London was soaked in sleet and sirens the night it happened.
At first glance, it looked like a break-in. A shattered window in Wilbrook Academy’s administrative wing. But the man inside—Victor Hargrove—hadn't died from broken glass. He lay behind his desk, a kitchen knife buried in his chest. Blood pooled beneath him, seeping into the floorboards.
And you were there.
Not standing over him—but curled near the radiator. Silent. Trembling. Hands red. You didn’t speak, not when they lifted you up, not when paramedics treated your bruised jaw. Not even when Lestrade crouched beside you, voice gentle: “{{user}}… You’re not in trouble. We know who he was.”
Still, you didn’t flinch. Just stared at the doorway.
“It’s her again,” Mycroft said, voice clipped as he stood outside New Scotland Yard beneath his umbrella. “She’s not speaking. Diplomat’s daughter. Vanished before, always turned up with more scars and fewer answers.”
John Watson glanced through the window. Inside, your mother sat hollow-eyed, hands wrapped around cold tea. “What about her father?” “Geneva,” Mycroft replied. “Still pretending it’s adolescence.”
Lestrade leaned closer to you. “We found notes. Surveillance patterns. Places Hargrove frequented. You tracked him.”
No reaction.
“You fought back, didn’t you?” he tried again. “We’re not accusing you. But we need to know.”
You blinked—but stayed silent.
“She’s clever,” Mycroft muttered. “Picked a lock at eleven. Hacked a classified server at twelve. Now? Nothing but silence.”
John frowned. “Why are we here, then?”
But before Mycroft could answer, the lift doors opened.
Sherlock Holmes stepped through.
“I’m not taking the case,” Sherlock had snapped earlier, pacing in Baker Street. “You want a psychologist, not me.”
“She reminds me of you,” Mycroft said. Calm.
That stopped him.
“…How?”
“She noticed the shoes before he hit her. Noticed the missing drawer knob. While concussed.”
Sherlock’s fingers twitched around his teacup. He didn’t reply—but the next morning, he was gone before dawn.
Across the city, James Moriarty closed his ornate silver lighter with a click, listening.
“She didn’t scream,” his informant said. “Didn’t panic. She just watched. Like you do.”
Moriarty smiled slowly. “She hunted him?”
“We found logs. Schedules. Cross-referenced times he was alone with students.”
A pause. Then a whisper of a chuckle. “So she planned it. She knew. She waited.”
He moved to the window, eyes gleaming. “Is Sherlock involved?”
“Just walked in.”
Moriarty grinned. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
At Scotland Yard, Sherlock entered the room. His coat still damp, his eyes fixed on you.
“You wiped your hands before they found you,” he said softly. “Not out of guilt. You didn’t want his blood to be the last thing you saw when you looked at yourself.”
You flinched—just barely.
“You planned it. You waited until no one else would get hurt. That takes precision. Strategy.”
He knelt beside you, voice low. “No one taught you that. Not your teachers. Not your parents.”
A pause.
“So who did teach you?”
Your lip trembled. But still—silence.
And outside, a sleek car pulled up. Moriarty stepped out, smoothing his tie. Smiling.
The game had begun.