I. THE BEGINNING: THE SHADOW OF THE ARCHITECT
The heavy iron gates of the Urban District groaned as they slid open, revealing a ghost town of concrete and steel. The silence of the testing ground was heavy, broken only by the distant, muffled sounds of other battles echoing across the UA campus.
Momo Yaoyorozu walked beside Sherlock, her footsteps heavy and uneven. She looked at her hands—hands that could create anything the world needed—and found them trembling. Ever since the Sports Festival, where she had been defeated in a matter of seconds by Tokoyami, a shadow had followed her. It was a cold, whispering doubt that told her she wasn't fast enough, wasn't decisive enough, and ultimately, wasn't worthy of standing beside geniuses like Todoroki or the boy currently walking beside her.
"The escape gate is four hundred meters to the North-West," Sherlock stated, his voice as flat and clinical as a metronome. "Aizawa-sensei is likely positioned in the high-density residential zone to maximize his verticality. If he catches us in an open street, the match ends in thirty seconds."
Momo didn't respond. She was staring at the ground, her mind a tangled web of worst-case scenarios. She felt small. She felt like a fraud wearing a hero's cape.
Sherlock stopped walking abruptly. He didn't turn around at first; he just stood there, the wind ruffling his dark hair. "Your breathing has shifted from a rhythmic 14 breaths per minute to a panicked 22, Yaoyorozu-san. You are already conceding the match to a phantom."
"I... I'm sorry, Sherlock-kun," she whispered, her voice cracking. "It's just... Aizawa-sensei chose this pairing to prove a point. He paired me with you because he knows I'm the weak link. I'm just a burden to your rank."
Sherlock finally turned, and the expression on his face wasn't one of clinical observation. It was something sharper, something almost... offended.
II. THE CALCULATION OF CONFIDENCE
"Into the alley! Now!" Sherlock commanded suddenly, grabbing Momo's wrist as a black blur streaked across the sky above them. He pulled her behind a heavy steel door just as Aizawa's capture cloth slammed into the brick where they had been standing.
Inside the cramped, dim corridor of the service alley, the air was cool and smelled of damp concrete. Momo slumped against the wall, her head in her hands.
"It's no use," she choked out. "Every time I try to think of a counter-measure, I see ten different ways it could fail. Iida-kun would have had a plan by now. Even Midoriya-san would be moving. I'm just... I'm not meant for this."
Sherlock stood in the center of the narrow space, the light from the doorway silhouetting his frame. He didn't look at the door to see if Aizawa was coming; he focused entirely on her.
"Do you remember the Class Representative elections, Momo?"
The sudden use of her first name—without the formal '-san'—caused her to flinch, her eyes snapping to his in the darkness. "The election? That was ages ago. Iida-kun was the obvious choice. I only got that one vote because someone probably felt sorry for me or made a mistake..."
"It wasn't a mistake. And it certainly wasn't pity," Sherlock said, his voice dropping into a low, resonant tone that seemed to vibrate through the small alleyway. "I was the one who voted for you."
Momo froze. "You? But... why? You barely even spoke to anyone back then. You were always so distant."
"Because I was a coward," Sherlock said, the honesty in his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "I spent my entire childhood viewing people as static variables. I viewed myself as a machine that only processed data. But you... you were the only one who didn't let me stay in that box."
He stepped closer, the emerald green of his eyes glowing with an uncharacteristic intensity. "Think back, Momo. When we were children at those stifling estate galas, when I would hide in the libraries because the noise of the world was too loud for my head—who was the one who brought me books? Who was the one who sat in silence with me, not because she wanted something, but because she believed I was worth the time?"
Momo's breath hitched as a memory of a younger Sherlock, pale and trembling in a corner, flashed through her mind. She had forgotten how long they had really known each other's shadows.
"During the Sports Festival, when I lost myself in the math... when I felt like a monster for what I did to my opponents... you didn't look at me with fear," Sherlock continued. "You stood by me. You believed in the 'Paper Magician' when even I thought I was just a cold technician. You see the soul in the machine, Momo. That is why you are the better leader."
He reached out, his hand grounding her against the wall. "Iida is a rule-follower. He is a great engine, but he needs tracks to run on. You? You are the Architect. You create the tracks. You create the world we live in. I don't care about Aizawa-sensei's evaluation. I care about the girl who motivated a boy to stop being a calculator and start being a human."
A tear escaped Momo's eye, tracing a path through the dust on her cheek. The crushing weight of the 'weak link' label began to crumble under the sheer force of Sherlock's conviction.
"You really... you really believe I can do this?" she whispered.
"I don't 'believe' it, Momo. I've calculated it," Sherlock said, a rare, soft smile breaking through his stoic mask. "The only variable missing from this victory is you. Now, stop looking for the 'perfect' answer. Give me the one that works. Build us a way out of here."
