= Part Three=
"Her surname was Marricci."
"You don't know much about me," Shannon said, "and though I didn't expressly mean to be secretive, I think it's probably a good thing that it all turned out this way. If you had known what I was looking for in advance, you might have done some vital things differently, and then it would've taken longer to tell. Trust me, I know; I made that mistake once before…" she trailed away, musing to herself. I didn't move, waiting for her to go on.
"It was your career choice that threw me off," she began again. "Never in all the history of the Watsons has the family legacy been handed down to a family member who wasn't either a practicing doctor or well on his or her way to becoming one." She shook her head, a brief smile flitting across her lips as she looked at me. "But now, I'm almost sure you're it. Almost positive.
"I introduced my interest in Sherlock Holmes to you as a hobby." Her gaze seemed to become more concentrated as she said the next words: "It's not a hobby, Watson. I am the great grand-daughter of Sherlock Holmes. He was real, as real as you are or I am." She leaned forward. "And if I'm right, you are the great grand-daughter of John Watson."
She leaned back again, watching me, her pale eyes shining from under half-closed lids. I took a deep breath, feeling uncomfortable under that gaze. I'd seen her level it on fellow students, teachers, and strangers alike over the months I'd known her, and I'd always watched their discomfort with mild amusement. Now, being the subject of that stare myself, I understood. I felt as though she were slowly taking me apart, looking right through me, into my heart and mind as though she could read my thoughts. I shivered and shank backwards, feeling tiny beads of sweat starting to crawl on my forehead.
"I'm not done," she said. She never took her eyes from mine, hardly seemed to blink.
"Sherlock Holmes" she went on, "is only one of a long line of 'detectives,' if you will. His exploits were sometimes overstated by Conan Doyle, but more of the time, they were played down. Holmes was a brilliant man, but deduction can't explain it all." She paused.
"You're telling me he had help?" I asked.
"Ha! You could put it that way, I suppose." Shannon stood suddenly and began pacing, the length of the room and back again, her hands clasped behind her back. I recognized this as a habit that usually accompanied serious thought. She talked as she went.
"Sometime back in the medieval ages, in the late sixteen hundreds when Europe was warring and the Catholics were sweeping over the continent nation by nation, full of damnation and brimstone, the first 'real' Holmes and the first 'real' Watson met. They were both educated men of little faith, and the Inquisition drove them to the Netherlands as young men at around the same time. It was sheer coincidence that they met at all… assuming you don't believe in fate.
"At the time, the words 'psychic' and 'telekinetic' hadn't been invented yet, but all the Western world was abuzz with the idea of witchcraft. And these two men recognized within each other the same 'witchery' each had seen in himself.
"Close your mouth, Watson!" she said, catching my question before I'd said it. "Just listen, until I finish, and then you can argue with me all you want." I nodded reluctantly, and she started again. "They met, Holmes and Watson, and over the space of a few years, they became very good friends. According to some, they actually shared more than friendship, but that isn't really relevant. What is relevant is the fact that, around this same time, yet another 'witch' arrived in Amsterdam, fleeing from Italy – a woman who gave the two men what would become an even more concrete reason to stay together.
"It was said that this Italian witch could start fires with her mind, or sometimes force her enemies to do terrible things just by looking at them. There were no laws in Amsterdam about witchcraft; at the time, it was a clean, prosperous city, but it was full of pagans and protestants, and so she was mostly left alone.
"Even when her enemies started disappearing altogether, the law looked the other way. She grew a reputation for ruthlessness, cunning, and cruelty; she became rich, and married into a high-ranking family. Her husband died, and she collected his estate with dry eyes. Though rumors of treachery and poison swept the city, nothing was done. From then on, she took what she wanted from whomever she chose, and was feared among the lower and upper classes alike.
"Her surname was Marricci, but after her husband's death, she changed it to sound more Anglo-Saxon."
"Moriarty," I whispered, even as Shannon said it aloud. She nodded at me and continued.
"Watson and Holmes eventually heard of her, of her cunning and her rumored abilities. They made a few inquiries, and finally, looking to pool their knowledge, they visited the Lady Moriarty at her husband's estate. They set out wanting nothing more than to learn, to gather more information about themselves and others like them. With powers, or the gift, or whatever you want to call it.
"They returned from their visit with a much more complicated goal in mind. I'm not sure exactly what happened there; it was never set down on paper, and over the years, the story's been lost. But, whatever went on, by the time they left the Lady Moriarty's company, it was clear to Holmes and Watson that this woman not only possessed in full the remarkable abilities the rumors suggested, but that she could and was abusing those abilities for her own personal gain. She was stealing, taking advantage of the poor and the lowest of the upper-class, amassing more wealth than she could ever possibly need. She was doing it like she was playing a game; to her, it was a hobby. An art.
