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Chapter Text

"Lord of Crime is alive,"

That was in all the newspapers. The new central topic of every conversation, from children to the elderly. Only their opinions would differ; young souls would play as the criminal, and elderly people would check their locks twice before sleeping.

Was William James Moriarty, known as Lord of Crime before his death, alive? It was all the news that curious minds could get. Not a hint, not a photo. Just some victims found dead in different places, having a note next to them with a clear line written on it.

Did you miss me?
 
    - LoC

It could have disappeared unnoticed by everyone, until some British nobleman present at the formal party had to point it out.

Shaking with fear, he pointed to the note where the corpse of his dead friend lay among the crowd. The note was in his hand, almost destroyed by the force he used before dying. After opening the note and reading it carefully for God knows how many times, his pupils widened, hands vibrating uncontrollably. His forehead was already glistening under the light because of how much he was sweating. Feeling as if boiling water had been poured over him, he only whispered silently. "He is... alive?"

Asking the ghosts in the room. He started to feel dizzy. The surroundings were fading, and there was darkness, coming to haunt him and never letting him go.

The news never failed to spread. At least, not this one. People may not care about scientific discoveries. But a good topic for when they are bored will never be gone without getting deserved attention. And it was fair to say human beings love rumours.

At least, most of them do. Since Sherlock Holmes was not so fond of them. The rumours were able to destroy a family, make some precious feelings like love miserable or, worse, make someone take their life.

And it was going to be like that forever. Giving a life to his... friend and then taking it. Right in front of his eyes, again. He witnessed the former criminal's heart drown into the deepest, darkest waters known to humans. He never wanted to watch it shatter to pieces again.

Sherlock was on a personal mission. To find out if any photo has been published of the Lord of Crime's face. The face of whom complimented his coffee every morning despite its taste.

He bought every newspaper he could find that morning. He read all of them, from local newspapers to national ones. To his relief, there wasn't any photo. Only one paragraph was the same in every newspaper.

"He was the reason why many families had to die. Fathers of children, gentle people. He even took my friend. Not me, nor anyone in this world, would give him a peaceful death. Even the universe knows that devil deserves dying more than just once."

He folded the papers quickly. His lips shaking, he tried to open his mouth and explain. Explain that the "devil" written there is actually one of the kindest people he ever met. The devil in children's books never smiled like that.

He threw every newspaper in the trashcan and walked toward the apartment he shared with his friend. Maybe if he had caught Liam sooner, he wouldn't have had to go through all things alone. Maybe he was still that young, brilliant mathematics professor in Durham. Maybe they could still use the words rubbish bin and flat instead.

After opening the door, he was greeted with tea smell and two familiar faces. Both were serious and reading over some documents. Two cups of tea were on the table they sat at. Based on the smoke above the cups, which had already vanished into the air, their teas were cold and were there only for formality.

"You're finally back, Doc," one of them said, smiling toward Sherlock. It wasn't that cheerful smile they were used to. It felt odd but also understandable.

"Yeah, yeah," he continued while walking to a sofa next to the wall and sitting on it. "Care to say what happened in that interesting document that Liam even forgot his tea for?"

William chuckled a little at his comment. "I believe you already know the content, Sherly. And thank you for checking for any trace of evidence."

Sherlock’s hand that was searching the pocket of his trousers for a cigarette and match stopped. He faced William with both eyebrows lifted up and coming down slowly. He let out a laugh. "Obviously you were going to find out,"

He recalled that amount of newspaper didn't come for free; he took coins. And he brought a lot, just in case there were more expensive ones.

Billy looked at both of them. After they came back from Vermissa, William also joined Pinkerton. There were some missions they participated in together. Therefore, by now, he was more used to them talking in silence.

He often let them communicate through the air, as he believes that's a way both understand. However now, they had a much more important matter on their hands.

"So as you both know, someone calling themselves "Lord of Crime" had risen here. The documents here are showing the details of nine murders that happened in the last month.

"Police realised these are related because of the same note every time. Although they didn't know what "LoC" meant until some British nobleman pointed it out at a party and then collapsed. After regaining his consciousness, he told the story of the enemy of an entire country. That's when rumours of his survival started to spread. And it didn't take long for newspapers to show it on their front pages.

"As Doc said, and thanks to the lack of information, not a single photo was there. But there will be soon if we don't act against it. In a week or two, some people from the British government will be here and ask to help arresting and therefore executing the criminal.

"As told to me by our supervisors, we have to find the murderer, or they won't be able to hide you anymore."

The only moving object was the smoke of Sherlock's cigarette after Billy finished the report. He was, unfortunately, right. If they didn't impede the real culprit, the government wouldn't be able to keep them hidden. Because the American government didn't have a reasonable excuse for not searching for the criminal. And the British knew the real face of the Lord of Crime. So they couldn't arrest an innocent person as a replacement even if they wanted to.

They had to find the culprit and explain everything with determination that William was dead before the British government arrived. Pinkerton wouldn't risk anyone finding out about them keeping a criminal hidden. Especially by commoners. As it would make some conflicts they avoid.

"Liam isn't the Lord of Crime. I mean, not this time." Sherlock said, without hesitation. Whoever labelled themselves as Lord of Crime was moving freely. And here they were, accusing the man who once was Britain's greatest fear.

"I know. Everyone around you does." Billy frowned. Standing from the chair and taking a step forward, handing the documents to Sherlock. "But you, unfortunately, have to show proof to our supervisors. They gave you one week."

"He can't murder those people even if he wanted to," Sherlock stated, getting the documents from Billy. "Those idiots",

"They think William is clever enough not to need any help from someone to be able to orchestrate a murder." Billy replied. He went and took an apple from the kitchen table, thinking whether or not it would turn into a beautiful dove-shaped apple or just be eaten immediately.

"I know! I meant there are too many missions they throw at Liam. He just woke from a coma, and his scars are still healing. He doesn't have time for shit." He bit down on his cigarette and turned his face to look at the sky out the window that was suddenly so interesting.

William brought his hand to his mouth, trying to hide the smile shaping on his face. "The problem here isn't timing." He said, standing up from the chair that was on the other side of the table. He grabbed the two cold cups and went into the kitchen

"Even though Pinkerton wasn't able to get full access to the crime scenes, they still managed to get some details from the police. Details of their past crimes are more than engaging."

The detective watched William as he was going through all the cabinets for finding some biscuits.

Every morning when he was home, Sherlock would make them coffee, and they would drink it with some sweets. It could be the pie William baked or the simple biscuits.

William's pies were delicious. He once said he learnt how to bake them from Louis, his younger brother. And even if it wasn't as good as usual, it was still made by Liam. His own coffee still had some potential to improve, even though he was certain it was because of the coffee filter.

The detective and the former Lord of Crime weren't used to the kitchen. They only spent some time in that room on a few special occasions. When trying to cook a new food, the unfamiliar space would turn into a mess, dirty and unorganised. But they would clean it. The food was worth the trouble after all.

Trying to not dive deeper into past memories and remembering how Miss Hudson made life a little easier by bringing him food or how he made life a little harder for her by delaying the rent every month, he looked at the papers handed to him by Billy.

After reading the papers, he got to a conclusion. The details of the murders were, in fact, very interesting.

The last victim, killed at the formal party two days ago, was a British noble in his fifties. Known by everyone because of his obsession with gambling. Some voices were heard which were saying the properties he often used in his matches weren't only money.

The reason for his sudden death, or rather, murder, was written as cardiac arrest. The doctors said it was caused by his old age, and the only evidence about his death being intentional was the note in his hand.

The other eight victims weren't in a pleasant situation either. Often with a dirty history, they died in a way that was going to be called revenge by most people.

The detective knew the purpose of the one who labelled themselves as Lord of Crime was murdering those people in silence and then showing their wicked life to society.

Even with such a reason, murder is still a crime. Besides, there was one more factor still bothering him, more than it should.

This new murderer used the name 'Lord of Crime. It was the title of the man in front of him, who sacrificed himself for a better society, for his beautiful dream. The title of the man behind every interesting case, whom the detective commended for his intelligence. The man he caught. And was never going to leave him alone.

