— Hello! My name is Darya. This is my personal creative space where I draw and share my love for William James Moriarty from the anime and manga "Moriarty the Patriot".
My Selfson
Design before and after timeskip
Name: Darya Vyacheslavovna Serebryakova
Birthday: November 17th
Age: 20-23
Height: 157 cm
Weight: 47 kg
Place of birth: Russian Empire
Likes: Sweets, cute things, when someone praise her drawings
Dislikes: Noise, strangers touching her, and rudeness
Currently: Trying to gain recognition as an artist in a male-dominated world. To prove that her work has value.
Worries: Missing her painting deadline
Weaknesses: Social incompetence: Inability to communicate, defend her rights, or negotiate (before timeskip)
Physical weakness: Inability to stand up for herself.
Anxiety and a tendency to panic attacks in stressful situations.
Skills and Talents: Observation: Notices things that others miss.
Empathy: Sensitive to people's moods and emotions, although unsure how to respond.
✒️ William forbids himself from thinking of her as his "salvation." He sees himself as a monster who doesn't deserve the light. So any thought like "she makes me better" disgusts him. He would rather convince himself that "she's a useful element in my plan" than admit that he simply feels good around her. But on a subconscious level, he reaches for her — like a source of warmth.
✒️ He gets jealous — but his jealousy comes out as hyper-control. If someone stares at Darya for too long or touches her, William won't cause a scene. He'll just make sure that person soon faces a series of "accidents" or ruin.
Darya isn't jealous. Or at least, she thinks she isn't… Because what right does she have to be jealous? They have no promises, no obligations. She doesn't even know what they are to each other.
But one day, she sees a lady capriciously touch his elbow, demanding his attention. William smiles "politely," and Darya feels something boil inside her — but she says nothing. She walks away and takes out her anger by drawing until her hand hurts.
✒️ He never says "don't cry." Because he knows her tears aren't weakness — they're release. Instead, he just stays close. He might stand so he shields her from others' eyes. Or silently pour her tea. He gives her the right to be imperfect.
🎨 Her social awkwardness never goes away — but with William, she isn't afraid to make mistakes. She can say something clumsy, and he won't look at her with judgment. He'll turn it into their inside joke, and they'll laugh about it together.
🎨 She draws him in secret. She has a whole album of his portraits that no one has ever seen.
🎨 She occasionally notices signs in his behavior that he doesn't seem to plan on living long. She never asks directly — but she treasures every moment they spend together.
🎨 She knows almost nothing about her own beauty. Not because she's ugly — but because she never believed her value was measured by her appearance. William, however, isn't someone who values others by looks — but he's caught himself thinking more than once: "She has such kind eyes."
✒️ If William is very tired, he can lay his head on her lap — and she'll start stroking his hair, gently massaging his scalp. It relaxes him, and he falls asleep.
When Darya is exhausted after hours at the easel, William takes care of her — and gives her a back massage.
📚 Darya didn't know how to spend time with him, so she looked for excuses to meet. One of those excuses was a problem with mathematics.
William would try his best to explain everything to her — but the flood of information always gave her a headache. So he'd take breaks, and they'd have tea and talk. That's how Darya started coming to him more often for "extra lessons" — just to see him.
He quickly understands: she doesn't need mathematics. She's not stupid — she just doesn't want to get into it. Her eyes glaze over exactly three minutes after he starts explaining. But he doesn't stop this game. Because for the first time, someone wants to be with him — not for gain, not out of admiration for his intellect — but simply to be there. And mathematics is just a silly, touching excuse — one he accepts.
He even starts preparing tea in advance. He notices which cookies she eats with pleasure, and which ones she eats out of politeness. And after a month of "lessons," he knows her tastes better than she does.
One day, when she asks the same thing for the hundredth time, he says:
— Darya.
— Yes…?
— You won't remember this. I know.
She blushes and doesn't know how to defend herself.
— But if you like listening to me explain — I can talk about anything. About painting, for example. Or about the weather.
She looks at him, not believing.
— Do you know anything about painting?
— Enough to hold a conversation.
From that day on, the "mathematics lessons" become "conversations about nothing." And it becomes the best way to spend time — for both of them.
From the very beginning, Darya is drawn to William. She couldn't help but like his careful and kind treatment of her, even when she sensed the danger emanating from him.
She felt embarrassed that William could see right through her with just a glance, but over time she got used to it, and it became an unexpected relief. Finally, she didn't have to pretend anymore.
He would become one of the most important people in her life. The one who inspired her to pick up a paintbrush again.
🗡 Louis James Moriarty:
Initially, he is hostile toward her and doesn't trust her. Louis sees Darya as a potential threat to his brother and their plan. At first, she felt uncomfortable and even scared around him.
But over time, watching her devotion to William and how she asks for nothing in return, he softens.
