Stuart Moriarty approached the Holmes boys as he would any other student under his tutelage. That was his first mistake, he realized.

The older was content to take apart any language and then use it as a weapon. They would banter as if their words were swordplay and Mycroft Holmes would issue demands that stretched his knowledge of the foreign tongue, such as teaching advanced calculus in that vernacular. It was a form of immersion but it was one that left him sweating under that calculating gaze.

The younger was a butterfly, flitting from subject to subject, garnering what was of personal interest and discarding the rest. He refused to sit for an examination and when he was asked to reiterate specific tasks the request was ignored. Moriarty took his concerns to their mother who issued him a cold stare. Going to her for advice of his charges had been his second mistake. (And not his last.)

"We hired you to teach the children, not complain about them. Kindly do your job," was her reply. "Or we'll find someone else who can."

And so he attempted bribery.

"Two hours of lessons, one hour of freetime," he suggested.

"No."

"Two hours of lessons, two hours of violin," he tried.

"No."

He attempted pleading.

"Please could you be so kind as to-"

"No."

And finally threats.

"Your mother will hear of this!"

Until finally he caved in desperation.

"What do you suggest!" Moriarty finally snapped, glaring down at his charge, who was lying on the floor with a book between his hands.

At this Sherlock rolled over and smiled.

"Give me a lesson plan and I'll learn it. If I have questions I can come to you," he answered.

Moriarty stared down at Sherlock and then sighed. What choice did he have really?

"Sometimes you remind me of my son James," Stuart Moriarty replied.

"His interest in animal dissection is unhealthy," said a voice from the doorway.

"Pardon?" Moriarty managed.

Mycroft shrugged and turned away.

"How did he… how could he…." Moriarty fumbled.

"Your clothes smell faintly of formaldehyde but your fingers don't," Sherlock said from the floor, as if it were perfectly obvious. Now he was holding the book over his head as he read.

"Right," Moriarty replied, shrugging off the incident.

That was his last mistake. To take the boys as anything except what they were invited trouble. And these boys were sharp as tacks and had motives no ordinary youth should have.

"You lost your last two bets at the track. High time you move on to a different hobby," Mycroft told him in Greek.

Stuart Moriarty could only nod in agreement.

"You refuse to teach me violin because you only play piano. Look at your fingers. They lack the callouses of even a novice. You told mummy you could play violin. What would she think?"

"I'm sure she'd understand. Simply because I don't play doesn't mean I can't teach," he replied nervously.

"No Latin lesson today," the youth announced as he walked out the back door.

"You must forgive him," Mycroft said from behind him, and he started and turned around.

"What?"

"He lacks tact. It comes with age," the older Holmes said in French.

"Indeed," said Moriarty.

"For example, I could tell you that your wife plans to leave you and take your son James with her. But that would be unnecessarily cruel," Mycroft said.

Stuart Moriarty reeled back. He had only found out this news the day before yesterday. How could this youth possibly know the most intimate details of his life?

"You have been constantly fiddling with your ring the last two days, taking it off and putting it on again during lessons. You mention your son but with the feelings of remorse or regret. Your clothing was expertly pressed when you started with us but since that time has become less so. Ergo, rocky marriage, recently culminating in an even messier divorce."

Moriarty knew his mouth was hanging open. At the same time he felt a deep anger, as if this mere boy was opening up his heart and soul for public display and all had found it lacking.

"That is none of your business," Moriarty said with as much calm as he could.

"But it is. I find the most intimate knowledge of staff extremely useful when negotiating."

Moriarty swallowed and then took a deep breath.

"Negotiating what?" he asked.

"I want you to stay on, to teach Sherlock. I'm leaving for uni at the end of the year and he'll have no guiding hand here at home. For all your faults you are the most successful a tutor as he's had," Mycroft said.

"And if I refuse?"

Mycroft raised one eyebrow and the message was clear: don't be stupid.

"As you wish, young sir," Moriarty finally answered, deflated.

The day Mycroft left for university was also Moriarty's last day in the Holmes household.

"Sherlock informs me you've been allowing him to set his own lesson schedule," Mrs. Holmes said with some aloofness.

"It was at Mycroft's suggestion," Moriarty said hopefully.

"Of course it was," she sighed.

"I did come to you with this problem when I first gained employment here," he said.

"And I told you to take care of it. This is not what I had in mind," she said.

"I'll take my leave then," Moriarty said, defeated.

From the top of the stairs, his little head peeking between the banisters, Sherlock Holmes stuck out his tongue. Moriarty wasn't sure what else the unruly youth had said to his mother, but it was certainly damaging and possibly embarrassing.

Sherlock met him at the bottom of the stairs with a large grin.

"I told her that your Latin is even worse than your Greek, and you refuse to let me play violin," Sherlock replied.

"But none of that it true!" Moriarty protested.

"Yes but she doesn't know that," Sherlock replied.

"I've had enough of this household!" Moriarty muttered as he turned away.

"You lasted longer than any of the others," Sherlock said.

"Others?" Moriarty asked, but Sherlock was already gone. Off to find Redbeard or play pirates.

"Others," a voice confirmed. "It seems Sherlock has won," Mycroft said from the doorway. "We don't really need a tutor, you see. But Mummy does insist."

Moriarty finally understood. After months at the Holmes manor the patterns should have been clear, but he was just now seeing it.

"You boys have some sort of contest. To what ends? To drive off your tutors?" Moriarty said.

"Usually they quit. You were quite the sport. Good show," Mycroft said, rocking back on his heels.

"Of all the nonsense!" Moriarty snarled.

"I thought you did well considering. I could speak with Mummy if you'd like, encourage her to let you stay. I meant what I said about Sherlock," he said.

"I am not staying in this household one minute longer. You're deranged, the both of you! I wish you a good day!"

As the door shut behind him Moriarty felt a sense of relief. This was a chapter in his life that was now behind him. He would concentrate on building a new life, one that didn't involve an unfaithful wife and a strange, eccentric son. It would be a good life, if not a quiet one.

Sherlock and Mycroft watched Moriarty walk down the long drive, away from their home.

"He really wasn't that bad," Mycroft said to Sherlock.

"He wasn't that good either. I don't need a tutor, Myc," Sherlock replied.

"Perhaps," Mycroft said. "But I would have felt better leaving knowing you were in good hands."

"Don't worry, Myc. I'll be fine."

Sherlock raced back inside, leaving Mycroft staring down the drive. Leaving his brother alone didn't feel right and it probably never would. Ah well, there was always holidays and breaks and Christmas. Those traditions would outlive any of them.