There was no point to this book. You can call it an homage to Arthur Conan Doyle. I just call it dull as fuck. It was lacking in originality and unbelievable when it tried to be witty. The only reason I can see for the insertion of the Sherlock name is to sell the book based on familiarity. 
 Even with willing suspension of disbelief, the plot of this book far overreaches the realms of credibility. There's no allusion to the famous series, I don't believe the Sherlock Holmes series existed in this version of modern-day England, because there's not a single joke about a boy named Sherlock Holmes and a girl named James "Mori" Moriarty. The characters are obviously Sherlock Holmes and his nemesis, James Moriarty...except in this book, they're more like reluctant friends, sometime-rivals, and blushing lovers. Cute. Not. 
 Sherlock Holmes is an anti-social, ill-adjusted, mad genius of a high school boy. 
 His arms flew into the air as he spoke, then dived down again, adjusting vials, tubes, and the flames of several Bunsen burners. He moved around the table with an odd sort of violent grace, like a mad symphony conductor directing the bubbles and billows, until finally he was facing me, though he did not look up. His school uniform was as disheveled as his lab: white shirt wrinkled and untucked, with sleeves rolled up to his elbows; navy-and-silver-striped tie loosened and askew; and blue sweater flung over the side of a chair so that one sleeve pooled on the dusty floor. 
 Who, like his namesake, deduces things. 
 "You're the understudy, though you'd rather not be. You took this class for some reason other than your love of the art form." I opened my mouth to speak, but he stepped closer, his finger in the air. "Possible that it's a family craft, and you do it to please a parent. Father? No, mother." 
 His foil is the brilliant Mori. Oddly named for a girl, if it's not politically incorrect of me to say so. 
 "Moriarty," I said with a sigh. I didn't have it in me to play his game that night. "And, before you ask, that is my surname. My given name is James." 
 "James Moriarty." 
 She's got a troubled family life with a drunkard Detective of a dad who calls her a whore, compares her to her late beloved sainted mother, and beats up her little brothers. 
 All of a sudden, there's a body in the park, and the two of them just randomly bumps into each other in the park in the middle of the night [insert shocked face here]. The policemen of London are clearly bumbling fucking idiots who can barely put one feet in front of the other, so obviously it's up to the two brilliant teenaged sleuths to solve the crime. 
 "We should take the case." 
 "'Take the case'?" I wanted to laugh openly at him then. "Do you think at all before you speak?" 
 "We could do it. We are clever. The swans on the lake are more clever than those detectives. Perhaps even the trees." 
 Yep. So off goes the amateur detectives to solve a Deep Dark Mystery/Conspiracy. In-between their snogging sessions, that is. 
 But more than any of that, I wanted to kiss him and to keep kissing him until one of us ran out of air. So I did. 
 He surrendered first, leaning back just enough to rest his forehead against mine. Out of breath, he asked, "What about the file?" 
 "Bugger the file." I grabbed the front of his shirt in my fists and back-stepped toward his bed, pulling him along with me. It took him maybe three full seconds to dead-drop the file to the floor and fall down with me on his crumpled covers. 
 Oh, and the synopsis? 
 OBSERVATION: Sometimes you can't trust the people closest to you with matters of the heart. And after this case, Mori may never trust Lock again.