The blond seemed to notice his train of thought and placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked at his face. One scarlet eye was fixing on his own and looking at him with warmth, while the other was covered with a black eyepatch. There was a glow visible in his orb. A glow he saw the first time they met, the time they solved a case as a competition, or the time when he visited Durham to talk with a professor, which ended in playing Russian Roulette with him.

The flare in his eyes had long gone when they met in 221B. It had completely vanished on the Tower Bridge where he was supposed to say his goodbye.

He never did and never would. He caught Liam and would never let him go.

Chapter Text

The weather wasn't bad that night. It wasn't raining heavily or at a high temperature, allowing people to have an enjoyable time outdoors. Until their plan reached a certain point when it was time to set their mansion, along with the major part of London, on fire.

William knew, with how events were planned, Albert was the one lighting up the match. His older brother wasn't connected to William by blood but by the strings of the same ideals.

He was first William's accomplice in sharing some bread. And followed with sharing his pain of executing devils with him.

The criminal was standing on the Tower Bridge, as it was planned. With an explosion, all eyes were on him. All were filled with hatred and disgust, some with additional feelings in them called revenge.

All wanted one thing, his death. And he was willing to give that away. His hands were already painted with the crimson colour of blood, even darker than his eyes, too blended with the devil to ever turn into a human again.

But there was something missing on the other side; the detective wasn't present.

The only person he wanted to see in his final breaths. The face he wanted to see before the single vision he could see was the dark waters of the Thames.

The memory was in his mind, too fresh to ignore. After giving Sherlock two letters, there was the following question asked by him, "Why me?"

The answers were in the address written in the black envelope. He also wrote another letter, because he knew he couldn't answer the question directly.

Maybe after reading those letters and finding out about the other crime evidence, he was never going to come. Maybe because he didn't care, or maybe because he saw the crimson on William's hands.

He might have even seen the blueprints of the Noahtic, where they first met.

With dear memories of his brothers and others that he also counted as family, the haunting ones of those he killed throughout the Moriarty plan, and the thought of a detective solving the cases involving the infamous 'Lord of Crime' intriguingly, he took some steps back.

Maybe he was too selfish to ask Sherlock to come there. But even if he was, he was going to forget it all.

He fell from the bridge. He dived and dived deeper into the waters of Thames. Maybe the blood on his hands would finally wash off.

But it didn't matter anymore, as all he could see was a blurry vision of some bubbles escaping from his mouth. And then, he closed his eyes. It was his goal from the start to erase all devils. The last devil was him, and after closing his eyes, he had finally fulfilled his wish. There wasn't one devil breathing anymore.

With a sudden force, he snapped awake. His pupils were tighter than normal, and his heart was racing in his chest.

Already struggling with breath, William brought his hand to grip the edge of the mattress to pull it over himself.

Sitting on his bed, he stared at his hands. The hands he used to put an end to endless lives were now incapable of letting him have a future. The white canvas of his future would be painted in shades of red before he even had the chance to touch another colour.

These kinds of nightmares weren't unusual. For a while after he woke up from his coma, he would experience it every night.

The first ones happened at the hospital. Sherlock was at his side, sleeping on the chair, until he got discharged. He wasn't alone.

Even after they moved to their flat, Sherlock refused to leave his company. He did the same as in the hospital, sleeping on a chair while resting his head on the mattress. And again, he wasn't alone.

William's nightmares got better eventually. And Sherlock didn't have the reason to stay with him anymore.

The nightmares at the beginning were just from the moment he nearly drowned or from when he murdered a nobleman.

But now, they were more involved in the moments before his fall. They were more about how Sherlock came that day. Maybe he felt the emptiness of the room, of the chair he used to sit at. And his brain was starting to doubt if he would even show up if given a second chance.

Feeling dry in his throat, he wanted to drink some water. He reached his hand to the nightstand for a glass and found it empty.

With forcing power to his legs, he finally dragged himself out of his bed.

Slowly approaching the door, he tried to be quiet so he wouldn't wake Sherlock up. He opened it and caught the slight trace of a light.

After his eyes adjusted to the change in darkness, he left the door open and walked to the light.

William felt a strong smell of tobacco, then revealed the sight of the dark-haired man sitting in front of the fireplace. He was there, surrounded by the smoke of his cigarette and too focused to even notice another person coming.

The blond couldn't help the wistful smile forming on his lips. He walked toward Sherlock and was about to put his hand on his shoulder when Sherlock turned his head.

His gaze softened upon seeing the blond.

"Sorry, Liam." Sherlock stood, waving his hand to disperse the smoke. "Did I wake you up?"

"My glass was empty. I didn't notice you were awake before a few moments ago. May I join you?"

"Of course, take a seat," he gestured toward his chair, heading to the window, and swinging it open for some fresh air. He made his way to grab the other chair beside the table and placed it next to the other in front of the fireplace.

"Thank you, Sherly." William settled where the other previously sat. "When did you wake up?"

"Maybe a few hours ago," he moved toward the kitchen and poured some water into the kettle. "Do you want some tea?"

When roused from a nightmare, Sherlock used to make him some tea to soothe him, allowing some time for William before speaking about the past.

Following the pattern, the detective had noticed his reason to be awake.

"I would appreciate it," he said, facing the dark-haired man.

Judging by the hollow of smoke before he approached Sherlock, he hadn't had a peaceful night either.

Maybe it was caused by the same reason as his or just the bothersome thought of a new case.

Gazing upon the fire, he recalled the memories of all the people he cared about.

The old memory of a time the three James Moriarty convinced Jack the Ripper to teach them.

His younger brother when he was keeping himself awake to watch over an angelfish named after William, because the said fish was unwell.

The remembrance of a drinking contest between his older brother and Colonel Moran. Which ended with Fred and Louis joining them and getting drunk, too.

A mission he directed for the new member to settle amongst them. That was covered by simple instructions about bringing a box back.

A sudden tea party announced by Albert. That resulted in an exhausting day of trying to protect a room underground by everyone.

The endearing memories of a man who deduced his profession in Noahtic.

Haunting thoughts of having murdered the white knight of London in front of others and taking the blame for him.

The blackmail king that got killed by Sherlock's hands.

The crowd below witnessed the last moments of the Final Problem as they fell.

The rooftop of a hospital, where he told Sherlock he never thought of himself as a person and that he never imagined a future for himself.

Vermissa, when they said they will share their worries together.

Twice, Sherlock Holmes had done something he hadn't anticipated. First was shooting Milverton. And second was jumping after him.

But how could he not have expected that when he was the one saying to catch him?

"Liam, are you alright?" Sherlock asked, two cups in his hands.

"Yes, sorry," taking one of the cups from Sherlock, he continued, "The smell is pleasant."

A little sparkle lit in his eyes. A warm smile growing on his face, Sherlock settled down.

"Were you staying up late every time there was a case worth attention?"

"What do you think?" He gave William a sidelong glance.

The blond murmured a laugh, staring at the cup in his hands.

Especially at the beginning of the time he chose Sherlock to play the detective, Fred was watching over him. He knew the answer before he asked the question.

"I'm glad you found a case so entertaining,"

"Not really. The new name, called 'Lord of Crime', is just an illusion from one's lack of creativity about a name. Tomorrow, I'll go to crime scenes for observation. Your name will be clean."

Lord of Crime was the nemesis of London's greatest detective, Sherlock Holmes. He murdered people and was brought to justice by the detective.

It should remain this way forever.

"I would like to come along, if that is fine."

"You don't have to," locking his eyes with William's, he winked. "But I'd like it if you do,"

His lips curving into a smile, he asked. "What are your thoughts about the new 'Lord of Crime'?"

"As I said, only a result made by lack of creativity. And the case could be solved within seconds."

"So the infamous Mr Holmes doesn't believe in the difficulty of solving such a crime," he scoffed.

"Of course I don't. The matter is why they picked your title."

When a group in East End selected 'Jack the Ripper' as their label, it was an incident. Just a name that would contain fear was fitting. However, the new criminal was acting as him, murdering the corrupted and revealing their rotted past.