"And so Holmes and Watson made a pact. They vowed, upon not only their lives but their very souls as well, to prevent the abuse of powers like theirs. They swore to protect others who shared those powers, and to do their best to hone and perfect their own individual talents. At the time, it was a very real and very difficult promise; looking back at the few records that have survived from those years, it's impossible to tell how many people they rescued from the stake or the noose before the duo reached their own end.
"Watson was captured and burned at the stake himself, and Holmes followed shortly after. Some stories say Holmes was careless, that he was caught and burned too, while others tell that he died of a broken heart, throwing himself from his own roof. I personally believe it was something in between the two. Regardless, they were in their fifties, an old age for the seventeenth century, and they accomplished a lot during their time together. The recorded numbers of the saved – innocents and 'witches' alike – are respectable. And I suspect the true figures surpass the records by far.
"And the Lady Moriarty. Though Holmes and Watson traveled away from the Netherlands during their years together, Moriarty was never far from their thoughts. They followed her actions from abroad; she married several more times, never letting go of her last name, and had several children. Every man foolish enough to let her exotic appearance and full purse lure him in met with a cruel end; behind her back, she was called the Black Widow, for the 'mysterious' deaths of her husbands, and for her dark hair and eyes.
"From time to time, Holmes and Watson would drop unexpectedly into Amsterdam, plant some rumors against the Lady Moriarty in a few choice ears, and vanish again. Occasionally the duo would even become personally involved, prodding the sluggish police force into action or, in a few extreme cases, stepping in themselves to prevent serious thefts or murders.
"That's how the feud between the Holmes's and the Moriarty's began, and it's lasted for generations and has spanned hundreds of years. But I'm getting ahead of myself." Shannon paused, looking at me for the first time in what seemed like forever. She frowned.
"Good God, Watson, you look terrible! I'll get you a glass of water. Be right back." She was through the door and down the stairs before I could so much as open my mouth.
I sat back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. I looked at my watch; it had only been an hour. It had seemed like a lifetime. My mouth suddenly felt very dry. Shannon's point in telling me all this had slowly been creeping closer and closer, and now that I had a moment to think, it all caught up with me. Shannon Holmes, Sarah Watson… Psychic abilities, witch burnings, and hundreds of years of history. The idea of it spun through my head crazily, and I thought that maybe I did want a cool, mind-clearing glass of water, after all.
"What does she expect from me?" I said aloud to the empty room. I realized the sun had set and we'd been virtually in the dark for the past few minutes, and I turned on the lights. I took a deep breath, wondering whether I should leave now or let this play out. I didn't have time to make a choice, though -- at that moment, Shannon came back, deftly balancing two glasses of water and a plate of Mrs. H's little sandwiches.
"Here, Watson," she said as she set them down on the coffee table. "You look like you could use something to eat."
I gratefully took one of the glasses. As I did, my eyes wandered to the standing mirror in the corner. I glanced at my own reflection and blinked, startled. I was terribly pale, almost sick-looking, and my eyes seemed tired. I realized that I really was getting tired, even though it was still early in the evening. The thought of bed, of going to sleep and forgetting this day had ever happened, was very, very tempting. I could just close my eyes and let all this become just another bad dream.
I shook my head, resolving in that moment to sit this through and see what was going to happen. After all, Shannon hadn't seemed like a loony before this; maybe she had a reason for believing all of it. And eventually, she would get around the explaining the blood.
The blood! I realized with a start. She hadn't said anything about the blood or the girl, and with all the talking she'd done about witch burnings and Moriarty's, I'd almost completely forgotten.
"I promise, I'll explain this afternoon too," Shannon said, watching me. I looked up at her, into those eerie gray eyes, and then looked away quickly, repressing a shiver. It was just so creepy that she could tell what you were thinking so often…
The word "telepathy" tickled the back of my mind. A textbook definition from the psych class I'd taken my Sophomore year ran through my mind: Telepathy, the act of communicating mind to mind. A supernatural ability; the ability to read thoughts. My eyes widened and I stared at Shannon. She turned away, moving across the room towards the computer desk, but before she did I thought I might have seen a wry smile on her lips.
Might.
I shook my head and drank some water, grateful to have something to do with my hands. I was starting to feel more and more nervous, and it was everything I could do to sit still and not stare at Shannon like a bug under glass. It's just coincidence! I told myself harshly, taking a long drink.
"Should I keep going?" Shannon asked over her shoulder. She clicked on the lamp sitting on the desk, turning the room brighter and a little more comforting. She didn't turn around, waiting.
I had a flash of insight, an impression of scales tipping back and forth. Something told me this was one of those turning points – that, either way I chose, there could be no going back. I gulped the last of the water and set the glass down on the table with a loud crystalline clink. I took a deep breath.
"Go on," I said. "I'm listening."