"Sherly?"

Phoebe immediately stood up as she looked at the man. It had to be him.

Sherlock grimaced as he looked up before his face brightened. "Phoebe?! Hey! It's been a while!"

Her eyebrow twitched. "It's been a while? Really? Nine years of absolutely nothing and you just say, it's been a while?"

"So you aren't happy to see me? Wow, I was honestly expecting something different," Sherlock admitted as he smiled at her.

"What exactly were you expecting?" Phoebe snapped as she crossed her arms over her chest.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders as he knelt back down to the dead body in front of them. "I assumed you would try to hug me, maybe start crying and say that you missed me. People usually do get sentimental about seeing childhood friends again after a long time, don't they?"

"We were never friends, Sherlock. And no, I'm not excited to see you. Now, you said that there was something interesting going on here. Mind explaining?" Phoebe requested, wanting to get back to the matter at hand.

"Feel his limbs," Sherlock told her and she did as he requested, moving his elbow.

Phoebe's lips pressed together as she felt the rigidity of the man's joints. "He's stiff. Way to stiff to have just been killed mere moments ago."

"Exactly. He could not have possibly been killed at this time. You're still quite sharp," Sherlock commented to which she huffed.

"Whatever. So what does this mean then?" Phoebe asked, setting the man's arm down carefully.

"At the moment, I have only a few theories," Sherlock replied before security came up to them.

"Excuse us, but we need you to step away. This is an active crime scene. Please go back to your rooms. The ship will be turning around to head back to London immediately," one of the officers said and Phoebe bowed politely.

"Of course. Have a good day, sir," she said before turning to leave.

"Phee! Wait!" Sherlock ran after her and took his place walking in step with her as she made her way to her room.

Rolling her eyes, Phoebe turned her head to shoot him a glare. "What do you want?"

"Well, I was hoping to know how you've been," Sherlock replied, grabbing her wrist, stopping her from walking away from him to which Phoebe huffed.

"I've been perfectly fine on my own, thank you very much. Now, if you don't mind, I would like to go back to my room in peace," Phoebe retorted as she tugged her hand away from him.

"You hate me now, don't you?" Sherlock asked, receiving silence as his answer. "I see. I'll take my leave then. It was nice to see you after so long, Phoebe."

Sherlock turned to leave, putting his hands in his pockets, beginning to walk away.

"You lied to me," Phoebe spoke softly as she stared ahead of her, her back to Sherlock.

This made him stop. "When?"

"You said you wouldn't forget about me," Phoebe answered as she held her wrist gently.

"Who said I forgot about you?" Sherlock turned to look at her back. "I kept every letter you wrote me."

"Why did you never write back. Just one or two would have been enough. You never came to visit after you got out of school. Your parents moved and I was never told until I came to see them only to find a new family." Phoebe looked down, blinking stray tears out of her eyes.

Sherlock put a hand on her shoulder. "I apologize for ignoring you. I did miss you though. I'll leave you be. If you want to talk at all before we disembark, I'm in room thirty four on the lower deck."

With that, Sherlock walked away from her, leaving her to go back to her room.

She continued down the corridor, unlocking her room and wiping her eyes quickly as she thought about the events that had transpired. Of course it took a murder to bring Sherlock Holmes back into her life.

Though, she had to admit that she really was happy to see him after nine long years, regardless of how mad at him she was.

After removing her dress and other articles of clothing, Phoebe slipped into her nightgown, immediately crawling into bed.

She had a hundred thoughts spiralling around in her head and Sherlock Holmes was ninety nine. However, the other thought that plagued her mind was the man that was killed.

He couldn't have possibly died on the stage if Sherlock was right, which he generally was from what Phoebe recalled. From her own research she knew that the body only became stiff after so many hours of being dead.

She remembered what she thought Enders had said at first.

'No, he was already dead, though. And I was making sure.'

If that was really what she had heard, then why did he then make it seem as though he had murdered the man before them all?

She was sure Sherlock had a better theory, but she knew that somethings were not adding up in this murder case.

Maybe she would have to talk to Sherlock about it before they got back to London tomorrow. Yeah, she would only see him to talk about what could've happened.

Then maybe she could spend some time with him again. To talk about murder of course.

🔎

Sherlock was getting his stuff back together in his bag, ready to be back home after the voyage was cut short.

He couldn't take his mind off of the murder that had transpired, but at the same time, his thoughts occasionally wandered to the brunette he hadn't seen in nine years.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, running his fingers over the locket he still kept with him. He felt the cool metal against his skin as he traced the intricate designs.

A soft knock at his door startled him so he cautiously opened the door.

"Phoebe?" He looked down at the lady before him, a smile creeping onto his lips.

Phoebe bit the inside of her bottom lip, looking at the ground. "Hello."

"Come in, sit down," Sherlock spoke, noticing that she looked nervous. "I have time to talk."

Phoebe nodded and followed him into the room, taking a seat on the chair at the small desk. "I came to talk about what happened yesterday. I couldn't stop thinking about it."

Sherlock sat down on the bed as he put his knuckle to his chin. "I've been the same way. It hasn't left my mind."

"I was curious as to if you had any theories. Something that got me think was, I'm pretty sure I heard Enders say something about the man already being dead and that he was just making sure. At least that's what I thought I heard," Phoebe spoke and it peaked Sherlock's interest.

"So he was only making sure that the man was dead. Meaning, he had reason to believe that the man was still alive when we caught him." Sherlock hummed in thought as his gaze locked down onto the ground.

"That's only if I heard him right," Phoebe added, not even sure if she was correct.

Sherlock brought his sight up to her green eyes. "I trust you."

Phoebe could feel the heat rising to her cheeks at his comment. It wasn't much, but to her it meant the world.

