A Young Sherlock fan fiction Oxford, 1871. Caitríona Kelly is reading Classics at Magdalen on sheer stubbornness and the kind of intelligence that makes rooms uncomfortable. She is Irish, odd, and largely unbothered by what Oxford thinks of either. Her closest friend is Edie, Sir Hodge’s composed and watchful assistant, the one person at the university who has never found Caitríona’s strangeness inconvenient. The night of Peregrine’s party she meets James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes. She doesn’t go looking for what comes next. It finds her anyway. When Sherlock is arrested for a murder he didn’t commit, Caitríona finds herself pulled into an investigation that begins with stolen scrolls and a dead professor and unravels into something far older and darker — a conspiracy rooted in the Holmes family itself, in a sister everyone believes is dead, in a father nobody has looked at clearly enough. She and James work in parallel and then together and then in the space between those two things that doesn’t have a name yet. He is Kerry to her Kilkenny, scholarship to her stubbornness, calculation to her interpretation. They are the same kind of outsider by entirely different roads and neither of them has said so. The truth, when it comes, comes for everything. The case. The conspiracy. Edie. And whatever it is that has been building quietly between Caitríona and James since the night he made her a Sazerac with a borrowed bottle and looked at her like she was worth remembering. Veritas latet. Truth lies hidden. Until it doesn’t.