The Third Holmes (𝗠𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝗮𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘁 𝘅 𝗠𝗮𝗹𝗲 𝗬/𝗡)

CHAPTER 2

A soft hum of music echoed through the elegant halls of the Noahtic, the grand ship gliding across the open sea beneath a velvet sky. Chatter, laughter, and the clinking of crystal glasses filled the air as the guests gathered for an evening of ballet and charm.

Near the upper deck, three women surrounded two particular gentlemen, their faces alight with admiration.

"How extraordinary!"

"Absolutely marvelous! How did you know he was in the army?"

"It's uncanny! Ten correct guesses in a row!"

"You must know him, don't you? You must!"

"Indeed," Sherlock replied in his usual aloof tone.

"Ladies, one at a time, please," Y/N Holmes chuckled, swirling the red wine in his glass, a practiced smile playing on his lips as the women practically orbited around him and his older brother.

Beside him, Sherlock Holmes stood in his composed, slightly brooding elegance. His dark blue hair, long and wavy, was tied back neatly. A matching navy-blue suit adorned his tall frame—open at the collar, no tie, no waistcoat. Just enough undone to keep intrigue alive. His sharp eyes flicked over the crowd with the same calculating brilliance that made him famous—or infamous, depending on whom one asked.

When Sherlock had invited Y/N aboard the Noahtic to enjoy a ship-borne ballet, Y/N had accepted with amusement. Not just for the arts, but because it was rare to enjoy a quiet evening—quiet being relative—with Sherlock.

Naturally, peace didn't last long. The moment they boarded, their favorite childhood game resumed: make deductions about strangers in their vicinity. What had once been a simple sibling pastime had now attracted the attention of half the upper deck, particularly several ladies who hung onto every word they spoke.

Y/N leaned in slightly, voice low and teasing. "Sherly," he whispered into his brother's ear, "you're showing off for these women now?"

Sherlock's lips barely twitched. "Tsk. Shut it, Y/N."

"You hate socializing. They're not even your type," Y/N added with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Before Sherlock could retaliate, one of the ladies pointed eagerly across the room.

"What about him? Can you guess his profession?"

Both brothers turned their heads.

Standing a short distance away was a thin, pale young man with neatly parted blond hair and scarlet eyes so vivid they seemed to burn. His gaze was cool, observant, and entirely too composed.

Y/N shivered faintly. His eyes... like fresh blood.

Sherlock's voice, full of boast and amusement, broke through the air. "Can't you tell, ladies? It's obvious."

Y/N rolled his eyes. "Of course it is," he muttered, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

The women erupted in excitement.

"You know?!"

"Tell us!"

"Come on, he's number eleven!"

Y/N raised his glass and answered smoothly, "He's a mathematics professor."

"Hey!" Sherlock snapped, annoyed. "This man is... a mathematician," he added reluctantly, running a hand through his hair as the blond man turned his gaze toward them.

"How did you both know?" one of the ladies gasped.

Y/N repeated Sherlock's earlier phrase with a wink, "It's obvious, isn't it? Right, Sherly?"