"It can be caused by the similarity in intentions," with a pensive forming, he added. "But the Lord of Crime died after falling. The facts shouldn't change,"

The criminal should remain dead. The reason for its existence was just to demolish the class system. Enduring its substance could only hold adverse effects.

"They'll believe it after arresting the fake mastermind. You needn't worry,"

Feeling the tea getting colder in their hands, they took a sip of it.

"If the case is not concerning, then is there something occupying your mind?"

"It isn't important," Sherlock answered, looking at flames. "I just remembered a piece of music."

"What kind of music?" He asked, looking over at the fire.

"The name is Berceuse. It was one of the last pieces I was playing on my violin before Milverton emerged."

Berceuse was a tranquil, melodious piece. William had heard it in a few places before.

"It sounds good on violin. I'll play it for you, if you would like to,"

"I am looking forward to it,"

Putting the cup on his lap, the surroundings begin to fade slowly. He kept the cup with his hands to avoid it tilting. And the next thing he knew was that he had fallen asleep.

Somehow his head found a comfortable place to lean on. Which he didn't question.

Chapter Text

Another man lost his life on a Saturday morning.

It was the day when the two men living in a small neighbourhood in Brooklyn had previously decided to go shopping for curtains for their shared flat. But apparently, they would have to fully enjoy the sunlight for a few days more.

It had been three days since the news of a new Lord of Crime spread. Two days since they began to investigate the prior crime scenes undercover at a local detective agency, finding nearly nothing except for a little information about the murderer. Or it was more accurate to say: murderers.

The crime scenes were almost cleaned up. There weren't many clues in the place itself. But rather, the corpses of the victims provided the needed details.

Six men and three women were killed and had the note beside them, which meant their deaths were operated by the same person.

Each had been killed with different methods, some with poison, some by blood loss, and others because of their apparent diseases.

Wounds that caused four of them to die showed differences in the murderers' strength. Three showed the strong stabs, while the other went straight for the neck. Based on the wounds' angle, there were two right-handed attackers as well as two left-handed ones.

Two men's causes of death were reported as natural diseases. One was asthma, and the other was that nobleman who died at the party from cardiac arrest.

The last three were poisoned, but the police couldn't find the food or drink they were poisoned with.

The time between each case wasn't more than five days. Therefore, William and Sherlock deduced the next murder would happen in a day or two. The person behind all of this hadn't reached for anything yet. The series of deaths would probably continue.

And then there was the murder of the tenth man, just that morning.

"The case you were waiting for," Throwing the door open, Billy announced, "Finally, you have it."

With a grin on his face, the detective stood and strode toward Billy. "They didn't clean anything this time, did they?" He took the envelope from him and opened it.

"No, not yet. I'll tell you the details once we are on our way there. We're already late."

"Then we should hurry." William joined them at the doorframe. Taking some of the papers from Sherlock, they walked out of the door.

"Victim is a judge held in residential custody. Got found by one of his maids three hours ago." Walking downstairs, he said, "The police couldn't do much, and now we are on the case."

Sherlock opened the entrance door, murmuring, "As always."

"A judge under house arrest?" William stopped next to Billy.

"I've heard it's because of some of his great records that he didn't go straight to jail."

"Billy, can you take a cab?" Sherlock asked, searching the papers to find the victim's autopsy.

"Sure, but I'm not coming with you." Apologetically, he waved another envelope. "I have another case."

"Fine, thanks." Finally finding the paper he was looking for, he walked back to give the remaining papers he had to William.

Too focused on the report, Sherlock didn't pay attention to his surroundings anymore. It was written after police arrived to observe the dead body.

The cause of the sudden death of Edmund Wilder Ashford, a seventy-one-year-old judge, appeared to be suffocation, with some bruises left behind on his neck, showing the murderer's technique. They weren't made by a rope but rather with a belt.

As for the past medical record, the judge was suffering from diabetes and insomnia. He was taking medicine regarding his health issues before he died.

The skin was turning into a more bluish shade when police approached. His muscles were tighter than someone who died within the last few hours.

The body was found at half past eight, three hours ago. However, the time when the actual murder happened was around one hour after midnight.

The autopsy wasn't completed. Police took some of the victim's blood to run further investigation, as the symptoms could also show the possible involvement of poison.

"Sherly, Billy is holding the cab." William's tender voice adjourned his line of thought, making him become aware of the situation.

"Let's head out."

After settling down in the carriage, Billy began to expound the undocumented details.

"The information about the house staff and possible death reasons are already written in those papers. So I'm moving to the point. It still isn't approved, but the detective on the case is becoming suspicious of one of the maids named Miss Beatrice. Saying she had brought his food last night and she had the time to both suffocate and poison him.

"They interviewed the house staff and recorded them all. Their routines weren't showing anything, but also nor had the evidence to prove they weren't in charge of the incident.

"Except for two brothers working as the gardeners that live in a shared room. They bear witness for each other that neither of them exited the room at night."

The judge was confined to his home. For having the money to be able to pay two gardeners, whom he could lay off at any moment, he should be wealthy.

"Did the government not confiscate his property after he got imprisoned?" William raised an eyebrow.

"Money that he received from a bribe? Yes. But the money he had by inheritance? No. He managed to live his happy life even after he lost his last court."

"Against whom?" Sherlock asked. Since whoever sued this judge had some courage, along with an amount of money to waste.

"The trial was five years ago. I don't know the name, but it's probably archived somewhere. Ten years ago, the man had a parcel of land in the countryside. A wealthy noble demanded that it was his and that he had a factory located there related to lead.

"Experts did some examination on the soil and found the residual lead. The other man showed the deed of his legal ownership. He even brought witnesses that approved the factory was long destroyed before the man bought the land.

"This Mr Ashford was slowly mandating the land be given to the man when he received a large amount of money as a bribe. With such limited evidence but with connections, the legal ownership was given to the nobleman, and the other was put in charge of compensate. Because apparently he had destroyed the factory and was starting to build a house there. Which was supposedly someone else's then.

"After another five years, the man came back and sued the judge. This time with enough money and documents, he both took the land back and made the judge oust."

Turning into another alley, the carriage slightly jolted, signalling the close distance remaining to the destination.

Sherlock read the papers about household help cursorily; three maids, two chefs and two gardeners.

All had different issues with finances, needing help to manage even a little. As for people under house arrest, those who were in need of money were the most suitable ones to employ.

The sound of the wheels on the ground started to slow down.

Sherlock put all the papers in his hands back in the envelope, handing it to the blond. William brought out one of the papers just enough to be able to read the names.

The signs of the carriage's movement vanished completely. "Don't forget. You are working for a local detective agency, and you are my relatives."

It was definitely compelling people about why two British detectives were working there and didn't go for a more crowded area than Brooklyn.

"Thanks for the reminder. I'm starting to lose count of how many times I've listened to this." He responded, facing the glass to see the manor.

The sights were illustrating a dilapidated entrance door, with colourful leaves of a Virginia Creeper clinging to the left side of the door, making the left pillar nearly invisible.

A trace of grey clouds above was appearing, forecasting a possible drizzle.

Two detectives alighted, greeted by the fragrant smell of the flowers. The plants there sure were exquisite.

"Thank you, Billy." William looked at him, half-smiling. "Much obliged."

The Justice Department was suspicious of William for being the hidden identity behind the new mystery. Therefore, Pinkerton was willing to give the case to more trusted people.

The reason why they had the case on their hands was evidently the other man with them. The police wouldn't take that much time to scrutinise the crime scene. The delay was because of the not-so-short process of reassuring supervisors. Clearly, Billy had defended William that they finally gave up and gave the documents to him.

"Always," he replied, returning the smile. "And before you go, there is something I should tell you. I know you are detectives, but don't touch anything in the room he died in. The reports aren't completed, and police requested not to move anything."

"Fine."

"We won't."

"Have a good time there, Mister James, Mister Scott." Billy then shouted, closing the carriage's door to head to work on the envelope he had.

