His Ardor Part 5

by hopefultexts

In a fanfiction based on the Hayao Miyazaki show Meitantei Holmes, Holmes and Moriarty continue their reluctant allegience against Jack the Ripper. Hearts are broken and mended in this installment.

His Ardor: Part 5

A Sherlock Hound/Meitantei Holmes Fanfiction

By Amber C.S. ("ProfessorA")

Disclaimer: AMBER STILL OWNS ZIPPO!

This work is a hodgepodge of various canonical and alternate universe sources:  The Sherlock Holmes mysteries by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (most specifically "The Sign of Four," "A Study In Scarlet," "A Scandal In Bohemia," and "The Final Problem"), the Basil Rathbone film "Terror By Night," the Hayao Miyazaki television series "Sherlock Hound," the Hallmark/Artisan Entertainment Sherlock Holmes miniseries, and especially the Steven Spielberg film "Young Sherlock Holmes."

The character "Lola," Heaven's Gate, and the Blue Raven Tavern are creations of webmaster and fan author "HoBS /Knupfel" and are used with permission. 

Apology in advance for all the "chatting" scenes in this.  There was an enormous action scene but in the interests of the story's flow, I had to cut it to Part 6.  This section is largely about feelings and thoughts and characters talking to each other about both.  So drink some caffeine before you read it, it's a bit slower than the other parts!  Yes, romantic fluffiness ABOUNDS in this chapter!!  HUZZAH!!!  (Please forgive me, it's a ROUGH draft).

WARNING: There is a "PG-13 moment" between Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes in this chapter, as well as a few remarks made by a very drunk Professor Moriarty, both involving mild sexual innuendo.  There is also an R-rated (officially documented!) description of a typical Jack the Ripper "lustmurder" crime, spoken by Mycroft Holmes.  Select reading audiences responsibly, please.  Thanks! 

All characters aside the historically infamous figure "Jack the Ripper" and my fancharacter "Katherine Ferrell" (who is © ME) are copyright Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; in the case of Dr. Waxflatter and Elizabeth Hardy, Mrs. Dribb and the Rhamme Tep, Steven Spielberg; or, in the case of Polly, Todd and Smiley, Hayao Miyazaki.  All information regarding Jack the Ripper is taken from the accredited website "Casebook: Jack the Ripper," located at the Casebook: Jack the Ripper website.  I am sorry I can't post the URL, but every time I do my document won't upload correctly here.  Suffice to say all of the knowledge comes from this site and is legitimate.

"Inside my skin there is this space

It twists and turns

It bleeds and aches

Inside my heart there's an empty room

It's waiting for lightning

It's waiting for you

And I am wanting

And I am needing you here

Inside this absence of fear

Muscle and sinew

Velvet and stone

This vessel is haunted

It creaks and moans

My bones call to you

In their separate skin

I make myself transluscent

To let you in, for

I am wanting

And I am needing you here

Inside the absence of fear

There is this hunger

This restlessness inside of me

And it knows that you're no stranger

You're my gravity

My hands will adore you through all darkness aim

They will lay you out in the moonlight

And reinvent your name

For I am wanting you

And I am needing you here

I need you near

Inside the absence of fear."

--Jewel Kilcher

" Therefore I must set aside forever my naïve hopes of injecting a tincture of romance into the ascetic formula of my friend's life.  It should have been obvious to me by now that—however much Holmes might astound myself and others in the areas of logic and crime—in the personal arena no surprises were in store for a man who lived his life as a machine, without intimate connection or emotional quirks."—Spoken by Watson, from Good Night, Mr. Holmes, by Carole Nelson Douglas

            I did not sleep at all for the remainder of that night.  Somehow, experiencing any sense of drowsiness or comfort seemed an egregious betrayal of my friend, whose stalking footsteps rang inside his bedchamber for hours long past Mrs. Hudson's weeping return and Professor Moriarty's despairing departure.   So I planted myself in a chair in the kitchen, in the spot where, only an hour past, the amiable young Smiley Marrow and I had helped ourselves to various edibles in the ice box.  For a few moments I busied myself returning the pastries and jellies that we had horded to their proper cabinets.  Then I returned to my seat.  I awaited the daylight.

            Shortly after I assumed my post, Mrs. Hudson descended the stairs from Holmes's study, passing the kitchen on her way to bed.  Her eyes were red and swollen, her hair still disheveled from her airplane ride, and her cheeks wet and blotchy.  But she was still the sweetest, loveliest creature I ever met—aside, of course, my own late wife, Mary.

"Are you alright?" I ventured, catching her eye as she passed.  I rose from my chair.  "Oh, my dear Mrs. Hudson, that blackguard dreadfully upset you, didn't he?"  My blood rose sharply to a boil at the thought of James Moriarty's astounding capacity to damage the most righteous of people. 

            She regarded me as if measuring the degree to which honesty might serve her—she was not a woman to put on dramatic airs for pity.  At last, as I expected, she plastered a firm smile, shrugged daintily, and assured, "I am fine, Dr. Watson.  I just need to wash off my face and get some rest."  And with that, she disappeared to her room.

            I wondered if that smile were washed off, as well, once she was safely hidden behind her door.

            Daybreak came at last; I found myself having slumped in slumber against the kitchen table.  I had, to my dismay, collected a remarkable puddle of drool on the flower-print tablecloth, when Holmes came floating into the room.  Though his every move oozed languidness, his face was sharp with decision. 

            "Watson, good to see you are rested," he remarked, with a refreshing degree of his usual wryness.  "I only hope the same can be said of Mrs. Hudson."  He snatched up a biscuit from the basket by the stovetop, wolfed it down, and made for the coat rack in the foyer.  "I'm out for some air this morning."

            I stood and followed him.  I had expected him to do this, and had resolved to take action.  I was through waiting for action on his part, and exclusion on mine.  "Let's go then, shall we?" I remarked, briskly seizing my own hat and coat.

            Holmes paused, the front door halfway open.  "We?"

            "Yes.  I'm coming to visit the cemetery, and Elizabeth's grave, too."

            " . . . Why, Watson.  Your powers of deduction astound me."  He smiled, in that gruffly doting way that told me that he had reluctantly conceded to my will.

            Within fifteen minutes in the speedy little Benz, we arrived at the spot, a quiet, nearly rural outskirt of London, the air thicker inside the gates with peace, grief, and many-faceted history.  I hung respectfully back while my friend advanced to his lover's grave, and allowed him to commune silently with her memory.  He knelt on the frost-tipped sod, hands on each side of her tombstone, head bowed, for a great many minutes.  He had brought one of the few fresh-cut daisies that Moriarty had not destroyed in his expression of jealous pathos the night before; now he rested it gently at the foot of Elizabeth's marble-engraved name.  "My beloved," I thought I heard him murmer, touching the "E" with tenderness that he rarely displayed.  Then, louder, unmistakably, "We two are alone still."

            The sight of this, of his one consistent inner wound, was more than I could bear.  At times like these, I found conversation soothing.  So I spoke.

"I wish you'd not impose such solitude on yourself, my dear Holmes.  There was a time when you vowed you'd do anything to avoid such a state of living."

            "Little good it did me," he mumbled, without turning to face me.  "It only made the sting of loss worse.  So perhaps I've chosen to overcompensate."

            His typical defense.  But today, for some reason—perhaps it was the sleep deprivation, or my own temperament growing ill with Holmes's bad habits—I was persistent.  I continued, less directly, but still on the point that, like a reverse phrenologist, I wished to drive into his brilliant skull rather than extract.  "Think on me, then.  I'm a widower, Holmes.  You remember that lovely lady, Emily Focus, from the case I entitled 'The Stormy Getaway?' " 

Holmes's eyes narrowed while he retrieved the metaphysical note card from his mind's vast file cabinet.  " . . . The one with the bank examiner father.  Moriarty tried to run us all over with his steam car and lure the horses into a faux tunnel with carrots."

"Yes, quite!"  I chuckled softly at the absurdity of our arch foe's increasingly desperate plots and gadgets; they were particularly amusing in retrospect, when my adrenaline level was not quite so acute.  "Well, I've been seeing Emily lately, Holmes, and my goodness, she's a charming little creature. . ."

            "What of it?"  He turned on me like a cobra, fangs sinking in.  His nostrils curled in disgust.  "Oh, bah.  I see.  Do you plan on discarding me, Watson—is a pretty face more entertaining?"

I felt my lips moving, but could not synchronize my voicebox to suit their purpose.  "H-Holmes," I stammered, "the courtship of a woman does not mean I'll abandon my friends, nor does it make any changes in my life beyond my endurance, and that's . . . well, dash it, what I'm trying to tell you is . . . that's something you'd do well to recognize . . ."

My companion seized blades of tiny, fresh grass, barely sprouted among the soupy, late winter earth, tore them maliciously from their roots, as he spoke. "Of all the silly ways to pass your time—you, a distinguished professional, when you could be better entertained and exceedingly more useful helping me!"

"My dear fellow," I gritted, holding steadfastly to my patience, "must you constantly abuse the amorous affairs of others simply because such a sentimental connection holds no attraction for you?"

"I never said that I was not interested in such a thing," he mumbled, absently wiping grass stains from his shirt sleeves.  "You yourself have detected that truth, only seconds ago."

            "Well, considering the acid in your tone, I assumed that . . ."

            "Never assume anything." 

            " . . . Right you are." 

We fell still for some time, the rain tickling our eardrums—and the whiskers of my rather brush-like moustache.  I sneezed.

"You know, Holmes," I ventured into his silence, wiping my nose, "those years I spent in Kensington with my Mary . . . they were . . ."

            "Short," he supplied, gliding my sentence gracefully to the side of his point.  Then, catching my face out of the corner of his eye, he added more gently, "Far too short, my dear friend.  And she a marvelous bride to have, too, I recall clearly.  Despite all my railing against marriage, I'll give Mary Watson, nee Morstan, that.  As beautiful as Maud Bellamy, as brilliant as The Woman.  Forgive my . . . brashness."

            "So you understand the sheer devotion that is the fruit of the rare, nevertheless very real, very proven, cases of matrimony."  For a moment I dared to hope happiness on my reclusive young friend.

            "Of course, Watson.  But I must weigh my own experience of love against that of others.  What is perfectly plausible for other men is but a shadow, a myth, for me.  I have cut myself off from it.  I have removed my capacity to grasp it—amputated it, as it were.  Quite prudently, my dear Watson, for it interrupts the useful flow of logical and methodical reasoning that behooves my profession—feeling is not just a luxury for me, it is a gangrenous limb."  He set his jaw, gray eyes flickering with untold yet plain resolve. 

            "Holmes, heed me, I beg you." And now I rushed in where angels quite literally feared to tread, wringing my hands about my handkerchief, shifting my knees in the cemetery sod. "Five fully-lived minutes with a person that you cherish is worth never seeing that person again.  So it was with me . . . and with you."

            His gaunt hands traced the smooth marble inlays and engraved letters of Elizabeth Hardy's name.  "I do not understand."  But he understood completely. 

            Thus I persisted.  "If you could spend the time that you spent with Elizabeth again, knowing that you could still lose her to . . ."

            My friend's voice hardened with a hatred that chilled me.  "To him," he supplied, vapor trailing from his lips like the herald of a dragon's angry breath-fire.  "To my 'trusted mentor.' "

            "Y-yes . . . to him . . . would you prevent yourself from loving her, simply to avoid the possible pain?  For it is what you are essentially doing now, bucking the possibility of another romance for fear of what sorrows could, but might never, come to pass."

            Holmes's eyes rose, skipping from tombstone to crypt, dancing over intricate, idle details in his surroundings.  He did not answer me directly.  Nervously he snatched a cigarette from his pocket, and a match, and defied the damp air to light the smelly thing.  "A reference is a curse and a blessing at once, Watson.  When I am engrossed in a case, every bit of the scenery, every acquaintance, noise, taste, and smell, all must be placed in the context of that case at hand.  Everything is categorized by 'clue' or 'not clue.'  That case is my reference point.  An experience of love—love of any kind—is very much the same thing.  Once it has occurred, any future relationship that is shared must have some contextual relevance to the past experience.  It, too, in a way, is categorized as in a criminal case.  And things, sweet and bitter acts, words, expressions of tenderness or resentment, that occur in these later relationships, well, my dear Watson, they eventually become clues as to the inevitable repetition of that relationship's conclusion.  Signals of a pattern, as it were, much like the undertones of an ominous Mendelssohn concerto which swells and returns to the first beat in the first measure."

"You have no faith," I spewed, quite mollified.

He continued suavely, as though I had not spoken, as if he himself did not care.  " I anticipate a relationship in reference to my past, just as I anticipate the answer to a case from linked and relevant clues.  You are vexed by my logic, dear friend, and you see me as a misanthrope, a bohemian hermit, but I assure you that it is just that: logic."

            "Skewed logic," I murmured crossly, "from the mind of a man whose father and chief mentor betrayed him and whose only lover died in her greenest years."  I dared then to speak up, loudly enough for the dead to hear.  "And do you then apply these 'repetitions,' these . . . these 'expectations' and 'conclusions' and bloody 'anticipations' to me, Holmes?  You see how you are wrong, how your generalizations blind you—for surely you don't expect me to whip out my army revolver and shoot Irene Adler dead as Professor Moriarty killed Elizabeth Hardy, from some vengeful grievance against you!  Surely you know my character is different from his, as no two men are alike, not even if they share a common acquaintance!  Why, it is quite obvious, Holmes, that circumstance, fortune and your own constitution govern how you will relate to your fellow man . . . and. . . and woman!" 

            "I know nothing of nothing about my fellow man or woman, beyond petty tidbits related to uncovering their most vile of deeds, and neither do you," Holmes breathed his bitter epitaph, like a softly hissing livewire.  He rose suddenly to leave me.  "There—that is my honest sentiment. Nor do I see what The Woman has to do with this conversation."

            "Holmes," I huffed, planting my hands on my hips, for I was too ill of temper, still squatted in the mud by Elizabeth's grave, to withdraw when it was wise, "for all his sinister ways, James Moriarty did have a point when he berated your unwillingness to see what is directly under that long, pointy nose of yours!"

            "Meaning?" my friend icily asked, hovering over me like the graveyard's commissioned specter.

            "Meaning you and Irene Adler are as impeccable a match as ever I've seen a man and woman.  You do not need to know everything about a new 'case,' for once in your life, before experimenting with it!  Bury that damned caution of yours and try her for a spot!  She has loved and lost, to a discourteous king and a deceased husband, and she is willing to try you!"

            "Watson!" he bristled, voice lifting to a rare hot tone.  "It is not as if she were some new pipe to smoke!  She is a superior woman, my natural opponent, and a goddess at that.  She is fire and my hands are already scorched enough for a lifetime.  Do not shove my fingers willingly into the oven—you are my friend!"

            "Yes," I retorted, having lost the heart to argue.  "Yes, I am."  My heart palpitated as, gathering my waistcoat and derby, I hazarded one last word of departure:  "And I have endured many burns on your account, with no reassurance at all."  I witnessed a singular switch in the fundamental role of our relationship, myself the man with the upper hand, confidently strolling from the scene of argument, Holmes staring long after me, with large, baffled, lost eyes, utterly tongue-tied.

            And I didn't enjoy it for a second.

            "But . . ." An ascetic voice trailed at my back, and immediately I stopped, wishing my words to oblivion, even hoping that he would have caught a logical error in my argument, and would horribly verbally lash me.  I would be relieved by an upbraiding just to know that he and his spirit were still intact.  But Holmes only queried, "you'll not stop enduring them anytime soon . . . will you?"

            My eyes stung at the question, not only at the fact that he doubted even my devotion to his often surly, trying person, but even more at the pathetic, uncharacteristic vulnerability with which the question was uttered.  I clenched my fists at my sides and restrained the urge to make a melodramatic statement, or a demonstrative gesture.  Instead I brusquely croaked, "I'll be at the Club, Holmes, if you need my assistance today in the Ripper case."

            "Very well, Watson."

            "Very well."

            "Until this evening and . . .."

            "And a dose of the 'seven percent solution?' " I snapped, less than charitably. 

            His reply was barely audible.  "And a cup of Mrs. Hudson's tea . . . my friend."

            I stiffened.  " . . .It's cold.  You'll catch influenza.  Go inside soon, Holmes."

            And I left him there.

"She was a phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;

A dancing Shape, an Image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

. . . A creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food;

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and

Smiles.

And now I see with eye serene

The very pulse of the machine;

A Being breathing thoughtful breath,

A traveler between life and death;

The reason firm, the temperate will,

Endurance, foresight, strength and skill;

A perfect Woman, nobly planned,

To warn, to comfort, and command;

And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of angelic light."

--William Wordsworth

            "It is not often that I am in the company of the dead," Sherlock Holmes threw at Irene Adler, his afternoon visitor.  He barked a short laugh, as though some secretly relished amusement had at last impishly erupted through his larynx.  "But I confess your immortal presence has nevertheless greatly brightened my mood!"

            Irene received his abrupt declaration, as she did all things upon which most would stumble, with the cool stride of a lioness.  "You speak of my reputed demise in the Alps?"  She favored her host with a regal smile, while removing her mink muff and striding to his sitting room window.  Her silken gown, a luminous pearl blue, swished at her ankles like a river tide.  She swirled into the window seat and welcomed herself to the liberty of loosening her marvelous warm-burnt dark hair.  Even the gesture of plucking hairpins from that sea of deep auburn was executed in a fashion so gracefully languid that the icy-witted detective was all but molten. 

            "I do indeed," he said, his chuckles ebbing, replaced, when he realized the gravity of the event, by a respectful degree of sobriety.  "I am sorry.  Sometimes my curiosity for such marvelous feats as your, ah, in cognito resurrection, bring out my most machine-like traits and somewhat mar my more human sympathies. I suppose it is my admiration of your successful 'death,' for I understand the difficulty of such a ruse: I too had to falsify my demise by traveling to Asia, Africa, and other exotic lands in hiding after the . . . incident . . . with Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls.  I . . . forget that you were the only real survivor of the frightening wreck, and that your husband . . ." 

            "No harm done," she interrupted with a fling of that same delicately dramatic fist, though her honey-rich voice grew hoarse.  "Perhaps you are easier to forgive for such brashness because your cross-examining nature reminds me so of Godfrey.  And your eyes . . . they are the same color as his.  How curious."  Her face crumpled for a moment, but was composed again with a steely resolve that he found admirable. "I miss him very much sometimes."

            "It is an honor to be counted among the few men that you admire," Holmes delicately replied, flinging himself as casually as possible into the armchair next to her.  "I should not like to be one of those that you disdain as unworthy.  I should not like to be a peer of Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, who sought to bring ruin to a superior woman, all because she rejected his offer that she retire from a blossoming career on the stage and pose as his illicit mistress."  He shuddered with the disgust of it.  "A very little man indeed, despite all his great, tall, hairy blond Nordic-ness.  I detest having ever met him, much less helped him against you."

            "Ah, Willie . . ." Now it was Irene's turn to laugh, a low, slow, sultry noise that climbed up a scale much like an operatic trill.  Holmes watched her, leaning closer with her every breath as though mesmerized.  She grinned at him, and he leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, his cheeks warming ever so slightly as she continued.  "He caused me enough pain to help me to appreciate just how noble and pleasurable a good man is, much like a spoiled child next to a knight from Camelot.  But he did little to ruin me.  It was James Moriarty before him who contributed to my inability to wed him—although admittedly not single-handedly, for there were centuries of political intrigue that even the 'Napoleon of Crime' could not have set underway which prevented a marriage between a Bohemian king and an American woman . . . however, ah, 'superior' she might be."  Here she bestowed another, more delighted grin on the man whom she counted among the worthy, and his blush reached the scarlet of a tomato. 

