I knew you’d say yes! I’ve already told Miss Holmes.”

“…Holmes?”

“Ah, didn’t I mention? It’s the second son of the Holmes’ you’d be teaching.”

The lad continued to blabber on about something over a few gulps of beer, but Moriarty wasn’t listening anymore.

He found himself muttering the name Holmes repeatedly almost unconsciously. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps it might not be so dull after all.

However, not even he could have possibly imagined the existence of Sherlock, the youngest daughter of the Holmes family, when he came to their home for tutoring.