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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.”

Chapter Text

“The flowers are really exquisite,” William said. “How long have you been working on them, Mr. Nathaniel?”

He had asked Evelyn about Nathaniel’s whereabouts after she had arrived, as Sherlock had instructed. She told him that William could find the gardener at the greenhouse located opposite their room.

After walking into the greenhouse, the rich scent of different flowers welcomed him. The garden outside was scenic. No wonder the greenhouse was even better, considering the fact that the temperature and some other factors could be controlled.

“More than a year. I only learned about cultivating dahlias via a book. I hadn’t had the chance to actually try growing them until we could work here,” he replied, rising from where he had been kneeling to water the plants. “But now that Mr. Ashford has unfortunately died, we are going to be dismissed, and this place will be destroyed,” he added as his face turned into a wistful expression.

Such a helpless end for their effort. Quite disheartening. “It sounds very lamentable.”

“Indeed. I really liked this place.” The gardener shifted his gaze back to the flowers.

“Is there any chance for this manor to not split between heirs?” The answer was probably no. The victim’s death was unexpected, at least to himself. The chances that there was no testament were undeniable. And if there wasn’t one, his property would be divided amongst all candidates, meaning the judge’s extended family members.

“No, unfortunately not. If we count all of Mr. Ashford’s extended family, there would be more than ten heirs. He didn’t specify how much goes to whom. So, I think they will sell this place and split the money as well.” This information could only prove that he died intestate.

“Anyway, how is the case going?” After a moment of pause, Nathaniel said, looking at him.

He sounded more excited rather than nervous. But it could be due to his choice of book genre. As Sherlock had said, the gardener was interested in mystery novels.

“Quite well. I appreciate your concern,” he responded with a polite smile.

“I’ve heard that the door was locked. Is it right?” Trying to sound casual as he controlled his tone to hide his desire to know more about the case, he gestured toward the interior part of the place.

William nodded briefly. He followed Nathaniel to where he headed. “The lock was broken. Miss Jade told us you didn’t survey it before breaking the lock.”

The state of the lock was still unknown. The attacker could have broken it to enter. Murders led by the ‘Lord of Crime’ were done by different people. Hence, they might be unprofessional and were seeking the orchestrator’s help to make amends for this flaw. No matter how easy it was for some murderers to pick a lock, most ordinary people wouldn’t know how to do it.

And since these people were led by another person’s help to commit murder, they were more likely to not know how to open a lock without a key. William himself had consulted many who didn’t know how to hold a gun properly, let alone pick a lock.

“But it was definitely locked.” He continued with a defensive intonation. “If not, then why did Mr. Harold break it?”

“Were you present at the time he broke the lock?” As he was aware, only Evelyn, Jade, and the chef assistant, Harold, were there, and others joined them after the door was opened by him.

“No,” struggling to find an answer, he finally admitted. “But Mrs. Evelyn said he did. She doesn’t lie.” The household clearly trusted each other. Someone could say they were more friends than co-workers.

“I didn’t say she lied. The killer could cause the lock to malfunction. Therefore, Mr. Harold might have just opened the door with additional force, and the killer was the one who broke the lock originally. Mrs. Evelyn could have been frightened at the moment and didn’t notice it.” Explaining the matter patiently, William saw how the gardener’s expression turned from wary to excitement as he finished. Nathaniel was probably treating the case like one of his novels.

“Is that so? Then you detectives sure have a lot to figure out.” The gardener stopped by a table and two pairs of chairs. “Well, we can sit here if you would like.”

The table was encircled by red and white roses that arched above it, creating a dome shape.

“Of course. Thank you, Mr. Nathaniel.” They settled on chairs across from each other.

“The roses are beautiful. May I ask if you cultivated them or your brother?”

“Ben grew them. He is very fond of flowers, especially roses.” He then took a glance at the flowers above, evoking for both of them the magnificence of the place once again.

The strong smell of roses reminded him of the scent he used to smell when entering the greenhouse in the Moriarty mansion, which Fred was working on. There were mostly different types of roses since they were the ones Fred was fond of the most.

“A friend of mine is the same. Roses are his favourite,” glaring at his hand on the table, William commented.

“As I see, he is very refined,” with a warm smile, he said. “They have a pleasant smell and a variety of meanings. Would you like to take him some branches?”

“I appreciate the offer. Although I have to say he doesn’t like cutting flowers.” Even if cutting them wasn’t the problem, William couldn’t give the flowers to him. The flowers would have long been wilted, as he was in Brooklyn and the other man was probably in London. No need to mention that Fred didn’t even know he had survived.

“Sounds like he is also cultivating flowers.”

“Yes. He was working on a greenhouse.”

“I’m certain the place is quite picturesque.”

“It was, in fact,” quietly, his memories surfaced again. “Unfortunately, the greenhouse burnt down in a fire.”

It was because of Moriarty plan that they burnt down the mansion. They all had known about its ending, about the fire. But maybe he could've chosen a different path, another way for the final moment. Fred had worked on that place, and suddenly the only result of his efforts was ashes. Apparently, a life wasn’t the only thing he was capable of stealing.

“I’m so sorry to hear that. How is your friend doing?” Nathaniel asked, a shadow of concern on his face. He was a gardener, meaning he could simply empathise with him.

“He began to work in a new place after a while.” He didn’t know much about them after his fall, including whether Fred had actually done that or not. However, it was an opportunity to change the subject to what he was there for. “Mr. Nathaniel, may I ask your opinion about the safety of some flowers he is willing to cultivate? As long as I’m aware, a few might be poisonous.”

“Sure. What kind of flowers are they?” He sounded excited again.

“Some are the same kind as you have in the garden. Is touching the foxgloves as dangerous as ingesting them?”

When he and Louis were living in the library, he had read some books about flowers as well. He knew which were poisonous and how the poison itself would affect someone.

But there was something about the gardeners that didn’t seem quite right. If William asked him about some plants, he would likely give information more easily since the conversation was in the territory of his knowledge. Nathaniel might overshare some details that could explain the matter with them.

“Not as dangerous as ingesting, but it will cause problems. Mainly for people who have sensitive skin or allergies. And they will experience worse symptoms as a result. If someone has already worked on another greenhouse, it need not worry you.”

“What about the oleanders? Or lily of the valley?” The last flower he mentioned was the one Sherlock had told him about.

“Ingesting oleanders is more likely to be fatal but not touching them. It’ll still cause some issues, though. However, lily of the valley is safe to touch for the majority. But again, sensitive skin or allergies could be a problem.” With a small nod, the gardener finished his sentence.

“What will happen if someone who is allergic touches them?”

“Symptoms are going to be much worse. I’m allergic to most of the poisonous flowers. Once, I felt I couldn’t breathe after I accidentally touched a lily of the valley. But as I said, your friend will be fine if he has enough knowledge of flowers, which I’m sure he does.”

"Thank you for the information about the flowers,” he said, a smile forming. “I apologise if it was unrelated to the case.”

“Please, there is no need for apologising. I really enjoyed talking about the flowers. Although I believe you have some questions about the case.” Even though he liked their conversation about flowers, he was evidently still more eager to know about the case.

“The information you have provided to the police was most useful. However, there is one more question I wanted to ask. Is there a time when you or Mr. Benjamin would wake up during the night?”

After a few seconds of thinking, he answered. “Rarely. But we don’t leave our room unless there is someone at the entrance door wanting to get in. As you probably know, Miss Jade and Miss Beatrice’s room is on the third floor. So, we’ll open the entrance door if needed.”