            "Hmm," was all he could, noncommittally, muster.

            "I suppose," she continued, with a shrug, though there was darkness, dangerous sarcasm, in her tone, "that Professor Moriarty deserves my thanks for providing me with the singular opportunity to learn, at a very young age, of the hypocrisy and falsehood of most men, himself and King Willie included." 

            "Hmmmmm," Holmes repeated, only this time with a tone of angry conviction.  His fingers tightened like claws around the arms of his chair.

            "But to more pleasant matters," she crooned, reaching for his taut shoulder.  He jolted, eyes focusing on her face, and slowly relaxed his muscles.

            "Yes," he agreed, "and then, after that, to business."

            "Alright, my newfound barrister." Irene Adler flourished, tucking her legs up under the constrictive whalebone fence and seams that constituted her dress.  Despite the lack of comfortable accommodation with which her sex was plagued, she managed to appear quite relaxed indeed.  In control, as ever, of her situation.  "I bid thee ask me three questions today before we commence with the latest clues in the Ripper case."  This she spoke almost in song, her superbly wide-stretched contralto-soprano range boasting of itself in playful trills.

            He grinned at the sound, enthralled despite himself.  "Ah.  Very well.  Tell me about your operatic career."

            As logical as the question seemed, it took her aback.  She blinked, as if momentarily pained by a poignant memory.  Her neck inclined outward, as though the words were like the aroma of a delicious food in another room for which she hungered.  But then she regained herself.  "Ah.  My career in opera.  I have not thought on it much since I . . . since the circumstances surrounding Willie forced me to retire, and seek a more inconspicuous life."

            " . . . I know."

            " . . . Of course you do.  Very well, Sherlock.  I shall briefly outline my career.  I began as great a novice, a songbird fool, as the rest of the divas on the Continent—elbowing my way from chorus to chorus.  As ironic as it seems, I made my first break singing a Bohemian tune before the audience of none other than Antonin Dvorak, and was soon whisked away to La Scala in Milan.  There I learned the immeasurable value of versatility, before going on to Warsaw and at last to Prague, where I learned of the magical voice-strengthening powers of potions of calamus root, carob seeds, cinquefoil, frankincense, heliotrope . . ."

            "Oh, let me guess," he tossed another laugh, mocking delight in his eyes, "as well as honeysuckle, lavender, licorice water, oh, perhaps a touch of loosestrife?"

            "Why, yes!"  Irene cried, clapping her hands together, delighted at her admirer's keen, however idiosyncratic, knowledge of her profession.  "How good of you to have researched my passion!"

            Holmes shrugged.  "Only in the process of becoming educated to solve one of my many cases, Irene—do not give me undue credit for my courtship of you."

            "Courtship, sir?"  Her eyebrows rose.  "A surprising choice of words!"

            He averted his gaze, acquiring a sudden fascination with the cracks on the ceiling.  "Yes, well . . .I spoke to Watson this morning, and he put some peculiar ideas into my head . . ." 

            The adventuress slid close to her sleuth, a teasing fire in her own amber-brown eyes, and whispered so close that her breath tickled his inner ear, "What are we looking at?"

            He shuddered, unable to suppress the pleasure of her nearness.  "I am doing the interrogating, my dear Irene," he retorted, in a tone that was admirably stable for all her wiles.  "Next:  What was your favorite opera in which to perform?"

            "Ah!"  She giggled with the memory.  "Without a doubt, Bizet's masterful Carmen."

            "Ah, the avant-garde!  And in the country of my grandmother, her beloved France!  I should have known!"

            "Yes," she tsked, giving her hips a sole suggestive wiggle.  "You should have!  Perhaps you're slipping . . . your people come from France, do they?"

"Indeed.  I spent many summers there with my grandmother and learned to love it as she . . ."

Irene's eyes acquired an inquisitive luster matched only by the man with whom she spoke.  "Did you enjoy Paris?"  She cupped her face in her hands.    "It was the site of my honeymoon."

"Very much, Madam.  An atmosphere as teeming with threads of sinister deeds to solve as it was with flowers, lights, and sweet smells.  And yet . . .I was the only of my three brothers left behind in England when my parents were forced to go to France on account of . . .a certain scandal linked to my father . . ."

"Did that scandal involve a foreign lady's perfume lingering in your parent's bedsheets?  A dainty ring under the pillow that did not fit her finger?  A pair of fishnet knickers your mother would never wear, and you the only shoulder in your family on which she could cry, while your brothers perhaps chose loyalty to Daddy. . . ?"

He glared right at her, but his voice retained only a sentiment of true puzzlement.  "How did you know?"

She opened her mouth as if to speak revealingly.  But then the actress caught herself.  ". . . I need only be a woman to understand that, Sherlock.  You need know no more of my . . . younger days."

"You would ask me more of mine, however.  I can tell."

She sighed self-mockingly. "But ah, I am not the interrogator!"

            "No," he slyly smirked.  "I am."

"I am arrested and at your mercy, good my Lord, my solicitor, judge and jury!" she cried, though both of them well knew the absurdity of the notion of Irene Adler within any man's meshes.  In fact, she had acquired far more personal troves by extracting a few sentences from the man to whom she offered oodles of factual trifles—this opera house and that singing potion.  And they both knew it.

Nevertheless the primadonna faux-swooned, arms flexed gracefully around the detective's neck, mocking the melodrama of her own profession.  He reached for her, and she withdrew with a teasing, tittering laugh. 

"Good." He swept her arms back up his grip, far more tender, far warmer, than handcuffs.  "Then you'll permit me to ask why, now that 'Willie' thinks you're dead and has long since negated you as a threat to his marriage, you haven't in all these years returned to Briony Lodge, resurrected yourself, and your singing career with you."

            And for this sole query, Irene Adler was speechless.  And quite ruffled indeed.  Her cheeks flushed for the first time since Holmes could recall knowing her.    " . . . Irene?"  He loosed his grip.

            A listlessness fell over the diva, whose fingers went unconsciously to her throat, as though there were something tight around her windpipe.  "You are lucky that I am fond of you, or else I would not consent to answer that.  My operatic career is linked. . . .to . . . to memories of an unpleasant nature  . . . which I would avoid at all costs.  Memories of being a victim, a fool.  My career was robbed of me against my will, and I unable in all effort to stop it.  I do not like to be unable to command my destiny.  I would like to leave these things buried, Sherlock." Sharply she cast her eyes downward, controlling a sudden onslaught of emotion rare to her composed being.  Then something made her eyes come to flickering, intrigued life.  "Curious," she murmured.

            "Surrender does not well suit you, Madam," Holmes ventured, true regret creasing his brow.  Then he noticed her distraction, casting his eyes downward at his watch chain.  "Ah.  I see you noticed my trinket."

            "Yes, indeed.  Why on earth would you wish to keep a simple gold sovereign linked to your watch chain?"

            "How appropriately ironic," he chuckled, "for it was a gift from you."

            "From me?" she exclaimed.  "I do not fancy being toyed with, Sherlock, especially in an amorous manner!"  Then she scanned his countenance more keenly.  "You are being sincere."

            "Indeed."  Holmes paced the chamber back and forth before her, slowly and jauntily, like an alert, confident white-tail buck.  " Do you remember the bedraggled witness at your hasty Inner Temple bound wedding, on noon, in the year 1888?  The one you tipped with a single gold sovereign for his ready compliance on your behalf?"

            The opera star let out a genuine gasp of shock, her lovely eyes wide as cool crystal pools of deep gold whiskey.  "My God!  You were . . ."

            "Disguised to keep an eye on you for King 'Willie,' yes."

            She hooted a laugh, to unbridled, too raw and real to prettily suit any other than a bold American girl. 

And it enchanted him.

"Oh, Sherlock, how wickedly, deliciously peculiar!  Ho!  And I thought I was a step ahead of you when you were under my very nose!  Admirable, sir, most admirable!  So you did more to assist me than Willie, after all!  You enabled my hasty departure to America and France!"

            "Why, yes," he conceded, as though the thought had never occurred to him.  "How very satisfying."

            "And you have kept my token of gratitude ever since?"

            ". . . When I was certain it was the only part of you that I could ever claim . . . yes."

            "And Watson tells me that my photograph lies still in your drawer—the photograph meant for Willie."

            "That is correct, my dear Irene—a most treasured souvenir."

            She leaned forward, pressing her nose against his.  Quite seriously, she pouted, "Would the interrogator condescend to kiss his witness?"

            They regarded each other for a moment, noses scrunched together, eyes nearly crossed from proximity.  Then they burst into laughter—this time, in unison.  He was surprised at how good it felt. Their lips brushed cautiously once, twice, then met confidently, fiercely, and lingered. 

            "Condescend?" Holmes asked breathlessly, around caresses.  He combed his fingers through her hair.  "How can a man condescend to his equal?"

            "Right again, my sweet," Irene purred back.

            They halted at a thunderous knock on the door, by a hand meant for working class establishments—pubs or cabin doors on ships, rather than the dwellings of the respectable and the genteel.  "Mr. Holmes!"  two young male voices, thickened with Irish accents, lowed in nervous chorus. 

            Holmes rolled his eyes.  "Them already."

            "News, sir!"  A higher-pitched voice.

            Irene grinned.  "They're dear lads at heart."

            "News from the Professor, straight to your 'ands, m'lord!"  A gruffer voice, and another bang on the door.  "Open up, will ye?  So he don't skin us alive, eh?"

            "Sailors never fail to deliver pertinent messages, brother," the higher voice, meant to be subtle, chided quite audibly.  "Sailors never say die!"

"Shut up, Smiley!"  The gruffer voice.  "We're pirates, not 'sailors!' "

An indignant sniff.  "Same difference."

Now Irene giggled.

            "Mrs. Hudson is far too liberal these days with whom she allows upstairs," the accosted detective grunted.  He rose stiffly, lingering at the sight of Irene crouched over his chair. 

            She nodded him towards the door, grinning devilishly. "Do not despair:  This topic of discussion can be resumed with equal relish at a later time."

            He sniffed with self-satisfaction, straightening his bowtie, as though he had been informed that he had appropriately solved a mathematical equation. "Jolly good.  Come in, lads, and deliver your message instead of gabbing on the landing."

             The door swung roughly open, and Todd O'Toole and Smiley Marrow, clad in their usual smart pageboy attire, ambled inside.  Both, though they had resided for weeks in the forbidden lair of the enemy, still bore wide-eyed expressions, unused to being in Holmes's presence and not obliged to break into instant flight.

            Todd remembered his feebly sketched-in manners in Irene's presence, flinging off his cap.  "Beg pardon, miss."  He whipped a crisply folded set of documents from his overcoat pocket, offering it sternly to Holmes.  "Here, sir.  The Professor's been restless, so he went back to the library and filched some more old newspaper reports.  Got some new suspects, 'e did."  He shoved one stout little hand in his pocket, scratching the beard stubble under his pug nose with another. He awaited Holmes's response with patience bred from years serving under the equally eccentric mind and temperament of the mercurial Moriarty.

            The detective was indeed already thoroughly engrossed in the fifth or sixth page of the documents that had been handed to him, ejecting little "oos" and "hums!" and "hul-los!" every so often.

            Smiley, a man who had never grasped prudence, was less business-like.  He nearly dropped his cap while doffing it at the diva, giggled like a ten-year-old, flushed at his own childishness, and at last blurted, "So nice to see ye again, Ms. Adler!  You're such a looker, you are!"

            Irene curtsied, smiling charmingly, but Holmes bristled. 

            "Smiley!"  Todd hissed, mortified.

            The gawking pirate gulped, shifting weight, deciding to redirect his attention to the sleuth who already scowled at him. Thinking himself charitable, he bellowed, "Oh, sir, ye got lipstick on your face!"  Pointing indiscreetly at the red lip mark imprinted incriminatingly on Holmes's cheek, nonetheless.

             "Do I?" the detective snapped, trying to divert from the fresh flush in his face with brusqueness. 

The lad cocked his head, truly considering it.  "Oh, no, now that you've gone and turned all reddish, sir, it's blended right in with the rest of ye!"

Holmes's glare deepened. Irene erupted into laughter once more.  Smiley registered the malicious expression directed at his person, and looked quite ready to stick the proverbial tail between his legs and crawl into a corner.  "Oh . . . sorry."

            Todd covered his face in his hands.  "Sweet Jesus."

            "Enough, enough!" Irene crowed, wiping her wet eyes dry.  "To the matter!  What new information have we gathered?"

            "Quite a bit, actually," Holmes remarked, eyebrow risen.  "The Professor is to be commended for his typical obsessive thoroughness.  First we have threads of inquiry about the similarity between the Paris Maulings—speaking of the City of Lights, my dear," here he paused to pass a secret smile to Irene, "—and the Ripper crimes in London's Whitechapel District.  All fingers have been pointed at one James Kelly, an upholsterer by trade, escaped from an insane asylum and at large in Whitechapel before the Ripper slaughters began.  He left London after the mutilation of one Mary-Jane, the last proven Ripper victim, walked to the coast, embarked for Brussels and from there walked to Paris, where he remains, witnesses say, at large."

            Irene let out a low, unladylike whistle.  "Most convincing—and an astounding feat, to escape their clutches!  And this Miss Jane was killed in 1888?"

            "Yes, but her last name—her married name—wasn't Jane."

            "Oh?  What was it?"

            "Kelly."

             " . . . My God."

            Smiley shuddered, backing involuntarily to the door.  "Brute," the boy breathed.

            Irene nodded at him, her eyes softening with that same rare sympathy that she had directed at him before.  "More than a brute, a wife-killer:  a barbarian."

            "Ah," Holmes said, "but there are many barbarians in our world, my friends, and only one Jack the Ripper—who is, if I am not correct, most readily here in London—he could not still be loitering in Paris and have so recently made an attempt on Mrs. Hudson's life.  No—James Kelly may be wreaking havoc on the Continent, but he is not the prime suspect, at least, on British soil.  Mrs. Hudson herself can attest to that."

"Brute," Smiley repeated, through his teeth. 

  "But he could be an accomplice," Todd offered, anxious to validate something of his ill-tempered master's research. 

"Yes, that is possible," Holmes acknowledged.  "For there is a most marked similarity between the Paris and London killings:  Both seemed to occur on various Saint's Days, and in the geographic pattern of the chi-ro:  an ancient Christian symbol for the Christ symbol on the cross, marked by an 'X' through a 'P.' "

"Most peculiar," Irene breathed, eyes afire with intrigue.  "What could fuel such perverse religious zeal?"

"Maybe he wants to cleanse society, or some such nonsense," came another voice from the door, thin and high and quivering, that of a woman. The feline face of Katherine Ferrell peered inside, and at last, like Irene before her, Sebastian Moran's fiancée waltzed confidently inside the laboratory/study swishing a bushel basket.  Testily she pursued, "I was looking for Marie, wantin' to call on her and give her some of these fresh apples from the market, but she's not downstairs.  If she ain't up here, I have it had, Mr. Holmes!"

            His eyes locked on her.  Anyone unfamiliar with his carefully controlled facial expressions would not have recognized the infinitesimal smirk that materialized on his lips.    " 'I have it had?' A peculiar way to speak standard English, Miss Ferrell.  Reverting the direct object and the verb?  Why, it seems almost . . . French."

            Her eyes became glittering green daggers.  "Oh, does it, Mr. Holmes?  An' 'ow would you know?"

            "My grandmother is French.  And so, at times, is your 'Irish' accent."

            "Well, I never . . . Look, you arrogant, nosy loiterer, I'll find her myself, I will!"  And with that, the little barsinger whisked herself and her produce down the steps.

            "What was that for, Sherlock?"  Irene queried, mildly amused at the plucky girl that so fiercely departed.  "You quite frightened her off!"

            "Exactly, my dear Irene," he replied, and that tiny smile broadened.

"The detective spun on me like a striking cobra.  He fixed me in his cold, piercing eyes while I froze in horror at my hubris.  He seemed to see through me to the very soles of my shoes; indeed, to my very soul.  The intensity of his inspection invited not a blush, but a quiver.  My disguise seemed to peel away under the eye of the master of disguise . . . Suddenly Mr. Holmes raised his hand to his hatbrim and bowed.  His grey eyes . . . were alight with suppressed merriment.  'And a very good morning to your mistress Irene, wherever she is.' . . . As for the King, he left later, walking stiffly . . .I rather suspect that a man would so look at a box that contained a treasure forever lost to him . . . I went upstairs to wash off my false face, thinking how much time and heartache it would save if we could do as much so easily with others."—from Good Night, Mr. Holmes, by Carole Nelson Douglas.

Downhill collapsed the behavior of the two geniuses with whom I worked following the dramatic altercations of the night that Mrs. Hudson and the Professor had gone to the London Airfield.  Like a landslide.  Not even the new presence of romance in the form of Irene Adler, despite my urgings, could assuage Holmes's febrile spirit at the swelling tide of a vexing case, and Moriarty, well . . . he had unspeakable demons of his own.

Foolishly, we attempted to return the Professor, Moran, Marrow, and O'Toole to life at Baker Street.  Mrs. Hudson rigidly continued her chores about the house and her errands out, her aquamarine eyes daring Holmes or Moriarty to bid her stay confined.  They let her go.

Or perhaps they just weren't paying attention to her anymore.  Both had sought alternate lovers:  the kind that repulsed me.  Holmes's mind seemed insatiable for distractions following that night, for stimulation to his dangerously idling mind, while Moriarty, his wits far too excited already, did everything he could to feel number. 

A few days after the criminals moved back in with us, Holmes and Moriarty grew unusually testy with each other about a dissonant opinion of the age of the Ripper's usual victims.  Both restrained themselves from coming to blows once again by storming off to rooms on opposite sides of the boarding house.  I sat in my armchair the entire time, reading the newspaper, while Sebastian rolled his eyes and plopped into the window seat, munching a biscuit that he'd stabbed through with one of his knives.  An hour passed.  Both men returned—both in utter states of disarray.  I was appalled at how the two great minds of London each battled for ravaging their senses the most thoroughly.  Was it really that intolerable to possess such a complex brain?  So excruciating that something needed to dull it?

Holmes entered and began pacing in circles about the room, face a freakish mask of frozen-stiff shock and hypervigilance, ascetic and yet wired like a telegraph cable.  Moriarty, on the other hand, crashed into the room and lurched around the zombie-stalking paths of Holmes, crowing incoherent remarks mixed with giggles that danced at the edge of madness.  "My dear Sherlock," I discerned amidst his slurs, "you are positively besieged with cocaine, are you " -–hiccup-- " not?"

"And you, sir," Holmes retorted in an eerie monotone, "are drunk."

"Oh!" the Professor hooted.  "Oh, brilliant deduction, old boy, how do you do it?"  He flopped back on the couch, still shaking with loud and nearly intolerable mirth.  "God bless you with detoxification soon!"

"And you with sobriety!" my friend droned back, his pacing growing faster.

"You two are going to dreadfully disturb Mrs. Hudson with your silliness," I snapped.  "Professor, take a nap and rid yourself of all that liquor before she hears you!"

"Do what he says, James," Sebastian injected, patting his friend's shoulder.  "For your own good."

Moriarty kept giggling.  "It's not as though I could make her hate me any more than she already does," he drawled, nevertheless spreading his gangly body out on our couch.  He grabbed one of our fat-stuffed pillows and sniggered into it, lazily licking his lips.  Or . . . it happened so quickly, but something in his face changed for a moment—a spasm, a grimace, almost crumbling into tears, but it vanished and he was laughing at himself again.  His eyes slid shut.  His snickers died down and his breathing began to slow.  Then he was snoring.  His monocle slid off his nose, and Sebastian caught it before it hit the floor.

