Singularity- A Sherlock Holmes: AGoS one-shot
Author's Notes: I actually wrote this on Christmas Day, 2011, but I sort of forgot about it. Oh well, here it is now! It was just something quick that occurred to me, if the roles were reversed between Moriarty and Holmes. I hope you enjoy it!
It has always been said that Holmes and Moriarty are very much alike. One is good, one is evil, and that is that. But there is a singular difference that sets them apart...
I will be the first to admit my shortcomings as an embellishing writer, when compared to my dear partner, Dr. John Watson. And yet, what need is there for embellishment when truth is often stranger than fiction? The facts are simple, and as follows.
This is not an auto-biographical account of any intriguing case, nor is it a description of the very sensitive work I have been performing in my absence from Baker Street. You know the facts, if you are an astute reader, through my aforementioned loyal biographer. What you may not know is that I did not perish that fateful evening at the tremendously intimidating Reichenbach Falls, by a combination of sheer wit, physical fitness, and a rather unusual amount of luck and prayers, but survived to write this account for you now, as a man quite thoroughly alive. My opponent, however, Professor James Moriarty, was not quite as fortunate as I, considering I had equipped myself with the tools necessary for survival, having a vague expectation of some horrific event that might have befallen me. As it stands, it was quite more of an irregular premonition than anything else.
This incident follows approximately eleven months after I emerged from that black cauldron of churning, chilling water, the one survivor of the plummeting fall we both faced. During those months, I moved about quite a bit, a broom to the mess that the professor had created in the international worlds of politics and commerce. And still, everyone thought me dead. All but one, that is. And that is the truly extraordinary cause of this narrative.
I recall the first encounter I had with my veritable stalker was in Stockholm, of all places, as I quietly recuperated from my injuries and let my mind settle to the tasks before me. It pains me to admit that, on occasion, the mind does not function properly without a functional body to house it, no matter who you are. And so recovery was very much as mental and spiritual as it was physical. I let things that would typically pique my interest and curiosity slip past me, unless they pertained to my larger purpose. When I reached back into my thoughts one night, though, I realized I had observed this face in my travels more than once. Or, to be more precise, her face.
It was at the inn I was staying at under the assumed identity of a veteran of a relatively small scuffle that had broken out between the French and the kingdom of Dahomey, a french soldier who had changed his surrounding scenery to Sweden for a breath of fresh air. I spent the majority of my time in my quarters, resting, reading, and planning, watching the remainder of the chaos peter out before I began my work. One morning I deemed myself well enough for some physical exertion, and took up my cane for a bit of a walk around the grounds. My wounds were healing well, and I was in no danger from a bit of strenuous behaviour. However, as I strode slowly, but strongly around the area, I was knocked into, and nearly knocked over, by a mysterious figure who rushed on. I regret to say that by the time I had recovered and gathered myself, the figure was gone. I chose not to pursue, however rude the action may have been, in favor of my health, and simply put the event out of my head.
A few weeks later, I was well enough to start to truly move about. I returned to England briefly, to check in on the Doctor and his wife, and to decide how and if I should re-enter his life at some point, when it came to my attention that the couple was going to take the trip to Brighton that I had previously liberated them from. I chose to wait to meddle in his affairs again, a bit of a service to his partnership with me, and instead brought my status as living to the attention of only one person, who could most definitely be trusted- my brother Mycroft.
There again, deep inside the walls of the Diogenes club, I caught a whiff of a familiar scent, but I could not place it as well as I would have preferred. A maidservant brought us brandy, and then drifted away- and with her, the smell.
I should never have ignored this. But ignore it I did, profusely focused on my work, and nothing else. From England I was off to Helsinki, and many other places that the professor had claimed a stake in, somehow.
The third time, her face clicked, and I was onto her game. She was following me from place to place. Just her, it seemed. She was a bit older, placing at eight and thirty years under my scrutiny, but had the marks of incredible beauty in her youth still firmly etched in her fine features. She was dressed plainly, but carried herself with exquisite grace and preeminence. She was obviously of some standing. And, even for her age, she had been with child within the last one and quarter years. This much was clear from a glance.