Momo stood up straight, her shoulders squaring. The heat in her chest was no longer panic—it was fire. The Architect had finally found her blueprint.
"Aizawa-sensei's Quirk resets every time he blinks," she said, her voice now a sharp, tactical instrument. "If we can trigger a multi-sensory overload during that micro-second... his erasure won't just flicker; it will lag."
Sherlock smirked, the lethal edge of the Paper Magician returning to his gaze. "There she is. What do you need, Architect?"
"I need a distraction that covers the entire street," she said, her eyes beginning to glow with a sharp, tactical light. "I'll need thirty seconds of absolute chaos. Can you give me that?"
"I'll give you a masterpiece," Sherlock replied. "Just make sure you're ready to close the curtain."
One, the emotional foundation is set. Momo is no longer fighting for a grade; she's fighting for the boy who has believed in her since they were children.
III. THE 100 SHEETS OF BLAST
The air in the urban district felt charged with a sudden, sharp static. As they emerged from the alleyway, Aizawa was waiting, perched precariously atop a power line like a bird of prey. His scarf drifted in the wind, and as his eyes locked onto them, the familiar, hollow sensation of Quirk-erasure settled over Sherlock and Momo.
"Still trying to hide?" Aizawa rasped, his hair beginning to defy gravity. "The clock is ticking. At this rate, you'll both be in remedial classes by sundown."
Sherlock didn't look at Aizawa; he looked at Momo. He saw the shift in her stance—the way her weight was distributed, the focus in her eyes. The Architect was back online. He knew his role now. He wasn't the lead in this play; he was the stagehand, the one who would create the conditions for the miracle.
"Now, Sherlock-kun!" Momo commanded.
Sherlock lunged forward. To Aizawa, it looked like a desperate frontal assault, but it was a carefully calibrated piece of theater. Sherlock ran in a zigzag pattern, forcing Aizawa to keep his neck turning, straining the muscles of his eyes.
"Too slow," Aizawa muttered, launching his capture cloth.
Sherlock waited for the exact moment the cloth reached its maximum extension—the moment Aizawa's focus was at its peak. In that micro-second, a stray gust of wind whipped a piece of debris toward Aizawa's face. The teacher's eyes flickered, just for a fraction of a frame.
In that gap, the Magician struck.
"PAPER ART: 100 SHEETS OF BLAST!"
Snap
Sherlock didn't unleash the devastating, all-consuming "Thousand" variant that had nearly killed him in Hosu. This was different. This was precision. A hundred black-and-white cards erupted from his sleeves, but they didn't fly toward the teacher. Instead, they swarmed the surrounding environment.
The cards stuck to the glass of the nearby shop windows, the steel of the telephone poles, and the surface of the asphalt. Sherlock had infused them with a high-frequency vibration that made the cards hum, creating a localized "static" that interfered with depth perception. As the sun hit the black-and-white patterns, it created a strobe effect—a visual white noise that made it impossible for Aizawa to maintain a steady lock on his targets.
"Visual interference?" Aizawa muttered, landing on the ground and sweeping his cloth in a wide arc. "Effective, but temporary."
"Temporary is all we need," Sherlock's voice echoed from within the paper storm. He was intentionally moving loudly, drawing Aizawa's attention toward the east side of the street, acting as the ultimate decoy. He allowed himself to be "caught" briefly, slipping out of the capture cloth at the last possible second, leading the teacher exactly where the Architect had designated.
Sherlock used the Shikigami Dance, moving with a fluidity that made him seem like he was made of the very paper he controlled. He was a ghost in the strobe light, leading Aizawa exactly where the Architect needed him to be.
IV. THE PRESTIGE OF THE ARCHITECT
"Now, Sherlock-kun! The Forty-Five Degree Mark!"
Momo's voice didn't waver. It was the voice of a commander.
Aizawa, struggling to regain his bearings within the storm of black-and-white flickering cards, landed in the center of the intersection. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and straining to find Momo. He saw her on a third-story fire escape, her hand extended.
"You're too far away, Yaoyorozu!" Aizawa shouted, his capture cloth ready to snag her ankles.
"I don't need to be close, Sensei," Momo replied. "I just need to be precise."
She had realized that Aizawa's greatest strength—his Erasure—depended on a single, focused target. By using Sherlock as a massive, visual distraction, she had been given the window to create something far more complex than a simple weapon.
From her palms, she didn't fire a cannon. She released a series of high-tension, micro-filament wires attached to weighted "Matryoshka" dolls. As the dolls hit the ground around Aizawa, they didn't just stand there. They exploded in a calculated sequence of high-decibel sonic pulses.
HIGH-FREQUENCY RESONANCE: ARCHITECT'S CHIME.