What unites them is their shared dislike of Sherlock.
🍷 Albert James Moriarty:
Unlike Louis, Albert doesn't see Darya as a threat. He is friendly and playful toward her. He immediately noticed the connection between her and William and never misses a chance to tease them.
His favorite pastime: "Accidentally" stumbling upon them in awkward moments, leaving ambiguous comments, and then walking away chuckling.
(He's their matchmaker.)
💄 Irene Adler/James Bond:
Darya admires Irene. A woman who achieved success without connections or noble birth — to her, she's a role model.
In Bond's guise, she sometimes jokingly flirted with Darya — just to see her blush. William doesn't seem to like that very much.
🔎 Sherlock Holmes:
She can't stand him or his attitude toward women.
Sherlock looks at her as if she's a nobody until she proves otherwise. He says harsh things without thinking about how much they might hurt.
Darya doesn't understand how he can be William's friend when he is his complete opposite.
William stood up for Darya several times, pointing out to Sherlock that his worldview was wrong.
💐 Fred Porlock:
They are somewhat similar. Both quiet, observant, and secretive.
They feel comfortable in each other's presence. They could sit silently together in the garden — he tending to the flowers, while she drew.
One day, Darya gave him a drawing, and it deeply touched Fred.
They both enjoy looking after stray cats.
🐯 Sebastian Moran:
He doesn't see her as a woman, but rather as a younger sister. She's too fragile and innocent for him to be interested in flirting with her. (She's not his type.)
He would protect her if needed, since she's close to William.
For some reason, every time they talk, William becomes more tense. Moran, however, quickly figured out why.
The fact that Moran is a former military man and Darya grew up in a general's family gives them common ground. They might even discuss it someday.
Russian Empire, Saint Petersburg, late 19th century. Autumn.
It was always cold in General Serebryakov's study, but this cold did not seep in from the street—it seemed to be born here, in this very room.
Darya stood by the door, not daring to step beyond the threshold. Her father sat at his desk, sorting through papers. He did not look up when she entered, nor did he greet her. Only after a minute, as if testing her patience, did he set down his quill and speak:
— Tomorrow morning. The carriage will come at six.
She knew what he meant. For a week now—ever since that conversation she had accidentally overheard while passing his study. Lord Stapleton... England... an advantageous match... And still, she had hoped that by some miracle she might escape it: that her father would change his mind, or the lord would find another bride.
— Father, I—
— You will go to England, he interrupted. — Lord Stapleton has agreed. The wedding will be in a month.
— I... may I at least—
— What? — her father raised his eyes. — Do not argue. It is decided. I am not eternal, and you must be settled.
— But I do not know him.
— You will.
She wanted to say something more, but she looked into those stern eyes and understood: it was not worth it.
— Very well, Father...
She exited, closing the door as quietly as she had been taught. Not a sound. Not a tear.
Only in her bedchamber, once the door closed behind her, did she allow herself to collapse onto the bed.
Darya did not remember how long she lay like that, face buried in the pillow. Time had ceased to exist.
The door creaked.
She did not turn around. She could not. If it was her father, she could not bear another word from him. If it was a maid, she could not endure pity.
But the steps were light, nearly soundless. The rustle of skirts. The familiar scent of her mother's perfume.
— Mama... Darya breathed into the pillow.
Her mother said nothing. She simply sat on the edge of the bed and placed her hand on her daughter's trembling back. Quietly. Heavily. Not saving her, but keeping her from falling.
Darya turned to face her. Her eyes were swollen, her cheeks wet with tears, her hair disheveled. She knew she looked terrible. But her mother looked at her as if she were seeing the most precious treasure.
— I don't want this, Darya whispered. For the first time that evening, she said it aloud. — I don't want to go to England. I don't want to marry him. I... I am afraid.
Her mother took her hands in her own. Her mother's fingers were warm, unlike her father's.
— I know, she answered softly.
— Why does he... why does Father—
— Because he knows no other way. He thinks he is protecting you, giving you a future. But he does not see you.
— And you? Darya raised her eyes. — Do you see me?
Her mother was silent for a moment. Then she released one of Darya's hands, brought her fingers to her own chest, and unclasped a brooch. Silver, with a pink stone that glinted softly in the light of a lone candle.
— It was your grandmother's, she said, fastening the brooch onto her daughter's dress. — She, too, married a man she did not love. She, too, left for a foreign country for the sake of her family. She, too, wept at night.
Darya touched the stone—and suddenly, her fingers stopped trembling.
— And she endured it?
— She did. Her mother smiled—sadly, but gently. — And she gave birth to me. And I gave birth to you. And in you lives her strength. You are stronger than you think.
— I do not feel strong.
— Strength is not about never crying. Strength is crying and still getting up in the morning.
Her mother rose. She paused for a second at the door and turned back.