William thanked him, and rose from his chair, heading to the manor.

Their discussion was in Nathaniel’s area of control, flowers. When people feel control over something, they tend to overlook the small inconvenient subtleties. And thanks to it, the new information he had now was indeed very interesting.

_  _  _  _  _

“Nathaniel David Thatcher. Or better to say, Elridge,” Sherlock said, as the two detectives stepped into the greenhouse.

Right after his interview with Evelyn ended, William walked in the manor. He had asked whether or not Sherlock remembered the case Billy had told them about around two months ago.

As he could recall, the case was about an affluent man's son who had gone missing four years ago. The woman searching for the missing son was his sister. She had indicated that her younger brother had disappeared after a family matter. And she had heard he was living in Brooklyn through a friend. Billy had also told them their surname: Elridge.

The detective agency didn’t focus much on their case, as it had been a long time since her brother’s disappearance and the information she had was not enough.

After his accounts of the interview with Nathaniel, the sudden mention of that case appeared relevant.

Their time would allow them to confront them together. Since there were only three other people left to interview.

“I have no clue what you are talking about.” Nathaniel was standing in front of a peace lily. His back was turned to the detectives as he was cutting its dead leaves; his face remaining out of view.

“You have an older sister and a younger brother. Meaning Benjamin is not your brother,” he continued, nearing Nathaniel.

He turned around to face them, the dried leaves still in his hand. A forced smile was on his lips. “Sorry, but I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he responded. His words were almost like he just prepared them for this conversation.

Liam was now standing beside him, observing the gardeners’ expressions. “Your sister is searching for you.”

“I really think you’ve been misunderstood. I don’t have other siblings.”

“Mr. Nathaniel, there are legal consequences you will face regarding faking your identity in legal documents,” William commented matter-of-factly. The gardener had lied about his background in the interview with the police.

“Nate, you were just lecturing me about how the plants wouldn’t water themselves. Did they suddenly grow hands?” Benjamin’s abrupt voice had a bit of a sarcastic tone. He still didn’t know the topic of their discussion.

Rapidly, Nathaniel turned his head to the other gardener. “These two detectives–“

“We were just interested to see if you’re willing to explain the situation about Nathaniel’s last name.” Sherlock interrupted, making Benjamin face him instead.

“His last name? What are you talking about?” Looking confused, he looked between them. Finally settling his gaze on Nathaniel, he asked, “what is going on?”

Crossing his arms lightly, William took a step further as he began to expound their inferences. Sherlock was in his blind spot on his left. After their fall from Tower Bridge, the colour had drained from his left iris. Liam thought the squalid crimson of blood was on his hands, with the only way of washing it being his death. The water of the Thames took the offered red from him; not the nonexistent one on his hands, but the present scarlet in his eye.

“You two aren’t brothers. You had been taught gardening by your father, while Mr. Nathaniel had learnt it via books. You were also allowed to learn to cultivate foxglove, which, as you mentioned, wasn’t permitted in the manor your father was working at. And Mr. Nathaniel, for his part, couldn’t even grow dahlias, which, unlike foxglove, don’t contain poison.

“Can’t call it an act of favouritism; if it was, your parents would make Mr. Nathaniel do the work in the garden since it was harder than simply reading books, which would result in him learning to plant flowers just by experience.

“Besides, in your answers, Mr. Benjamin, you had said that ‘someone’ had shown an allergic reaction to lily of the valleys. Mr. Nathaniel also has allergies. You could simply address him as your brother when talking about the matter. If you were brothers, your parents would definitely know about his allergy and its symptoms too. They would avoid cultivating them at first, if not possible, would warn others to not touch them because of a possible allergic reaction.

“Mr. Nathaniel probably was the one who showed an allergic reaction. And your father, Mr. Benjamin, was working for his family.

"You went missing four years ago. Then you suddenly appeared in Brooklyn with no background, working under a fake surname."

The universe is rarely so lazy to offer such coincidences.

Benjamin was now next to Nathaniel; their eyes widened with shock. But there was another emotion in their guarded expression: horror.

“No. I mean, I was the one having an unexpected reaction, like you said, but nothing more. Our parents didn’t know about the allergy before that. They just limited our family in planting different flowers because they were afraid the same thing might happen to them.” Probably knowing he couldn’t deny everything William said, he was still eager to deny the reality of his background.

“If you, as Benjamin’s so-called brother, even had some kind of illness because of flowers, your parent would try to cure or even hide it to keep the garden beautiful to earn more income. And needless to say, they would not teach the way of growing them to Benjamin, as the flower could get near you and therefore become dangerous. Plus, his family won’t get limited if you were their son, who just simply happened to have an illness at the moment.

“And then we’ll come to this question: if you aren’t even related, then why did Benjamin accompany you moving to Brooklyn? The answer is the ‘mistake’ that made you move was something you both were responsible for. Benjamin had a good relationship with his family and wouldn’t voluntarily move states away. So now, why did you move here from Kansas?” Sherlock asked.

Moments of silence passed when Benjamin spoke again. “Isn’t that a little personal?”

“I’m confident faking your identity is nothing personal nor legal,” without wasting another second of time, the blond replied.

The gardeners cast a glance at each other. Nathaniel nodded assuredly at the other, along with a smile on his face, representing that he would answer their question.

“Our move was regarding a family matter. My family, to be specific. As you also said, I have a younger brother who was about to get engaged. His future fiancée wasn’t fond of the fact that my brother wasn’t the one taking over after my father. Which resulted in her getting to her preferred outcome as she made me move states away.”

“She told your family about your supposed blunder?” He moved closer to them.

“That wasn’t a blunder!” Nathaniel said impetuously, a frown apparent on his face.

“Then how did she notice you two were in a relationship?”

Their eyes widened as they heard his words. “Excuse me?”

“Bingo,” with a smirk, Sherlock commented.

“You had to at least know each other if you moved here together. Then what did you do back then? An illegal action like inheritance fraud would’ve more consequences. And in your case, there was no reason for you to do it. Therefore, you must’ve done something that only incensed your family.

“The connection between you and Benjamin as the son of a gardener wasn’t in your family’s liking. But if it was just a simple friendship, then the one getting into trouble was Benjamin and not you. Your brother’s fiancée should have seen you and told your family about it.”

“You’re not going to report this, are you?” Benjamin asked. Looking between the detectives as he pondered about the reason the detectives had chosen to confront them instead of reporting right away. “What do you want?”

“Information, Mr. Benjamin. Just your answers to two simple questions.”

“And what are those?”

“The first one is, why did you lie about your identities? And the second one is about Miss Beatrice.” The staff was close to each other. Considering the time the gardeners had joined them, they would know the answers.

“How do we know whether we can trust you or not?”

“It’s either trusting us or getting into jail for using a fake name for legal documents. Now, would you take the risk?” Sherlock said intolerantly.

“That’s my fault,” with a deep sigh, Benjamin finally admitted. “When we first arrived, this place was our best bet to have an income or at least a roof. We came here for the job. But before we even began to talk, Mr. Ashford said that there wouldn’t be a place for a ‘friend’ to stay. So, I lied that Nate is my younger brother.”

Being a son of great wealth, Nathaniel was certainly unfamiliar with other careers like gardening. Hence, he couldn’t find a job or a place without Benjamin’s help. Since they wanted the victim to employ both of them, they had likely made up a story about two brothers being homeless.