 "What do ye do with a drunken sailor, what do ye do with a drunken sailor . . .?" In a tone halfway between sardonic and soothing, the Colonel murmured the old pub tune, slipping his hand into the back pocket of Moriarty's pants, and pulled out two different bottles of whiskey.  ". . .Early in the the mor-nin' . . ."  Both empty.  "Christ," he groaned.  "He really went for it today.  Something must be vexing him inside his head again."

His words of concern were so familiar to me.  I glanced at Holmes, who still darted about the study.  My friend was spending his energy so violently that he was perspiring.  I turned to my fellow veteran for some guidance. "I have the dickens of a time getting Holmes to rid himself of that damned cocaine needle," I whispered to him as he returned to his seat.  "Is it as hard for you to try to keep your resident genius from destroying himself?  Or am I a worry wart?" 

"No, old mate," he chuckled, "you're compassionate.  I always lacked the care that you have for other people . . . somehow.  Back at Eton, and Oxford, I acquired impeccable letters for the sense of control over myself, the superiority, you know?  The perfect scholarship.  The same in my early military campaign.  And I . . . in India, you know, on the battlefield, leading those First Bangalore Pioneers . . . I liked the feel of blood in my hands, but you grieved it.  I liked having power, you . . . you restored it, you sustained it, in others."  Fiercely, he turned, glowering out the window, a caged tiger with its paws on hot coals burning beneath the floor, jerking his legs nervously and huffing on a cigarette.  At last he shrugged, flicking and snapping his fingers, a nervous habit he had picked up in his many years dealing quickly as a card sharp.  "Maybe that's why I bruise people and you patch then up.  In any case, yes.  Every time he gets some new scheme and he can't get it out of his mind, and he craves sleep, he drinks like this.  Horrible watching such an incredible mind wasting itself."

I nodded.  "Thank you . . ." Then I experimented with a phrase long lost between myself and the man before me:  "Thank you, friend."

He grinned, and saluted me as in days of old.  I almost forgot the other man—the beast, the assassin—lurking somewhere beneath that gentlemanly, amiable visage.  "Don't mention it," said that self-schismed buddy of mine.

Our efforts at keeping the landlady undisturbed, however, seemed too little too late. Mrs. Hudson stomped briskly into the study, carrying tea for two.  Her face was a stormcloud.  Holmes let out a startled cry—for anything, in his state, could have set him leaping up to the ceiling—and jumped behind his table, spilling glass pipettes and odorous, hazardous chemicals onto her boarding house floor.  When he saw it was only the landlady, he hissed a sigh, as though Mrs. Hudson had caused the splattered chemicals and shattered glass all over his rug.  The sound of her footsteps was so sharp that it even woke Moriarty from his drunken stupor.  He cast her an indifferent, bleary-eyed glare.  Then, almost defiantly, he belched, and let his head thud back against the pillow.

She readily returned his scowl.  The look she produced was far more intimidating than any stare the hardened criminal could have, in sobriety, conjured.  "This," she declared at last, "is intolerable!" 

"Hear, hear," I groaned. 

"Mrs. Hudson," Holmes droned, crawling out from under his lab table.  Some of the chemicals seeped up on his legs, bleaching little white spots all over his trousers. "I'll thank you to hand me my cup."  A long slender hand reached for the tray from the ground, but she snatched it from reach. 

"I don't think so, Mr. Holmes.  You're well aware that I put up with most of your strange shenanigans, heaven help me, I even find them endearing.  But this habit, sir, is disgusting.  You are hurting yourself, and I won't stand for it.  Look at your arm!"  Our landlady then snatched out at Holmes's reaching hand and grasped his wrist, nodding at the rivulets of dried blood trickling from the countless punctures in his forearm—the countless injections.  Holmes cocked his head at her rebelliously, and set his jaw.  He was unmoved.

"Aaah!"  An irritatingly brash voice interrupted.  "So those drinks are for you an' me, muh darlin'?" Moriarty, thinking himself quite subtle in his flirtation, winked at the widow from his crash spot on the couch.  A strange light had come into his inebriated gaze.  "B'cause I jus' know how much you'd die to spend more time with me after th'other night!"  Now sarcasm rendered the Professor's remarks caustic, even through his drunkenness.  Again that strange giggling gurgled up his throat—though he was not smiling at all.  Instead, he looked anguished.   It made bumps rise along my legs and forearms, that sound, for I had never heard laughter that simultaneously lacked mirth. 

But Sebastian seemed utterly unmoved by the noise.  Something in his lapis lazuli eyes died in that moment. He snuffed out his cigarette, doing everything he could to seem distracted. 

Mrs. Hudson was not softened by Moriarty's suffering—not today.  Her cheeks went hot with indignation.  "You are quite incorrect, sir.  Dr. Watson and I shall be sharing tea this afternoon.  Apparently he's the only sane person left in this house."

"Farewell, then, my Lady Scorn!" Moriarty roared.  "Keep lashing my hide, o cruel mistress mine!" A snarl curled up his muzzle; he tried to stand up, but stumbled and fell back into the cushions.

A jolly drunk became a mean one in the span of five seconds.

For Smiley and Todd chose to make their typical uncannily untimely appearance at that moment.  The lanky lad shoved his head inside the door to the study, his stout friend at his heels, and warbled, "Professor, what's the matter? We was downstairs takin' a nap, and we heard all this shoutin'. . ."

"So what?" Moriarty turned on his most loyal employee with the angry frenzy of which, to the people of London, he was legendary.  "So the hell what, Smiley?  What's yer bloody gaw-damned problem now?  Isn't it enough that, to avenge you,  I'm living with these inhospitable lice. . ."  here a charming gesture at Holmes and myself, the apparent insects in question . . .  "Isn't it enough that I'm sorry your mother's dead because the Ripper hates me? Isn't it?"  For the first time since the joint Ripper venture began, he was behaving as I knew him, as a demon, a tyrant, a man of tireless cruelty, biting off the sparse few hands that were kind enough to feed him. Not the confused, vulnerable man with a boy's wide eyes, blushing and stammering at the sight of a pretty widow—no, only his savage self remained now.  "Isn't it?  Answer me!"

Smiley was speechless.  " I. . . d-didn't mean to . . . to bother ye, sir."  His eyes were glassy, spilling over with pain.  From a young man who was so childlike, so apparently benevolent, it was all the more pitiful to watch. 

Todd popped his head in the door.  Peeking through under Smiley's arm, he mustered notable sauciness and snapped, "T'ain't no bloomin' need to be vexed, Boss, we was only seein' if you was alright!" 

"Aw, Toddie, how stupid can you be?"  Moriarty persisted, spittle flying from his lips, fangs bared.  Smiley's sorrowful docility only further agitated the criminal; he leaned over the couch arm, a drunken, rabid jaguar tensing its haunches to lunge.  The trails of his cloak caught under his knees, pulling him down and strangling him at the neck.  His eyes were panicked, trapped, as he tore it off and flung it to the study carpet.  "Do I look alright?  Have I ever?  Imbeciles!  Why don'cha borrow Watson's army revolver and rid the rest of us of your idiocy once n' for all. . ."

"That's enough!"  Mrs. Hudson cut in like a surgical sieve, stamping her foot.  "I simply can not tolerate the way you speak to these boys!  You apologize to them, especially poor Mr. Marrow, right now!"

Moriarty tilted his head at her, eerily, his dilated pupils and the strange sheen in his whites adding to his mad bearing.  "Begg'r pardon?  You actually speakinna me?"

 "Un fortunately I am.  For shame!  They revere you like a god and look how you abuse their feelings in return!"  She loomed in his face, and they were, of all intolerable ironies, within kissing distance of each other.  But by her grimace, the smell on his breath rendered the possibility most unpleasant.  And by other events, most unlikely. 

He continued to stare at her, immobile, the feverish snake-swaying of his head even stilled.  The only evidence that he had heard her lay in the giddy sneer that he sported.  He suppressed another belch, thrusting his head back mockingly.  "Urm.  Weh-heh-hell, then! Wuuzat an order, Madam?"

"No, sir, it was an ultimatum.  The conditions of remaining in this household."

"HA!  You're full of horse shit, you know!  You really want me, you do!"  Again that laughter.  His voice grew hoarse, and his arms flailed like a child's during a tantrum, over his head.  "You do, you have to, or I'll crumble, ya see!" False sweetness oozed into his voice. "I'm sooooo sorry, Smiley, for being irritated by your bloody simperin'!"

Smiley did not respond, for he and Todd had already left the room—fleeing down the stairs.

" Now, Marie, love," Moriarty continued, it seemed, on quite a roll.  " Have some tea with your dear James! I'll apologize to you all you want for anything I ever did, m'lady, just come sit in m'lap and make me happy for a spell!"  Here he spread his thighs and smacked them, beckoning her, throwing his head back and trumpeting one last laugh. "Mad, right?  The Professor's mad to think Marie Hudson would condescend to it even for a minute!" 

My blood boiled.  I sputtered on my rage, looked incredulously to Holmes, but he had paced right up to the far wall of the study, his head thudding against it frantically, over and over; indisposed as he was, he had probably not heard a word of Moriarty's impertinent verbal attack. 

But as it turned out, neither of us needed take action to recover Marie Hudson's honor.  "James, stop that," Sebastian cut in, with a voice like a low-pitched ice pick.  He grabbed Moriarty's arms and forced them to his sides, every bit the soldier in battle, the bodyguard, the great tiger lunging.  "Trust me.  You'll really regret this later if you don't stop."

Moriarty stopped and blinked at his best friend then, and for the first time that hour, some clarity seemed to return to his eyes.  "I . . . did I actually . . .say . . . ?"  He bumbled over a few bewildered words before falling silent. 

"No, no!  Do you hear me?" Mrs. Hudson shouted back, slicing her arm through the air between us.  Her screams were so vicious that Holmes at last ceased his head-thudding and glanced our way, vaguely intrigued.  I could have smacked him across the face for his continuous, unconditional sangfroid.

"No more atonement, Colonel Moran!" the widow continued.  "Don't shield me from your friend, and don't waste your time giving him a chance to quit being a brutish pig!"  She stomped up to the couch, clutched the cushions from underneath Moriarty's hindside, and, in one swift motion, jerked them out from under his body.  He flopped off and collapsed on the rug in a mortified heap.  "Get out!" she snarled, in his stunned face, stooped over his fallen figure.  "I want you out of my house now! I'm going into Watson's room, and if you aren't gone by the time I'm back, Professor, then I swear to heaven above I'll call for Inspector Lestrade!" 

With that she seized my arm and marched me out to the open window of my bedroom.  I confess a small token of smug satisfaction at the sight of both the geniuses' stung faces. 

Then they came at us together, choreographed snakes striking.  "No, bloody hell, no!"  Moriarty bellowed, struggling to stand upright and pursue us, as Mrs. Hudson shut the door in Holmes's faster approaching face.

Moriarty, his irrevocably slain pride, and his men remained in their own lodgings following that afternoon.  It was for the best, Mrs. Hudson constantly reaffirmed, almost more to herself than to us, her tenants.  Nevertheless, Holmes admitted to missing the Professor's readily accessible second opinions when he stumbled upon another clue in the Ripper case.  When we asked her what passed between herself and the criminal, however, our landlady kept her lips sealed.  So we left the incident where we thought it belonged:  in the past.

The next afternoon, Irene Adler expressed an urgent need to depart from our company and visit some of Godfrey Norton's relatives in France to settle some final financial accounts.  She would, she swore, planting a long, lingering kiss on Holmes's mouth in front of us all, return as soon as possible. He blushed, leaving her lipstick smeared across his face, and conceded.  She smiled and left us there, gawking after her as usual.  

A fortnight passed.  One morning Holmes asked me to run to the street market to fetch some of his favorite fruits and a box of cigarettes.  I obliged, taking a drive to the same street that harbored The Reflector's Pond bookstore and the best apple produces in London—and, I discovered, our beloved street urchin, Polly. 

I was debating the price of a bushel of Golden Delicious apples when a tug on my sleeve directed my attention downward.  There the plucky lass stood, grinning at me.  "Got some interesting news for you, Dr. Watson," she giggled.

"Oh?" My eyebrows rose in mock surprise.  "Do tell, my dear, do tell!"

"Two people you know are in this same market square.  The first is that sour-faced Professor guy."

I laughed outright, then whispered in her ear, "Moriarty?"

"Yes, sir!  And the second, I'm not sure, but I think it's Mr. Holmes's sweetheart."

"His sweetheart?" 

"Oh, well, the one he pretends he doesn't like but really does." Polly's little nose wrinkled in thought. "You know, the fancy lady that sometimes dresses like a boy the way I do."  She tipped her cap and winked at me.

My blood froze.  "You can't mean Irene Adler."

"The very one," a raspy male voice accosted me from behind.  Polly balked, putting up her tiny fists, a hateful glare on her cherub face, and at once I realized that we were once again "graced" by the presence of Professor Moriarty.  I turned around to see him clothed in suspenders, rags stuffed in his pocket, a lamp-lighter's rod in his left hand and a wrapped up raw salmon in his right. 

I did not bother to ask where he had acquired his latest elaborate costume, for I was far too shocked by the news that I had just heard.  "But, Professor, she's in France!"

"Then perhaps she has a twin sister," he snapped, pointing at the door to the Reflector's Pond.  There stood Ms. Adler, in her walking clothes of course, but by now I could recognize her in any appearance, much as I could my boarding house roommate and disguise connoisseur.

She did not see us; she was too engrossed talking in shifty, sneaky tones to a tall, thin young man, clean-shaven and well-dressed, with a nervous, wiry countenance.  In his pocket was a watch, golden and brazen in the sunlight.  On occasion he would burst into laughter, and she would only giggle and bat her eyelashes back, or, if too many pedestrians were present, roughly swagger from hip to hip and chortle with equally manly bravado.

The man was none other than James Stephen. 

"So it is her, eh?  What do you make of that, Dr. Watson?" Polly murmured.

"I'm not sure, child," I grunted, handing her a sixpence.  "But take this as my blessing if you can go up to her and casually derive in conversation what she is doing here in England.  Do not ask straight out—just casually, there's a good girl." 

The chipper urchin saluted me and skipped over to the Reflector's Pond.  In the interests of inconspicuousness, Moriarty and I merged into a sweeping new crowd of customers at the apple stand, and continued talking.

"So she did lie to you," the Professor half-groaned.  "If that woman's not being fully honest with us, Watson, we can bet on a whole new slew of complications in this case." 

"I believe Holmes is acutely aware of the possible risks of working with an individual whom he has deemed 'The Woman,' Professor," I chuckled.  "After all, perhaps it would be nice to give her the benefit of the doubt, considering we're doing the same with you." 

Moriarty bristled.  "Well, I say!  Is this the thanks I get for sticking my neck out and alarming you?"

"No, no, of course not." I began to sweat under my bowtie again.  "Far from it.  It's just that, well, dash it, you know—examining the facts and all before drawing conclusions."

"That is precisely why I have alerted you.  We must take this to Holmes.  I believe he's being blinded by his amorous affections and he needs to consider the possible dangers of even his allies . . ."

"Now wait a blasted minute, Moriarty!" I huffed.  "A couple of weeks ago, you berated him for ignoring his feelings for Irene Adler, and now you criticize him for opening up to her?" 

"Falling in love and being a blithering idiot about a woman are two separate things," he hissed back. "There is so much that we can't have in a lover, even when we want it more than anything . . ."  His eyes roved for a moment, and I know his mind had wandered to the thoughts of a woman not present on the street—hopelessly, in fact, out of his reach.

"There is a difference between you two, you know," I shot back, gathering courage, resolute to defend my friend.  "Holmes deserves the woman that he is 'blinded' by."

Moriarty snarled.  He rose his lampstick over his head, aiming for my skull.

"Hullo, now!  Calm down, boys, peace!"  To my relief, Sebastian Moran—ironically, the man among us usually most given to losing his temper— appeasingly sidled up between us from among the crowd.  He was clad once more in his feminine garb, lipstick and all.  "This doesn't necessarily mean anything either way.  Why don't we take it to Mr. Holmes?"

I greeted my old army mate with a clap on the back.  Many passers-by stared at my somewhat rough treatment of what they saw as a lady.  I caught myself and put my arm around his waist instead.  He chortled at my clumsiness as I spoke.  "Capital, Sebastian—as soon as I get the latest report from a Baker Street Irregular."  I scanned the area for Polly's return.  Soon she popped out of a group of grapefruit-purchasing nuns, mischief and triumph in her smile.  "She never went to France, nor planned to," she said.  "But she keeps talking to that bookshop owner like he's her best friend.  Blowing kisses at him and flirting and all.  And she keeps talking about the 'operation,' whatever that means." 

My stomach turned inside out.  'Thank you, Polly," I managed to croak.  "You're a good girl." 

Moriarty rubbed his temples, slowly and wearily.  "Oh, curses," he seethed. 

"Right, then.  Good day! Thanks for the treasure!"  Polly ignored him, winked at me again, and darted off, melting back into the crowd.  On her way, she passed a man carrying at least a dozen enormous fish.  He was large, muscular and pale, clad in workman's gear.  She bumped into him, sending his wares flying.  "Damn it, girl!" he cried, in a voice that was much higher-pitched than I would have expected; perhaps it was because his breathing, as he spoke, was shallow and labored—almost rheumatic.  What shocked me even more than that was his ability to discern, even with her male costume, that Polly was female.  He seized her arm and shook it so hard that she cringed.  "Why don't you watch where you're going?"

"Why don't you stop terrorizing children?" I barked, abandoning my company and marching up to the fisherman.  The stench of his produce was unbearable even from a distance.  "Let the girl go now, or I'll call a policeman."

The man's entire demeanor changed as though with a snap of my fingers.  "Oh, forgive me, sir," he wheezed, letting Polly go, even petting her head. His grammar structure, for his shabby appearance and dress, was remarkably sound. "I've had a devil of a morning with these, and I'm all but destitute--destitute.  I need to get them to my stand within the next hour—the next hour, sir."  His eyes, I noticed, were so pale that I could see the reflection of my face—every hair of my moustache. It was terribly disconcerting.  But then he smiled, quite charmingly, and turned to Polly.  "Little girl, take one of my fish, any that you like.  Consider it my apology."  Then he handed her a razor blade from his overalls pocket.  "Here, I'm afraid you'll have to gut it yourself.  Take this.  Keep it, eh?"

She giggled.  "Oh, blood and guts!  I love it!  I'm going to be a doctor someday, just like Watson here!"

I chuckled indulgently.  "A lofty goal," the fisherman laughed with me.  "I feel so guilty for being cross with such a nice, smart young lady, lady."

"But won't you need your razor back?"  Polly mumbled, her cheeks gone rosy from the stranger's praise.

"Nah, sweetheart," he shrugged, stroking his chin.  "I don't shave all that often."

"Pardon me, sir," Moriarty shot suddenly between us, ferocity and suspicion in his voice and gait.  He shoved his wrapped-up fish into the stranger's face.  "The fish you sold me is not fresh.  I want another one."

I flashed him a confused look and opened my mouth to protest his rudeness to such an unexpectedly kind man.  But behind me, Sebastian grabbed my shoulder and squeezed it for silence. 

The man blinked back at Moriarty, unfazed.  "Why, certainly, sir.  I am sorry that you found the quality of my products unsatisfactory."  He lifted one of the fish on his wire up and held it out to Moriarty.