— Write to me. At least sometimes. Wherever you are, I will always... always be with you.
The door closed, and Darya was left utterly alone. A nauseating heaviness spread through her chest.
✦ ✦ ✦
The night stretched on endlessly.
Darya did not sleep. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, thinking that she would never marry for love. She remembered how her father had called her drawings "useless rubbish"—and she was beginning to believe it more and more.
She thought about how she had not even had the chance to say goodbye to the garden, where she used to hide from everyone and secretly draw.
The thoughts consumed her from within. Again and again.
She walked to her desk. In the drawer, beneath a stack of embroideries (which she hated but was obliged to make), lay a folder with her drawings.
Darya sifted through them slowly, the way one sifts through the belongings of the departed.
There was the one with the rose—she had drawn it last June, when the rose garden was blooming particularly wildly. There was the portrait of the maid who had posed for her in secret, while no one was watching. There was the sketch of her mother—the only one who accepted her completely.
She chose three drawings. Her most beloved ones. And hid them between the pages of the diary she decided to take with her. The rest she had to leave behind.
— It is rubbish, after all, she whispered, echoing her father's words.
✦ ✦ ✦
Morning came inevitably.
The maids fussed around her. They laced her corset tighter than usual, as if afraid she might fall apart on the journey. Her hair was arranged in a severe bun that did not suit her soft features at all.
Downstairs, the carriage was already waiting. The General stood on the porch, his hands clasped behind his back. Her mother stood beside him.
He did not embrace his daughter in farewell. He did not kiss her forehead. He only gave a short nod, as if seeing off a recruit, not a daughter.
— Be a good wife. Remember the family's honor.
— Yes, Father.
Her mother embraced her daughter. Tighter than ever before. And did not let go immediately.
Darya stepped into the carriage with the maid who would accompany her. The coachman cracked his whip. And as the house began to recede into the distance, Darya felt nothing.
There was no pain, no fear, no hope.
✦ ✦ ✦
The journey to the port did not take long. They were greeted by the cries of seagulls and the sea breeze.
The ship to England was due to depart any minute. Huge, black, with a tall mast, it seemed to Darya like a monster that would swallow her and never spit her back out.
— Come, Miss, said the maid, offering her hand to help her board. — Everything will be fine. You will see.
— Fine, echoed Darya.
She turned back, toward the place where Russia remained. Her home. Her unhappy, cold, but only homeland.
The wind whipped her hair, pulling strands from the bun, and salty spray flew into her face. Darya stood on the deck until the shore began to dissolve into the haze.
«Прощай», she whispered soundlessly.
And stepped into the cabin.
✦ ✦ ✦
The first few hours, she simply sat, staring at the wall. The cabin was small and cramped. The maid tried to entertain her with conversation, but Darya barely answered.
At some point, she finally took out her sketchbook.
Once, drawing had been as natural as breathing. Her hand had known where to guide the line, the pencil falling into her fingers like an extension of her thoughts. Now she was afraid even to try.
The blank page felt foreign, almost hostile. Darya hesitantly drew a line—and it came out trembling, too thin. The second was too thick, too harsh. The third veered off in the wrong direction. She froze, staring at those ugly marks. Inside her, despair was growing.
Not right. None of it is right.
She gripped the pencil so hard her knuckles turned white—and then let it go, dropping it to the floor. The sketchbook remained forgotten on the seat, open to a clean page.
She never drew a single thing.
The maid, cautiously peering over her shoulder, asked:
— Miss... perhaps you should rest?
Darya did not answer. She stared out the window at the endless water and thought that perhaps she would never be able to draw again.
That frightened her more than an unknown fiancé and distant England.
✦ ✦ ✦
London greeted her with a grey sky and a fine drizzle.
The carriage carried her somewhere to the center, where a reception in honor of her arrival was to take place. Lord Stapleton wanted to introduce her to society immediately, without delay.
— So that everyone can see what a rare specimen has come into my possession, Darya heard him say, addressing one of the guests. Her English was already good enough to understand the meaning.
Darya remained silent. Her corset pressed against her ribs. Her dress—the finest she owned—felt like a costume for an execution.
Stapleton's mansion was enormous. Marble, gilt, crystal chandeliers. But to Darya, this splendor seemed like tasteless excess, designed only to dazzle. In every detail, she sensed not a love of beauty, but merely a desire to overwhelm through wealth.
The guests arrived, glittering with jewels, exchanging meaningless smiles. Lord Stapleton awaited her at the entrance. He was not tall, but he carried himself with the dignity of a man accustomed to being listened to.
He looked her up and down, like an item at an auction.
— Miss Serebryakova. I am pleased to welcome you to England. I hope the journey was not too exhausting?
His voice was even, calm. Not a hint of a groom's nervousness before his bride. He smiled the proper social smile.