Watching the carriage get further, the detectives reached to the entrance door.

"Mister 'James'?" William teasingly asked, bringing his hand to his jaw. He took a step toward the other.

"Sorry for that." Avoiding eye contact, Sherlock placed a hand on the back of his head. He continued inarticulately, "Ughh...do you have a problem with it?"

Strainedly, the blond shifted his gaze to the ground. "No, no, you can use it. But..." he slowly looked at Sherlock. "Where did it come from?"

"Do you remember the money I said we won? From that random lottery, after we got back from a mission in New Jersey?"

"Yes?"

"Billy was the one who suggested it, and he wrote my name as 'James'. After it was drawn, he said I won. Then he exhorted that I could use it as my name during missions as the surname isn't uncommon."

"Is that so?" William commented, covering his laughter with his hand.

"Yeah, sorry." Finally looking at William James Moriarty, he asked. "If you don't like it, I can change it."

"No, that is alright. You can use James as your surname. It is only our middle name. I am sure Albert and Louis would also grant you."

"I'll use 'James' in missions then." Sherlock remarked, thinking, I'm not sure your younger brother would be willing to allow me...

Eventually, Sherlock got closer to the entrance, searching for any possible way to enter unnoticed for the attacker. He placed his hand on the door; with a little force, it opened.

Usually, people related to the victim of a crime would think of their own safety first. There shouldn't be any reason for them to have left the door unlocked.

"It's open." Sherlock stated, a small frown forming on his face.

A bit startled, William joined him.

There were several possibilities. One was that they expected the detectives to arrive. The other was quite unlikely; they forgot to lock it. Another was that they knew the criminal wouldn't come for them, or worse, they were already there.

"Neither the strike plate nor the bolt is broken. Besides, the key is in the lock."

"We're either going to face the murderer when entering the house or tell them that the only ones able to enter aren't the police or detectives."

If the first one was the matter, then the judge's murder was done by someone within the household. If the killer had entered without an issue such as a locked door, then someone else was solving all of them before the killer appeared.

However, it was improbable to see the criminal now. Since they would also take the key.

"I'm afraid we will do the second one."

With a bit more power, the door was unlatched. He held it transiently, cueing the other to go inside first, as it began to lightly rain.

Chapter Text

Foxglove, a plant known for its distinctiveness, decorated the garden with its upright tube-shaped flowers. Often found with pinkish-coloured petals.

While being native to some places, including Europe, cultivating these flowers was quite difficult in the United States.

They were planted just a short distance from the door. Every part of the plant contained poison, which made them even more bothersome to grow. William was certain that if it wasn't for the gardener's skill, that garden would have long wilted.

Red Naomi, Coral Peonies, and Violets ornamented the manor garden, resulting in a pleasant walk from the entrance door to the manor.

The last place he visited with such blooming flowers was Baron Dublin's conservatory. They used grapefruits, one of the many recurrent memories he could never forget.

"These roses' scent is mixed with something else. I can't place it, but it's kind of familiar," Sherlock voiced, looking back to find the source of the interrupting smell.

He also shifted his gaze upon the left side of the garden that the other was watching, where Virginia Creeper began to climb on the wall.

"Strange choice for planting pennyroyal here. It doesn't mix well with all the red."

"But their smells combined together are pleasant." He commented, taking some steps in the path they were walking through.

The reason for cultivating pennyroyal there was likely medical. He remembered it had various uses. William learnt the information via a book. The same book he used to read to find a form of medicine for Louis when he was ailing.

Bending on his knee, William touched one of the peonies lightly. Its petals were darker than the others surrounding it, retaining drops of pouring rain. Bringing it near his face, he sniffed the flower.

"Liam, do you like them?"

He turned to see Sherlock also bending next to him, staring at the flower in his hand.

"Peonies are quite radiant," after a short pause, he continued. "But I prefer white li–"

"Don't touch the flowers, asshole." A harsh voice came, interrupting their conversation.

Withdrawing his hand, William stood up, looking in the direction of the sudden voice.

"Who did you call 'asshole'?" Sherlock shouted, getting up and viewing the same path.

"Oh, so now you are blind too?" He was finally able to put a face to the sound, a man with short black hair. "That would explain why you didn't see a large door and came in like this yard was a public park. Get the fuck out, you filthy thieves."

The man came fully into sight. Short black hair with icicle eyes. The mud on his gloves and the dirt on his clothes, especially the hem of his trousers, were showing who he was: one of the gardeners.

While looking at the names of the household, William had memorised them. Riding to the manor, Billy had said that the gardeners are brothers. Their names were written as Benjamin Thatcher and Nathaniel David Thatcher in the documents.

As they were listening to Billy explaining the details, he hadn't had time to read the papers completely. Therefore, he didn't know which one of the brothers he was seeing.

"Your cracked memory that caused the door to be unlocked isn't our problem. And you're already catching imaginary thieves. Then there is no need for us here." Sherlock quipped, going back slowly to exit from the entrance.

Everyone working there needed an independent detective. The police weren't patient to deal with everyone there. They would just arrest one of them as the culprit to end the case.

Even the gardeners could get into trouble. Foxglove is poisonous, after all.

Following the other, he took a final glance at the gardener. "Good luck with solving murder, Mister Thatcher."

Slowly approaching the door, they heard the man calling them.

“So you are the detectives?” His tone getting a bit hesitant, the black-haired man neared the two detectives. “Never seen one to be so nosy about the flowers. Anyway, come in.”

“Anything else might get into your concern, your highness?” Sherlock retorted, a bit more annoyed than he should be. “We are here for observing, not to watch over your behaviour.”

“Then you can get out as well.” Becoming irritated, Mister Thatcher pointed to the entrance. “You might be the troublesome ‘Lord of Crime’, and we don’t know. It’s your British fault anyway.”

“I really hope you discuss this matter with Miss Beatrice personally. I believe she aspired to be exonerated from suspicion.” William remarked. That case may be the last murder of the fake criminal. And if it was, two detectives would have more issues proving the fact of disinvolvement of William.

Remembering something, the man lowered his hand quietly.

“Ben, what are you doing here? I finished watering the right side. Plants won’t water themselves.” Another man emerged from behind Mister Thatcher they were talking to, his hair the same colour as the gardener's but a little longer and with hazel eyes.

Based on the context of his arrival, he was the other Thatcher. If the previous one was Benjamin, then he would be Nathaniel David Thatcher. “Or maybe they will. I didn’t anticipate for rain to get heavier, so let’s just get inside.” Finally looking at the two unfamiliar men, he asked. “You didn’t introduce me to them?”

“They are the detectives—“

“You needn’t worry. We are just British thieves, and we are taking our leave. Wish you a wonderful day.”

Seeming confused, Nathaniel watched between Benjamin and them several times. Half-realising what must have happened, he apologetically voiced. “I’m so sorry. He didn’t mean it. I know you guys may have seen worse cases, but everyone here is kind of nervous right now. I really apologise. Please come in. The rain is getting pretty heavy.”

“Thank you, Mister Nathaniel.” He replied, with a trace of a small smirk visible on his face.

Following Nathaniel, they reached the door of the manor. Benjamin stood next to Nathaniel and took out the keys. It sounded like, unlike the entrance, they had locked the main door.

With the sound of metal clinking in the lock, the door cracked open.

The same as the dilapidated entrance, the insides didn’t have much to offer either. An old set of furniture was placed in front of them, with a rug underneath it. A pair of stairs leading to the higher floor was built on each side. A portrait of a child, around five, was hung on the right wall along with a statue of a woman’s head placed on a table at the left side, mirroring the portrait.

“I’ll go and find Miss Jade to show you Mr Ashford’s room. Please wait here.” Nathaniel gestured toward the sofa and went upstairs.

“Thanks.”

They walked toward the sofa and settled. It wasn’t as comfortable as what he was used to in the Moriarty mansion. Although it was larger than what they had in their flat.

“Sorry to call you assholes,” Benjamine said, turning his face to Sherlock. “Or thieves.”

“That’s all right. I also apologise for touching your flowers without permission.” He answered, keeping his polite smile toward the gardener.

