Chapter Text
“You look stunning in a real suit, Mister Holmes,” said the noblewoman whose husband’s murder he’d solved. The surprise was that she wasn’t the one that killed him. It was another woman, but she sure didn’t mourn the loss of him.
That’s why he was here with her tonight, enduring the absolute torture of a heterosexual dating situation.
Fortunately he didn’t have to work hard at turning women off, he just needed to be himself for a while. Once the dashing detective image was ruined for her, after she caught him picking his nose or something, she’d move on to someone else.
He could even hook her up, he thought. She was hot as far as women went. Not that Sherlock was all that susceptible to the follies of attraction, but she had a small waist and big round boobs and puffy lips. Men usually like that, don’t they? Dumbass of a noble to cheat on her, but noblemen never could get enough of anything.
Maybe that’s why so many of them were being murdered lately.
And that thought brought him to the reason he was here at this masquerade gala. A string of unsolved murders, most of which were noblemen, most of whom were later revealed to be involved in multiple killings of their own.
Finding any clue about either the mastermind or his future marks was tricky. Nobles were cloistered in their own high class environments, and snooping around meant he needed an invitation.
“It’s too bad you had to hide your face,” she said. “You have handsome features.”
“Aha, well…”. He really had to dump this horny widow on some guy immediately.
He scanned the crowd. Tall and dark haired would be her type. He could surely find somebody in this crowd of noblemen.
And… got him! A particular green-eyed subject in a mask with a blue plume. “Hey, who’s that guy?”
“Oh, that’s… Lord Moriarty!”
Did he know how to pick ‘em or did he know how to pick ‘em? The lady was swooning at the mere sight of his back from across the room.
The woman continued. “He’s secretive, no one has ever been to his home. But the rumors say he has a magnificent rose garden. Whenever he speaks, he’s so gentle.”
“Could you introduce me to him? I’d like a few rose growing tips myself.”
“Certainly, he’s very kind! Let us meet with him.”
They crossed the room and the woman introduced herself in the cordial way nobles did. Sherlock didn’t.
The man was a real looker, he had to say. Even with the mask on, Sherlock could tell he had an elegant face. “Ah, Lady Estelle,” he said in a voice that came out like butter. “It’s good to see you. I thought you would be grieving quite a while longer.”
“Oh no,” she said. “Mister Holmes here managed to catch the killer! He’s a detective, and a famous one.”
“Sherlock Holmes?” Albert asked, and took another sip of wine. “I’ve heard that name. And how did you become acquainted with the Lady?”
“Solved the case of the murdered cheater,” he said. “She may have been framed for murder had I not solved the case.” He’d gotten involved hoping that a dead nobleman would get him closer to the mastermind killer, but it turned out that some noblemen do still die for unrelated reasons.
“My thanks to you. That would have been a shame. She does good work for charity.”
“I’ll do even more charity work now that my husband is out of the wa—I mean, gone, may he rest in peace!”
She hadn’t killed the husband, but she sure was glad he was dead. But what was more advantageous, she was scooting closer to this Albert guy.
“Her vineyards make some great wine too,” he threw out there. He could tell the man was a connoisseur from the complex scent that wafted from his glass of red wine, and the way he stirred and tasted it.
“Ah yes, that’s true. I hope the vineyard is safe in your hands, my lady.”
“Oh, yes! Which is your favorite? I will have a bottle brought over right now.”
“Well, you two wine lovers keep at it, but I need to hit the little boy’s room.”
Albert gave him the most apathetic look, as if he knew exactly what his game was. “I hope to speak with you again, detective.”
“Right.”
Sherlock was out.
Now it was time to pursue the food table to fill his stomach with free food, and see if he could pick up any leads.
The man hogging the buffet had blisters on his hand, odd for a noble, but explained easily by a hobby like hunting. A woman near him was wearing a shade of lipstick a whore wouldn’t have been caught dead in, but maybe the mask over her face gave her the confidence to sport such a look. Another woman heading to the dance floor was pregnant and showing, but that wasn’t going to stop her from dancing the night away.
So much information flew around in crowds like these. Every person was a character in their own story. It was Sherlock’s job to filter the noise and make note of what might be pertinent.
He scanned each person, all while shoving his face. Nobles knew how to eat and drink, that was for sure. Glazed duck and prime rib with about a dozen other courses.
His inspecting gaze flitted from person to person until he saw one thing that made him stop short.
A man with red eyes.
Red eyes were rare, but a few noble lines were known for passing them down. As such, it was no surprise to see a pair of eyes like that here amongst hundreds of nobles.
The color wasn’t the only thing about those eyes, however. They were bright, shining with intelligence from behind a mask with a white lily adornment. A real living flower with a scent that cut through the smell of food and human bodies moving around.
The red eyes locked with his, rimmed with pale lashes. Sherlock had a thing about blonds, and this guy had hair like the Golden Fleece itself.
I’ve never been so attracted to a human being in all my life, he thought and then wanted to slap himself. Wasn’t it just a few minutes ago that he was thinking he’s not vulnerable to that kind of attraction?
He noticed Sherlock watching him and approached, tilting his head as if to get a better look. “What’s a private detective doing in a place like this?” His voice was soft and lilting, and the tone was a tease.
“Detective?”
The man smiled. Bright, needling, interested. “Sherlock Holmes, if I am correct.”