There was a sadness to her, I deduced, though I would have to get closer to determine a cause. However, it was a source of great weight to her, for, despite her neat and upscale posture and pomp, her shoulders would slump slightly when her mind was not occupied was a task, and her face was worn with restricted tears. My educated guess was that she was a widow, though she wore no black and no mourning veil. Curious, indeed. Why, then, was she following me about, and how? I was being excruciatingly attentive to covering my tracks, as always. And yet still she pursued me. Though, she seemed to direct no ill-will towards me. Yet. I became determined to observe her movements and discover exactly what her motives were. If they proved to be detrimental, I would confront her.
As I serpentined from country to country, she followed. It didn't matter when I left, who I left disguised as, or my methods of travel- within a day's time, she was there, in the city or town or what-have-you that I occupied. I began to take the offensive in this game, and started to follow her. I assure you, I employed my greatest skills as a logician and detective to disguise and conceal myself from her notice. Few have penetrated me at my most effective before, yet she managed.
She led me through a blase gathering of information one morning- a short shopping trip, purchasing a new hat for herself, something for the child I had deduced previously in our encounters, stationary, ink, and a blotter, and bread. These items were ordinary, highly commonplace, yet she had managed to purchase them with some amount of haggling skill in Germany, speaking flawless German. The picture was becoming slowly clearer, as I was aware that she spoke at least five languages other than English fluently, as depicted by her excursions in other parts of Europe.
It was three days short of a month later when she finally struck, in Moscow. I was in full disguise, as a crippled street vendor, when she approached, her face stoic.
"I know who you are, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." She addressed me.
"Then I will not attempt to hide my identity from you, Madame. My condolences, by the way, on the death of your husband." I replied. She did not even so much as blink. This was highly intriguing, only adding to the delectable enigma that she presented.
"Thank you. I won't mince words, Mr. Holmes. I would like to invite you to participate in a sort of game."
I smiled at her genuinely.
"Thus far, you have proven an excellent opponent. It would be my pleasure." She nodded brusquely.
"Very well then. Here are the rules. You have until four o' clock tomorrow afternoon to deduce who I am and why I have been following you. If you should succeed, then I shall cease to pursue you further. But if any aspect of your inquiry fails, it will cost you dearly." She was still, her voice low and dark, as she spoke. There was a hint of resolution in her eyes. Fear, as well, but that was vague- only visible if you were looking for it specifically. I turned her offer over in my mind.
"Those are some seemingly steep rules, madame. One can only assume that there is some amount of mortal danger to losing." I pressed. She turned her back on me.
"Remember, four o' clock, Mr. Holmes. Don't be late."
I was a bit struck by the similarity of her words tone to someone I had once known, but only a bit. That was a puzzle long since passed from my attention. This one was right here.
I spent my night away from my main line of work, after that, observing, researching, and drawing conclusions. However, as the hours ticked away, my puzzle was only half clear. I could easily detect her motives for following me, and with a bit of careful observation, how she had managed to get this far. And yet, following that line of reasoning, I had not even a single clue as to who she was. Not by namesake, anyway.
I rarely get nervous about a game, but as I did not know who she was, I had no idea what she was truly capable of. If she knew me, she must know about the doctor and his wife. Were they the cost she spoke of? I did not know. I was walking a thin line, that evening, and was extremely restless. I took to rambling about Moscow through the wee hours, deep in thought. They say the wind cut like a freshly sharpened sabre that evening, but if that is an accurate description, I didn't notice. I could not research the way I would have liked, due to my original purpose in the Russian city, and the eyes that would have been alerted to my presence. But I might also be risking the life of an old friend, or perhaps something even worse.
By late morning, I was still undecided and unsure of the identity of the mysterious woman. She was surprisingly adept at her game. I sat down on a park bench and continued to wrestle with my thoughts. Finally, taking up the lotus position, and ignoring the grotesquely curious looks from the passerby, I ran through every thread in my mind that might even remotely pertain to the answer to the puzzle.