“That’s fine. You weren’t doing anything harmful to flowers. I was just surprised to see two figures coming out of nowhere.”

“We were also surprised to see it open. Who was in charge today?” Sherlock asked, opening the document’s envelope in his hand.

“Miss Beatrice. But I guess we can’t blame her today after all that happened this morning.”

“I am sorry for her to get accused of being the ‘Lord of Crime’.”

“It’s not your fault anyway,” he dropped his gaze on the ground, murmuring, “It isn’t even the murderer’s.”

Hearing the man’s small voice, they decided to not ask further. The gardener slowly began to trust them as detectives. And the process hadn’t even started yet. So questioning the man at that moment might end unpleasantly.

“I’m going to my room. It’s in the backyard. Come there if you need anything else.” He said, approaching a small door on the wall across from the main door. “Besides, smell flowers if you like, but do not cut them. Also, there are tall ones with flowers arranged on a spike. Do not touch them. They are poisonous.”

“Thank you for letting us know. We won’t touch them.”

He exited the back door, leaving him and Sherlock alone.

“Quite the attitude.” Sherlock laughed silently.

“Not really. Some would even get mad at the gardener if they got too close to their precious plants.”

“So will you consider this a good start to the conversation?” Side-eyeing William, he took out some papers.

“Perhaps a good ending.” Watching him, the blond continued. “Could you hand me the reports on the household?”

Fully facing him, a smirk formed on his face. Moving to sit closer, he holds the papers. “Would Professor Moriarty want to see which one of us can solve the case sooner?”

“I accept the challenge, Mr Holmes.” Leaning toward him, William took the reports. "To uphold the honour of the Moriarty name, I shall give it my all."

"Looking forward to seeing where you would find the blood stains this time."

"I hope not to disappoint London's greatest detective."

Locking eyes a bit longer, he noticed Sherlock's hair had lengthened over the past months.

His fingers grazed the end of a strand of wavy hair on his face, warding it off slightly further from his eye.

"I haven't cut them recently." Allegedly understanding his thought, Sherlock continued. "My grandfather once said long hair won't look elegant enough."

"Longer hair also suits you, Sherly."

The dark-haired detective's eyes moderately widening, William felt his face getting a bit warmer. Although maybe he was wrong, due to the short distance between his finger and Sherlock's skin.

A small laughter shaping on his lips, he reverted his hand and began to read the papers.

Benjamin Thatcher and Nathaniel David Thatcher, twenty-six and twenty-four years old. Working as gardeners without official experience other than working for Edmund Wilder Ashford.

Beatrice Elwood, twenty-eight years old, was the victim's maid for almost nine years. Got employed after her mother, who was also working there before, passed away.

Michelle Jade Haley, a twenty-five-year-old, had a financial deficit, which made her work as a maid to pay her father's gambling debt.

Evelyn Edith Alden, thirty-four years old, was married with two children. Joined after she was accused of mixing a patient's medicine intentionally when she was a nurse and got dismissed.

Harold Benson, thirty-six-year-old assistant chef, had six years of experience working for a wealthy family. Was employed to help the chef as she was getting older.

Margaret Derin Caldwell, seventy-five-year-old chef, hadn't retired since the judge was so satisfied with her skills that he wouldn't let her.

All were working for the victim under house arrest because of financial struggle or lack of experience, letting the judge pay the minimum.

Hearing some footsteps, two detectives began to fold back the papers.

"I appreciated your help, Misters. Please follow me to Mr Ashford’s room." A young woman with dirty blonde hair called them. Based on the name Nathaniel used addressing her, she would be Michelle Jade Haley.

"Thank you for your guidance, Miss Michelle." Following her, William said.

"Please call me Jade," she replied with a calm expression. "Also, may I ask your names?"

Slowly going up the stairs, two detectives glanced at each other unnoticeably.

"James."

"The name is Scott."

"Very glad to meet you, Mr James, Mr Scott," she added, nearing a door on the west part of the second floor. "This room is Mr Ashford’s. If possible, please don't touch anything or change the position of it."

"Hopefully, we won't even need to." Sherlock reached to open the room's door, only to stop midway. "Who broke the lock?"

"We gathered here after Evelyn screamed, seeing the door locked and the usual heavy snore gone. Mister Harold broke the lock for us to be able to enter."

"Was it locked from inside?"

"Unfortunately, we don't know. Everyone was tense. We didn't survey it."

Taking another look at the broken bolt, they passed through the door.

The room was clean; a bed was on the right side along with a nightstand. A medium wooden window with a single chair placed infront of it was on the oppose of the door. Everything seemed normal except for a corpse lying on the bed.

The navy curtains were neat, and the window was closed, allowing the sunlight to enter the room.

Some medicine was on the nightstand, as well as the 'LoC' note leaning against a glass of water.

There wasn't any footprint visible.

A bookshelf and a desk were at the left side, displaying some papers and a candlestick.

William walked to the corpse to take a closer look. The mattress was tidy on his dead body.

The dead body's skin turning into a more purplish colour. Bruises were showing on his neck, clearly made with a belt.

"Have you found anything so far?" After a minute or two, the maid finally asked.

"Not yet. We won't change anything's place. You can continue your work." Sherlock answered, looking at him with a smirk on his face.

"I'm afraid the observation might take a little longer."

Even though she was acting calm, her hands were vibrating. Jade was evidently nervous. She wasn't a police officer; therefore, if they started to tell her what they had found out, it could only have adverse results such as denial.

With an apology for disturbing their work, Jade aggressed out.

"Well, why were you redirecting her attention to the window?"

Chapter Text

Entering the victim’s room, the air was filled with the stinking smell of the dead body. A familiar scent Sherlock was used to smelling when he was solving cases with John. If the doctor were there, he would talk about how it was wrong to steal someone else’s identity regardless of the intentions.

He took a glance at the corpse. If John were there, it would probably be easier to distinguish the cause of death. He had sent the letter, which was supposed to confront him about their state of life. The doctor had hopefully received the letter by now.

Seeing William scrutinise the body, he stepped closer to join him. As he moved forward, the sunlight was reflected into his eyes.

There were two narrow nails shining in the candlestick. The candlestick was left by the ‘Lord of Crime’. If the candle was meant to wake the judge up, there was no reason explaining why he would place it at the other side of the room.

A sudden sense of urgency surrounded him, wanting to check the desk sooner. Although some other feeling disturbed the rush. A little hesitation.

If the culprit were witnessing the room and their reactions, they would find out about the little mistake they forgot to clean up and would make a story about it. Without lies being included, the case would end sooner. Liam’s name would be clean sooner.

He decided to study the window instead. The purpose of the non-existent footprints was also very captivating.

Looking down from the glass, the ground below the window was planted with flowers. Due to the distance, Sherlock couldn’t quite recognise the flowers. But certainly, if someone wanted to come through the window, the ground should have had some dirt.

“Have you found anything so far?”

Other cases and he would gather the household and ask them to find the culprit. But this one could affect them, and perhaps not in a good way. He had to act carefully, as to not alert the murderer.

“Not yet. We won’t move anything. You can continue your work.” He answered, looking at William with a smirk that clearly meant, yes, we found a lot.

“I’m afraid the observation might take a little longer.” Seemingly understanding him, the other detective replied.

The maid apologised and exited the room, leaving the two of them alone. She was already hiding her shaking body. All of them were nervous. Tell them the evidence they had found, and all would deny it for the sake of the other maid who got accused of being the ‘Lord of Crime’.

“Well, why were you redirecting her attention to the window?”

Of course the actual Lord of Crime would notice.

Walking toward the candlestick, a grin formed on his lips. “Take a look at this.”

Gripped by his actions, William followed him to the other side of the room. His eyes slightly widened upon seeing the two nails.

“The culprit woke up twice last night and wasn’t interested enough to hide it.”

“Or they forgot to carry it.”

Watching each other with a ponderous frown, the two detectives came to a conclusion. If the murderer had forgotten to take their candlestick with them, then there was likely no reason to remind them of the candle’s presence.