"Very much so," the Professor growled, snatching it, and tossing the other one into the stranger's arms.  "Tell me, what's your name, so that I can remember to avoid you?"

"Dearest, don't be rude," Sebastian whined in a remarkably feminine voice, feigning embarrassment as he took Moriarty's arm. 

"No, it's quite alright," our new friend interrupted, still smiling, though he was grinding his jaw as though suppressing anger.  "Alright.  Alright, quite.  It's Joseph Barnett."

"Thank you," the Professor hissed, excusing himself and his 'wife.'   As he passed, he tossed me a quick, fierce look of import. 

I frowned.  That name was indeed vaguely familiar.  Though I could not seem to place it, I felt an immediate twinge of unease in the pit of my stomach.  Then I looked up towards the Reflector's Pond again:  Irene Adler had spotted me, and she was staring at me, eyes wide.  One of her hands was raised, as if she could not quite decide whether to call me to speak to her or not.  I pretended not to see her.  "Come, Polly." I took the child's hand and hastily led her away.  "Thank Mr. Barnett again.  We have other places to be." 

            I gave Moriarty, Moran, and the dauntless little Polly a lift to Baker Street, and deposited the girl at our doorstep, on soil upon which I felt was safe for her to tread. Moriarty's other employees, Marrow and O'Toole, had spotted and followed us home; they greeted Polly on their way into the garage, joining us.  Then we men charged up the stairs from the car garage at 221 B, bursting with our many-faceted news.  Todd and Smiley balked when they saw their boss hesitate upon reaching the first floor of the boarding house.  " . . .Perhaps I should not be here," Moriarty mumbled, glancing meekly towards the kitchen, where we could here the clatter of dish washing—the labors of Mrs. Hudson. 

            I had no answer to that question; I had no answer to the things that our strong young landlady pleased.  Only she did.  "Just don't get too comfortable until you are sure," I offered with a shrug.

            "Sound advice, Watson," Holmes injected, descending the first few steps from his study.  "Nevertheless, Professor, I should prefer that you and Sebastian did indeed join me upstairs to tell me the things that you're so eager to tell."

            Moriarty's jaw dropped.  "How did you know that we . . .?"

            "Pshaw, an elementary deduction!" Holmes lifted an explanatory index finger.  "I simply noted the heaviness and speed of your footsteps.  Only a man with a great secret to tell can run at such speeds and risk his neck against my garage's wet, ice-encased stairwell."

            The Professor's eyed narrowed; his annoyance at being bested was transparent.  "Indeed," he grunted, mounting the stairs towards Holmes with marked, almost sarcastic slowness. 

Sebastian followed him.  "Have a seat, boys," he tossed over his shoulder at Todd and Smiley, who obeyed, squatting down on the bottom steps.  "Hopefully this will be brief."

            "Don't hold your breath, Colonel," Holmes retorted, flinging himself into a chair in the study.  "There's not a drop of cocaine in me today.  I'm all ears, and I want great detail." 

            The next twenty minutes, as they passed, were monstrous.  Every word I uttered, every word then backed by Moriarty and Moran, seemed to darken Sherlock Holmes's initially amiable face all the more, until by the final epitaph to Irene Adler's dishonesty, he seemed prepared to silently spring from his chair and slice our guts out.  "You can't be serious," he finally droned. 

            "Why not?" Moriarty, per typical, was the first to spring to the offensive.  His eyes flashed.  "My God, Holmes.  You're already proving something I spoke to Watson about earlier today."

            My friend shot me a suspicious glare; I rose my palms in surrender.  "Now, Holmes, I never said I agreed with him."

            "Fine," the detective growled.  "Good.  Then stop being cryptic, Professor, and be out with it!"

            "Your affections for Lady Adler are all but stifling your powers of observation.  Your judgment is biased by love."

            "And you are infamous for jumping to conclusions, Moriarty!" Holmes jabbed a finger at his peer's face. 

            "Fair enough," the criminal fired back, through his teeth, "but can you not see this based solely on the facts?  A reliable witness," here he gestured at me, "two, in fact, counting your little friend Polly, saw her conversing with Mr. Stephen, the chief suspect in the Ripper crimes, after deliberately covering up her tracks with an alibi of her whereabouts.  Now you tell me, lad, if that does not sound open-and-shut guilty.  At least ask her why she did what she did.  Don't just overlook it—pursue her."

            " . . . No."

            The Professor shot to his feet, arms flung above his head.  "What?  Are you mad?"

            Holmes glared at the carpet, completely forlorn.  His breathing came in unsteady gasps.  Finally he looked up at us all, gone ghastly pale.  ". . . No . . . Irene would not do that. Why would she have led us straight to Stephen as the prime suspect if . . .if . . . ? No, I say."

            "Oh, Holmes," I moaned, reaching for my friend.  I felt horrible for agreeing with Moriarty, but somehow, deep in the pit of me, I knew I did.  "How do you really know that?" 

            "Irene could not do that to me,"  the detective repeated, fiercely, smacking my hand away.  "Not again! Not again, Watson!"

"Holmes, stop being so irrational!" Moriarty spat, before I could think of how to comfort my friend.  "You keep flying off the handle before we can mention to you the other person we ran into today, one Joseph Bar"—

            "Don't change the point, and for God's Sake, don't you of all people call me irrational!"  Holmes pivoted away from Moriarty, cowering into his chair.  His back was bared at his former mentor, bucking Moriarty's advice for the first time since the case began.  "You're the drunken buffoon who was braying on my couch like an ass only two weeks ago!"

            "And as I recall," Moriarty snarled, thrumming his walking stick against the floor, "you were the stoned idiot that was using dry wall to concuss himself!"

            I numbed myself to their banter, trying, trying so hard to recall what Moriarty had just said to trigger some red flag in my mind from earlier that morning.  But it was lost again.  "Damn," I breathed, clutching my head.

            "Something wrong, John?" Sebastian queried, waving a long, red-nailed hand in front of my face.

But at that point, Mrs. Hudson bustled into the room with a meringue pie between her pink-gloved hands and a feather duster in her apron pocket.  "My goodness, Mr. Holmes, what's all the commotion? I saw Mr. Marrow and Mr. O'Toole in the stairwell . . . "  She froze in place when she saw our visitors.  "Oh.  Hello."  She smiled at Sebastian Moran and then appraised Moriarty coolly. 

He visibly cringed, a limp, dejected ragdoll folding into itself.  It was mindboggling:  A man who found the entirety of London's police force a laughable opponent buckled under a single fierce look from the delicate Marie Hudson.  His fingers, like white tentacles, opened and closed at his sides, until his knuckles began to crack; the sound of his own creaking joints made him start.  Resorting instead to slowly picking off his gloves, one finger at a time, and then sliding back into them, he appeared the picture of ambivalence to all present. At last the "unflappable" criminal genius spoke; the words were as firm and intelligible as pigeon crumbs.  "Oh, ah, Madam . . . I was, ah, w-wondering if you . . . if an acquaintance of yours . . . well, to be specific, your friend Mr. MacBain, the airplane designer . . .h-has received word. . . that is, a letter and a parcel of sorts, f-from . . ."  At last he gave up, for, while briskly polishing the spout of her teapot, and confidently pouring cups for us all, the poker-faced Mrs. Hudson gave no indication of hearing a single word.

But then she too spoke.  "Make sure that you have a slice of pie before you leave."  With this she strode boldly up to the man with whom she had quarreled, determined to be courteous, and set the cup-laden tray down on the end table next to his rigid form.  For a moment she paused and flashed him a daring scowl, and his hands, one glove plucked halfway off and the other on, froze completely.  "Seeing as you always like to gorge yourself with my food.  Oh, forgive me:  Perhaps I shouldn't discuss such things with you anymore.  You might mistake it for sanctimoniousness."  She stirred the well-known two sugar lumps into my tea, the angry force of it making an unnerving clink-clink against the china, while I stood there stupidly watching her beat London's most notorious villain to a verbal and moral pulp.  I rushed to take my cup from her, doing all I could to evade Moriarty's destroyed face, so fearful was I that his corked-up, pressurized shame would explode into rage. 

"And speaking of my acquaintance, what if I told you, Professor," the widow pressed on, airily, chin cast high, " that in Sweden last year, while you plotted to have the World Flight Championship competitors butchered for money, I called you a wrongdoer to that very same Mr. MacBain's face?"  Seafoam eyes darkened to flashing jade as her anger built. 

"I'd say you were right," Moriarty mumbled.

She lashed away from him, her skirts hissing and cracking with her sudden motion.  "Oh?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," he groveled.

" Well, shockingly, good sir, I don't believe you.  No:  But, my, how you would accuse me of judgmentalism!  Why, how dare I take umbrage to just one of yourevil actions, turning a blind Christian eye to all the rest?  Ah, but since you and I don't apologize or forgive anymore, Professor, I shall just end the conversation here.  Oh, don't lose sleep over it.  Just remember to take a slice of pie. Seeing as taking is your peculiar talent."  Then she whisked out of the room, head held high. 

Moriarty, speechless, watched her every moment, nothing but bewilderment in his eyes.  As Mrs. Hudson passed him on her way out the door, her skirts brushed his legs, and his whole body unconsciously leaned towards her, laying bare his feelings of longing.

 ". . . Thank you," he murmured at her long after she had left.  "I'm sure the pie is . . .wonderful."  His hunched shoulders fell.  He was the embodiment of misery. 

Sebastian let out a low whistle, halfway between relief that the livid lady had left and admiration at her nerve.  "What a corker," he mumbled, inspecting his long lady's fingernails.

Moriarty drooped further into himself.

I repressed the urge to feel sorry for that scoundrel; for what he had done to offend such a generous creature as Marie Hudson, he surely deserved her scorn. 

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," Todd and Smiley piped up, nearly in unison, as our landlady passed them in the stairwell. 

"Good morning, boys," she cooed, with a kindness that was markedly less forced.  She ruffled Todd's hair and gave Smiley a pat on the arm as she descended the stairs. 

Both of them looked positively ready to don their halos and wings and ascend straight into heaven from the spot. 

"While we're all here," Holmes injected into the awkward silence, "perhaps we should all go down to Scotland Yard.  The Inspector has recently sent me a telegram about a communication he received from the Ripper himself."

"I say!" I gasped.  "That's rather horrifying, Holmes.  But perhaps we can get something out of it, eh?"

My friend seemed to have fully recovered now from his fearful trance.  "Excellent deduction, Watson," he winked. 

            Marie Hudson had successfully retreated to the haven of her garden, buckets of dirt and minerals for the thawing earth in both hands, before the tears flowed freely.  Ashamed and enraged at herself for her sentimentality when strong wits best served her, she heaved a deep breath and dried her eyes.  Just in time to hear a chorus of comforting male and female voices over the brick wall—calling her name.

            "Marie, I saw you go back there!" a melodious female voice cried out.  "There's no hiding from Helen MacBain!"

            "Or her Mac!"  the male voice rejoined merrily.  "For we've a puzzle for your pretty, smart head to solve!"

            A young couple, pale as befit devoted scholars, strode into the garden, their hands locked and their faces bearing the cultured freshness of the late twenty-odd years.  The gentleman, Mac, a sturdy, thin-faced youth with bead-sharp black eyes and a bird's nest of red locks, led his wife, Helen, who hung back with an air of graceful docility, her delicate oval face framed by an upsweep of fine silken aquamarine hair, her thin rosy lips quirked perpetually in a fond, knowing smirk.  While he gallivanted in full pilot's gear, she made an effort at formal propriety in a Robin's Egg blue gown and bonnet.  "Marie!"  Helen cried again, that gossamer pale hair glistening in the sunlight.  She detached herself from her husband and flew to embrace her widowed friend.  "You are not entirely yourself!  Why, you haven't even greeted us yet!"

            "I'm sorry, Helen.  I am only a little tired with our . . . Mr. Holmes's . . . many house guests."

            "Who might they be?"  Mac barked in his loud, friendly Scottish, a childlike, enthusiastic tone of voice that often veiled his true intellectual sophistication.  He swaggered up to the landlady, holding her, his late best friend's wife, with doting eyes.  "You are a woman of great patience, after all.  They must practically be gypsies!"

            Mrs. Hudson gauged the wisdom of candidness.  At the moment, she chose against it.  "They are . . . just clients . . . of a sort." 

            "Speaking of visitors," the brilliant pilot proceeded, "Tommy Nesbitt's been meaning to call on you since that awful fright you had with that Ripper blighter!"

            The widow guarded herself against remarking on the fortune of Professor Moriarty's intercession, and on Tommy's general lack of usefulness in the interests of her protection.  She smiled distractedly. "Oh . . . how lovely.  Tell him to drop by sometime soon."

            "I will, oh, I will, Marie.  Tommy was always so fond of you, you know."

            "You all were," Helen injected, her smirk a bit bolder, her voice sweetly teasing. "Lucky the rest of us girls even got our feet in the door with Marie around!"

            Mac laughed, sweeping his wife up close.  "You little devil, you know who I love," he chuckled, moving in to kiss her, there in broad public daylight.

            "But that is not the 'mystery; you would like me to solve," Mrs. Hudson cut her short, embarrassed as ever by extraneous flattery.  And, even more compellingly, jealous of the thing that her two best friends were sharing right before her hungry, depraved eyes.  She flexed a certain left finger, forcing herself to accept that it was, and had been for four years, naked of a ring.  And always would be.  "Is it?"

            "No indeed," the pilot rejoined, leaving his wife be, and reaching into his khaki pants pocket.  He extracted a letter, eyes blinking, shaking his head with slowly processed disbelief.  "This morning I received a letter from a man who expressed a rather urgent need to compensate for some mysterious mischief he had done against me.  He claims his crimes have to do with the destruction of an engine that I had built, and with the loss of funds inflicted by the burning down of my previous workshop and house in the south of the city.  He has sent me, Marie, the most incredibly ingenious and thoroughly developed blue prints that I have seen with regards to airplane engines, with the sole exception of, if I may say, my own designs.  In addition, an incredible sum of money has been enclosed to compensate for that fire, which he claims to have accidentally caused while stealing engine parts."

            Mrs. Hudson felt the color drain from her cheeks.  Vague suspicion grew stronger with every one of Mac's words.  "I . . . I do not understand what this has to do with me.  I'm sorry, I feel ill.  Perhaps I should go inside and we should discuss this later . . ."

            "But Marie," Helen pressed, holding the document up to her friend's wide eyes.  "Your name was mentioned in this letter.  'For the sake of the magnanimous heart of Marie Hudson, a woman whom I've cruelly wronged, a gift to her dearest friends.' "

            Mrs. Hudson's breath caught in her throat.  For the handwriting, a cavalier, swaying cursive, was dreadfully familiar.  "What was the donor's name?"

            "There is no name—only the initials 'J.R.M.,'  and the title PhD."

            ". . . Oh my God.  It can't be.  And yet . . . I . . . oh, dear."

            Mac sighed, long and hard.  Scowl lines surfaced in his young face, bred by his stern demeanor and thin visage.  "So it is him.  The man who tried to undermine the honor of the World Flight Championship."

            Mrs. Hudson gave in.  "Yes, it's him.  James Moriarty."

            "Why in God's Name, Marie?"  Helen spat, hands planted on her hips.  "And how on earth did he come to meet you?  He, the scum of the earth?"

            "Helen," the landlady breathed, rising to her feet, brushing dirt off her skirts.  " A year ago, he meant to blackmail Mr. Holmes by. . . well, I. . . we just happened to . . . look, it's a long story that disproves the notion that he is merely 'scum.' "

            "Marie," Mac retorted, "you were always far too kind and forgiving for your own good.  If this man expects atonement from me, however, I need to sleep on it a couple of nights, no matter how marvelously developed are the gifts he has shared with me.   It's the Touch of Midas, this gift, you know? There might be a curse in fellowshipping with that man.  In fact, I would have sent this furshlugginer blue print back, thrown back these thirty silver pieces to that Irish-Egyptian Satan, if he'd provided a return address.   After all, he shot at you and Dr. Watson in Sweden, while you were airborne—without a second thought, Marie."  The pilot tossed his hair, the earflaps of his pilot's goggles making a decisive smacking sound.  " He is abominable to Mr. Holmes, your tenant, a man who is worthy of your sympathies.  And he tried to sink the Air Post to oblivion, too.  He plays a dirty hand, my sweet friend.  Be careful about it, like we are—he's doing this, most evidently, to manipulate your tender heart back into his favor."

            She hissed a sigh.  "You sound like my mother berating Jim when I was but nineteen, telling me I'd be disowned if I became a Hudson.  Why must everyone order and discuss my personal decisions?"

            "Jim," he pledged darkly, "was a very different person from this man."

            "And you feel threatened for Jim's sake?"  She stood her ground.  "Is that it?"

            He bit his tongue.

            "Let's just sleep on it, Mac," Helen interceded on her female friend's behalf.  "Like you said.  Let's take a stroll in the park and come back by later."

            The pilot sucked in his cheeks, lips quirking.  At last he nodded.  "All's one, then.  We'll be back in the evening, Marie—perhaps we could all go out to dinner, eh?  Catch up on old times? But in the duration, dearest girl, think on my words."

            "I always consider the words of my loving friends, Mac," Mrs. Hudson chided gently.  "But that doesn't mean I shall accept them.  Now," and she moved forward, embracing both her lifetime friends, kissing their cheeks, "go on about your day, with all my love."

            Helen kissed her back.  "Of course, our dearest heart.  Only be careful—that madman Jack the Ripper still runs rampant, you know. Be careful!"

            "And you, sweet Helen!  And you!"

            As they moved outside to the open street, hailing a hansom, a large ornate brougham pulled up at the front door of 221 B, and a woman of matchless beauty stepped out.  It was Irene Adler.

            "Oh, my," Mrs. Hudson murmured, watching the diva, who did not see her, welcoming herself through the door which she had left ajar.  "I wonder what's going on now?"

            But she had heavier things on her heart than the unsolicited visit of an opera star.  Namely, the unexpected kindness of a criminal.

            The four of us descended the steps from Holmes's laboratory/study to find a very disgruntled Todd pacing to and fro at the threshold of the first-floor sitting room.  Mrs. Hudson was nowhere to be found—presumably outside tending her budding garden, as the front door was propped open by a recently deposited tin watering can, and trailed with a dusting of fresh dirt.  However much we all admired her, though, it was difficult to believe that the fluid rush of music erupting from the sitting room piano was bred by her fingers, much less those of the equally nonpresent Smiley. 

            "What's the matter, Todd?" the Professor snapped, his nerves still disheveled from our landlady's recent upbraiding.  He darted in front of us, accosting the boy, whose face oscillated between a scrunched-up scowl of confusion and a dopey grin. 

            "She just sort of . . . came in, sir," Moriarty's lackey at last blurted, pointing inside the sitting room.  "Like she owned the place.  Said she 'needed to make use of the piano to think,' she did."

"Who . . .?"  I faintly queried, thoroughly distracted by the dusky-dark, honey-rich female voice that rose in song to the flood of piano notes.  A contralto, by its plunging depths, but it dared the listener to so restrict it, occasionally piercing the highest of F sharps.  It was incredible.

"Why," Todd shrugged, acknowledging my idle question, "who else but that queer, pretty lady what sings like an angel in men's clothin'."

            "Hul-lo!" Holmes exclaimed, sudden thirst in his gaze.  Like a kestrel swooping in for the kill, he bypassed the criminal, his employee, and my reticent self, and slipping inside the room that housed the intruder in question.  "Ms. Adler, what an honor and a coincidence!"