Benjamin was close with his family. His family would get dismissed too after Nathaniel’s family found out about their relationship. There were two possibilities: either his parents had also cut ties with Benjamin or they had passed away.

If the first prospect was true, as Benjamin’s parents would be old, they would choose to stay closer to Kansas in case his parents might need their assistance. Despite their probable last fight, he had a warm relationship with his parents. Given they were in Brooklyn now, the latter seemed more plausible.

“Do the others know?” William asked, his tone warmer than before.

“Our story had more holes in the beginning. They realised eventually. Why did you even suspect us in the first place?”

“You’ve never referred to each other as brothers. Not even in your interview with the police.” Maintaining eye contact with him, Sherlock continued. “Besides, have you ever looked at a mirror?” One of the reasons for them pretending to be related was likely to look less suspicious because of their closeness.

“Anyway.” Seemingly understanding his intent, Benjamin rolled his eyes. “And what’s the matter with Miss Beatrice?”

“There was nothing in Mr. Ashford’s room to make her look more suspicious than any of you. And you said it wasn’t even the murderer’s fault that she got suspected. What sort of problem did she have with the officers?”

“We just know she had broken up with the detective and had a miscarriage not long after we began working here. Nothing more.”

Having ascertained the last piece of information, they glimpsed at each other. They wanted to reassure the gardeners that if they weren’t involved with the current case, they wouldn’t report them. However, before the words could leave his mouth, Nathaniel spoke.

“About my sister, how did you know her?”

“Mrs. Nadine came to our agency and asked us to look into the matter,” William answered.

“Mrs.?” He gave a wry laugh. “I guess I was away for a rather longer time than what I imagined. Where is she now?” Looking at them, flickers of content were visible in his eyes. He must have really missed his sister.

“I’m afraid we aren’t the ones investigating the case. Although I’m certain we can find more about her after this case ends,” with an apologetic tone, the blond said.

After consoling the gardeners, they walked out of the greenhouse. Liam did justice in describing there. The greenhouse was, in fact, very beautiful.

Unlike the other sections of the garden, the area they were in was decorated with marigolds. A radiant orange flower with a fragrant scent.

A strange silence settled between them. He didn’t speak, nor did William. He was probably thinking about their interaction with Nathaniel and Benjamin as well.

As they were getting closer to the manor, Sherlock asked. “Thinking about their disguise, Liam?"

Shifting his gaze from the path ahead to him, William smiled. “Should have been difficult to keep their masks, particularly for Mr. Nathaniel. Considering he has siblings.”

Returning the smile, he slowed down their pace so they could concentrate more on the conversation. “Yeah. It would’ve been better if they didn’t have to hide it at all. But since they have, they should go for friends next time instead of brothers.”

The only person he could think of when mentioning a sibling was his own annoying older brother, Mycroft. There was absolutely no way for him to fake being brothers with someone in the role of a lover. They both had brothers. William was certainly thinking the same way.

But there should be something existing in the first place for him to attempt to find a way to hide it. Not that he thought he could ever turn his emotions into words.

“I suppose you’re right, Sherly. Although pretending to be brothers provided its own benefits to them, like having a place they could stay,” he said, locking eyes with Sherlock. “Wouldn’t you have done the same if you were in their situation?”

“If I had to be related, I wouldn’t have chosen a member of immediate family. It would’ve taken a lot less time for others to contend that there was something wrong.”

“Abnormal act of closeness?”

“And appearance. Those two’s faces aren’t so alike. But at least they've both got black hair.”

Not that it would be relevant. But if he, hypothetically, had found himself facing the same issue as the gardeners, pretending to be related wouldn't work. Even if they stood on the same page intellectually, people weren't mind-readers. They will notice the appearance first. And for him, well, he was the opposite of blond.

“Then I suppose it will be even more demanding to conceal a relationship with someone who has different physical features.” Liam replied, chuckling.

“In their case, their hair colour did them a favour, since they couldn’t pretend to be friends.”

The detectives laughed quietly. They were standing in front of the manor’s back door. He had an unusual sense since they exited the greenhouse. Looking at William, he was also watching their surroundings as they were stepping in. It only approved his peculiar senses. They were being watched.

Chapter Text

“Harold Benson, right?” Sherlock said, standing beside the kitchen’s doorframe.

The man looked up from a butcher block on the table in front of him. A polite smile formed on his face upon seeing the detective. “Yes, Mr. James. Glad to meet you.”

For the next person amongst the remaining three, he had picked the chef's assistant for questioning. And as the title of his job demanded, he was likely in the kitchen.

“Same. May I ask some questions?"

“Sure. What’s your question?” He leaned against the table.

“You were the one opening the door to Mr. Ashford’s room. Was the door locked, or was the lock broken?”

Although the other staff said they didn’t survey it, Harold may have noticed it before opening the door, in case the problem wasn't in the internal mechanism of the lock.

“I don’t know,” after a few moments of thinking, he replied. “I just saw it won’t open, so I pushed it.”

“You’ve said that your room is on the third floor. Have you left there during the night? Any unusual sounds?”

Searching for a cigarette in his pocket, Sherlock suddenly stopped. He was in the kitchen. Not the most appropriate place to smoke.

“No, I haven’t left my room. And about the sound, I couldn’t hear even if something was happening. You can barely hear a scream from the third floor, let alone quiet noises.”

Same information about the sound as what Jade had told William. And now he was on the third floor to interview Beatrice. Liam was certainly also searching for many other things, like the ways to pass by floors without anyone noticing besides checking the sound.

"Do you always wake around seven?"

"Yeah. A quarter to seven," the chef's assistant replied, taking a glance at his pocket watch. With a look of hurry, he rushed to the pot on the stove. It was apparently the time for him to do something with the food inside.

The lid being too hot to touch, he took a cloth nearby and lifted it. A strange but pleasant scent emanated from the unknown food.

“That smells quite good.”

“Thanks.” With a look of relief on his face, Harold turned back at him. “I’m just following Granny’s recipe.”

Many foods with such a smell were also delicious. Maybe he and Liam could try cooking it after the case ended.

“What’s the name of it?”

“I actually don’t remember, sorry,” smiling awkwardly, he answered. “She said her family would cook this after someone passed away. It’s also my first time cooking it.”

Forget about it. There were plenty of other foods that contained flavourful smells, were tasty, and were not served for funerals, right?

Getting back to the present after the quick shock, Sherlock said, “how did you find this place?”

“Mr. Ashford was looking for a chef's assistant, as Granny was either retiring or requiring a bit of help. I liked it here. It’s quiet.”

Harold had a background of six years' experience working for the Hollander family, assisting his father. He clearly did not leave without a cause.

“Does your father still work for the same person?”

“Yes. He and my mother are still working there.”

His tone wasn’t regretful or bitter. His family wasn’t the predicament. The problem was rather personal.

“What kind of issue did you have with the master of the household?”

“Issue? Not really an issue.” Dropping his gaze to the ground, he continued, “just something I realised I didn’t have a saying in.”

“Like him marrying the woman you loved?“

He wasn’t dismissed; if he were, it would be recorded in his resume. Decreasing the salary and career improvement clearly wasn't the case. If he couldn’t face the issue, then it wasn’t a matter directly related to him.

He said that he liked this place because it was 'quiet'. The previous place might have suddenly got crowded. A change of staff would not be remarkable, nor would a newborn. But a new mistress would. Especially since, based on his appearance and the time he spends in the manor, he didn't seem concerned with relationships.