The murder had happened around one hour after midnight. However, if the attacker hadn’t remembered to carry the candle, they were more likely to be in the judge’s room at dawn. They entered the room when the sky was dark and left when the room was lit with the natural light of the sun.

The cause of death couldn’t be suffocation. In case the attacker had tried to suffocate the judge with a belt, the judge’s body would automatically resist against it. Therefore, if the home staff hadn’t touched anything so far, the mattress on the bed wouldn’t be neat. The victim was poisoned.

The murderer was there to search for something. As long as the culprit was looking for something related to the general ‘Lord of Crime’ and not the individual deaths, that case would be their last one.

The room itself didn’t have that much of a hidden place. The candlestick was on the wooden desk for more light, and the desk cupboard was one of the only places to hide.

He opened the desk cupboard. There was an iron lockbox. Looking at the locking mechanism, Sherlock knew he could unlock it. Alas, they had agreed twice to not touch anything. Opening it wouldn’t help either, assuming the attacker had probably taken what they were searching for.

“The culprit is working here,” Liam commented, shifting his attention to non-existing footprints, “and is more likely to not be one of the maids.”

“Why exclude them?” He said, raising his head from below the surface level of the desk.

“Even though it is possible, the maids are more likely to not abandon their belongings here.”

Oh, of course the actual Lord of Crime would notice.

His lips curved into a silent smile. It had been a while since the two of them were on a case together. A while since he had listened to Liam’s conjectures.

The blond was watching the corpse with a blank face. A while since Liam had been lost in thought.

“Liam,” sensing the reality again, he looked back at Sherlock, “are you alright?”

“Yes,” he answered, a gentle smile on his face, “sorry for making you worried.”

“Oh, no. That’s fine. His corpse doesn’t make a pleasant view.” He took a few steps in the door’s direction.

Liam responded with a giggle. He returned it. It was greater to see him with a smile. The way he would act if he were still a professor in Durham. The way he always acted before he saw him in Milverton’s place.

Maybe he always ‘acted’ that way. A face of a content nobleman. Because the benevolent Liam he knew couldn’t have a peaceful mind back then.

He closed the door behind them, making it look exactly the way it was before he opened it. Nobody was in their view. They all were probably busy with their own work.

“Billy said the interviews with the household are in the envelope,” he said, holding up the envelope in the air, “I’m sure they have only asked their usual questions. But it may also help.”

“We can question them once again; the provided information shall not be useful.” William replied, going downstairs.

The two detectives sat on the same sofa, going through the papers again.

After around twenty minutes, they had perused the interviews. Seven papers, each for different people and routines.

“It's twenty to one.” Gazing upon his pocket watch, William said, “Hopefully they won’t be eminently anxious by now.”

“We can begin. They had been previously questioned by the police. Don’t worry about it.”

Standing from the sofa, he handed the envelope to William. “Who will you start with?”

The two detectives had decided upon interviewing individually and sharing their newfound information after each one, since doing it the other way would take longer. Their time was an important factor, nonetheless, despite the delight of working together.

“Miss Jade,” taking the document from him, the blond continued, “and I’m assuming you will begin with one of the Thatchers.”

If he brought the papers with him to the garden, they would get dirty. “I’m going to see which one I can find and is alone.”

“All right then. Be careful of the poisonous flowers.”

“Thanks. I will.”

The case wasn’t tied to Liam, and they could see which one would solve it sooner. Sherlock said it as a joke to amuse him even few seconds from the incident. It could be other than a puckish joke hanging in the air if the case was anything else.

Sherlock walked through the same door Benjamin Thatcher exited. He had said that they could find him in his room in the back of the garden.

The sky was clearer then, only a few clouds remaining. The rain had fully stopped. As a result, the ground was muddy. Although it could be easily overlooked due to the beautiful dewy flowers.

There was a room around the right corner of the wall.

He moved forward along the designated path for walking toward the room. Before Benjamin had called for them the first time, Liam had been telling him which flower he liked. He had brought flowers to the hospital when William was in the coma. He would sometimes do the same in their shared flat. But Liam was always beatific when seeing the flowers. Sherlock couldn’t tell which was his favourite.

Knocking on the door, he took a step back to avoid it being pushed in his face.

Chapter Text

The door opened and as expected, Benjamin appeared in the doorframe.

“I guess, based on time, you’re here for an interview or something,” the gardener said, stepping aside to let him in. “You can come and sit if you want.”

“Thanks.”

The detective walked into the room. The place was quite basic. Two beds were placed, one on each side with a table in the middle of them. A small bookshelf was on the right, next to one of the beds.

Benjamin sat on the bed on the left, gesturing toward the chair across the table. An open book was placed on the table.

Sherlock settled down on the chair, taking a cigarette from his pocket and placing it on his lips. “Do you read mystery novels a lot?” He lit the cigarette with a match.

“Not really. But Nate loves them. He has made me read some too. Why, though?” A little confused by the unexpected question, he answered.

“You so calmly knew what I’m here for based on time. And you don’t have any involvement in a case in your background. Speaking of your background, how did you two manage to get a job here without previous experience?” The judge had kept the chef despite her old age because of her skills. It was fair to say the victim was finicky.

“We got employed here after Mr. Ashford got confined to his estate. We heard from locals that there was someone looking for a gardener but won’t pay a lot. The money wasn’t good, but the position offered a place to stay.”

Their report had also mentioned that Thatchers were from Kansas. They might not have an official experience, but they had surely learnt it from someone else. “Where did you learn to plant foxgloves? They're quite difficult to grow here.”

“You know about them?” A bit surprised, the gardener added. “Sorry for warning you like that back in the manor. I wanted to alert you in case you didn’t know about the flowers. And about your question, well, my father taught it to me,” Benjamin broke eye contact, feeling uncomfortable talking about his father. “He wasn’t allowed to plant dangerous plants after someone had an allergic reaction to lily of the valley in the manor he was working at. But I always liked them, so I asked him to teach me how to grow them.”

So the brothers had learnt their gardening skills from their father. As they were searching for a place to stay in Brooklyn rather than their hometown, they clearly didn’t have a close relationship with their parents anymore.

He glanced at the open book on the table. It was new and well cared-for. However, the edges of some pages were a bit well-thumbed. Since he hadn't read it, he skimmed a few sentences.

The wording was familiar. Absentmindedly, he continued reading the lines. Wait, Moriarty?

The cigarette nearly fell from between his lips. His eyes widened as he closed the book to look at the cover.

The Final Problem.

No wonder he hadn’t seen the book yet. It was written after their fall. He hadn’t known it had been published yet. Even if he had known, he didn’t have time to read it. But maybe he wouldn’t want to read it anyway, because he was aware of the novel’s ending. Liam would die at the end.

“That’s Nate’s. After he read these, he talked about them so much that he made everyone read the first volumes.” His lips curving into a quiet smile, he continued, “and before you arrived here, he made me read the last one. ‘Cause he thinks it’ll help find the murderer.”

The detective put the book on the table. It didn’t end like the novel. Liam was alive.

“Well, thanks for answering, Benjamin.” Standing up from the chair, he walked toward the door.

“You're welcome.” Looking taken aback, the gardener replied.

Sherlock looked back at him. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no. It’s just, nothing. I just thought you would ask more.”

“Is that so?” He opened the door. “Those aren’t needed.”

“Then how are you going to prove I’m not the murderer?” Benjamin asked, a frown showing on his face. He should have suspected that the detectives might have already decided who the killer was, and that the questions were mere formalities.

“Don’t worry about it. I already know what I should have known.” Sherlock said, standing next to the open door. Liam should have done the interview with the maid. Their time was an important factor.

“For example?” His frown deepened.

“For example, you were a bit irritated when we arrived but now you aren’t. Nathaniel said, “he didn’t mean it”. Therefore, you'd been drinking before we came. Since your brother immediately guessed what you might've said to us, your temper often changes when you drink. There isn’t any alcohol in your room and you can’t afford pricey wine. You like drinking but aren’t an alcoholic.