            There the diva sat, her rouged lips eloquently poised in the pursed "Oooo" of song, powerful music pouring like liquid gold from that surprisingly delicate throat.  Her hands attacked the crisp white keys, and her lace-trimmed dress descended like a champagne waterfall around her ankles.  How she could transform from that decidedly masculine figure consorting quietly with the unsavory James Stephen to breathtaking adventuress in but an hour, I could scarcely imagine.

 She cast her dark, warm eyes favorably on the poor young Smiley, whose towering, skinny frame bent over the top of the instrument as he gawked in return.  He clutched her discarded lace gloves like a treasure map. I caught myself regarding our radiant intruder in a similar manner, quickly clamping my mouth shut. 

            Presently Ms. Adler let the exhausted parlor piano rest, leaning back on the bench, extending herself in a luxurious stretch.  "Thank you, Mr. Marrow," she spoke up merrily, plucking her gloves from the hands of Moriarty's youngest employee, "for being my personal coat rack for an interval."  The boy, beet red, could only giggle back and shrug a welcome.  Then the diva turned, guarding her pleasure with wryness, and eyed the prime consulting detective.  The red ostrich plume that tipped her bonnet quivered with suppressed amusement.  "And I thought you didn't believe in coincidences, Mr. Holmes."

            "I suppose I don't."  He advanced on her, exhaling a nonchalant smoke cloud from his pipe, and sprawled across Mrs. Hudson's sofa.  The scowling Moriarty and I silently followed, taking seats in the parlor chairs, feeling equally uncomfortable and stiff in temperament as our bodies did in their hard wooden arms.  "It's just that we were talking about you only a few moments ago."

            "As I am well aware," she retorted, with the sudden ferocity of the judge rather than the convicted.  She swiveled on the bench to face us, face serenely in contrast with the ice in her tone, promising her control over the situation.  "I have heard of late that my reputation has been sullied among you gentlemen."

            For the first time in my recollection, it was the wide-eyed Holmes's turn to gasp, "How . . .?"

            Irene tilted her chin regally upward.  "You're not the only sleuth who makes use of the charming Baker Street Irregular known as Polly.  I'm quite fond of the girl, and she of me."

            "Ah.  I see."

            "Now, to the issue at hand.  You've both wrongfully accused me, you know," Irene trilled, a decisive remark made playfully disarming by the seemingly innocent and triumphant brilliance of her face.  Indeed, her eyes glistened.

            Holmes only brooded at her, graciously (or graciously for Holmes) conceding that she continue.  Moriarty, as fit his testier disposition, bristled, "Oh?  Do enlighten us."  Though by the nervous hunch of his shoulders, it was evident that he already believed in her victory.

            "Six years ago, when I first met you two, I was not . . . ah . . . confiscating the Duchess's Diamonds for personal profit.  They had been filched from the original owner, an American closely linked to my own New Jersey kin, and, I might add, a good friend of such aesthetic personages as the painter Mr. Whistler and the poet Mr. Poe.  Someone, we shall say, well deserving of having her family jewels returned to her possession.  They were slithered through many grimy fingers before sold into the Duchess's unwitting hands.  So you see, gentlemen, the great irony of this is that I champion no cause higher than justice, and a dash of truth to boot, and yet you both have chosen to wrongfully and cruelly bludgeon my good name with just such a cause." 

            "Liar," Moriarty openly flung at her. "I own the underworld in this country.  There is no way that I would not have heard of the passing of these jewels through the British markets.  Not even in my greener days."

            "First of all," Irene sliced in victoriously, "you once owned the underworld in this country—your glory days are waning, Professor.  Secondly, the black markets of which I speak are on the Continent—in Germany, to be precise.  While I know you have—had—agents all over Europe, you would be harder pressed to receive word of every valuable black market item abroad." She stopped to curl her smug lips about her teacup, taking a most delighted sip.  Her dainty black-gloved fingernails tapped unnervingly against the porcelain.

            Moriarty quailed from head to foot, his head beginning to snakishly oscillate.  A savage color filled his cheeks.  "You . . ."

            "That's correct, Mr. Moriarty.  I left you and your unzipped pants high and dry the morning after our joint snatching of the Duchess's necklace because I knew a person of your sewer-low scruples would never stomach the thought of nobly relinquishing his quarry."  Another sip, another feline grin.

            Moriarty's hands clasped the sides of Holmes's luxurious armchair, squeezed, clawing until the fabric threatened to shred loose of the furniture.  He held his tongue.  He didn't need to say a word; his freakishly swaying countenance and blood-lusting eyes sufficiently conveyed his thoughts.  "It's Dr. Moriarty," he growled at last.  "Of Southampton and Durham."

            "Quaint little colleges—I know," she purred back, softening the bite with a bat of extraordinarily long eyelashes. 

            "And undergraduate studies at Oxford!"

            "Reputedly, at least, eh, Professor?"

            He sat there seething at her, completely immobilized—except for his tongue.  " . . . As legitimate as my contempt for you . . ."

            "And what of the sudden onslaught of money that you and the Professor—the doctor of mathematics—divided: his half the counterfeit?" Holmes seized the moment to satiate his own boiling curiosity.  His eyes, in contrast to Moriarty's, fairly dazzled with joyful admiration as he regarded Irene.

            She shrugged.  "Nought but an overly generous reward from an overly grateful American patron.  I couldn't bear sharing honestly dispersed and earnestly received bullion with a vulture—a master criminal.  So I enabled a simple mix-up of legitimate currency."  A nearly undetectable jot of antagonism, in the true wicked relish of Lucifer, dipped in and out of her voice.

            "Here, now!" Moriarty cried; having been acknowledged as a master criminal, he allowed his fury to calm to a low simmer of righteous indignation. But he was still, of course, loud about it.  "I'll not sit here and blink at you like a whipped puppy and hear myself abused in such a vile manner!  Never, I say!"  

            With this Irene returned to Mrs. Hudson's piano and banged a melodramatic chord to the Napoleon of Crime's announcement, as though the accompanist of some maudlin opera at its climax.

            He scowled at her, slouching over peevishly in his chair.  "Stop that."

            She giggled.  Todd and Smiley covered their mouths and strove not to do the same.

            "As far as I'm concerned," Holmes injected, somewhat brashly, it occurred to me, for his character, "you are cleared of all guilt."

            Sobriety rushed to Irene's features.  "It was only a start," she spoke more quietly, an urgent look cast upon Holmes alone.  "I should like to discuss the matter more in private—soon."

            "Soon," he agreed, nodding, "but at the moment, these gentlemen and I have an appointment at Scotland Yard!"

The next hour, following Irene's departure, was spent with Professor Moriarty and Colonel Moran dressing back up in their latest costumes.  For some strange reason my old army mate really fancied feminine dress; this time he was a female policeman, and Moriarty a male.  They both looked strikingly honest and decent in that attire, an observation that disconcerted me.  Moriarty even knew to a tee how to swagger, swinging his club and twirling his whistle on its chain, like the most genuine bobby in London.

When they were ready, we departed for Scotland Yard, leaving Todd and Smiley to guard the vexed Mrs. Hudson. 

We arrived at noon sharp, at our familiar inspector's request.  Moriarty and Moran went ahead of us down the Yard's hallway and up the stairs to Lestrade's office, and feigned the job of announcing him his guests.  I found it ceaselessly amusing that he recognized neither of them—amusing, and, I suppose, even further disconcerting. The burly Inspector cast me a curious glance, for I had grabbed my hat from my head and muffled my snickers into the brim.  Then he shrugged, flung his feet up on his desk, and pulled a careworn document from the left-hand drawer.  "This letter was discovered on the back steps of headquarters today," he addressed Holmes in an unusually thin, taut voice, belying his confident pose.  "It's from Jack the Ripper."

My friend took a nonchalant puff at his pipe. "So I'm told.  But are you certain?"

"Aye, Mr. Holmes.  The forensics team that's dealt with all the previous . . . incidents . . . has informed me that the handwriting style matches that of threatening words written on the ground next to the last corpse."

"You mean Coles?"

"Yes."

"What kind of words?"

". . . 'whore of Babylon,' 'the damned,' things like that . . . horrible things, Mr. Holmes. Ungodly horrible."

The detective nodded empathetically, extending a comforting hand and clasping Lestrade's arm.  "We shall see this through, Inspector, never fear."  He smiled to prove it.  "Let us review our clues thus far:  Strongest suspects—James Kelly, wife-murdering upholsterer, James Stephen, misogynist newspaper publisher. A theater mask on the perpetrator's face, great taste for making references to time, and leaving a gold pocketwatch at the crime scene, all of which point to Stephen.  Unrelated but reputedly expressed by Marie Hudson, our sole survivor," (thank the Lord, I mentally injected), "are the following:  Little hair on the perpetrator's arms, a pallor of the skin, a salty blood smell.  According to Dr. Oxley, the doctor summoned to the crime scene, two individuals fled the body, one large and tall, with a rheumatic cough, the other small and spry.  New evidence suggests a similarity between the Paris lust murders and those here in Whitechapel, with a marked geographical pattern in the shape of chi-ro and a dating on significant Saint's Days, suggesting firstly a religious perversion as part of the Ripper's motives, and secondly the presence of Kelly, knowing his escape route from England, in both series of crimes.  Quite so?"

"Quite so," Lestrade concurred.

"And what are the dates of our English lust murders?"

"In the past year, St. Cuthbert on March 20, St. George on April 23, St. Augustine of Canterbury on May 27th, and St. Michael the Archangel on November 30.  But there've been others on days with no link to the saint theory, Mr. Holmes.  Coles herself was murdered on February 13th   of last year."

"Aye, Lestrade, but even that day bears a suspicious religious meaning:  the number 13.  Hum.  And March approaches," Holmes mumbled, stroking his chin.  "This means that we can expect at least one more murder attempt on the 20th of next month.  Very well, Inspector, now:  The geographical pattern of the crime scenes?"

Lestrade pivoted in his chair, referencing the large city map pinned to the wall behind him.  He plucked darts from his desk drawer and lodged them into the various locations:  the George Yard Buildings, Buck's Row of Durward Street, Hanbury Street, Dutfield Yard of Berner Street, Mitre Square, Miller's Court of Dorset Street, and Goulston Street.  Hideously, before our eyes, the form of an "X" appeared on the map—the first half of a Greek chi-ro. "God," the Inspector murmured, "it's not done yet, then.  Only partway to his goal."

"I'm afraid you're right, Lestrade," Holmes replied.  "But in order to confirm a link between the crimes in London and Paris, it is essential that we know also the dates and locations of the Paris Lust Murders."

"That," Lestrade huffed, "has been taken out of Scotland Yard's hands, and placed in those of the bloody Royal Secret Service.  You'd do well to pick your brother Mycroft's brain on the matter."

"I see."  Holmes's face soured.  "That may be difficult, considering my brother does not entirely approve of my involvement in this case.  But we shall see."  Ire gleamed in those pale gray eyes, and he puffed on his pipe with resolve.  "Yes.  We shall see."

"There's another testimony from Oxley that came in today, when I forced another account of the crime scene from him.  Probably useless details, though, Mr. Holmes."

"Let me be the judge of that," the detective snapped, biting down on the edge of his pipe.

"Oh, very well," Lestrade grunted.  "The morgue doctor said that one of the murderers fleeing the body of Coles was babbling something along the line of 'time's up for her,' but that the queerest thing about it was that the last couple of words were repeated—'for her, for her'—like that, many times, like a broken vinyl."

"Echolalia," I supplied softly in Holmes's ear, proud that my medical expertise was occasionally of use.  "A mental impairment that affects speech patterns."  He nodded, falling into pensive silence.

"But what of the other suspects?  Must we rule out the outlandish, such as the author Lewis Carroll, or the commonplace, such as that fisherman Joseph Barnett? And look there—what of the handprints there?" Moriarty sharply interceded, forgetting his own covertness.  He stepped between Holmes and Lestrade, rapping his club on a spot on the abominable letter that bore semblance to the shape of a smeared ink handprint.  "Is it the same size as that found on Ms. Coles's chest, in blood?"

"Why, yes, that was also consistently . . .I say!"  The Inspector's mouth tightened with rage.  " Lieutenant . . . Lieutenant . . ."

"Smith," Moriarty provided, with a smug, delighted sneer.  He reset his infamously recognizable monocle on his nose just to show off to us the extent of Lestrade's oafishness.  

The Inspector, of course, still did not recognize his trophy criminal.  "Lieutenant Smith," he blustered, " how dare you interrupt a private conference to speak your own opinion?"  His eyes flashed across Moran's female-clad form, still lingering in the doorway.  For a moment his features softened.  "And what, for that matter, is a pretty young thing like you doing in the men's side of the building?"

Sebastian tossed his pincurled head back and bawled a laugh.  "May I?" he appealed, grinning, to Holmes.

The detective nodded.  "The Professor has all but blown his cover already, Colonel.  We must explain your involvement sooner or later, anyhow."

Inspector Lestrade's eyes became great gaping saucers of alarm.  "The what?" he stammered, head flinging from left to right, from Moriarty to Moran.  "And . . . who?"

Sebastian unpinned his hair and stepped out of his police clothing.  Mockingly he wiggled his hips and blew the Inspector a kiss.  "I'm always pretty for you, luv." 

Lestrade went white as a sheet.  He jolted from his chair, hovering so closely over Moriarty that he could have counted the hairs inside his nostrils. ". . . You!"

The Professor merely tipped his pseudo police hat.  "Hullo, Lestrade."

The hapless policeman set his jaw and turned upon those of us not on England's Most Wanted list.  "Holmes!"  he simply roared, fists clenched at his sides. A vein began to pulse against his skin at the side of his neck.  Were he carrying his pistol as he usually did, I would have ducked under the desk.  "What's the meanin' of this?  You're working with a band of dirty thieves to bring down a . . . a dirty murderer?" 

My friend only smiled sweetly back. I attempted to do the same.

"Jolly good synopsis, Inspector," the Professor leered.  He inched away from Lestrade's hyperventilating figure, towards the closed door.  "Now, don't scream, or I shall have to bolt."  

"B-but," Lestrade panted, "I am confused.  Holmes, Watson, is that in fact the case?"

"Bloody hell," Moran snarled at the Inspector, stuffing his disguise into his pants pockets.  "God wasn't interested in bestowing wit the day He created you." 

"Wait'll you hear how many times he almost caught me," Moriarty added, slowly licking his lips.  One eyebrow nastily rose.  "Almost."

"Oh!" our acquaintance at the Yard had begun to sweat.  Eyes gone bloodshot, he bared his teeth, flinging himself at the two criminals, so viciously that Holmes and I were forced to restrain him.  "Oh, let me at them! Let me get them!"  Drool formed around his mouth as he flailed.  "I tell ye, I were all but hung by the privates by th'Inspector Gen'ral when ye sprang him, Holmes!  Lemme prove my mettle this timeand kill 'em!  You owe it to me, ye hear? Damn it, lemme at 'em!"

"Not yet, Inspector!" Holmes joined testily, seizing Lestrade, who had finally exhausted his energy, and forcing him into his seat.  "One of Moriarty's henchmen lost his mother to the Ripper, and the Professor has expressed an honest offer to help us bring the monster to justice—an offer that I must accept.  Thus, you've decently summed up the situation with which we are grudgingly presented."

The Inspector gaped at Moriarty, then at Moran, then at Moriarty again, his arm and index finger extended towards them both, in a zombie-like fashion that bordered on the absurd. Again, I was inclined to mute a flow of chuckles into my hat. 

"Now," Holmes demanded, "you must take my word that the allies I have sought are going to ultimately ameliorate our efforts.  But for the time being, let's hear the contents of this letter."

"Oh, very . . . very well, Holmes.  You've never failed me before."  Lestrade's earth red forehead glistened with a sheen of sweat, and he gnawed on the edge of his moustache.  He cast Moriarty a dark look, squeezing under his own neck to feign a hanging.  "But don't ever think I won't give you what you deserve someday, scum."

Moriarty stared back, unfaltering.  "Oh?"  Condescendence dripped off his voice. His forehead cocked slightly, like that of a jaunty and inquisitive, but wholly unthreatened, crow.  

"One of these days you'll get knocked off your feet so hard that you'll be dead before you can even scream from the pain. It'll be Dartmore and the gallows for you.  And the world will be there laughin'.  The whole world will be glad to see you go, Moriarty.  Not a body will miss ye, not a one!"

The Professor's eyebrows furled, and he glared momentarily at the ground.  Then he flashed a bitter sneer. "As I am well aware."

His compliance only seemed to fuel the Inspector's vengeance.  "Are ye?  Do ye really know what's in store for your carcass?  Ya can't hide forever.  So don't think ye can mock me—don't think ye can wipe the slate clean from one good deed."

"I'm sorry, Inspector," Moriarty retorted, lips curling higher.  "I seem to have mistakenly intimated that I care about your threats."

Lestrade at last gathered a breath and turned his attention away from the criminals so irresistibly at hand.  He clasped the Ripper letter.  " 'Dear Boss,' " he began hoarsely to read it. 

Moriarty remained looming by the inspector's door, face retaining its smooth nonexpression; his long thin fingers belied him, however, playing at the latch, sliding it in, out, back in its socket, as he listened. 

Holmes made no such effort at concealing his thoughts; they broiled in rage at the surface of his gaze, in his scowling eyebrows, in his flaring nostrils.  He bit down hard on his pipe, silently, as Lestrade unraveled the vile abyss of Jack the Ripper's "logic."

" 'Apologizing in advance for the sloppy hand—I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with.  Couldn't resist, considering how it would rail you.  Sorry for the inconvenience, though.' "  The poor inspector paused here, nearly dropping the letter, realizing the implications of what the "proper red stuff" was.  He swallowed back his nausea and continued.  " 'To the matter.  You think you're coming close on me now, Boss, but you got nothing.  You do this country a disservice, you know.  I'm down on women and I'm down on whores and there's no difference between them anymore, and so I won't  . . .' "  He cleared his meaty throat, flashed a frightened gaze at Holmes and myself, appealing even to Moriarty for a moment, before getting to the crux of the letter.

"It's quite alright, Inspector," Holmes reassured him quietly, chin cupped in hands.  "Go on."

Lestrade sighed, and nodded . . . "Right then.  Just . . .brace yourself, lads . . . 'I won't stop ripping their hides till England and the world no longer knows their contamination.  I'll buy our land glorious purity with their blood.  Even if you ever got me, you and that ungodly drugged-up detective and his simpering, stupid doctor friend, you'd still be wrong, so live with that, Boss.  Live with your useless, obsolete laws.  And here's a word to the good Professor—you're stepping all over my turf, so you best watch your filthy bastard back, you Half-Breed Irish, I got all your little ladies for my next target—I drank at the Blue Raven Tavern once, Half-Breed.  I took your boy Marrow's mummy for fun, and now I know who 'Lola' is, and I know 'Kat,' and I've only just learnt the name of your blond sweetheart, the widow—the one I tried to get last month.  Lovely throat she got, Half-Breed.  Lovely.  You watch your back, and hers, and stay off mine.  And Mr. Holmes, don't you get cocky just for getting your old chum the 'evil genius' to help you.  I shan't never let a finger of your arrogant hands touch me.  I shan't swing or get cut or shot for your joy.  I'd have thought you, a man with no love of women, might understand, but if you keep bugging on me like this, I'll have to rip you and the good doctor too.  Sorry, mate.  Yours truly, Jack.' "

Silence. 

I sought a chair and clambered into it, for my chest was heaving and I felt an urge to retch.

Holmes clicked his tongue, and we all turned to hear his conclusion.  "Curious that our friend Jack seems to oscillate between proper English and a peculiar grammatical gait more suiting the Cockney."  In his flat voice, there was not a trace of the rage seething from his bearing.  "Wouldn't you agree, Professor?" he deferred.