“Is it really relevant to the case?” His expression was more guarded; a downcast frown formed on his face. “It wouldn’t make a difference whatsoever.”

“What if it would?”

“How?” His frown deepened. “Impossible.” The chef's assistant let out a wry laugh.

“’impossible’ is just your opinion.” The rise of ‘Lord of Crime’ was also impossible, after all. “And by your response, I’ll take it he indeed married her.” He stepped closer to Harold.

“Take it as whatever you want. It doesn’t matter anymore." His voice strained at the end.

He still hadn’t forgotten about her, not a bit. He was sure he couldn’t do anything anymore. The matter was certainly out of their reach, too. She had likely died. It would also explain his thought of ‘impossible’.

“Sorry for your loss.”

“I appreciate it.” He turned back to the pot, stirring the ingredients so as to distract himself. His face was out of view. “Do you normally remind people of their memories like this?” He mumbled. Understanding what he had said a minute too late, he quickly looked at Sherlock for his reaction.

He didn’t want to make people recall such memories. But they had to find the murderer, and they were running out of time. “Sometimes. For the case.”

“Then I hope it gets solved soon,” he said hesitantly. His eyes were more glistening than before.

“Thanks. It will.”

He returned the way he had come. He was settling on the sofa when he recalled that cigarette. Standing again, Sherlock walked to the second floor. There was a balcony, and unlike the kitchen, it was actually an appropriate place to smoke.

_  _  _  _  _

Reaching his destination, William noticed that the third floor was indeed very quiet. The floor barely made a sound as he walked on it. If someone was already working there, they would know how to avoid even small cracks.

The musty smell from the west wing was indicating that the place was used mostly as storage, and the rooms were on the opposite side. He moved toward the rooms as he checked for any way to enter or exit unnoticed.

As he got closer to the east wing, he heard the sound of someone’s singing. An old lullaby.

The only person present on that floor was Beatrice. Other staff were doing their daily routine. They must have told her to rest in her room.

Standing in front of the room where he could hear the song coming from, he slowly knocked.

“Yes?” said the woman in the room, her voice a bit cracked.

He slowly opened the door. “I apologise for my interference, Miss Beatrice.”

“Oh please, you didn’t, Mister. It’s fine.” Beatrice stated, now standing up from her bed. “Jade told me you were going to be here eventually. If anyone, I should be the one apologising. Please, do come in.” She gestured toward a chair that was placed next to her bed, probably not moved since the last time someone sat there.

“Thank you.” Showing that there was no need for her apology, he briefly shook his head. “It was a nice melody.”

He stepped into the room. The room was beneath a shed roof, with a bed on each side and a window in between. The afternoon sunlight was gleaming on the wooden surface of the desk in front of the window, making it slightly warmer to touch.

“I learned it from my mother. She used to sing me this when I was a child.”

“Nostalgia, I assume?”

Looking down from the window, the floor was high enough that they couldn’t jump from it.

“Exactly,” she said while placing her hand over her mouth to cover the half-laughter.

Nearing the chair, he gestured for the maid to also sit.

“Miss Beatrice, I’m aware it may sound upsetting, but would you be willing to answer some questions regarding the case?” William asked, sounding apprehensive.

“Yes.” She avoided eye contact, fidgeting her hands.

“What was Mr. Ashford’s medical schedule?” It was better to query about her background after the questions about the victim, as she was anxious.

“There was one pill Mr. Ashford was taking every morning, along with another for every night before sleep. His doctor had also prescribed one for the times his symptoms were getting worse," she replied quietly.

“Have you, or Miss Jade, left the room yesternight?”

“Not a single time.”

“Miss Beatrice, is your cause to end your previous relationship related to your miscarriage?” he asked, wearing a cautious expression.

“It was about my child.” She stopped twirling her hands, concluding that the questions about her past were inevitable. “After Mr. Ashford got confined, the rumours started to spread. A lot of them. One was that he had an affair with the house staff. That’s why many left that year.”

Given her intonation, she also wanted to quit, but couldn’t leave due to her financial problems and the fact that she had started to work in her mother’s place.

Even if her former partner trusted her, he could have left her because of his own public image. They weren’t married, he likely thought that having her publicly as a partner might have sounded inferior for his reputation.

But the matter had happened around four years ago. He chose to end their relationship on his own, meaning he had no reason to accuse her of murder just because of their ended relationship. Beatrice had a miscarriage shortly after. The reason behind her accusation might be relevant.

“Is he the reason for your miscarriage?”

“If he listened to me, just once,” her voice trembled as she whispered. Despite her attempt to collect herself, the tears began to fall on her face.

She sounded certain that if he hadn’t left her, her miscarriage wouldn’t have happened. Hardly anyone could have created such conditions for that matter.

Taking the accusations into account, regardless of his opinion about the rumours, he still believed the child was his.

“I’m very sorry you had to take action.”

The old lullaby demanded, for whatever reason, the abortion had been difficult for her. She must have really missed her child.

He sat silent for a few moments after, giving her some time to ease off. He redirected his attention to the book next to the maid.

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

The story was popular amongst the other kids when he and Louis were at the orphanage. A great number of them had lost their families because of the aristocrats, the devils he erased.

Life in the East End was difficult; people said criminals were hiding there. They said the Scotland Yard would barely pay attention to East End's citizens.

Many talented children would be born there that would never be able to truly use their abilities. His friends once helped a theatre group to gain some reputation, playing Alice's Adventures in Wonderland in various locations. The group had to evade the Yard during their performance.

The maid would've wished to read the book for her child. Even if she had kept her child, she could hardly make a promising future for the child.

Before he got the chance to speak, Beatrice asked him a question, wiping away the tears on her face with her sleeve, “Mister, do you have any siblings?”

“Yes. One elder and one younger brother,” William answered with a warmer tone at the remembrance of his brothers.

The last thing he knew about them was that Albert was imprisoned, and Louis was dealing with the consequences from the outside. He couldn’t inform them about his survival. His family didn’t know about him, and he couldn’t get much information about their wellbeing either.

“Middle child then? Me too. I have a younger brother. He is just starting his education.” She smiled with the memory as she continued, ”he lives with my older sister. They don’t have a very good bond. A terrible one, actually. She sees the death of our mom to be his fault. He wants to live with me, and you see my situation. I have the same illness as our mother. I don’t have many years to live myself. A child would trigger the illness.

“If I had died, there would be no one to raise my child or care for my brother. I don’t know if my action was right or wrong. The chances for me to die were high, and I knew it. I just thought he would be here for his child. He never did. I didn’t want to make my brother suffer more than what he already does. And for another child to be raised without love.”

She couldn’t visit a doctor or buy medicine from a pharmacy. Since her former partner wanted to just demonstrate her as a criminal, he could use the evidence against her as he was a detective working for police.

Therefore, she had probably used some kind of herb. The most procurable plant he could think about was pennyroyal. Even though deleterious, the oil from certain of some parts of pennyroyal could be used. It was also easy for her to obtain, since the garden had some planted.

“Who made the pennyroyal oil?”

“Jade said the detectives looked smart,” Beatrice replied, laughing quietly. “It was my decision. They just helped.”

“Poisoning is a common way to murder. And it may be related to Mr. Ashford’s death.”

“I don’t know. They said the oil could work, but I had to take the risk. And when I agreed, they said they would bring the oil in a few days. I had other thoughts in my head at the moment, so I didn’t question it.”

“Am I right in presuming that Mrs. Evelyn and Miss Jade are the ones who helped you?”