“You used to have a nice relationship with your parents, but not anymore. As your father was the one who taught you gardening. Also, the gloves you were wearing back in the garden were worn-out. You were drunk so you picked those gloves to wear because they remind you of your father when you were close. Therefore, you two made a mistake and moved from Kansas to settle in Brooklyn.

“Also, you’re the one who bought that book,” the detective pointed at the open book on the table. “That novel is newly published. Your brother’s clothes were newer than yours. And you’re trying to keep your hair neat, yet it stays unkempt. So you chose to buy that book for Nathaniel rather than go to a proper barbershop.

“At first, you were suspicious of us. But now, you didn’t even ask my name. The maid who showed us the room told you, didn’t she? If everyone has read the book Nathaniel recommended, all of you are pretty close.”

“Yeah,” his eyes widened as he said. “But Mister James, how did you–”

“We can find the culprit. Don’t worry about it.” With a grin on his face, Sherlock replied.

The detective closed the door behind him, heading back to the manor.

The pleasant scent of the flowers greeted him again. Their petals were getting dry under the sunlight.

He glanced at his nearly finished cigarette, taking it from his mouth. Walking into the manor, the blond came into his sight.

_  _  _  _  _

“Miss Jade,” standing in front of five clotheslines with white sheets on each, William said, “may I borrow your time for a few minutes?”

According to the report, the other two maids were mostly working indoors. The weather was sunnier and the sky more clear after the rain, making it an appropriate time for hanging the laundry to dry. Just Like he thought, Jade was in charge of it outdoors.

“Sure,” the maid came out of behind a white sheet in the third row, “is there anything I can do?”

“I’m aware that you have been asked several questions by the police. I hope you don’t mind some more.” He moved past the first two lines, facing Jade.

“No, I shall certainly not.” She put the remaining clothes from her hand in the basket next to her. “I deeply want this to come to an end.”

“I believe it assuredly will,” his mild expression turning more sedate, William continued, “Now, may I begin?”

“Indeed.” However unsuccessful she was, she tried to calm her vibrating hands.

A nuisance with his name was causing more fear, more plight. The Moriarty plan was over. He never wanted to see more distress upon Lord of Crime.

"Am I right in assuming that, as you also mentioned in your interview with the police, you share a room with Miss Beatrice?”

“Yes. Our room is on the third floor.”

“Could you hear Mr. Ashford’s voice from your room?” A trace of a frown appeared between his brows, William asked.

“No. Either I, Beatrice or Evelyn was in the second floor when Mr. Ashford was in his room, because we couldn’t really hear his voice from anywhere else.”

While going to observe the victim’s room, she had said the reason for them noticing something unusual was the judge’s heavy snores. If they could hear the judge’s voice from their room, the other two maids would know about the murder sooner than Evelyn.

There weren’t any footprints or dirt visible in the victim’s room, meaning the murderer was amongst the household. According to Jade, they couldn’t realise if there was even a break-in. Two maids couldn’t have heard anything when the attacker went into the judge’s room.

“You also said that you woke up around half past seven. Is that your usual routine?”

“Yes. We both wake up at half past seven.” Her hands were more steady by then, indicating she was slowly trying to steady herself, and possibly, trusting the detectives more.

“Were there any occasions when you had to wake up earlier?” Two nails in the candlestick could be a result of either a habit or an occasion.

“A few times, yes. Although yesternight was not one of them.”

“Were those times frequent?”

Until the victim’s last trial, exceptions were probably made when someone wanted to visit or he was about to host a party, however after, those were limited to visiting. Based on only having three maids, those occasions weren’t happening so often.

“Before five years ago, they were,” the maid dropped her gaze to the ground, “but since then, they happened once in a while when Mr. Ashford’s family visited.”

In the victim’s background, it was also documented that he had a wife who passed away eight years ago after giving birth to her stillborn son. Therefore, his extended family were the ones visiting him.

The judge was elderly and had no heir. The times when his relatives had come to his manor were more likely to be the time when the victim was unwell and there was possible involvement of receiving money through inheritance.

“I have heard about the unfortunate incident of Mr. Ashford’s wife. Did she have a disease?”

“As far as I’m aware, she didn’t have any sort of health issue. I started working here two years later. Beatrice or Evelyn may know better.”

She might not perceive the exact details but she would definitely know if the judge’s wife had died from a more serious matter than illness. She was possibly not answering directly because she didn’t want to say anything which the other two may not like to admit.

However, it was better to ask the other two as Jade said. Evelyn would provide more information regarding the medical problems. As she was previously a nurse.

“You divulged your reason for working here was to pay your father’s debt.” A look of worry showing on his face, he replied, “may I ask the amount?”

After hearing the number, his uncovered eyebrow lifted slightly.

“The aggregate is in fact quite a large number,” Jade had joined around a year before the judge’s last court session. Even if she had given all her money to her father’s creditor up until now, she wouldn't be able to pay it all, “Miss Jade, why did you keep working here after Mr. Ashford's confinement to his estate? The payment you received decreased for sure.”

“I didn’t need the money anymore.” Still looking at the ground below them, she pressed her hands into each other.

One of the reasons she didn’t need it anymore was that her father had passed away. Judging by her expression, the cause was indeed his sudden death.

“This may seem unrelated, but could I ask the reason of his death? Judging by your expression, it was likely wretched.”

“Alcohol overdose.”

“I apologise it caused you to recall such a frightful memory.”

“Please, it isn’t really like that.” Facing him, she forced a small smile. “I would be glad to help to solve this case whatsoever.”

“Thank you, Miss Jade. We appreciate your help.” Returning the polite smile, William nodded.

“Anytime,” her smile more genuine, the maid took the sheets from the basket.

He turned to walk back into the manor. Sherlock was definitely finishing the other interview.

“And Mr. Scott, would you like some tea?” Jade suddenly asked.

His throat was dry. Certainly, the other detective was like him, if not worse. But asking the household to make tea for them wouldn’t be appropriate given the circumstances. “Thank you. I wouldn’t like to give you the trouble.”

“Not a trouble. I will let Evelyn know you might join. She often makes tea for everyone. I saw her at the kitchen.”

If the tea was for everyone, it also wasn’t likely to be poisoned. “We are thankful, then.”

“The ones who should be truly thankful are we. I’ll call you when the tea is ready. Please find the murderer.” With a relaxed face, Jade said. She got back to her work.

“We surely will.”

He walked past the rows of clotheslines, nearing the manor. William was on the west side of the garden, where he could see a small room on the corner of the back area. It was Thatchers’.

Sherlock was there. Maybe after that case ended, they could take another one when they can work together even on interviews. But what if that case was their last one? If that was how he was supposed to atone for his sins. For murdering all those aristocrats. For killing a father in front of his two sons.

What if the right way was to let another one sin under his name. To allow someone else to execute other devils. To bring ‘Lord of Crime’ to life and then kill all over again.

There was no guarantee that the criminal would continue to do the same things as him. He used the title for a brighter future. The new one could just use the people’s fear of ‘Lord of Crime’.

Lord of Crime died as everyone hated him, as a common enemy. The title was worthless for having a future.

Besides, if he got arrested as the said criminal, the detective could also get accused. He wouldn’t let that happen.

He went into the manor through the main door, sitting on the sofa.

Sherlock still hadn’t returned from the gardeners’ room. Benjamin was clearly drunk when they arrived. William hadn’t since seen him but if he was sober now, perhaps he was even more sceptical about them and Sherlock was reassuring him with, well, explaining his observations.

After a couple of minutes, the backdoor opened and he could see Sherlock walking in.

_  _  _  _  _

“What's your opinion about the gardeners?” William asked, listening to him describe the interview with Benjamin.

“Something is wrong. And yours?” Because, what could they have possibly done for them to end in a whole different state despite their close relationship with their family. It wasn’t like they fell off a bridge and faked their deaths, right?

“I agree,” shifting his attention from Sherlock to the documents in his hand, William continued. “I would like to speak with Mr. Nathaniel next.”

“Then I’ll interview Mrs. Evelyn. Like you said, she probably knows about the victim’s stillborn son.”