Moriarty's fingers had enmeshed the door lock in its entirety.  It creaked in his palm.  His whole frame quivered, and his head was oscillating in that freakishly reptilian rhythm that made a fellow glad to be permitted to carry firearms.  "I noticed that also," he murmured. 

"And what else do you devise from this observation?"

"That either he is making a shoddy attempt at seeming like a working class man, and is trying to throw us off the trail, or he is a working class man trying to sound proper to impress the authorities, and we've found our geographical target of investigation."

"Or," Holmes added in return, "he is attempting to appear to make a shoddy attempt at good grammar, and is luring us into a trap at this specific 'geographical location'—the East End slums."   

"Yes, quite—that is also a possibility.  Perhaps prudent to explore all three venues while disguised as indigenous citizens—cap, striped shirt, chimney grime and all." 

Holmes nodded.  "Agreed.  There you have our next course of action, Inspector Lestrade.  Your final conclusion, then, Professor?"

"Oh, simple."  Soft, sick fury now spilled into Moriarty's voice.  "That man's days are numbered."   

"Shall we meet to discuss the particulars, then, this evening?" 

" . . . Actually, Mr. Holmes," the Professor declined, raising an apologetic palm, "perhaps we could accomplish such a task tomorrow.  I have previously arranged engagements this evening."  A mysterious serenity seeped into his face then, and, still swinging his false bobby club, he excused himself, leaving us all there in our puzzlement.

"This should prove interesting," Holmes mumbled. 

"If I should die and leave you here a while,

Be not like others, sore undone, who keep

Long vigil by the silent dust and weep.

For my sake turn again to life and smile,

Nerving thy heart and trembling hand to do

That which will comfort other souls than

Thine;

Complete these dear unfinished tasks of

Mine,

And I, perchance, may therein comfort you."

-Mary Lee Hall

"I can't believe he sent Mac all that money!"  Katherine Ferrell, the bar singer of dubious morality, but unquestionable loyalty to her female friends, stood atop Mrs. Hudson's kitchen stool, hands flung in the air.  "I mean . . . I mean . . . I were so bloody shocked that I asked Sebastian an' he told me the Professor was most fixed upon doin' it!  'An' for the sake of but one person,' 'e says . . ."

 "Kat, would you be a dear and fetch me the salt?"  Marie Hudson kept her eyes downcast on her cooking to hide their swollen redness.  She did not want to admit, even to her best schoolgirl friend, that the anniversary of her husband's death still rendered her powerless to her feelings—that February 3 held a far greater sway over her heart than the celebrated Saint's Day on the upcoming 14th. 

Mr. Holmes had been able to tell; he had given her a great deal of space that day.  It owed much to his honor, considering he had every right to amorously swoop down upon her since her explosive falling out with the very man of whom Kat spoke.  But Sherlock Holmes was a genius, not an opportunist.  Not like James Moriarty—however many grand gestures he might make to repair damage done to her friends.  Grand gestures that proved nothing, other than an attempt to impress her into being infatuated with his dashingly criminal—and arrogant—personnage.  Her heart hardened at the observation.

But then Katherine spoke again, and succeeded in softening it to sweet molten chocolate. 

"  'Boy, Kat, me love,' my Sebastian tells me last night, 'Bobby hasn't much money to spare, not since Holmes spread all these poisonous rumors and got 'im to resign his Southampton mathematics chair'—'tis true, Marie—'and quit that fruitless army coach job—why, Kat,' says he, 'he hasn't had an extra farthing to waste on his favorite dish—not a farthing for red lobster an' kidney pie, or fine port n' sherry!  Hasn't had but saltwater an' fish floatin' up on the banks of the Thames—not in six years, he's gotten so hard up!'  An' still, Marie, t'ink on it, now, he sacrifices the little remains of his honest earnings to some stranger for the sake of a woman's happiness!"

"Earnings that rightly belong to that stranger—to Mr. MacBain—anyhow."  Mrs. Hudson slashed her arms defiantly across her chest.

"Right you are, Marie, but, ah, ye know, last week, Sebastian tells me, the old Professor went three days without eatin', and even that can't move his disownin' big brother James William to part with a pound note to help him.  'Nevertheless, Kat,' says Sebastian, 'don't you go tellin' Mrs. Hudson what I told you, for Bobby doesn't mean to do these things to strut n' brag . . ."

"Oh, I'm sure he doesn't."  Mrs. Hudson's voice was shrapnel dipped in sarcasm.  "And I'm sure the Colonel just happened to slip up all this sympathetic drivel to your caring heart and open mouth in the duration!"  She tossed her honey hair defiantly.

"Aw, but Ma-riieee, have a 'eart . . ."

"That will do, Kat!" The landlady stamped her kid-booted foot.  " I am well aware that Professor Moriarty pinches pennies these days, but I am aware of the other side of his story, as well:  There was a time when our 'modestly financed' mathematics chair had six separate clandestine bank accounts, not to mention, Kat, another in Switzerland—according to Mr. Holmes, he once paid Colonel Moran—yes, 'your Sebastian'—more that the Prime Minister earns in a year!  I'll bet your fiancée 'forgot' to tell you that detail!"

"Aye, but such times are long past, luvvie! Skinny as a rod, the Professor is, and what with dark circles under 'is eyes, an' a waning spirit to boot.  Don't forget those blueprints for that engine that he gave to ole Mac!  I mean, if the Professor were actin' in self-interest, he could ha' used that extraordinary new contraption for another of his schemes, an' . . . "

"Kat!  Enough!  He would not have been in a self-compromising position if he hadn't put himself there with his own dishonesty and villainy!" Pure vitriol, alien to her temperament in all other dispositions, seeped into Marie Hudson's whispered words.  "Don't expect me to sing his praises because he stuck his neck out and acted honestly just once!"

" . . . Right. Enough.  Just let me put it this way. . . Which James are you crying over today, luvvie?" the unassuming barmaid cooed, stroking her friend's arm.  At last she handed her the salt shaker.

Mrs. Hudson left her companion's black-laced fingers hanging unattended in the air for several moments before realizing them.  "I have not been out to my garden today, but I know that our white roses—Jim's and mine—haven't bloomed on time for our anniversary this year.  Oh, Kat, tell me:  Am I that obvious?" She pushed stray hairs from her face, at last taking the salt.  Her lips tugged upward in a weak grin; the hot steam from the stewpot—or perhaps it was something else—flushed her cheeks.

Her young friend shrugged, grabbing the ladel and stirring, for Mrs. Hudson was staring at some fixed point on the wall in front of them.  Or beyond it.  "Nah, nah.  You're a strong one, you are.  Sebastian also told me . . . well . . . that he feared for your heart today, for missing Jim and having none other than those ungodly adventurers Holmes and Watson to comfort ye." 

"Oh, Kat, stop that, now, my tenants are wonderful men, and I . . ."  Then Mrs. Hudson's brow furled, and she stumbled over her words.  "Sebastian?  You still speak of Colonel Moran, your fiancée?  How did he . . .?"

Ferrell grabbed the ladel from the stewpot, grinning like the canary that outran the tabby.  She aimed the tomato juice stained utensil at her friend and triumphantly declared, "Forgive me for not lettin' the subject rest, dearie, but the other James told my lover he was worried for ye, and why."

"You mean . . ."  Mrs. Hudson began wrenching the salt into the soup as though the shaker were a loathed person's neck.  "You mean James Moriarty?"

"Yes, darlin.' The one what 'put himself in a self-compromisin' place on account of 'is own villainy,' is that how ye just now put it?"

"Well . . . I . . ."

"Seems you told him a loot's worth of personal treasures while the two of you were out flyin' a fortnight ago.  Seems he remembered all of it to the tiniest detail."

"It doesn't matter," the widow snapped, again, at the obscure place on her wall—at some imagined person there, in her thoughts.  "If he cared so much, he should have done something about it.  Something more than showcase his pretended generosity to one of my friends—who well deserved it and more! Oh, I'm so mad at him that I could burst!" 

She said it loudly to make sure that she even meant it. 

"Och, I know," Kat, a firecracker in her own right, fiercely scoffed, thrusting her arms and the messy ladel into the air.  Garden vegetable soup sprayed all over Mrs. Hudson's freshly scrubbed floors.  But she was too grateful for her friend's loyalty to care.  "These men," the barmaid complained, "these men!  They make grand gestures all over, don't they?  Only grand ones!"

Mrs. Hudson's fingers flew to her mended pink brooch. One that had cost a man a full night of sleep, just to stop her tears. ". . .Yes, exactly," she whispered, with a queasy smile.

"Yes, right, that's the spirit!" Kat continued, swept away in her fervency.  She slammed the ladel down in the soup, pounding her fists.  "That's what Lola always tells me, you know!  Men commit either great deeds or hideous ones, all for the sake of their ladies, overjoyin' us or breakin' us, and then they wonder at us when all we want is a little reminder, just a little constant reminder, that they love us. A little trinket here and there." She sighed, fingering her many bangling golden bracelets, adjusting her buxom corset.  " I suppose we must tolerate them, eh?  I mean, I thank the Saints daily for my Sabbie—can you believe a man of his stature, an aristocrat and a colonel . . . well, even so, he's done his wrongs and I mine, and we love each other in spite of it.  But I tell you what, there are times when I think that Sherlock fellow that lives upstairs has a good idea about how to treat love—at an arm's length, like a scientist studyin' it, all detached and such."

"No, Kat." Mrs. Hudson shook her head.  "No, I fear that's Mr. Holmes's greatest Achilles' Heel, his solitude.  And I hope someone can lessen it for him."

"That opera star, maybe?" Kat whistled low in her throat. "She's a beaut, ain't she? And a clever little blighter, too, if he'll let her in."

Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to hear.  She was clutching her chest, the brooch, getting tomato sauce and lima beans all over her clean pink dress—not even noticing. Her breaths grew labored. "To die alone and in sorrow would be the most monstrous fate of any man, and I don't wish it on him or anyone else."

"Him who?" The barmaid's eyes grew sly.  "Are we still talking about Sherlock Holmes, Marie?"

The two friends locked eyes; Mrs. Hudson sighed and readied herself to confess.  "When I looked in his eyes, I felt like I was . . . you'll think this is silly, but . . . I felt like I was home."

"Whose eyes?"  Kat half-wailed, hands clasped together at the romance of her friend's words. 

"Well you know, my Jim, but then . . . also the . . . the other . . ."  Then the doorbell rang. Marie sprang to her feet.  "I . . . must answer that, it might be a client for Mr. Holmes!" 

And Kat's chin dropped into her crossed arms.  "Perfect way to avoid a question, luvvie," she grumbled.

Mrs. Hudson stopped in the foyer, moaning at her disheveled state.  She licked her fingers and rubbed the tomato sauce off her gown—still stained. So worthless a care, for she had nothing and no one, really, to admire her as a woman today. Resigned, she slid the door open . . .

And there on the steps stood Jim's old flying mate, Tommy Nesbitt.  Jim's best friend—once hers, too. His eyes grew rueful when he took in her face. "I remembered, too, Marie.  I miss him, too.  May I . . . come in?"  He offered her a small bouquet of white roses. 

"Tommy . . ." Marie Hudson gasped, seized the flowers, and in her raw, cut-open state, forgot herself.  She strode out into the sunlight and kissed the pilot that had known her husband so well, flinging her anger and sorrow and longing back onto a convenient vessel.  "Tommy, I'm alone.  I didn't know I was alone." 

But the pilot saw it as more.  He did not see that it was misplaced.  He saw it as a long-stored dream hatching. "Oh, Marie, at last!"  With this cry, he wrapped his arms around her faltering frame and kissed her back.  "I won't let you be lonely! Let's share this day, Marie, please."  He held her in his young, hopeful eyes, and touched her face, her neck . . . her brooch. 

Her mended brooch.

One left her in an alley.  Another risked all.  Madness, still it was madness, to prefer that other: a criminal. 

But she did.

She regained her senses.  A great leaden knot formed in her chest, and she nearly choked.  "Oh, Tommy, forgive me, but I don't think that this is going to . . ."  Then something behind her visitor caught her eye.  Limping, hung over from some unspeakable exhaustion, another man passed by her door.   "Oh, my . . ."

Moriarty.  His head drooped low, but his eyes shifted up sidelong to regard her as he passed, and his wretched expression divulged that he had seen the entire transaction with Nesbitt.  "Forgive me," he croaked, looking away.  "I was only passing through.  Please c. . . continue."  He tripped towards the street.

The criminal's words quietly ripped something inside the widow to shreds.  But they barely registered next to the look in his eyes—beggarliness and fear that did not suit his proud, rebellious bearing.  But something even worse that those—he looked disappointed. 

She forced herself to regard her second unexpected intruder more carefully, around Tommy's shoulder.  There were curious little scratch marks all over Moriarty's fingers and arms—they were bleeding, too, to such an extent that his arms extended gingerly from his body, like wings, to avoid the pain of brushing them against his torso.  It would have seemed comical if he were not grimacing with every step.  Snags had appeared in his white cloak, which he had tied around his neck, as if he had found it cumbersome during some tiring task.  This was too much to bear in silence; so Marie Hudson took a step away from her husband's best friend, whose arms held her, and towards London's worst criminal, whose back was to her. 

"Leave the blackguard," Tommy murmured, a snarl poised on his muzzle.  He took Mrs. Hudson's arms and held her close, clutching onto the moment that he realized he was already losing.  "And curse the day you saw him again.  He is an inconstant man who rescues you one moment and stabs you the next.  Don't trust him, Marie."  His young voice broke, betraying his lack of manly sophistication, though he meant well, for her protection. 

But Marie didn't want protection. 

"Please," she called, "do not go—I should get you some ointment for your wounds."

"That won't heal me," he snarled, lashing around.  He fired Tommy a resentful glare.  The pilot scowled right back, shielding Mrs. Hudson with his body.  But the widow pried his hands off of her shoulders and kept walking towards the criminal.  "Professor, please . . ."  Her rose bouquet, clutched in her hands but already forgotten, was large and clumsy; it got between them. 

"Oh, it's 'Professor' now, is it?  Just 'Professor!' "  Moriarty hissed at the flowers in her hands, then turned away again, spurning her. He lifted his walking stick, raising another barrier between them.  "I can not have what will heal me."

She reached him then, reached his arm and brushed it.  "Can we not at least talk . . .?"

"No.  I won't put you through that, when it's my fault.  Fool.  I'm such a fool."  His hands grasped each side of his head; his eyes squeezed shut, and for a moment his entire body wracked with a fierce, convulsive shiver.  And then, suddenly, he was utterly composed.  "Good day, Mrs. Hudson.  Do enjoy yourself before the rain comes."  He darted away from her grasp, striding briskly down the street. 

As if nothing had ever happened between them. 

A chilly breeze blew, heralding a coming storm.  Marie Hudson's skirts flew up around her knees, jostled by the wind.  But she didn't notice; she was lost.  Again she sought her late husband's friend, the remnant of a comforting past; Tommy glowered after Moriarty with unabashed hatred.  "I would thank him for saving your life," he growled, "but if not for that, Marie, I'd gladly have him arrested right here and now."  He unzipped his gray-blue pilot's suit and stepped out in his workman's clothing, welcoming himself inside her house.

Mrs. Hudson's gaze drifted in the direction of the garden, the gate ajar and squealing from lack of oil.  A question pricked the back of her mind: When had it been opened?  "Tommy," she mumbled, "go on inside and greet Holmes and Watson.  Ask the young lady named Katherine Ferrell for some tea.  I shall be in shortly to join you."

The pilot frowned at her.  ". . . Whatever you wish."  But she had already meandered to the back wall of the boarding house—to her garden, so he shuffled inside the house alone.

"Oh . . .my . . ."  A miracle!

How had it happened? 

On an early February day, Marie Hudson stood in the middle of a garden that flourished like summer. The entire place was flooded with white roses—how?  She drew close to the nearest bloom and fingered it—it had been carefully riveted into place with a mixture of fishing line and thin metal wire.  Every single bloom was thus.  Someone had made her garden blossom on time—just for her.   

Cuts on his hands and his cloak—rose thorns.

So that someone had just passed her in the street.  Exhausted from another all night effort on her behalf.

And the illustriously arrogant James Moriarty hadn't even taken credit for the deed.  He hadn't even mentioned it. That was more than a grand gesture.  That was a sincere one. 

Suddenly, for all his sweetness, for all his good will and the warm memories in which he was steeped, Tommy Nesbitt's little store-bought bouquet seemed very insignificant indeed. 

"Oh, lord . . .James . . ." Mrs. Hudson's eyes filled to the brim.  "I must go to him . . ."  On her way out the garden gate, she tripped over her watering can.  Nearly ready to curse it and throw it across the yard, she paused; it had grown heavier.  Looking inside, she found a small leather bound pocketbook there, stashed inside her watering can.  Upon opening it, Mrs. Hudson discovered a small bag of Morning Glory seeds, embedded in hundreds of pages of a botanist's textbook.  Every piece of information she would ever have desired to know about the maintenance and design of a flower garden was here. 

Kat was right, he had remembered.  But how had he remembered?  How had he known?

"You are a genius, aren't you, Professor?" she whispered, dashing down the street with book in hand.  "Or maybe it's just that you love me."

She came upon him only a block from Baker Street, her hair unkempt like a schoolgirl's, flinging the book above her head.  He was disguised now, in the open daylight, in Cockney dress, but as always, she recognized him at once.  "James, wait!"  She clutched his arm and whirled him around just as he was mounting his carriage, attended as ever by Todd and Smiley.  The two lads gawked at her as if she were the last person they ever expected to see again.  Then Smiley turned to Todd and clapped his hands once, gleefully; but the stouter henchman shook his head sharply and motioned for silence.  What was wrong here?

Moriarty caught his impulse to smile at her, forcing it back, taming it.  Patient stoicism replaced it.  "Why, whatever is the matter, Mrs. Hudson?"

She balked; yes, something powerful and intangible stretched between them now.  Something alienating.  But she tried again—deliberately echoing words he'd spoken to her one year past.  " 'Surely you didn't think I'd let you go . . . without thanking you.' "  Then the widow held the book up to the Professor's face. 

He stared at it for a long moment; disconcertion was a difficult thing to hide, even for a master criminal.  But he kept it muted.  "I am afraid I d-don't . . . understand."

Liar.  "I know you gave me my garden and this book for my wedding anniversary.  I know you remembered the date.  Stop being silly and just accept my thanks."  Then Mrs. Hudson reached for Professor Moriarty's hand.

He jerked away from her and bit his lip.  His voice began to quiver, his words hastening.  " I can't take credit for any of this, Madam . . . Perhaps you might think it more logical that Tommy Nesbitt remembered your wedding anniversary.  He was your husband's friend. He visited you today.  I am sure he cares deeply for you.  Why don't you go to him?  Yes, go."  And with that, his eyes so suddenly afraid, as if he had resolved to commit an act that he hated to commit, Moriarty turned and mounted the carriage.  Then he shut the door.

            Mrs. Hudson was crushed.  Why was he doing this?  Why was he lying?  "Didn't you tell me during our plane ride that botany was one of your hobbies when you taught at the university?"  she threw one last attempt, hands on her hips. 

            "I . . ." He would not dare look her in the eye.  "I made a promise.  Goodbye, Marie." 

            Then the cab sped off, a dejected Todd and Smiley piloting it. 

            It took Marie Hudson a long time, standing there in the middle of the London street watching her lover vanish into the traffic, to realize that it had begun to rain.  When at last she realized her sodden hair was obstructing her vision, that indeed her entire body was soaked, she began to shiver.  Then it stopped—but only . . . only around her.  She looked upward—there was an umbrella sheltering her.  And holding it was Sherlock Holmes.