“Now that’s quite a deduction. How could you tell?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? I’m sure that with the recent string of murders, the police would have thought to plant their best man on the case. Though I’ve never seen you in person, those articles tend to go on and on about your unconventional appearance.” He lifted one hand and pointed at Sherlock’s neck. “It was the ponytail.”
Sherlock scanned him up and down and could find nothing to point to the man’s identity. He was wearing a hand made suit, sharp as a razor, and shoes that probably cost a year of the rent money he owed Miss Hudson.
Observations like how long his legs were and what it might be like to kiss someone one’s own height were completely unhelpful and kept bouncing to the forefront of his mind.
“Although,” he continued, when Sherlock didn’t answer. “I could also have noticed your suit, which is tailored for additional range of motion,” he leaned in then, and spoke in a low tone. “Or, perhaps it was the bulge of a gun hidden against your lower back?”
Sherlock’s heart pounded at the sound of his voice, and he began to grin like an idiot. “Must have been staring at me a while to catch all that.”
The beautiful red-eyed man removed his gloves and folded them neatly away into his breast pocket. His long, slender, fingers picked up a strawberry from an hors d’oeuvres tray. Strawberries were a luxury at this time of year imported from a warmer part of the world. This man passed on rich meats, fine wine, and painfully crafted delicacies, all to taste one simple strawberry.
“I just wanted to see if I could beat the famous detective at his own game.”
Sherlock was so entranced by the way the red berry stained his lips, he almost missed the callus on the inside of his right index finger. A writer’s callus was normally found on the outside of the finger. It wasn’t a pen he was writing with to make that mark, and he was writing in an upright position rather than against a desk. A chalkboard.
But no noble would be a simple school teacher. Oh no. In spite of this man’s youthful appearance, he would have to rank quite high as teachers go.
“That’s understandable,” he said. “You must be bored out of your mind here, Professor.”
The slight smile curled into a downright devilish one at that. “You are good. Pray tell, what subject is it that you believe I teach?”
“From your manner of speech and your interest in detective work, my first guess would have been Literature. But, that’s not it. Literature is a lazy subject, analyzing fiction and all that—“
“You needn’t besmirch the arts to get to your point, detective.”
“Ha!” Sherlock wanted this man, and again, he thought he should slap himself for such a distracting thought. “Everything about you screams mathematics.”
“I see.”
The intense curiosity combined with elegant speech and a direct manner. The way he held himself as if every movement were choreographed with no room for error. While Sherlock pursued truth by observing this world, someone like the man in front of him would seek to uncover its mysteries by way of the pure, unemotional truth of numbers. “Theoretical math, to be specific.”
“You are correct. I was quite bored until I saw you.”
“You think I’m interesting, huh?”
He sighed. “I’m tired of standing, detective. Would you escort me to the sitting area?”
“I doubt you need your own escort, but I’ll go just to be sure.”
Wait a minute. Wasn’t he supposed to be information gathering? How did he so easily become swept away by a tall blond?
In spite of his better judgement, he took a step towards the man. Then, a woman’s scream ripped through the pleasant string quartet’s playing from the direction of the dance hall.
The professor reacted with alarm just like every other noble gathered there, but it was cool and controlled. His posture stiffened and he looked around himself as if to survey possible dangers before moving forward.
“Excuse me,” Sherlock said, and dashed away, making use of his specially tailored suit.
He ran as quickly as he could back to the dance hall, where he’d left his lady client in the capable hands of Albert Moriarty. He didn’t see them (maybe they’d gone off to be alone, that would be great) but there was a man collapsed on the floor and women were threatening to faint left and right.
The man was in his thirties at most and fit, not the type one would expect to collapse suddenly.
He knelt and tried to feel the man’s pulse, but it was gone. His first action was to attempt resuscitation, but he couldn’t get any breath into the man. His body was cold, like he’d been dead for a while now.
“How long has he been laying here?”
The young woman whose scream had stopped the music looked back at him with teary eyes behind her mask. “Wh—what?”
“How long?”
“H-he just fell to the ground not a minute ago! We were just dancing, then he just… fell!”
Sherlock lifted the man’s arm and looked into his eyes and nose. No rigor mortis, no coagulation. Why is he so cold?
A nobleman, the host of the party, approached, likely fearing for his own reputation. “Heart attack? Stroke, perhaps?”
Sherlock rolled up the dead man’s sleeve and looked closely at the bend of his elbow. In the crook of his arm was a small mark, very familiar to him. That of an injection needle.
“I believe this man was murdered.”
“Murder? That’s preposterous. And who are you? Take that mask off.”
Sherlock rose and removed the simple black mask from his face. Just as he did, he heard a lilting voice as clear as a bell. “That man is Sherlock Holmes, London’s great detective. I would honor his request, if I were you.”
The host’s eyes widened as he turned to the source. The man with the beautiful eyes was standing behind him, smiling in that needling sort of way.
“Nobody leaves,” Sherlock said. “Get someone to man the doors until the police arrive.”
“You expect us to do something like—“
“I don’t care if you’re a noble, there’s a murderer in this building.”
“Agreed,” said the man with the red eyes. “Albert and I will assist you if needed.”
Albert. The guy with the wine, who he’d foisted the girl onto. Albert Moriarty. This was…? They didn’t look related, although the red eyes present in some nobles did defy what little scientists currently knew about dominant and recessive genes.
“Friend of Albert’s?” Sherlock said. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
The absolutely fucking gorgeous man raised his hand to his chest and announced himself with a haughty smirk. “I am William James Moriarty.”