Jade, being her roommate, was probably her first choice. And Jade had recommended to also ask for Evelyn’s help since she was a nurse.

“The ones who helped me just did it because I asked them to. And as long as I know, neither of them has knowledge of poisons,” the maid answered, showing a sombre look.

She didn’t want to get others in trouble. But one of them could have the knowledge of what pennyroyal can be used for and how to make it.

After finishing the interview, he asked her where the victim was keeping the documents of the past trials as the final question. To which she answered that it was the drawer of the desk in the judge’s room. William then thanked the maid like the others and stepped out of the room.

Having walked the hallway when coming to Beatrice’s room, he knew which parquet block would make a sound. He avoided them, and the result was the same as he had anticipated: total silence. He surveyed the third floor further and used the same staircase to go to the lower floors.

He didn’t head for the first floor, as Sherlock would not be there. He had gone to the kitchen to interview the chef's assistant. Where he wouldn’t be able to smoke. Both of them thought questioning Beatrice would take longer.

Therefore, Sherlock didn’t expect William to come soon, and he wanted a place to smoke. There was a place in the manor that would qualify for him to go: the balcony. Where William was also going to.

_  _  _  _  _

The sky was cloudy again. But this time, it seemed that it wouldn’t start raining. Sherlock was standing on the balcony, leaning on the railing. He smoked down the cigarette, exhaling the remaining grey smoke of it.

A figure appeared behind the glass door, followed by the sound of opening it. He saw the blond stepping into the balcony from the corner of his eye.

“Liam?” He took the cigarette from his lips. “Sorry, did I make you wait?” The detective turned to face him as William closed the door behind him.

“No, she answered sooner than expected.”

Considering the topic, they had anticipated for the interview to take at least ten more minutes. However, she was willing to share the asked information.

"What was it?"

"He ended their relationship because of a rumour. Which was spreading at the moment,” he answered, walking toward Sherlock and standing beside him. Pointing at the pack of cigarettes in his hand, a roguish smile formed on his face.

“Can I have one?”

He took the pack a little further out of William’s reach. "The doctors said it’s not good," he voiced firmly.

When Liam was in the coma, the doctors saw him smoking and warned him that the effects were doing long-term damage to both him and the patient. He wasn’t going to quit after someone had told him the facts he already knew.

But coming to think of it, Liam wasn’t truly a smoker like him. And a few more coughs would worsen the pain from the injuries he had from the fall. Sherlock avoided smoking around him, especially in closed spaces such as their shared flat.

“I was discharged more than three months ago,” William murmured, taking a step closer to reach for the pack of cigarettes, and rolling one between his fingers.

“Ninety-eight days won't change the effects,” he replied as his last failed objection, loosening his brief grip on the pack.

It wasn’t like William had never smoked. Besides, it wasn’t his place to say, ‘Cigarettes are bad,’ considering his own habits. But maybe it would be better to wait a little longer.

“Ninety-five.” A small laugh escaped from his mouth before William could cover it with his hand.

Sherlock was pretty sure he had kept the record. But, sometimes, accidents happen in maths, like in calculating numbers. Maybe not for the mathematics professor, though. Even the ‘zero’ he scored during his visit to Durham could be by accident. No wonder the students were like they had met their dead ancestors risen from their graves and sitting right beside them to just help them pass.

“Even worse,” he stated, breaking eye contact and looking at the pack in his hand instead. There were three cigarettes left. He angled the pack so as to offer him one.

The trace of a smile still visible on his face, William took the cigarette. “Thank you, Sherly,” he said warmly before placing it on his lips.

The detective also took one for himself and put the pack into his pocket, taking out the matches instead. He lit the match and brought it closer to their cigarettes.

Sherlock shifted his gaze from the small fire to William. The waving reflection of flames in his eye vanished as he blew on the match. The black eyepatch was covering the other one.

“How’s your eye?”

“It’s better.”

“Can I untie the eyepatch?”

When William was still in the coma, the bandages covering his eye needed to get changed more regularly due to bleeding. He asked the nurse to let him do it. The nurse refused several times before finally giving up and teaching him how to do it properly.

He wouldn’t let William change the bandages himself when he was still using them. Covering your own face would be more difficult to do by yourself rather than letting someone else do it. Besides, if not done adequately, it could cause infection.

Not that he didn’t trust William to take care of his injuries, nor did he want to cause more discomfort with his presence. Sherlock just didn’t want to leave him to be alone. To his reflection being the only face staring back at him in the mirror.

He didn’t want to give him even a moment to assume that the injuries were the right way to make amends. He wanted to remind Liam that he wouldn’t be alone.

Besides, some days it was the only time they could spend together because of Sherlock’s frequent missions. He would make the process take longer, rather on purpose.

“Alright,” he answered after a moment of silence.

Having his consent, he gently reached out for the knot at the back of William’s head and untied it. The eyepatch loosened on his face as Sherlock took it away with his left hand.

His other hand remained still in the same state. He didn’t want to do something unexpected. But also wanted to have a closer look. Didn’t doctors do the same back at the hospital?

After a moment of hesitation, he placed his hand on the back of William’s head. His fingers brushed through soft strands of his blond hair until his palm reached Liam's face.

Billy also called him 'Doc'. He should use it more often.

Sherlock rubbed his thumb under his injured eye. Liam's skin was warm to his touch. The swelling around his eye had gone down.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Only a bit under the sunlight,” he answered slowly, his gaze never leaving Sherlock.

“And what about other times?”

“Not as much.”

He leaned a bit closer to have a better look. Of the injury, of course. He took the cigarette with his free hand so as not to get it closer to Liam's face. The blond also did the same.

The grey smoke of their cigarettes was more noticeable due to their short distance, preventing him from having a clearer view. Even with a cover of smoke, his scarlet eye remained as sharp as always. His narrowed eyes followed Sherlock’s every move. Just as they always do.

“Do you still have to wear it?”

The doctors also approved that he could stop covering his injured eye once the pain is gone.

“Most days here are sunny. I have to,” he murmured with the same intonation.

Maybe a wrong sensation; he felt more weight in his palm. It could be his own hand for all he knew. Whatever the reason, the warmth was worth it.

“Then you don’t have to wear it after dusk.”

“I’m used to it.”

“Doctors told you to take it off sometimes to make your eye adjust to the light.”

“Maybe later, Sherly.”

“Alright then.” He got back to the same distance they had before, watching as the blond placed back the cigarette. What would Liam do if he leaned back again but this time not for his eye? He couldn’t categorise some of his passing thoughts as friendly.

He was no doctor. They wouldn’t hesitate to withdraw their hand when they’re treating a pretty patient. But maybe some friends would. At least, he did. And he was William’s friend. He couldn’t ask for more.

He finally moved his hand, feeling the cold of the wind instantly. “Can I tie it back?”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock stood behind him, daintily knotting the black strings of the patch.

There was an uncomfortable sensation somewhere in his chest. His breathing wasn’t on its usual rhythm. Cigarettes were truly bad for health.

_  _  _  _  _

“How much sugar did you put in this?” a woman shouted from the inside before he could knock.

William was going to interview the last person left as Sherlock was going through the judge’s documents to find the one related to his last trial. They had left the chef to be the last person to give her more time to alleviate.

“Half a cup, as was written in your recipe.” His hand stopped before the door as a man answered back. He should be the assistant, Harold.

“Where did you get the cup of yours to be that big?” The chef called back.

He finally knocked at the door. The argument would probably take longer than expected. The trial’s records could give them the information they needed to ascertain the reason the murderer took action. They couldn’t waste time.