            He took her hand and spoke softly.  The pain of sacrifice that had been on Moriarty's face was twice as fresh and clear in the detective's.  But just like Moriarty, Holmes was resolute.  "Tommy told me you were in the garden, but I could not find you there.  Then I saw you running down the street.  I . . .  saw and heard every moment of what just passed between you.  That promise that he made . . . let us just suppose it was made about you, and made to me.  Let us also suppose, my dear Mrs. Hudson, that if I were persuaded of some circumstances that changed in the recent past, I might be willing to withdraw the need for that promise to be kept . . . if you so wished." 

            "But he will not speak to me.  He will not admit his affections.  It may be too late."

"Maybe.  But I want that to be your decision, Mrs. Hudson.  Only yours."

"Then I . . . would like that very much."  She squeezed his hand back; what a wonderful man, standing there getting twice as soaked as she had been, sacrificing dryness and companionship to her.  She knew what Sherlock Holmes felt for her.  She had given him so many chances to voice it, to act on it, and he had always shrunken away from her, all in the memory of that beautiful martyr, Elizabeth Hardy. All in the memory of the pain associated with her loss.  He had been unwilling to live—asleep, perhaps—while she had gone on and embraced living in honor of her husband's memory.  She pitied the brilliant detective, grieved her tenant of so many years, for not living as she had.  And now, when he had at last awakened to the possibility of loving again, he was willing to give that chance up:  for her sake.  "But, oh, Sherlock," she said, unable to restrain an empathetic sob, "I will ask it only if you promise to let someone else into that heart of yours.  You are too good a man to waste on loneliness!"  She pulled him into an embrace and kissed his cheek.  "Only if you promise that!"

            "It's hard, Madam," he breathed, glaring at the ground.  "Can I just say that I shall try?"

             "Of course.  Trying is all that any of us can be sure we're capable of." 

            "Oh!  Do you know what she does, Marie?" the detective, invigorated by a sudden thought, gushed—so eager to divulge some tiny treasure of his unspoken lover that he called his landlady by her first name.

            "Irene Adler, you mean?"  She smiled, not bothering to correct his impropriety. 

            "Of course, her!  Well, she plays concertos on the piano to think—just like I play the violin!  Is that not marvelous?"

            Mrs. Hudson hugged her tenant and dear friend one last time before letting go. "It's miraculous . . . Sherlock." 

" 'Truth is like a diamond, Mr. Tiffany.  It must have the proper clarity, color, and weight to be worth anything.  And must be searched for everywhere.  I trade in truth.' "—Spoken by Sherlock Holmes, from Good Night, Mr. Holmes, by Carole Nelson Douglas

"Go from me.  Yet I feel that I shall stand

Henceforward in thy shadow.  Nevermore

Alone upon the threshold of my door

Of individual life, I shall command

The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand

Serenely in the sunshine as before,

Without the sense of that which I forbore, . . .

Thy touch upon the palm.  The widest land

Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine

With pulses that beat double.  What I do

And what I dream include thee, as the wine

Must taste of its own grapes.  And when I sue

God for myself, he hears that name of thine,

And sees within my eyes the tears of two."

--Elizabeth Barrett Browning

            The chance to try at love was to come soon for Sherlock Holmes.  One afternoon when I had ventured to the Diogenes Club for a few sips of Port and a card game with my fellow veterans, I invited Sebastian Moran to join us in disguise. Moriarty and his two younger henchmen kept their distance, preparing for the evening's latest operation against the Ripper—a visit to Whitechapel.  Mrs. Hudson had begun to see that amiable young pilot, Tommy Nesbitt, and was out at lunch with him at the Air Field—much to my relief, for I had really begun to fear that she had taken a fancy to Professor Moriarty, and he to her.

 Holmes, to put it shortly, was alone in the boarding house.  And that day, Irene Adler called on him.

            He had drawn his cocaine needle from my latest vain hiding place—under the armchair cushions—and was, vehemently, tying his forearm taut with a scrap of linen, when a shadow fell over him.  He looked up and beheld her standing in the doorway to his laboratory.  She was clad in crimson, her black-gloved fingers wrenching a handkerchief.  "You know, don't you?"  she breathed.  "They told you."

            He rose cautiously to his feet.  The needle slid from his hands, plopping against the seat of the chair.  "You are correct on one count.  I know only what they told me were the facts." His voice was carefully indifferent.  "But not the actual facts themselves.  For I have not seen with my own eyes."

            "But . . . then you must wonder.  Your best friend saw me.  And a fellow genius, too.  Surely it's enough to make you wonder . . ."

            "No, Irene, I do not.  I trust you.  I trust that you had a reason for your actions."

            She frowned, sweeping into the room, invading his space—nose-to-nose with him.  And the smell of lavender . . . a salty blood smell, and some sort of expensive perfume, Dr. Oxley, from the morgue, had testified of the Ripper crime scene.  But no . . . Oxley said the Ripper never touched the body, too, and had been mistaken.  No, it just could not be. 

But then she spoke, so smoothly and enticingly, and the doubt and suspicion churned inside Holmes like bile.  She was so crafty.  She had already fooled him once.  Oh God, Christ God.  "Why, Sherlock, why such . . .faith, suddenly? I thought you didn't trust any woman."

"But you are The Woman, Irene."  Desperate to replace paranoia with affection, Holmes touched the opera star's exquisite face, combing his hands through her rich dark masses of hair.  In that moment, the man, the genius, of 221 B Baker Street, became an awkward, pigeon-toed boy.  "You know that.  Among your skills to move me with your voice and to intrigue my wits with your intellect, your . . . well  . . . your soul has succeeded in transforming mine." 

She took his hands, blinking, genuinely taken aback by his overt affection.  Then she saw that he was trembling from head to foot; she saw that he was terrified.  "You are more fragile than people realize, aren't you, Sherlock?"  She lay her forehead against his, bracing him under her arms; his hands were cold.  "You do not need to say things that go without saying.  I understand you better than you realize.  Come, you are pale—please do not stand for my sake." 

"Pay me no mind," he replied, voice strained and hoarse.  She was stunned by the warmth in those sea cloud gray eyes—the warmth inside a man guarded with hundreds of layers of protective shells, who solved mysteries, but threw his friends and foes daily off the scent of his most candid inner self.  Born to her alone—a privilege indeed.  He continued, "We have been . . . seeing each other . . . for over a month now.  I have enjoyed every moment of your company—our philosophical discussions and debates, your songs, your . . . touch.  I hope it has enlightened you enough to know that . . . that I mean my words, but I am just very frightened to say them.  Do not think this is a façade, Irene." He looked anxiously over his shoulder; he kept peering out the window, behind him, as if he expected someone else to be there watching them, catching him in the act of his confession.  Someone, perhaps, who was already forever gone.  "I . . . I am afraid to die alone.  All my life, while others made oaths to become barristers, doctors, army coaches, I simply wanted not to be alone.  And of all of us, I remain the least successful in fulfilling my ambitions."  After one last glare over his shoulder, Sherlock Holmes nestled into Irene Adler's arms, and she could scarcely register that she was holding England's greatest mind at her mercy, fully, for the first time since she had met him . . . and she had no desire to take advantage of it.  Instead, she held him closer, stroking his back. They sank together into one of the chairs, she in his lap, still holding him.  "I want only one thing of you, Irene.  Fulfill my dream.  Do not leave me this time, when we've finished this case.  Do not disappear again, to America, to Paris, or Prague, to another man, to anywhere."

"You do not know me—not everything of me.  That is not fair for you."

"I don't care—I have both our whole lives to learn."  His cheek nuzzled hers.  His wild red-orange bangs tickled her nose, and the tenderness of it stabbed her through the heart.  "Please, Irene.  This is so hard for me.  I feel like a silly, sentimental . . ."

"Stop, Sherlock!  Please, stop. I know it is hard for you!  That's why I can't bear this."  She covered her face suddenly, her shoulders shaking once.  She stood and opened a gap of several feet between them again.  Momentary panic shot through Holmes's chest and limbs, for she was retreating towards the door.

But then she stopped, and when she looked him in the eyes, she was composed.  "I am giving you one chance," Irene Adler pledged, calmly and clearly, with mustered courage, "to ask me anything you wish.  And you will be given a completely honest answer."  She took the detective's clammy hands in hers, and squeezed.  "Do you understand what I'm saying, Sherlock?  What I'm doing right now, for you?"

            He gulped something in his throat, gulped several times before he could fully swallow. Dread ravaged his face.  "You can't tell me that you . . ."

            "My dearest heart." the opera star took her lover's troubled head in her arms, letting him bury his anxious features in the sleeve of her rich red gown.  His breaths quickened as she finished through her teeth, "No more postulations or theories, no more deductions.  For once, just ask me, for I'll not allow this self-surrender again!"

            "No.  I will never ask you the thing that you want me to ask.  Whether she thinks I should or not, I will not incriminate the woman I love." Holmes's jaw dropped.  For he realized he had said it:  He had said love.  "Did I ever tell you about Elizabeth Hardy?"

" You . . . You have mentioned her before, most fondly.  All that I can gather is that she was a great love in your life."

"The only great love, Irene.  Killed by the man that I once would have done anything to call father.  Rathe was his name. But that was only a . . . .pseudonym . . . false, just like the rest of him."  

The silence hummed between them like a livewire.  She realized that he was waiting for her to ask it:  "What was his real name?"

"His poor Egyptian mother named him Ehtar.  But his father, who brought him to Ireland, christened him James."

"James . . . ?"

"James Moriarty."

Irene gasped; for all her incredible intellect, she had never known of the greatest transgression that had passed between her lover and his mortal enemy.  She winced apologetically, for the sudden, sharp noise in her throat drew the detective's startled eyes to her face.  But then that face darkened.  "He should pay for that, Sherlock."  Every word she spoke was soft and savage, like the hiss of an adder: evil, but pledged like a creed. "With the damnation of a loveless life.  How dare he even look at that landlady of yours?"

But Holmes only smiled at the enraged femme fatale, still drifting in the trickling current of memory that connected her to the woman that she was to succeed.  "Elizabeth said she'd wait for me, the day she died," he whispered, more to the air than to the woman now present, now watching him.  "But . . . suppose she did not realize at the time that someone else might come along in the duration to ease my loneliness.  Suppose I'm looking at that someone else now." Then he looked up, not at the ghosts over his shoulder, but at The Woman, and his eyes were shining.

            Irene Adler's anger crumbled like a stone fortress, like the highest tower falling, and was replaced by something else.  She felt her own eyes growing moist; in spite of all her cunning and adventurous scheming, she was still capable of the aching, joyful thing of which the detective spoke. 

 "I suppose you are," she conceded.  "I suppose you have been ever since the day you entered my house, hired to foil my security measures against Bohemia."

"Something I'd never do, had I known how wronged you were."

"I know that.  Listen: That is not my point.  You made quite an impression on me that day.  Do you not know, Sherlock?" She giggled at her own foolishly doting words.  "You are my fascination. You are my beloved mystery." 

            He stood, took her arms, and pulled her back into his grasp.  This time she did not struggle to free herself.  "Solve me, then," he murmured into her ear, into her hair.  His trembling was beginning to ease.  "We are alone, Irene, alone together—only you fit me, and I you.  Night and day will merge."  Then Holmes's slender fingers unsnapped the top button of Irene Adler's dress.  "I would do this for no other woman alive.  But for you . . . It has been six years too long since last I held you like this."

Irene's breath, scented of honey and red wine, grew hot against his cheek.  Her eyes were brilliant with anticipation.  She hastened Holmes's fingers to the next button.  And the next.  And the next.  "One day would have been too long, my lover," she crooned.   And one more button. 

"Let's damn them all, the whole world—forget them with me for an hour."  

"Alright, then.  Let's."  Here Irene wrapped her arms around what that world saw as an emotionally barren detective, and, pulling him close, conquered him.  She kissed him—extracting a shuddering sigh from his core.  They slid to the floor together, bodies pressed close, warm and soft against each other, defying the horrible things occurring each night in London at the hands of a heartless killer—proving to each other what a man could truly be to a woman, and a woman to a man. She grappled to remove his shirt, too, and kissed him again—harder. 

"Oh . . ." he whispered, impassioned.  "Oh, Marie."

The room, once teeming with the magic, the energy, between them, fell still.  Irene Adler's face was strewn with horror and disgust. " . . . Marie?"

Holmes's hand flew to his mouth.  He heaved once, gulping it back, as though he had been ready to retch.  "Oh . . . God, no, I did not mean that . . . you must know that was a mistake!  It . . . it was Elizabeth's middle name, you see, and you remind me so of her . . ."

"Do not insult my intelligence!" the lady cried, springing to her feet and flying for the door.  Murder, blood and betrayal glimmered in her eyes.  "That is your landlady's name!"  She grabbed a fleece blanket resting on the lab table, and covered her nearly-bared chest with it, looking, in her dishevelment, very much like the Lady of Shalott.  She had not felt so violently naked in front of the detective until now.  "You still pretend to love another woman—a woman who does not love you!  You are not ready for me—you're not ready for any woman, and you never shall be, so long as you aren't brave enough to choose!"

"You said you knew how hard this was for me!  You said you knew I am frightened of this!" he whimpered, following her.  He put his arms on each side of her, blocking her, forcing her to confront him.  "Have you no compassion?"

"If I had none, I would not care so much that I had lost you again to your cursed solitude!"  With a rare sob, Irene Adler turned the doorknob and fled the room, down the stairs, out the house. 

And Sherlock Holmes was alone again.

He turned to the chair—to the floor where their love had nearly flourished.  Where he had, in the one chance he had left, fouled it all up.  Then back to the chair.  The cocaine needle was still there.  He took it, glanced at his forearm—yes, the linen cloth was still tied firmly to it—waiting for him, like it had always known he'd fail.  So the great detective bit down on his lip, impaled himself, and injected.  

A week—a very uneventful week, for Todd, Sebastian, and Smiley, as their employer had fallen into a dreadful sulk—passed.  He had spent a whole damned fortune on those white roses, only to chop them up and wire them to the dead bushes in Mrs. Hudson's garden, and now he had absolutely no resources even to hatch another scheme.  So there they sat in their hideout- twiddling their proverbial thumbs. 

One morning, the morning of February the 14th, Moriarty simply did not come out of his bedroom.  Sebastian laughed it off as the most unpleasant stage of a lover's quarrel or perhaps a St. Valentine's Day curse, and Todd had vowed long ago never to knock on the door when his boss was in one of his "humors."  But at about noon, one of Moriarty's employees decided he was not so indifferent to his master's mood. 

Smiley Marrow entered his employer's bedroom as a small child might enter a booby trapped cave.  He scanned the place, and found it in shambles—a disconcerting observation, for ever since the night last year in which Marie Hudson had cleaned their entire hideout, adding special care to the Professor's bedroom and study, Moriarty had obsessively maintained the immaculacy of his quarters.  It had been like an uspoken homage to her kindness to him. 

Now it was once again disheveled and filthy, a fly's paradise. Empty bottles of various liquors stood on the bookshelf, lay upset on the dressing table, and were shattered in shards all over the carpet. 

An unspoken acceptance. 

"Professor!" Smiley wailed, suddenly terrified, clambering in circles about the room.  "Are you alright, sir? SIR?  Oh Lord!  Professor!"

A groan reached his ears from behind the bed, within the tangled sheets.  "Oh, what, what?"  came the sleepy, peevish voice.  Smiley raced towards the noise and flung the covers from around a sprawling figure nestled inside them.  

Moriarty, inebriated as a drowned rat, lay on the floor, in an awkwardly collapsed position.  His cheeks were ruddy, his tie and suspenders undone and one shoe missing.  He scowled at the sudden flood of light to his dilated pupils, swatting madly at some invisible object between himself and his lackey.  " Duh-damned insect . . ."

Marrow had never seen his boss in a state so far without possession of his wits.  "S-sir . . .?"

"Aw, hell, Smiley," the criminal cried, in long loud words that lacked enunciation. "Guhhhd Gawd, yuh tryin' to bloody kill me?"

"What's wrong with you, Professor?"  The youth's distress overrode his powers of observation.

"I'm drunk, ya cretin!  Whad'ya think I was doing in here, writing another dissertation onna Binomial Theorem? JesusMaryn'Joseph, jus' go 'way!"

"Again?  How  . . . how much did you expect to drink, sir?"

Moriarty cast him a sullen sidelong look.  " 'ntil I no longer cared, lad." He grappled about for the bedpost.  Smiley offered an unassuming hand, one the Professor surprisingly accepted, and helped his employer to hoist himself up into bed.  "Sherry, port, and lots of whiskey later, it still hasn't worked . . . God, I'm a pathetic . . ."  He clutched his stomach and belched." . . . fool."

Smiley gulped back his fear.  "Well, sir, I'm, afraid I might just . . . be agreein' with ye there." 

" . . . I beg your pardon?"  Even in intoxication, nothing dulled the ability with which Moriarty's wrath could surface.  He glowered right at his youngest henchman from among his pillows, eyes narrow. 

"W-w-well, sir . . . you be a man of action, so I'm afraid it's shockin' to me how you've tried nothing to win the lady back.  I mean, ain't she far more important to ye than one of your jewel heists or blackmails?  You never quit at those things!"  The boy cringed, awaiting his punishment—fifty laps around the hideout, perhaps, or the daily cleaning of their chamber pots.  None came. 

Moriarty just continued to stare at him. But his gaze had changed from rage to confusion.  "I . . . That'sa'cause I've learned a valuable lesson, Smiley:  Stop pursuin' things that're 'mpossible to obtain. Already did my job anyway. Already paid her frenn's th'MacBains back, an' resolved to do the same for the London Airfield inna day errr two.  Yessssssirree, I'm done."

"I think that's sad, sir."  His youngest employee regarded him with great, glassy eyes.  "It hurts you to give up like this.  It kills a man inside when he be practical about his heart."

Moriarty tried not to notice the keen logic of his lackey's assumedly simple mind.  He waved it off with a hiccup.  "Bah.  It hurts now, but in the end I'll be all the wiser, and Marie Hudson will be much better off.  That's me provin' I love 'er, me boy—putting her first, ya see."

Smiley laughed in spite of his nervousness.  "Professor, do ye really think she's that dumb?"

"Dumb?" If the criminal hadn't been so full of liquor, he would have sprung from his chair and shaken the boy silly. As it was, he let out a growl and lurched forward from the pillows, clawing in vain for Smiley's neck.  "Donnchta ever 'cuse me of callin' the  lady I cherish dumb, yuh beast!" 

Patiently, the lad stood and retreated several paces out of reach, seating himself in the doorway.  He waited for his inebriated boss to compose himself.  Finally Moriarty moaned, flopped onto his back, and rested his hands on his belly; it was swollen round as a beer barrel with great quantities of drink.  "Ohhhh . . . God, my gut.  No, m-my heart!  My . . .!   Hum." His pathetic, self-pitying eulogy ceased abruptly; something Smiley had said had intrigued him.  "I don't see your point—be a good lad, eh?  'splain it to me."  He sniffed, twice as dejected, and sullen, as before.

"I mean, do ye think she doesn't know what's best for her?  And do ye think that you can hide how you feel if she feels it back?  Go to her, boss, please.  Do what she thinks she needs, 'stead of what you think she needs."  He shrugged.  "Trust her a spot, maybe?"

Moriarty looked at his young employee as if he were a terrified child, and as if Smiley were the sage.  His words acquired clarity and caution, as though the alcohol was losing its grip in light of his feverish emotions.  "That's a frightening thing, trust.  I'm frightened of losing her, Smiley.  I'm frightened of being insufficient after she places her faith in me."