They stood from the sofa. Just as they were about to part ways, a voice called them.

“Mr. Scott, Mr. James, Jade told me to call you when the tea is ready,” a maid with wavy brown hair, slightly shorter than Jade said from near the opened door of the room behind them. “I’m Evelyn.” She was getting nearer with a tray in her hands.

“Thank you, Mrs. Evelyn. We hope it hasn’t caused you much trouble,” facing her, William replied.

“Please, don’t mention it." The maid placed the cups on the table. "Everyone has barely eaten anything after the incident. And you are truly helping us. It was no sort of a trouble.”

“Mrs. Evelyn, regarding the case, would you come with me for a minute?” He pointed to the main door.

“Of course. But if it’s not urgent, can we wait a little longer? It is almost the time to drink the tea.”

He knew the tea would taste better when drunk after a particular time of steeping. He just wouldn’t strictly pay attention to the time when he was making tea for himself. Although, Liam preferred it that way, to drink the tea at the proper time.

“Surely. And thanks for it.”

“You're welcome,” her face brightening, she said. “I will finish my work in ten minutes. Is it all right?”

"Yes. Would you come here after that?" Looking at the cups and then at her, Sherlock asked.

"Of course. I will take my leave now."

Evelyn exited from the same door she came from. The smoke was visible above the cups, showing the tea was too hot to drink.

They sat back on the sofa. Watching William, who was focused on the cups. Sensing the gaze on him, the blond returned the look, smiling gently.

"Louis once bought a tea set with similar patterns. He found one of the cups broken the next day and made the one who broke it buy a new set." A small laughter left his mouth.

He also laughed. Surely eleven cups were more useful than five. "Who broke it then?" He asked mid laughter, trying to maintain eye contact.

"You're the detective." He took one of the cups from the table, staring at the smoke. "Who was the culprit?"

A smile was still on his face, a small light in his eye, almost unnoticeable. He would have caught him sooner, had he known it meant he could see more lights, a more genuine smile on Liam’s face.

Based on what Liam had been telling him and what he knew himself, he could say it was likely Moran.

The old man, Jack, was too careful to break a new cup. Fred wouldn't leave the cup for others to find and then not apologise. Liam said Louis made the breaker buy a new set so he and his older brother were out of the question. And between the two left, Bond was more likely to apologise and buy a new set on his own.

"I think Moran?" Although knowing, he asked it like a question.

"You needn't the questioning tone," William shifted his gaze from the tea to him. "Mr. Holmes." His voice was barely above a whisper.

He anticipated a comment on his answer and had a reply to them in mind. But he didn't even blink, nor did William, staring at each other for a few more seconds.

They should take more cases together.

"Our teas are getting colder, Sherly." William said with the same quietness.

He still didn’t want to break eye contact. But after William's comment, he reached to take his cup from the table. The house staff had made them tea. Liam didn't want their efforts to go wasted.

He looked at the blond from the corner of his eyes. William gazed at the tea again, holding the cup a little tighter than before.

Ever since they began to work on that case, he had found Liam lost in his thoughts several times. Which wasn't completely strange, considering that the culprit was using his title.

Keeping the cup in his hands, it was still a bit hot to drink.

"Liam, you knew it wasn't the right temperature."

He looked at Sherlock. Chuckling, William commented, "Quite a clever observation, Sherly."

"Why did you say they were getting colder then?" With a smile, he responded.

"You are the detective, Mr. Holmes." A faint trace of whimsy on his face was noticeable. "I am certain you can deduce it."

After a moment of lingering, they both were watching the smoke above their cups.

Liam wasn't thinking about the case. If he was, he wouldn’t phrase it that way. It was a question, a new puzzle. Sherlock would find the answer.

Sherlock and Evelyn were sitting on the old set of furniture. He was settled on the sofa, while she had taken the armchair, slightly angled toward it.

She had once been in court therefore her worried expression was nothing unexpected.

“When do you start your work here every day?” Sherlock asked. He wanted the case to end sooner.

“At eight,” with a long inhale, the maid said. “I live in an apartment about a thirty-minute walk away. And some days, there isn’t a need for my presence so thanks to Beatrice and Jade, I can have some time with my children.”

Even though the manor was huge, two maids would usually be enough for one person. However, the additional help for other works like cleaning was always necessary.

“What is your husband’s profession, Mrs. Evelyn?”

“He manages a small pawnshop in Manhattan. His work hasn’t been much successful as of recently. Since most days we aren’t home, my kids will stay with my husband’s sister.”

“Mrs. Evelyn, about Mr. Ashford’s family, did his wife have an illness?” A thoughtful frown forming on his face, Sherlock replied.

“No.” The tense in her body increased, her face becoming pale. “Based on what I know, her death was because of medical reasons.”

“And what were the reasons?” He broke eye contact, taking another cigarette from his pocket.

The maid was involved in the matter with more than just knowing. She got employed a few months after Mrs. Ashford passed away. This could mean that her own trial was about mixing the judge’s wife’s medicine.

Besides, even if the reason she was dismissed of her nursing job wasn’t related to the matter, it still wouldn’t explain why someone like the victim employed her, who was accused of a crime and went to court.

“Her doctor. Mrs. Ashford already had a difficult pregnancy. Her doctor indicated a medicine that would only increase the risk in her situation. She was an expert in her profession. It was impossible for her to do such a thing accidentally.”

“So you told Mr. Ashford?”

“Yes, yes I did. Mrs. Ashford’s appointments were more than normal. So I… I took a look at her medicine. And I found out about the rest. I told him about it. He didn’t believe me so I asked him to take her to another hospital and see for himself. It was already too late to save both the baby and the mother. Mrs. Ashford decided to keep her son. Which was unfortunate for both of them. ”

The doctor had indicated that medicine for money. If Mrs. Ashford got worse after listening to the doctor, the number of appointments were going to increase; as everyone believed in the doctor’s skills including Evelyn.

“How did you see the medicine?”

“I just,” Pausing for a couple of seconds, she answered. “got lucky to cross paths with them at the pharmacy.”

“No you didn’t.”

Evelyn grabbed her skirt so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Sorry, pardon?”

“I said it wasn’t your luck,” looking at her aghast gaze, Sherlock clarified. “if the things you said are all correct, then her doctor wouldn’t let you or other nurses notice about the medicine. And a wealthy family would have called her doctor to this manor and tell the maids to buy medicine if needed. You couldn’t have seen them in pharmacy. How did you see the medicine?”

Staring at her hands, she took a deep breath. “I asked someone to show it to me.” She quietly responded.

“Who?”

“Mrs. Margaret. She was a friend of my grandma before she passed away fifteen years ago.” almost realising what she had just admitted, she froze. She looked at him, tears filling her eyes. “But I swear she has nothing to do with anything. Please, believe me!”

Mrs. Margaret was the chef, meaning she had access to the food. She could poison the food when the victim’s wife was alive, then buy the medicine and show it to Evelyn as the doctor’s indications. So the doctor could be actually innocent.

But that was only a possibility concerning a rather old case. Besides, if the doctor was not really guilty and adroit, she would notice the poison if there was one. Hence, Evelyn was telling the truth.

“I do, Mrs. Evelyn,” he reassured her. “Although, if Mr. Ashford was certain you were innocent, why didn’t he help you during your trial?” Regardless of the corruption in his profession, he seemed to care about his family.

“He wanted to. But I asked him not to. The doctor hired a lawyer, a really good one,” tears began to fall from her eyes. Her voice shaking, she continued. “And the lawyer told me she had promised him a huge payment if the case ends without her getting found guilty. He said that he offered to give me some of that to help my husband boost his career. I was carrying my second child at the moment. We needed that money.”

Then the reason the judge had accepted her was obvious. Since Evelyn had helped his wife, he wanted to return the favour. And considering that the chef knew her, trusting her would be easier for the victim.

“Thanks for your time, Mrs. Evelyn. I hope the outcome of this case helps you.”

“I appreciate it, Mr. James,” she slowly stood up, sweeping the drops of tears from her face. “Please let me know if I could help with anything else.”