Ingenium (✓) | Sherlock Holmes

🎓 prologue (R)

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His voice was like velvet – the soft crimson material caressing the glowing skin of a lover after an unhindered climax. I was unable to shift my gaze away from his prominent jaw, a sum of perfectly-trimmed muscles flexing as he spoke. I could have sworn that suit was the most alluring attire upon which I have ever laid my eyes. Neither plain, nor bulgy, his body was a balanced mixture of danger and incitement, of braced gestures and subtle rebellion.

I was a woman of unyielding character, yet my knees were as molten as ice on a summer day. I missed my course because of him, that man – the only man – who was able to humiliate you with the simplest of deductions. Nobody has ever proved him wrong. He always anticipated the moves of all people beneath his intellect, of every individual trying to seem worthy in his eyes.

The principal was sweating profusely, not because he was intimidated, but of a certain frustration that emerged in a steady rhythm.

"Please, brother, it is a pressing matter. The last professor resigned last week and there is a vacant spot that only you would fill perfectly."

"Mycroft, brother dear, how can you expect me to tolerate such an impetuous mediocrity? I allow only a certain level of stupidity, and these students have successfully overcome it."

Mycroft Holmes watched his brother circling a wooden table in an attempt to ease the tension lacing his muscles.

"Why did the professor resign? Was he too dejected because of the students' hollow minds?"

The principle laughed whole-heartedly, a few creases contouring his eyes.

"You are the definition of diplomacy, love. No, he resigned because of a female student who dismantled his deduction. He almost left in tears, poor lad."

Sherlock Holmes' knuckles turned white and I heard his gritting of teeth, a sharp sound that completely disarmed me.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Brother dear, why are you so enraged? Scared that she may prove to be an intellectual challenge?"

The younger brother's simper could have turned anything into stone. He picked up a cigar from the table and rolled it between his fingers, as if compiling its weight.

"What is her name?" He asked, his hoarse voice piercing the stale air of the office.

"Rhea Adair."

The second I heard my name, prickles of fear travelled down my spine and mixed with the perspiration of my palms. He uttered, his voice as composed as a piece of forged steel:

"Alea iacta est."

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"The die has been cast."