Opening the door, William said, “Sorry, Mrs. Caldwell, may I borrow your time for a few questions?”

“Of course, dear. What are your questions?” She responded, her tone suddenly changing from at-the-edge-of-throwing-a-pan-at-the-poor-assistant to sounding more calm.

“Then I’ll excuse myself out,” the assistant stated after looking back and forth between them for a few seconds, understanding the interviews were done individually.
Call me if you need anything, Granny,” he added before leaving the kitchen and closing the door behind himself.

He waited a little before he asked, “Have you woken up or left your room during the night?”

“No.”

“Were there any unusual sounds?”

“Sorry, but I'm hard of hearing,” she said, still sitting on her chair with a little distance from the pot over the stove.

“Mrs. Caldwell, do you often wake up around nine?”

In the interview with the police, she had mentioned that she woke up after others, as they would let her rest more.

“Yes. Harold makes the breakfast and does the preparations for dinner.”

“I apologise for mentioning this; we’ve heard about your help when Mrs. Ashford was still alive. How did you get access to the medicine?”

“I told one of the maids working here at the moment about the unusual number of appointments. She accepted to show the medicine to me. She had left shortly after Mr. Ashford lost his trial,” the chef admitted without the slightest change of tone. She clearly anticipated that question would be asked sooner or later.

“Does she still visit?”

“Unfortunately, not. She never came back after she left. I lost contact with her after about a year,” she added woefully.

Suddenly, a puff of steam rose from the pot. She stood from her chair, reaching for the wooden spoon and stirred the food inside, her face remaining out of view. The smell was pleasant.

There weren’t many questions he would have to ask her about her routine or background. She was working for the judge for almost thirty years. The victim wasn’t a judge back then but a lawyer.

“I thought you would come with your… the other detective,” the chef said as he was about to thank her and walk out of the room. She corrected herself in the middle. What was wrong with saying ‘your friend’?

“The interviews didn’t require both of our presence. The case would be solved sooner this way,” William stated. Especially in this case, they had to act before they ran out of time.

“It could be too late before you know it, dear. Wasting a little time is better than regretting it at the end,” her voice containing a trace of sadness as she continued, “I would give everything if that meant I could see her for one more minute.”

She was addressing Evelyn’s grandmother, who died fifteen years ago.

“My condolences. Were you close?”

“Yes. Until our families forced us to marry two rich men. We could again spend time with each other after the husbands died.” He could see a small smile forming on her lips. “She always used to steal my cigarettes,” her last word almost fading as she lost her balance, grabbing the edge of the stove to avoid falling.

He quickly reached her, helping her sit back on her chair. “Mrs. Caldwell, are you all right? Do you know where Mrs. Evelyn might be?”

“Second floor.” She whispered, covering her forehead with her hand. She clearly felt dizzy.

Dizziness could be a symptom for a lot of diseases. Asking her about it wouldn’t sound right at the moment.

Evelyn was previously a nurse and the chef’s friend’s granddaughter. The chef had certainly told her about her health issues.

He exited the kitchen and headed toward the stairs to the second floor. After he stepped out of the dining room, he heard someone talking to him.

“Mister, uhm...” The man calling him was the chef's assistant. He seemed unsure whether to continue or not. However, William was certain he couldn’t wait any longer if he wasn’t going to say the rest.

“I apologise if she said anything that made you uncomfortable. I tried to stop her from following you,” he finally added.

“Following us?”

Did he mean the person behind their unusual sense of being watched since they stepped out of the greenhouse? He knew the chances of them being the culprit were low. As the murderer couldn’t do much by only following them but would make themselves look more suspicious if exposed.

“She insisted on watching the detectives personally. She didn’t trust you ‘cause she thought you had come from the police. ‘Cause of Miss Beatrice. She said she wouldn’t interrupt you and would watch only from the distance. Sorry. We tried to stop her.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Harold. Please take care of Mrs. Caldwell until I find Mrs. Evelyn. She felt dizzy.” He continued on his way to the stairs, leaving the assistant no time to reply. There was nothing he could say regarding the new information to him. It would be better to ask her, personally, not to follow people around next time.

Thinking about it, her sudden comment about the cigarette would make more sense now, taking into account that she had probably seen them on the balcony. However, correcting herself before completing her sentence, well, it was still questionable.

Given that she was telling her memory of her friend about the cigarette after seeing them, the chef remembered her nearness with her. Then, if she thought of the same kind of closeness, it wouldn’t be needed to avoid saying ‘your friend’ or ‘your colleague’.

He couldn’t deny the possibility of the two women being more than friends before their marriage and after it ended. Therefore, she thought they were also…

She was misunderstood. Because, regardless of his own inclinations, Sherlock was only checking on the healing process. And William absolutely didn’t slow down the pace of the conversation intentionally to stay longer.

Every moment spent with the detective would fascinate him. Knowing someone else was on the same page. He didn’t want anything besides being his friend and having his company. He couldn’t compromise.

He found Evelyn not on the second but on the third floor. She was with the other two maids in the hallway as he approached them and told them about the chef. They all hurried back to the kitchen.

_  _  _  _  _

Walking toward the victim’s room, there was nobody else on the second floor. Sherlock opened the door to the room, silently nearing the desk. They had agreed that they wouldn’t move anything for the police to have the needed evidence. Although, it was the quickest way to find the proof they were looking for.

Having picked the lock, he opened it to find organised manila folders. He searched for the documents of the judge’s last trial. It was the fourth one.

Reading the court’s report, the man who sued the judge won the trial because of his strong evidence. His lawyer had provided them to prove the existence of the bribe. He had claimed that despite being the judge’s friend, he wasn’t informed of his actions. And that he had decided to work with the man after finding out.

Having the last piece of proof they needed, he closed the folder and placed it back to where it previously was.

The only matter remaining to end the case was to arrest the culprit. He took the stairs to the first floor and walked out of the manor from the back door to the garden to get some fresh air. He only had to wait for William to finish the last interview to tell him about the new evidence.

The ground was muddy from the rain. The view of the garden at the back of the manor was different, having been decorated with marigolds rather than roses and peonies.

Sherlock saw the gardeners coming out of the greenhouse and walking to the manor, which was also in his direction.

“Found anything, Mister?” Benjamin voiced loudly, carrying a bag of soil on his shoulder and placing it on the ground.

He turned to them. “Yeah.”

“Did you find the ‘Lord of Crime’?” the other gardener asked. So, Liam meant this when he mentioned the gardener was trying to hide his excitement during the interview.

“Hadn’t you read Doyle’s books?” Because of course John had a pen name. “It was just a title the murderer here stole.” The role of the ‘Lord of Crime’ had come to its end.

They fell from the Tower Bridge in front of London. Liam sacrificed himself for the role. After getting arrested, the title thieve ought to confess that they just stole the title to cause dread.

“So, have you seen him before his identity got published?” He continued with a higher tone, “What about Holmes? Have you seen him?”

Well, let’s not say that one of the gardeners had called the both of them ‘assholes’ a couple of hours ago. And definitely answering with ‘You have also seen both. Congratulations.' wasn’t an option.

“Only in newspapers. Not in person.” He didn’t want to answer more questions, so this was the best choice.

“Neither of you? Not even from the distance?”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Liam would also like to not answer the unnecessary questions.

Speaking of him, he also wanted to double-check something.

“What flowers start with ‘Li’?” He knew the plausible answers. But he was asking just in case Liam had meant a scientific flower name.