— Thank you, Darya replied. — Everything is fine.
She had already learned to hide it.
— Fine, he repeated, and in his mouth, the word sounded like a diagnosis. — Well then, shall we? Let me introduce you. They have been very eager for the opportunity to see... you.
He took her by the elbow. His fingers rested lightly, almost weightlessly. But for some reason, Darya felt this gesture like the touch of forceps.
— Ladies and gentlemen, his voice rang out, almost languid. — My fiancée. Miss Serebryakova from Russia.
She smiled the smile she had been taught. Flawless. Lifeless.
Gazes slid over her like over an exhibit. Whispers. Assessments. They stared without a trace of shame.
And then, amid that crowd, she suddenly felt something not easily put into words.
Her body felt seized—but not by panic. It was as though invisible threads had already begun to wrap around her, stretching from somewhere deep within the hall.
She lifted her eyes.
In the crowd, slightly apart, stood a man. Tall, in an impeccable black tailcoat, with neatly styled fair hair. Refined features. A calm expression. And eyes—crimson red, in which a fire seemed slowly kindling, dangerous yet somehow warm.
He was looking at her. Not at Lord Stapleton, not at the dress, not at the jewels. Unlike the others. He seemed to be searching for her face among all those masks.
Darya could not bear it.
— I need to step out... she whispered to Stapleton, not waiting for a reply, freeing her arm and nearly running toward the doors that led to the garden.
Air. I need air.
✦ ✦ ✦
The garden turned out to be quiet and deserted. Rose bushes, a white gazebo, the soft glow of lanterns. Only somewhere in the distance, music played, drifting from the mansion in muffled chords.
Darya sank onto a bench, covered her face with her hands, and let the tears flow. Again. When will this end? But they kept coming.
In her head, amid the sobs, fragments of thoughts broke through—sharp, cutting like a blade.
— Ah... God... escaped her lips.
How I hate all of this, raced through her mind. I hate these people. Their gazes, their smiles, their touches. And Father... What is the point of this damned status if it only binds me? Better to be without it. Free... belonging to no one.
Her thoughts tangled, colliding with one another. She could not piece them together—she only felt the anger growing inside her. At the whole world. And most of all, at herself.
— I hate this, she said aloud.
The sound of footsteps made her tense. She raised her head—and their eyes met again.
The man with the crimson eyes stood at a distance, not approaching, giving her time.
— Are you all right? he asked at last. His voice was quiet, soft, without the feigned concern typical of aristocrats.
Darya wanted to lie. To say yes, everything is fine, I am simply tired. As she always did. But the words caught in her throat.
— No... I am not all right, she breathed out.
He did not seem surprised. He did not ask why. He did not try to comfort her. He stepped closer. Lowered himself beside the bench, to be at her level. And extended his hand.
Darya looked at him and did not understand what was happening. Why do I want to reach out? Why am I not afraid? Why does this stranger not frighten me, but draw me in?
She hesitated, but despite her doubts, she timidly placed her palm over his. Because for the first time in many days, someone did not demand that she be strong. He simply allowed her to be weak.
His hands were warm. The warmth seeped through the fabric of the gloves and echoed deep within her soul.
But her body would not shake off a sense of unease. For a moment, she felt as though she were already entangled — of her own will, without even knowing it — in something dark and bloody.
₊⊹ Today is April 1st, which means we’re celebrating William’s birthday! ⊹₊
Even though we don’t know his actual date of birth, that doesn’t make this day any less special, nor does it lessen our desire to celebrate him. What truly matters are the feelings we hold for him and what they inspire in us.
Thank you, William, for continuing to inspire us to create, to draw, to animate, to write, to edit, to read, to cherish those close to us, and simply to live.
I'd like to express special gratitude to the manga's creators: screenwriter Ryosuke Takeuchi and artist Hikaru Miyoshi, whose efforts gave William flesh and soul. Thanks to their collaboration, he's ceased to be just "Sherlock's shadow" and has become a man with heart, doubts, and noble convictions.
Yes, he took on the role of "a tool", knowing that pain and destruction would follow in his wake. But let us prove that he is capable of leaving behind not only that, but also a flame of hope for a brighter future one that moves us forward and helps us become better.
"...Sometimes she thought of William as a spider, spinning his silver web to trap the whole world. She was but a butterfly with tattered wings, who had accidentally wandered into his domain. Yet instead of destroying her, without changing his nature, he used the very same silken threads to meticulously and patiently mend her wounds. He repaired her wings, seated at the very heart of his trap. And the most terrifying part was that, feeling healed, she no longer wanted to fly away." 🦋
And of course, to celebrate this, I couldn't resist treating myself and commissioned one of my favorite artists. I am deeply grateful for her hard work, and I'd be thrilled if you'd consider following her cr: @tglentyai