The sound waves weren't just loud; they were tuned to a frequency that disrupted the inner ear. Aizawa stumbled, his balance compromised. In that moment of disorientation, the wires she had placed snapped taut, creating a geometric web that pinned his weighted cuffs to the surrounding telephone poles.
It was a masterpiece of mechanical engineering and tactical timing. She hadn't just used her Quirk; she had used the environment against a man who knew it better than anyone.
Sherlock reappeared from the swirling paper, his hand holding the silver handcuffs. He didn't have to fight his way in; Momo had built him a corridor of absolute advantage.
"The prestige," Sherlock whispered, snapping the cuffs onto Aizawa's wrists just as the timer hit zero.
BUZZER.
"TEAM SHEETS AND YAOYOROZU... HAVE PASSED!"
V. THE LOGIC OF THE HEART
Aizawa stood in the center of the street, bound and grounded, but he didn't look angry. He looked at the two students with a rare, tired pride.
"You used his visual static to mask your chemical construction," Aizawa rasped, the red glow finally fading from his eyes. "And you used the sonic dolls to disrupt my focus. It was a perfect integration of two completely different styles. Yaoyorozu... your decision-making was impeccable. You didn't hesitate."
"Thank you, Sensei," Momo said, her voice trembling—not with fear, but with the sheer relief of victory.
As they walked toward the exit of the Urban District, the adrenaline began to ebb, leaving behind a profound, quiet warmth. Momo looked over at Sherlock. He was limping slightly, his shoulder bruised from where he had taken a hit for her earlier in the match. He was quietly gathering his cards, his expression returning to that stoic, unreadable mask.
But Momo saw through it now.
She remembered how he had moved. She remembered how he had intentionally slowed his pace, how he had used the '100 Sheets' not to defeat Aizawa, but to create a stage where she was the one who delivered the final blow. He could have finished the match himself a dozen times over with his raw speed and Thomas Itadori's training.
He didn't just want us to pass, she realized, her heart swelling with a realization that made her breath catch. He wanted me to remember who I am
"Sherlock-kun," she said, stopping in the middle of the path.
He paused and turned, the sunset catching the emerald of his eyes. "Yes, Yaoyorozu-san? Are you experiencing a post-adrenaline crash? I have glucose tablets in my—"
"No," she interrupted, stepping closer.
"Sherlock-kun," she said, ."Back there... in the alleyway. And during the fight. You did that for me, didn't you?"
Sherlock paused, adjusting his glasses. "I simply optimized our chances of success, Momo. The probability of victory increased significantly if you were the one to execute the final stage."
Momo shook her head, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "No. You're the best strategist in Class 1-A. You could have found a way to win on your own. You could have used your 'Shinigami Dance' to reach the gate before he even saw you. But you stayed. You let yourself get hit. You played the distraction because you wanted me to see that I could lead."
She stepped closer to him, the evening sun casting a golden glow over them. "You didn't just calculate a win. You calculated a way to save my heart. You've been doing that since we were kids, haven't you? Standing in the shadows so I could find the light."
Sherlock went quiet. The Paper Magician, usually so quick with a rebuttal or a data point, found himself without a variable to lean on. He looked at his bandaged hands, then back at the girl who had been his only true friend since the cold galas of their childhood.
"A magician's job is to make the audience believe in the impossible," Sherlock said softly, his voice losing its clinical edge. "I didn't have to do much, Momo. I just had to wait for you to realize that you were the miracle all along."
Momo felt a warmth spread through her that was far more powerful than any Quirk. She realized then that Sherlock wasn't just a "good friend" or a "peer." He was her anchor. He was the one person who saw the complexity of her mind and didn't find it burdensome—he found it beautiful.
"Thank you," she whispered, her eyes shining. "For the vote. For the match. For... everything."
Sherlock gave a small, polite nod, the stoic mask returning, but his eyes remained soft.
Momo said "Sherlock Lets visit the New Bakery that opened i heard that it has the best English desert. You mentioned wanting me to walk with you."
Yeah we can go there in summers sherlock said.
"Yes We will go there ," she said, her heart skipping a beat.
As she watched him walk away, Momo realized that the final exam hadn't just tested her powers—it had revealed a truth she had been hiding from herself. She wasn't just following the Magician anymore. She was walking beside him.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I am thinking to write another mha fanfic choose which one i should start first
1. MHA:- The Devil footprint ( quirk based on shinra from fire force )
2. MHA:- The Creeping Hunger ( quirk based on Creeping Hunger artifact from lotm mc can have 5 quirk but have to killed that person to have it )
3. MHA:- The illustionist ( quirk based on loki illusion magic mc will be like an magician and tickster)
4. MHA:- Mr Fool ( quirk based on lotm fool pathway our mc will will be isekai and have fool pathway )