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The lights in this place were too bright—the music too loud. Sherlock had been done with it all not even ten minutes after Billy had dragged him through the door.
Cheering erupted across the room as the current performer finished her act, all glitter and shine that made Sherlock’s head pound.
“I’m leaving,” he said, already pushing back from his chair.
“You can’t, Sherlock!” Billy hauled him back down onto the pleather seat. “I heard the next one’s amazing! Totally different vibe!”
“You said that about the last one.”
The lights went out, casting the stage in darkness. Only the lamps above the tables continued to glow dimly.
For a moment, the whole bar held its breath.
“Now stay with me, ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee’s voice rang through the speakers, the sound of a record rewinding crackling beneath it. “We’re going back—in—time…”
Smoke drifted across the floor—small clouds that broke at any movement—caught in the low glow of the table lamps. It made the slightly run-down bar Billy had brought him to look like something far higher class than it had any right to be.
“Please, hold your applause for The Lovely Miss Lily.”
A single spotlight shone down onto the stage.
She was already there.
For a moment, she didn’t move.
Red satin caught the light first, the smooth line of a gown drawn close to her frame. One arm curved softly at her side, the other lifted just enough to shape the line of her shoulders, long white gloves gleaming faintly beneath the stage lights. A strand of pearls rested at her throat, still as the rest of her. Pale hair, cut short and styled into soft waves, framed her face—and when she lifted her gaze, the color of her eyes caught the light, red, almost unnatural.
She held the pose—deliberate, composed—as though she belonged nowhere else but there.
A slow piano began, the notes low and held long. Only then did she move, releasing the pose to gently take hold of the vintage microphone before her.
Her red-painted lips parted, and it felt as though the whole room drew a breath.
Sherlock didn’t look away.
He wasn’t sure why.
It wasn’t as though she had done anything remarkable—not in the way the others had. No grand gestures, no spectacle. Just a figure in red, standing beneath a single light.
And yet—he found himself watching.
“Oh, she’s so composed,” Billy whispered beside him, stars in his eyes.
That must have been it. Where everyone before her had been loud and wild—she was precise, controlled. The others had strutted across the stage. The only movement now was a slow, sensual sway to the rhythm as she cupped her microphone.
The music carried on, low and steady. She moved with it, unhurried, each motion placed as carefully as the last. Nothing wasted. Nothing excessive.
At some point, he realized he hadn’t moved at all. Hadn’t taken a sip of his drink. Hadn’t said a word. The noise of the room had settled into something distant, dulled at the edges.
He didn’t notice when the song ended.
Only that the music was gone.
The room came back all at once—applause breaking out around him, loud and sudden after the quiet. Sherlock blinked, the sound catching him off guard. The lights came back on, and he almost had to shield his eyes from the jarring brightness.
“Ladies and gentlemen, The Lovely Miss Lily!” the emcee called over the speaker, like there really was no more to be said.
“See!” Billy turned to him. “Wasn’t that amazing?”
Sherlock looked back at the stage, his gaze lingering on blond hair and red satin.
“It was something…”
He watched her step off the stage, already starting to make her rounds through the room as the emcee announced the next performer.
“Miss Lily!” Billy called with a grin, waving a ten-pound note through the air. “Over here!”
Sherlock’s head snapped toward him. “What are you—”
“Making your night,” Billy cut him off, a wicked gleam in his eyes.
Lily glanced in their direction before slowly making her way over. She paused at another table along the way, offering a sultry smile and a playful twirl of her gloved fingers before continuing on.
“Evening, gentlemen.”
“You were amazing up there, Miss Lily,” Billy said, passing the note across the table.
She tucked it away beneath the hem of her glove. “Thank you. I'm pleased you enjoyed the performance.”
Her eyes drifted to Sherlock, who hadn't said a word.
“You’ll have to forgive my friend,” Billy began. “He has a bad habit of watching people like they’re puzzles.”
Sherlock glared at him, and Billy kicked his shin with a pointed look.
“Is that what you think I am?” Lily asked, her head tilting just so. A hint of amusement touched her scarlet eyes. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“That isn’t what I was doing.”
Her red lips curved into a faint smirk. “No? You look like a man who enjoys puzzles.”
Sherlock’s brow lifted, just slightly. “Do you want to be solved?”
“Careful.” Her smile deepened, just slightly. “That sounded dangerously close to a threat.”
She held his gaze a moment longer, as though weighing something, then let it go.
“Try not to solve everything at once,” she added lightly, already stepping back from the table.
A brief smile—polite, practiced—and then she was gone, moving on to the next table as though nothing had happened at all.
“Did you see that?” Billy exclaimed as soon as she was out of range, grabbing his arm and shaking him. “She *liked* you!”
“Stop—Stop, damn it!”
Amanda Greene, twenty years old. Five foot two, nine stone. Found dead in a mews near Bloomsbury, carrying nothing but her student ID. No immediate leads.
The only clue: a torn page from a notebook, filled with numbers and equations that looked, at first glance, entirely random—save for a single citation, scrawled in the margin.
W. J. Moriarty.
Sherlock flipped his case notes closed and looked up at the entrance to the university’s administrative building. It was the only thread worth following.
He pushed through the door and made his way to the reception desk.
“How can I help you, sir?” the woman asked, only glancing up at him for a moment before returning to her screen.
“Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “I called earlier about a meeting with Professor Moriarty.”
“Just a moment,” she told him, nails skittering over her keyboard.
A minute passed before she looked back up at him.
“He’ll see you now.” She turned to a young man sorting through papers behind her. “Mr. Hunting, would you take Mr. Holmes to Professor Moriarty’s office?”
“Sure, no problem.” He set his papers down and motioned for Sherlock to follow. “It’s a bit of a walk.”
They slipped out of the building and started across campus.
“What can you tell me about Professor Moriarty?” Sherlock asked, half to gain some information, half to fill the silence.
Hunting glanced back at him as they walked. “He’s—” he paused, as though weighing the word, “—good. Properly good.”
He let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Not just teaching, I mean. The work he does… people notice. Even if he doesn’t make a fuss about it.”
Sherlock said nothing, but his interest sharpened.
Hunting hesitated a step before the door to the maths building. “He—” he stopped, then shook his head lightly. “He notices things most people don’t.”
He opened the door for Sherlock to step through into a busy hall, students milling about in clusters.
They turned down a quieter corridor, the noise of the rest of the building falling away.
Hunting slowed near a closed office door, hand hovering briefly without making contact.
“He doesn’t miss much,” he said, almost as an afterthought.
Hunting gave a short knock against the door.
“Come in.”
He stepped aside without another word, leaving Sherlock to it.
Sherlock pushed the door open.
“Professor Moriarty, I—”
The words stalled.
Blond hair, not the carefully styled waves from the night before, but close enough. The same pale gold, the same softness at the edges. No paint now, no satin, no pearls—but the lines were there, unmistakable once seen.
And the eyes—
Red.
Not the trick of stage lighting. Not shadow.
Red.
William Moriarty looked up from where he sat behind his desk, pen still in hand, expression composed.
“Mr. Holmes,” he said, as though nothing at all were out of place. “I was expecting you.”