The gardeners looked at each other, confused because of the irrelevant question. “Will you cultivate them? Where are you living? Like, an apartment?"

Not his original idea, but growing a flower didn’t sound bad at all. Except that they wouldn’t be able to do so, as a flat wouldn’t be a suitable place for this kind of plant. “No. Just a few stems.”

They recounted six common names and five scientific. Some were rarely found white. The florist might have them, though.

“What kind of thought process led you to think a bouquet of the flowers starting with ‘Li’ would look good?” the gardener said, trying to silence his laughter to not sound insolent.

“Someone interrupted a conversation and didn’t let me hear the full name,” Sherlock replied, emphasising ‘someone’ while looking directly at Benjamin.

“Sorry for that. So why don’t you ask him direct–” Before he got to finish his sentence, Nathaniel elbowed him. A bit forceful, apparently. Benjamin looked back at the other gardener with a puzzled expression. It wasn’t until Nathaniel pressed his palm to his forehead in disappointment that he lifted his brows in understanding and turned back to Sherlock.

“Then you can go a short distance away from here and turn to the right. You must see a store at the corner of the street. That’ll work.”

He didn’t remember the store being a floristry. Finding a place was difficult. Therefore, he and Billy were searching for a place in almost all the neighbourhoods and streets. In fact, the store was under construction. He hadn’t gone to the address since then.

“Is there a supposed florist?” Because even if there was such a place, he wouldn’t go there.

When William was in the coma, he bought flowers frequently and placed them on the table beside his bed. In case Liam woke up during the periods he was on a mission, he wouldn’t face an empty room.

He became a regular customer at one of the floristry near the hospital. The woman who owned the shop once asked him if he had someone admitted to the hospital. Which he confirmed, and added that he was in a coma. The owner gave him the fresh flowers with a discount since.

“No. There is a furniture store. I think you miss something. It would also help them improve their business, as they’re pretty new here,” he responded while Nathaniel kneeled on the ground and busied himself with whatever was in that bag.

He had an idea of where the conversation was headed. “And what do I miss?”

“A mirror. You need that more than me. Buy a big one too.”

Was he referring to the answer Sherlock gave back in the greenhouse? If so, he was mistaken. Wouldn’t friends buy flowers for each other sometimes?

“Ben!” Nathaniel faced the other gardener with a frown. He then turned to Sherlock with an awkward smile. “I apologise,” he said, pulling Benjamin to sit down beside him.

Following their movements with his eyes, he took a look at the bag. It was filled with fertiliser.

“How often do you use this?” He pointed at it.

“A lot. Some plants, like these marigolds here, will grow better with it.”

If the murderer had access to poison knowledge, they wouldn’t risk buying it from outside. And unlike flowers, a small amount of the fertiliser would go unnoticed.

He began to walk quickly to the manor. He knew the identity of the culprit; now the method was also clear.

“What’s wrong?” Benjamin shouted.

“That’s the poison,” he responded, not slowing down his speed.

“What poison?”

He reached for the back door. The gardeners also followed him to the manor. Sherlock headed to the kitchen; the interviews would only waste more time.

Opening the door, he saw the others were gathered in the kitchen, circled around the old chef.

Chapter Text

The kitchen door slammed open, and the detective appeared in the doorframe. Sherlock stood next to him while the gardeners stepped inside.

He hadn’t come for the chef; he had found their final piece of proof.

“Mr. Harold, has Granny taken her medicine this morning?” Evelyn asked, disregarding their sudden arrival. She was checking the chef’s pulse.

“No, she hasn’t,” Sherlock interrupted. The documents indeed proved their conjectures.

She looked back and forth between them and the chef’s assistant. “Pardon, but may I ask why?”

“He forgot his candlestick in that room,” the detective said, looking directly at Harold.

“What candlestick?”

“The one which was supposed to wake you up for the medicine and to make breakfast,” he added. There were two needles, meaning the assistant also set another candlestick alarm for the medicine, as he would normally forget it.

“I don’t have one,” Harold stated, a frown visible on his face.

“No longer have one. You went to search for the thing they told you to and forgot the candlestick. One of the needles was for the medicine, and the other was for your duties.”

“Mrs. Caldwell would have often taken her medicine at the wrong time since she was hard of hearing. Therefore, you were distributing it as you wake up earlier than the others, after all”

He must have first gone to the victim’s room, left the candlestick, and then headed to the kitchen. The prescribed time for the medicine was between dawn and past seven, when the others had also woken up.

“You poisoned him. It was a form of cyanide in the fertiliser, so it would also be hard to detect in tests.” Sherlock was previously in the garden. He had surely seen the fertiliser itself.

With every statement, Harold’s face became paler, eyeing everyone in the room to see their reactions.

“Both you and Mrs. Caldwell tasted the food. Hence, the poison was in the capsules of Mr. Ashford’s midnight medicine. You knew he had already died when you went searching the room and using a belt to create an image of suffocation.”

Apparently, getting a hold of the judge’s medicine was not difficult. It would be more undemanding with a limited number of staff. The capsules would make the poison harder to recognise since the powder was inside.

“So why did you murder him and not the Hollander family?”

Sherlock said the family could have been a possible target. Although the judge was chosen, he was somehow relevant to the assistant's personal problem with Hollander.

His eyes widened as he dropped his gaze on the floor. “He was the cause,” Harold whispered.  “I’ll explain when the police arrive,” he added, slowly looking back at them.

The police showed up after about twenty minutes. The detective from the police was the same, as he immediately blamed Beatrice.

Harold, who was now handcuffed, asked for other staff to leave, the remaining people being them and three other officers.

He then disclosed that Hollander married the man’s daughter, who had previously needed the evidence to prove the bribe’s existence, so, the man wouldn’t be able to evade the payment after Hollander, as the lawyer, gave his testimony in court against the judge.

The young girl saw that all was caused by the judge, making her father incapable of doing any better. Therefore, she committed suicide a year after the trial in hopes of both helping her father and easing her own situation.

He had found her the next morning just as he did in this case. However, the door of her room was actually locked. This time, he just made the lock malfunction so he could force the door to open and create an illusion for the others to know for sure if the door was locked.

The last words he remembered from her were that all was the judge’s fault because her father would’ve never agreed to such a thing normally, which she wrote in a letter.

The arrested criminal then divulged that he had planned all other nine murders for this last one to seem just like the former cases. He said that he was the face behind the ‘Lord of Crime’.

After his confession, one officer stayed, and they went to search Harold’s room for any trace of the poison, along with that letter.

Notwithstanding his confession, the assistant couldn’t be the identity of someone who took his title. Someone who had orchestrated the nine other cases couldn’t forget a candlestick in the victim’s room.

It couldn’t be a small mistake made out of the disquietude of the moment. Besides, he could have denied his involvement. There were other ways to make him admit it if he wouldn’t do it when first confronted.

But he admitted too soon, too easily. Almost as if he was certain he couldn’t show otherwise. There was also another possibility. It was sort of a condition set by the 'Lord of Crime'.

Before he could notice, they were on the stairs to the third floor. Sherlock was walking beside him, and the officers were in front of them from a short distance. He felt the weight of Sherlock’s gaze on him. William faced him.

With a wry smile on his lips, Sherlock brought his head closer to whisper into his ear. “Planning your next move, Professor?” He voiced with raillery, his breath touching William’s skin.

He was probably staring absently at the stairs before him; the detective deduced he was lost in thought about the real name behind the title.