When did this begin? In Stockholm, as I recalled then. How? Close-encounter contact. Then, every single stop I made found here there shortly afterward. What changed the equation in Stockholm? How was I discovered? Being dead, many other deaths that night...perhaps entirely unrelated.
At 3 o'clock in the afternoon, I was almost positive I had all the pieces but one. I thought, and thought, and finally, while my eyes opened and observed the world beyond, and my mind worked feverishly on my particular problem, I understood. It all became exceedingly clear, then, and I burst from my seat and hurried in the direction of the abode she was occupying.
She opened the door after the fourth knock, wary of visitors, and I watched her carefully as she looked me over.
"You win." She said simply, and gestured me in.
"And how do you know this, Madame?" I queried, to assure myself further. She shrugged.
"If you know the answers to my challenges, then you know that I can see it as plain as day under your rather just mask of confidence." She broke, then, and a slow tear rolled down her cheek, and she sank into the drab beige armchair by the fire, dabbing at her eyes with a familiar handkerchief.
"Forgive me," she whispered in a rasping voice after a moment, "I have yet to really appreciate the mourning process, so consumed have I been in finding you. I'm not even sure why I've done this. I just felt like I should." Straightening, she quickly composed herself, and I felt a twinge of an emotion I shall not name pang deep inside me. Suffice it to say that I felt rather nostalgic right then.
"It was...unavoidable." I murmured. She shook her head, and stared at me with a piercing gaze.
"He wasn't always like that, you see. I want you to understand just what has happened here. He-" She was abruptly cut off by a tumbling tot being pursued by two slightly older children entering the room loudly. Her face paled and then reddened in slight embarrassment at their behaviour, and I glanced over them quickly. My deductions were completely confirmed in that instant.
"Children! Be respectful! We have a guest." She chided, a bit more gently than I had anticipated. They dropped their heads, and she picked up the baby and cradled it, returning to her chair. They older ones stood, shame-faced, in the doorway. Obviously discipline was not foreign to them.
"The oldest is Edward James, the middle is Ambrose Hiram, and the baby is Victoria Grace." She introduced me. I nodded to them, and the older boys escaped quietly out through the dining room. She smoothed the baby's ginger-colored hair lovingly, and looked at me with a sorrowful face.
"They miss him dearly." She sighed.
"I can imagine. They must have been nearly as devastated as you."
She laughed, a short, barking half-sound, recognizing more lofty surprise than humour.
"Mr. Holmes, if you are curious about my feelings, you needn't disguise your inquiry. Simply ask, and I will tell all. But, yes, they were, and are. It is difficult for them now. Edward is too young to try to play the man of the household- he should be studying, and enjoying his youth! He should be home, in England, playing with his friends and simply absorbing life. Instead, I have dragged my poor children all over Europe, on some kind of fool's mission-" She teared up again, and I waited patiently. I must inform you that I found the entire affair extremely fascinating, and that a small part of me almost saw it as satisfying. Still, another, darker and long-forgotten portion of myself hinted at something far less savory as a reaction. Whether or not that something was regret, sympathy, or even envy, I do not care to explore it.
"At the very least," she continued," Victoria doesn't know a thing of it whatsoever. He never even had the chance to hold her. Is it foolish, Mr. Holmes, to think that I can shield her from knowing for the rest of her life?"
I had no qualms about answering this singular woman truthfully.
"It is indeed. It is just as dangerous as telling her everything could be. Pray continue, though. I would like to know the entire story."
She took a moment to collect herself, and then a thought seemed to occur to her.
"How did you figure it out?" She questioned. I shrugged and leaned back, drawing out my pipe and looking to her for allowance. It was granted, and I lit up and puffed before I answered.