"I had met this man yesterday and he seemed very intelligent. I was hoping that maybe he would have some insight on what may have happened. He's a mathmatics professor," Sherlock continued as he recalled the man he had encountered.

Phoebe clicked her tongue as she thought a bit. "Yes, maybe he will have a different opinion on these events. It is worth asking him if you think he would be of use."

"I believe he would understand it perfectly. He seemed to be that type of man. A proper genius, I would say," Sherlock replied.

"Like yourself?" Phoebe asked in a playfully tone.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak when the bell on the ship rang, signaling that they were coming to port.

Phoebe stood up and turned towards the door. "It was good to see you again, Sherly. I really did miss you."

"Wait." Sherlock shot up and grabbed some paper from the desk and then a pen. He scribbled something down before running up to her. "Here. There's a place I started renting. If you ever want to visit, this is the address."

Phoebe took the paper from him and looked at the location he had given her.

221B Baker St

"So, see you soon?" Sherlock asked as he smiled at her.

Phoebe turned her gaze up at him and nodded, returning his smile. "See you soon."

With that, Phoebe turned to go back to her room to grab her belongings that were already packed up.

Her thoughts kept trailing back to what Sherlock had said to her. It may have seemed insignificant, but in that moment, she felt a happiness she hadn't felt in nine years. That one line made her entire day.

'I trust you.'

🔎

William was walking towards the carriage that had been brought for him where his brothers were already waiting.

"Hey! Professor!" A familiar voice called out from behind him.

The blonde haired man turned to see the man he had met before during his time on the ship.

"I needed someone to talk through that unforgettable performance with. Someone who could keep pace with me. I already got a very important opinion from someone else and I was hoping for another," the suited man said as he approached Moriarty.

"That was quite the spectacle, wasn't it?" William retorted as held his cane under his arm. "But when it comes to ballet, I think you'll find there are far more knowledgeable passengers-"

"You're playing dumb, professor," Sherlock spoke as he put his cigarette up to his lips. "I'm talking about the dramatic murder in full view of everyone." After taking a puff of his cigarette, he looked back at Moriarty with a slight grin. "That was no ordinary murder."

"Are you implying it was somehow contrived?" William questioned as he removed his hat from his head, holding it over his chest.

"We'll start with the body," Sherlock began, leaning on his heels as he got comfortable where he stood. "Our supporting character died the night before. From his jaw to the limbs, post-mortem rigidity had already set in. Meaning he's been dead ten to fifteen hours already. Any way you slice it, there's no possible way he met his end up on that stage."

"You're interests extend to forensic pathology, do they?" William assumed, almost excited by what this man was saying.

"Picked it up in France where it's common knowledge. This country is quite behind the times. But we're getting off track," Sherlock continued as William nodded slightly.

A bit aways, Albert was stepping into the carriage with his youngest brother, Louis, holding the door for him. He glanced back to see what was keeping William, seeing his brother conversing with a stranger.

"Back to the highly irregular matter. As the horrified audience watched, Lord Enders thrust a dagger over and over into the victim's body. Supposedly this was when the man died. Afterwards, the Count said something very revealing," Sherlock pressed on, keeping in mind what Phoebe had said. "He mentioned the audience witnessing the death of a commoner. Meaning, he had thought he had murdered his victim while on stage. And yet the man had clearly been dead since the previous evening. Odd, isn't it?"

"Indeed. Quite odd," WIlliam agreed as he bobbed his head.

"Then there is something I was told. I mentioned before that I already recieved an opinion on the matter. She told me that she thought she heard the Count said that the man was already dead, so he was merely making sure. I trust what she says implicitly," Sherlock added after taking a quick puff. "It follows, then that the Count was under the grave misapprehension, the corpse wasn't a corpse, even though he thought the man dead before. As if he had been lead into thinking the man were still alive. Stands to reason someone was complicit in making him believe this charade."

This truly peeked William's intrigue. "As in a third party?"

"Indeed," Sherlock confirmed. "Despite how wild it sounds, it's the only explanation that makes sense. My theory- this ship served as the stage for the event. Through stratagems orchastrated by persons unknown, the Count became the actor in a performance, completely unaware of the role he was playing or its importance."

"It sounds like you're suggesting some elaborate conspiracy transpired on the voyage." Moriarty nearly smirked at the detective. "What was the end goal?"

"That is precisely the mystery I'd like to unravel. I'm merely stating if such events took place, this fiasco would make sense," Sherlock explained, dropping the butt of his cigarette before using his heel to stomp it out. "I did some digging around the ship to see if I could find some additional clues. But sadly wasn't able to uncover anything worth noting."

"That is an awful lot of trouble to go through. Despite calling it a mere theory, you seem quite sure of yourself," William observed, thouroughly enjoying this entire encounter.

"Of course, I am," Sherlock confirmed. "After you eliminate every other possiblity, then whatever remains, must be the truth, no matter how improbable."

"It's odd. Seems like you're enjoying this," William stated, smiling as he rested his eyes closed.

"Why wouldn't I be? Despite not having the foggiest notion who did this or their motivations, the culprit has provided me with an exquisite mystery!" Sherlock beamed up at the sky, truly enjoying the rush this was giving him. "You're a mathematician after all. You can understand my delight. Like your equations, the jouy lies in the solution."

"Yes. Guilty," William admitted, his slight smirk beginning to grow. "This has been a stimulating conversation. But if you'll pardon me, I must be leaving."

"Sure. Good day," Holmes bowed his head respectfully with a grin before opening his cigarette case to pull out a new one.

"How rude of me," William stopped from moving towards the carriage, turning to look back at the detective. "All this time, and I realized I never asked you your name."

"You can call me Holmes, old sport," Sherlock replied as he held up a new cigarette. "Detective Sherlock Holmes."