“My, my, Mr. Holmes. Accusing me again, I see,” he teased back, keeping his voice as low as possible.

“Not really. Your cases were more stimulating.”

They both laughed quietly at the happenstance. Sherlock used to implicate him as being the Lord of Crime long before his photo was printed in the newspapers. But this time, they knew that he wasn’t.

They were standing in front of the victim's room, waiting for the officer to open the door.

“You two have a key?” the officer asked.

They didn’t have the key; it wasn’t an important tool anyway. Sherlock walked to the lock and began working on it. After a few seconds, the door opened.

“Why do you know how to pick a lock?” the police detective questioned while watching him askance.

“Useful skill, innit?” he replied, stepping into the room.

The room wasn’t much different from the maids’ room, except there was only one bed. They began rooting around, the two officers shooting them sceptical looks every few minutes. There were lots of books on culinary art on the shelf. He went through them to forage for the letter.

William found two letters tucked in a book in the second row. One was old, but the other’s seal remained untouched. The letters in the corner of the envelope were read ‘LoC’.

If they showed it to the police, they wouldn’t believe the chef’s assistant to be the real identity. And it would require a few more days to uncover the real culprit, which was more than their time frame of a week.

He put the unopened letter in the inner pocket of his blazer, turned to the others and handed the old one to the officers. A couple more minutes of searching and they also found the poison.

They gave a full report to the police as the detectives of an agency, and their enterprise was over.

They walked out of the manor, the radiant scent of the flowers welcoming them again. The trace of the rain was gone, replaced by the rosy sunlight. As they were nearing the entrance, he looked at his pocket watch. The report somehow took longer than all the interviews.

Silence settled as they sat in the carriage to head back to their flat. All the talk about the victim was over. He wasn’t going to be in the newspapers again. Sherlock wasn’t going to face the consequences of his survival.

“What are you hiding, Liam?” The corner of his lips turned up, shaping a brief smirk.

Of course the detective would notice.

He took the letter out and pointed at the initials on the paper. With a faint sound of wax breaking, William unfolded the paper, and they both began reading.

Mr. Benson,

   I hope this letter finds you well. I wish to inform you that, as of the current moment, I have not received the sought documents. Prithee relinquish them to the messenger forthwith. Shall I not acquire the documents, our contract may rescind.

   I am very sorry for your loss, albeit I must authenticate: notwithstanding the repercussion, I cannot supply further constructions anent the candlestick. I wish the most favourable resolution upon this matter.

   The sequel thereof may not be anticipated; you ought to hold the culpability of the ongoing case and the identity of mine as declared in our contract.

Sincerely,
       LoC

“It was left for us to find.”

The messenger must have left the letter after their arrival at the manor, as it was pristine. Leaving it tucked away in a book, they knew someone would search the room. And that the police would not be the ones going for the books at first.

The information written was true. As if there would be no need for them to give the detectives false insights and therefore add more evidence to the third person’s existence. The neat handwriting was of a woman.

She was related to one of the victim’s previous cases since she was looking for the mentioned documents. The only residual concern for unveiling her identity was to sift through the past trials.

“Yes. By the messenger,” William commented.

She wanted to use the documents. Revealing her name wouldn’t do her any good.

The sky was getting dark when he opened the door to their flat. The sunset’s golden light was coming through the window above the table. The absence of curtains was noticeable. They should buy one.

Many of their missions were out of the city. If they didn’t end up staying the night, they would return after midnight.

Less than five minutes after, they heard knocking on their door.

“I heard you solved the case. Who was the ‘Lord of Crime’?” Billy said hastily, walking to the table where William was sitting and rereading the letter.

“Someone who wrote that letter.” Sherlock closed the door behind him.

He handed the paper to Billy. “Can you find the records of the courts?” They were definitely archived.

“Sure.”

He took a glimpse at it and promptly showed them another envelope. “I saw it at your door. It’s the same handwriting.”

Their aliases were written on the back. It was an invitation to a masque taking place the next day at eight.

_  _  _  _  _

The hospital sheets were always white, the same shade of lifelessness. It was as if the colours were fancy wastes for patients, for the people who might not make it. The white would seem as fallen into the abyss as the body beneath it. Maybe it was designed as compartmentalisation for the survivors. To make the loss easier to forget. To clean everything left behind of the last breaths by bleach. To not make the beautiful colours agonising for those who were left behind.

Sherlock stepped into the hospital he had been visiting for over two months, taking the usual path to the room. The hospital was never quiet; the tears of joy, the prayers, and the bawls of loss made it impossible to be.

He wondered when Liam would wake from the coma. Sherlock was keeping him in his arms, and yet, Liam was the one with the most injuries. He wanted to hear his voice again, talking about anything for all he cared.

Reaching Liam’s room, he saw doctors standing at his bedside. Did he show any movement? Was he awake?

Sherlock rushed to his side, his eyes widening as he gripped the white mattress. It wasn’t placed as it should be; it was covering Liam’s face.

Sorry for your loss. They were all the words the supposed doctors had to offer. But what would they do if it were their loved ones lying beneath the covers, if not the opposite of how they were acting now.

He didn’t move his eyes from the mattress. His hands were shuddering as he slowly approached the edge of it. A voice from behind him said they wouldn’t recommend taking the mattress off. Fuck their recommendations.

His placid face was paler than before; his lips had turned parched. His eyes were closed as they previously were. The change was that he would never be able to look at them again.

It could all be a joke. A sick one played by Liam. Haltingly, he placed his shaking hand over the blond’s neck. His skin was cold. The cold he was used to touching during investigations. No, maybe he was just cold. He put his fingers over where he should have felt a pulse.

There was nothing.

Frozen in place, he didn’t bat an eye. Why did he choose to die? Billy had mentioned the doctors were saying that it all depended on his will. Why did Liam choose to die alone?

Liam’s colourless skin was blending with the mattress. The sheets had taken yet another life and were varnishing their guilt by a peaceful white. But this time, the life was for someone he would give everything to save.

Did that mean he could never hear his voice again? He would never have the chance to make Liam laugh again. To feel the warmth of his presence. To convince him his death wasn’t the solution.

One of the doctors came and put the mattress back, taking his hand away. The covers were once again put on him.

He couldn’t stand anymore; his whole body suddenly felt heavy as he fell on the ground.

The man he loved was now gone. He couldn’t save Liam. He couldn’t do anything but watch him go far beyond his reach. He couldn’t catch him anymore.

His breath was getting heavier with each exhale. Almost as if he were drowning again. Although this time he was alone. A sense of suffocation filled his body.

He snapped awake, his breaths quicker as he tried to diminish the heavy weight of the breathlessness in his lungs. He sat still in his bed, his hand pressing over his forehead.

Only a nightmare. He was fine. Liam was alive.

Sherlock lay back down. There was nothing to worry about. He could see the blond in the morning.

He tried to go back to sleep. Such a remarkable attempt.

Standing up, he took his pack of cigarettes and stepped out of the room, the small space of it becoming intolerable.

He noticed a dim light coming from under the door of William’s room.

Liam was likely staying awake due to the ongoing state of the case, even though they had arrested the last victim’s murderer. He didn’t want the arrested man to also be punished for the other murders.

Sherlock might interrupt him if he went into his room. Or maybe he had already fallen asleep in spite of the light.

But he just wanted to take a glance to see if Liam was awake. That was enough.

He knocked on his door, not loud enough to wake him but strong enough for someone awake to hear it.