"To be quite honest, I only understood exactly fifteen minutes prior to my arrival here. You have done quite well in concealing yourself. I was thinking my data through carefully, when I happened to notice a man across the way fiddling with his cufflinks. It occurred to me then that when you approached me yesterday, you were wearing a man's cufflinks on the buttons of your sleeves. This was to commemorate the passing of who could only be a brother or husband. A further search of my memories revealed the maidservant at the Diogenes club to have the same cufflinks worn on a silver chain around her neck. The perfume, then, was the femininely diluted derivative of a cologne quite familiar to me at this point. This jolted me to the sudden realization of many things at once. The first is that I was intriguingly deceived. The flaw in my scenarios until this realization was figuring out how you had been so doggedly pursuing me. And then, the thought struck that you had not been pursuing me- I have been pursuing you. And it follows that if you knew where I had to go, point by point, across the map, then you knew him and his plans far more intimately than a sister would know a brother in most adult situations. Besides, if he were your brother, and the two of you were that close, you would have collected a trinket other than his cufflinks, and you would not be wearing the matching perfume to his cologne. That can only make him your husband. The rest is quite obvious, Mrs. Moriarty."
Mrs. Moriarty smiled softly, then.
"I knew that you would find this challenge simple, Mr. Holmes. I learned as many of my poor James' methods as I could understand, but it seems that even a watery sense of vengeance cannot make me a match for your intellect. I want you to know that he was not always the man you came to loathe, though. No, once, a lifetime ago, James kept to himself. He bothered no one, he was gentle and studious...I miss those memories, Mr. Holmes. It seems like all I have now are newspaper headlines tumbling about in my brain. I can still see him, the way things used to be.
"Everyone had forgotten about me and the children by the end, Mr. Holmes. And that was how it was supposed to be. He made sure of it. He made sure we were safe, and protected, just the way it had always been, before all of this horrid business began. You see, the last time I saw him was before he set out on that wretched lecture tour. I begged him not to do this. To just let it go. But James saw an opportunity that he felt was calling to him. Something to mark his place in history forever, and to give him one more thing to protect.
"This...this entire thing- would you believe that I am partly at fault as the cause of this? When we were a young couple, newly married, we had very little to our name. But we were happy. And yet, one day, we had a small spat over money. And I don't think he ever let it go. You see, James' promise to me was to give me the world. And, I think, in trying to fulfill that impossible promise, he found something in it for himself that intrigued him more than life as a professor, father, and husband. He found his immortality and his world, Mr. Holmes. And I didn't support it, or agree with it, or approve of it. But, you must understand, I loved James. I loved him very much, right until the end. And, as corrupt as he was, and as unforgivable as his crimes have been, there is still a part of me that sees him smile when he came home in the evening, that taught his boys to play chess like champions, that was loving and caring and everything I had always hoped he was.
"Mr Holmes, when I first decided to seek you out, I had many reasons I tried to justify to myself as the main reason for my actions. I wanted revenge. I wanted to see if you were really as on par with James as he believed. I needed to know if it was worth it. But, as time went by, the desire for vengeance drifted, as I remembered that a world ruled by James would not be a just or right world at all. Certainly not one to raise our children in. And so, I came to the realization that I really wanted to ask you a question, Mr. Holmes."
I had been listening intently this entire time, to this remarkable side of my ex-opponent that I had never even expected to exist. We had been compared as light and dark in every paper from India to America, dubbed "arch nemeses" in every sense of the term. Yet, that would mean we weren't so different after all. In essence, from this amazing narrative, there was only one difference betwixt us that would have accounted for his actions.
"I would be insulted if you didn't ask." I responded. Her eyes were wide with emotion.
"Do you think, Mr. Holmes, he was really as evil in the end as even you believed? Do you know, if in the end, he still loved us?"
This registered as a blow I had not anticipated. I turned it over in my head for a moment, and then stood, and smiled, placing a firm hand on the widow's shoulder.
"Mrs. Moriarty, your husband and I played a high-stakes game. And, really, on the scale of things, our gambles were balanced. The end results were different, but we were both protecting one common thing. And with that, I must bid you a good day."
I left that evening in low spirits, and I will wrap this narrative up abruptly in the same manner. Sometimes, not even I can read what is on my rival's heart. All I know is that the past is the past, and the future is safe for now. And yet, I cannot help but question the singular difference between us, and whether or not a change in the sequence of former events would have seen myself drowning in those cold waters, with my ex-rival swimming powerfully to the shore, and whether or not he would question this as well, in a never ending circle of questions, that shall forever remain unanswered.