Smiley approached his master, plopping beside him on the bed.  "Well, sir, you'll certainly be of no value to her if ye abandon her." 

The criminal inhaled deeply, flinging his head up to glare at the ceiling.  "By George, you're right. Help me to my feet, Smiley."  He heaved himself forward, reaching for the grinning lad's hands.  "Get me some strong black coffee while I dress—and make haste! I have work to do, and little time to do it!"

"That's the spirit, Professor!" Smiley crowed. 

"I arise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of the night,

When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright:

I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feet

Hath led me—who knows how?

To thy chamber window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint

On the dark, the silent stream—

The Champak odors fail

Like sweet thoughts in a dream;

The nightingale's complaint,

It dies upon her heart;--

As I must on thine,

Oh, beloved as thou art!

Oh lift me from the grass!

I die! I faint! I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!

My heart beats loud and fast;--

Oh! Press it to thine own again,

Where it will break at last."

--Perce Bysshe Shelley

It had been a nightmare.  Tommy, and the things he tried to do, had been a nightmare.  To think—Jim's best friend.  But that was the only living chord between Marie Hudson and Tommy Nesbitt—what they shared in an unreachable past.

It only required a few outings to realize that their very romance was a mistake.  Each laughing, flirtatious line or fond anecdote of a time gone by ceased with some mutual memory of Jim Hudson—followed by painful silence, by exchanged looks and cleared throats, by an urgent struggle to reconnect to some amorous miracle just out of their reach, while she fumbled with her gloves, or shielded her lost eyes behind her parasol, while he tried so many times to muster the courage to slip his arm behind her, and each time let it drop back at his side.  A hair and yet an ocean stood between them.  Poor Tommy—he was such a good man, and he had tried so hard.  He had taken her on carriage rides at dusk, out to dinner with their mutual friends, the rambunctious, joyful MacBains (being in their company rather than simply alone with him had been the sole pleasant part of her evenings), and past the old bachelor pad where he and Jim had lived before.  They had peered inside the windows; the house was still deserted, years later.  He had not understood why she sank down on the front steps of the modest building and began to weep.  "But Marie, it means it hasn't been replaced," he'd whimpered.  "No one lives here still—it's the same as . . . as before."

"No, Tommy," she had breathed, "it's not an issue of sameness, nor replacement.  It's an issue of no one coming back to the place and rejuvenating it with new memories.   There's no laughter here, no companionship.  Only dust and moths, and mildew."

Tommy had only blinked at her, bewildered, and taken her home without another word. He had not understood that it meant her past was unreachable and obsolete, that she was alone and the building, like her heart, was evicted of its love and its memories.

He had not understood that she was alone.

Then he had taken her to the London Airfield, flown her in the same plane that had cruised the air alongside her plane and Jim's, before he . . . before the accident.  It was not the same as the night she had taken James Moriarty flying.  For she could not even bring herself to sit in the pilot's seat— Jim's plane, the one that had not been destroyed, was to stay on the ground while Tommy's and hers flew. It felt like a betrayal, an erasure.  And when Tommy offered to fly Jim's old plane instead of his, she asked him to take her home.  She didn't even try to explain herself, her feelings, that time.

No amount of trying could make up for two puzzle pieces that simply did not snap into a common mold:  Such was their futile, frustrating situation. 

She knew it was over between them a month ago.  She hadn't even entered the courtship eagerly.  Tommy had been the spinach of her spirit—savory only for the principle of revitalizing and replenishing.  For survival, and pragmatism, and "patching up and moving on" with the proverbial "stiff upper lip."  Or perhaps it was even more dangerous than that:  Perhaps Tommy had been an illusion of security and companionship—a convenient tool to alleviate her fear of dying alone, as the silver-haired old crones that drifted solitarily from church every Sunday afternoon.  Tommy, and the things he could offer, were not meant for joy, or serendipity, or understanding. 

Truth be told, Jim's flying mate was a distraction from the soul-churning maelstrom, the heart's reawakening, that another man had provoked.  "The other James," as Kat Ferrell had put it. 

This she knew now, alone again in her sitting room with her needle, mending her pink cooking gloves, with only a memory of herself and her late true love arm in arm at the head of his airplane, in black and white and squeezed within the confines of a picture frame.  Oh, how recent, and yet how eternally far away, was 19 years old from 24.  How exquisitely, foolishly innocent. 

It didn't hurt too badly, as long as she didn't go out into her white-bursting rose garden—at the cut blooms just beginning to brown at the edges.

But she went out and looked at it every day.  And thought of the man who had, in great, back-breaking effort, conjured it.

            The doorbell rang.  It was probably Mr. Holmes, back from the morning's meeting with his brother, Mycroft, who was making another attempt to discourage the private detective from involvement solving the Ripper crimes.  The thought of Sherlock Holmes giving up on anything made her nearly scoff aloud.

A second ring.  Now the memory of Tommy's first visit in over a year, the day of her wedding anniversary and the beginning of their useless and dissolved courtship, stung her all the more.  Yes, it was probably just Holmes, or another person on whom to misplace her longing, and her solitude.  For it could not possibly be the one person she wanted it to be.

For a moment she forgot the best advice her brilliant tenant had ever given her:  The most incredible circumstances surround an event just when we are hasty enough to rule them out as impossible. 

So Marie Hudson strode to the foyer and opened the door to behold the cringing figure of James Moriarty.

A long and awkward silence yawned between them, in which she merely stood in the foyer gawking—as if he were a ghost. 

When at last Moriarty spoke, his voice oozed gruff unease.  "I thought it was too late—only realized it was the 14th at noon, after all.  Then I remembered my unhealthy tendency never to give up on anything, especially those things which seem the most impossible. So I came here anyway."  He attempted a weak smile, head bowed and eyes cast up at her humbly—no small feat for a man so afflicted with hubris. 

It was raining again in London.  Moriarty was soaked already.  His shirt and pants clutched his thin, bent frame like leeches, and deep dark circles undercut his winterstorm gray stare.  His monocle was missing, and even his moustache, sodden, drooped.  Longing crackled between them like electricity—longing and rain, and the scent of her early lily blooms.  And then he really spoke.  "Please don't leave me.  I am greedy.  I've wanted, and yes, I've taken, many, many things in my life, but you're the only thing I've ever needed . . . like this . . .with . . . with all of me. And I know I can't just take you, Marie. I won't manipulate.  I won't beg or cajole, or strong-arm.  I can just . . . I can just ask you.  Here—now."   

She stared at him wordlessly, so long and with such a lack of expression that he already believed he'd lost. 

But then she smiled. So simple, so honest and pure, it was.  So much spoken in one little quirk of the lips.  "Alright," she said.  She extended her index finger, and touched one of his pleading palms—so soft, it was like a breeze kissing his skin.  He shuddered, eyes widening from her answer.  Then once more, reaching the space of his chest peeking through his unbuttoned shirt collar, she tugged him closer.  Marie Hudson backed slowly through the door.  And, a pilgrim arriving at his shrine, James Moriarty followed.

They sank down together on the steps to Holmes's study, eyes locked.  But then Moriarty turned away and stifled a burp.  "Ohhh…pardon me, Madam."  As discretely as he could, he massaged his stomach, and moaned. 

"My dear."  She touched his face.  "Are you ill?" 

"I'm just getting over. . ." he flushed, forgetting his pains when her sea green eyes held him that way. . . "ah, a bit of intoxication."

"Would you like something warm?"  she breathed, slipping her arms gently round his waist, tucking herself under his chin.  Still smiling.  "Tea?  Let's go have some Chamomile tea by the fire.  It will settle your indigestion." 

"You'll get all wet," he sighed, inhaling that summer smell of her hair.  "I don't want to make you wet."  Aching, at the same time, at the thought of ever having to let her go. 

She looked up into his eyes—there was that feeling again, lost to her for years:  that feeling of home.  She remembered Jim—that same look in his gaze.  That same feeling in her chest.  "Thank you," she whispered.  "But I'm just fine."

"Hold on a moment.  I came to give you something."  Here he produced a plain yet elegant oak box from a satchel around his neck.  A pink satin ribbon had been tied around it. "Happy Valentine's Day, milady.  Open it, please."

Mrs. Hudson's face fell for a moment, then something anxious yet jubilant leaked into her features.  "Wait here!" she cried, ignoring his request and shooting to her feet.  Then she left him there on the step, ran down the hall to her bedroom and shut the door.  For a moment Moriarty thought that she had staged an elaborate show just in order to cast him out of her presence as stingingly as possible.  He contemplated sinking right through the cracks in the wooden steps, or perhaps merely evaporating into thin air.  He was humiliated.  His wildly churning nerves made his stomach twist all the more; he doubled over, clutching his gut harder. 

Then the door flung back open and Mrs. Hudson returned, her face a mixture of girlish embarrassment and glee.  Immediately Moriarty masked his physical pain in her presence; or perhaps her forgot it again—perhaps she had that much power over him.  And he didn't care.

The widow then thrust an inexplicable glued-together mass at the criminal: one composed of cigarettes, matches, wine corks, nails, rubber bands, and pipettes.  After closer inspection he realized it was a makeshift replica of his pterydactyl-shaped airplane.  "For me?"  Then he was speechless; when he looked at her, however, his wondering face said everything. 

"Happy Valentine's Day to you too," she said, fumbling with the strings of her apron.  "It took me a month to get the silly thing to stay glued together.  It's remarkable what you can do when you gather some discarded knick knacks in Mr. Holmes's laboratory.  I . . . hope you like it."

"It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," Moriarty gushed.  He grinned, pressing it close to his chest.  One final question, maddeningly harrowing him since she'd let him inside her home, wheezed out his mouth.  "But . . . Mr. Nesbitt?"

"I wish you could have known that what you saw was a mistake, James.  It was a moment of loneliness that I expressed in the wrong man's arms—a good man, but the wrong one.  And I didn't have the courage to realize it myselfuntil recently.  But I have severed romantic ties with Tommy for over a month now.  When a lady must try so hard to love someone, it is difficult when she has known what it is like to be fond of someone else both immediately and naturally."  Mrs. Hudson paused to offer the professor a meaningful gaze. 

"Open your present!" he replied, almost breathlessly, his fingers wriggling at his sides as she took the box from him.  "I made my gift from scratch as well!" 

She slid down on the top step, uravelling the pink bow with relish, while he sat clutching his fragile sculpture, tapping his foot nervously.   Mrs. Hudson gasped in pure delight—it was a chocolate cake.  "You cooked me a dessert?" she breathed.  "Oh, James!" She clasped her hands together, her voice never raising, remaining only a stunned and joyous whisper. "Oh, how wonderful!  Do put down your airplane for a moment to try it with me!"  Her eyes danced.

Moriarty, feeling quite satisfied indeed, obliged, setting his valentine on the railing.  Despite his gentleness, the stubbornly useless glue from Holmes's lab gave way.  It fell apart.  So did the landlady's radiant smile.

"Oh, dear," the professor mumbled, scrambling on all fours to pick up the divers pieces.  "Ah . . .perhaps you should try the cake without me."

She managed a shaky smile, at last plunging a finger into the icing.  She tasted it and nearly retched.  It was all flour, devoid of sugar.  On top of that, it was horribly burned.  She attempted to conceal her reflex chokes with feigned coughing.  "Crumb in my throat," she attempted. 

But he was mortified.  "Oh God, it's awful, isn't it?"

"Inedible," Mrs. Hudson admitted, putting the box on the ground.  She looked down and saw the catastrophic pile of cigarettes and pipettes he cradled in his arms, and the dust on his white trousers from the ground he'd crawled across in order to retrieve all the little pieces.  They regarded each other for a moment.  And then they began to laugh, loudly and heartily.  It was an unlikely harmony of male and female mirth, ringing off the building walls, for she had left her door open.

"Pathetic," he chuckled.

"Yes," she giggled, "they are pathetic valentines."

"But I've never been given a present I'll cherish more than this."  His eyes softened, doting.

She nodded, bringing a hand slowly to his face, pulling him close.  And then she kissed his cheek. "Nor I," she said.

If Moriarty could have seen the grin he sported, he would have been ashamed of himself.  He looked far too happy to be a villain.  "I have something else for you.  Forgive me for pretending none of the garden and botany book was my doing, Madam—I was afraid for . . . for so many reasons."

"Mac got his engine plans," she cut in gently.  "You ought to take credit for that too, now, 'J.M.' "

"Ah. . .Does he approve?"

"He is still digesting the initial concept of receiving a gift from the Napoleon of Crime . . . but yes."

  "Excellent.  Tribute to a fellow genius much wronged.  But enough of that.  I lost the nerve to give you the biggest gift I had in store for that morning.  Think of it as a salute to your late husband."  Meekly he offered a bulging envelope to her, winking.  "I have heard from a very reliable source that he was a noteworthy individual."

Heart thundering, Mrs. Hudson unwrapped her final present, slipping countless Pound notes from the envelope.  The amount of money was all but exorbitant—and the envelope was written out to "the London Airfield, care of" . . .

. . . Marie Hudson.  The recipient of Professor Moriarty's rare generosity lost her skill to breathe.  She clutched her throat.  " . . . What is this?" she gasped.

Moriarty rubbed his hands together, nervous, hopeful.  "All of my profits from the Air Post scam—that which troubled your dear heart.  I went through my savings, took out the precise amount, and resolved to pay you and your friends at the airfield back for the grievous injury I did—so that I would not earn a single farthing from the nasty act.  I hope it's proof enough of my remorse, Madam. Forgive your fool. Please?"

Without warning, the enraptured widow leapt, laughing, into the criminal's arms.  Oh, he saw favor in her eyes, favor and joy, and she was looking at him.  Baptizing him.  Saving his soul, renewing his faith, with her laughter and her smile.  "Of course, I forgive my dearest fool! Now come to the drawing room and cure your bellyache," she whispered, her lips brushing the tip of his ear, "and share my afternoon with me."

The verbal dual of wits and persuasion that was to gain Sherlock Holmes a trove of deductive information began in a stroll on Billingsgate Market, between two brilliant siblings. 

The younger brother maintained his calm, a strange paradox with his febrile gait, while his considerably agitated older brother slugged huffing and puffing behind him.  "Sherlock, if you expect me to encourage your reckless, self-destructive patterns of crime solving, perhaps we should part ways now, and I should return to my cozy spot at the Diogenes Club.  Because I shan't encourage you!"

"I expected your hesitation, Mycroft.  But I am the member of the family best known for his stubbornness."

"Indeed," the plump Holmes sniffed.

"Marvelous.  Then you'll acquiesce, and give me the particulars of the French crimes that so eerily resemble the Ripper crimes here in England."

"I shall do no such thing!"

"Mycroft.  Give in.  Your employ dictates that you are the British Government on many occasions, so please don't play dumb about the facts to which you are privy.  Tell me about James Kelly.  And, if you've any knowledge, about a Frenchman named Ferrell. All off the record, as usual."

The elder Holmes dug his heels in, setting his jaw. He planted both feet firmly in the center of the street, halting altogether.  "You oaf.  Ferrell is not a French name."

"Ah, but it serves excellently as a family pseudonym."

Mycroft's face tightened.  "Damn it, Sherlock."

"Just spare us both the headache and 'spill the beans,' as the Americans say."

"Now you're carousing with Americans, are you?"  The oldest Holmes brother chuckled demeaningly, rolling his eyes.  "A rough, loud lot, they are."

"But they produce beautiful, thrilling women."

"Oh?"  One portly eyebrow rose, and the oldest Holmes brother's arrogant monotone of a voice acquired a pinch of intrigue.  "Such as?"

"Such as an internationally famous adventuress."

"Oh, Sherlock."  Mycroft's heavy eyelids drooped even further over his deep gray eyes.  "You haven't."

"Yes, I have fallen for her, and shall pursue the sentiment so long as it suits me.  But no worries.  Recent events have rendered that period of romance much shorter than I had expected."

"That is good to hear.  For you are playing with fire, brother.  Irene Adler is quite a high goal, even for a man of good birth and education.  She is a cesspool for scandal."

"So I myself have said.  But men who are wiser in the ways of love have chided me for such notions. Still, as I have admitted, it is moot.  So back to the matter at which you and I are experts, Mycroft."

"Oh, very well.  The 'French Theatre' of our lustmurders, as it were.  Killings in the geographical form of a chi-ro included the days honoring Saint Genevieve, St. Anne, Our Lady of La Salette, St. Denis, and St. Martin of Tours.  Finishing the shape, we have additional brutal murders in the month of July:  One for St. Mary Magdalene, and of course for the patroness of France, St. Anne, and her husband St. Joachim."

"And the shape formed by the geographical coordinates of the murders is identical to that here in London?"

"So far.  Except that the London chi-ro is, as the astute Inspector Lestrade remarked, not yet completed."  Mycroft clicked his tongue, casting his brother a macabre look.

Sherlock ignored him.  "Please continue:  Tell me of this primary suspect in Paris."

"James Kelly, eh? Well.  You yourself have somehow, irritatingly, gleaned every bit of knowledge that I possess about the man.  Aside one tidbit:  He killed his wife Mary Jane Kelly because she was discovered having an affair and lodging in Dorset Street with one of Kelly's dear friends.  Name of this friend is currently being south by our agents.  In addition, Kelly has been spotted on numerous occasions wandering Paris, aided and abetted by the same short, thin, softspoken Frenchman, divorced, possessing one daughter.  Whether that Frenchman actually aides him in his alleged killings, or simply serves as an accomplice giving him food and shelter hidden from the Paris Metropolitan Police, is unknown as of this moment.  But it is, I assure you, being rigorously investigated."

"Might that Frenchman's supposed name be Ferrell, Mycroft?"

The elder Holmes blew air reluctantly through his teeth.  "Ah.  Well.  Let us say that it is a strong possibility."

"And his real name, let us hypothetically say?"

"Most likely it is Ferrier."

"Thank you, dear brother.  You've been indispensable as always."  Sherlock clapped his big brother heartily on the back, though the expression only bore half of the affection that it appeared to possess, the other half cutting sarcasm.

"Oh, spare me," Mycroft icily scoffed, bucking his kin's mockery.  "Why must you give me such a hard time for my reluctance to help you in this particular case?"  He sighed melodramatically, casting his chin up towards the ship masts at the nearby dock, gathering the air of the selfless, much-abused martyr about his person.  "I just don't want to see you get killed."

"No, Mycroft.  You just don't want to see me catch a criminal so pervasive and threatening that he has earned the attention and hatred of the entire British Government.  Not, at least, before you do.  You, the famous one, the professional."

"Rubbish.  I have magnanimously aided your feverish efforts to catch James Moriarty for years.  I even maintained your lodgings for three years when you and that infernal men were both presumed dead at Reichenbach Falls, in Switzerland—the product of that ridiculously titled 'Final Problem' case, and devotedly I concealed the truth your true vitality from everyone, even to your beloved Watson.  Do you know what an effort that was for my aging memory?  With that damned murderer Sebastian Moran trailing my every move, checking me for sincerity about your 'death,' for his master?  And the Bruce-Partington Plan Adventure, have you forgotten that?  No one has championed your efforts against crime as I have."

"Peace, Mycroft, peace.  Ingratitude is not my aim, only truth."

"Truth?  Is it really?"  Mycroft produced a much-crumpled, officially typed letterhead document from his waistcoat pocket.  "Do you really want to delve into the darkest musings of the psyche, Sherlock?  Have your heard the truth of the Ripper's psychology, as professionally analyzed?  Have you heard the worst of the police reports?"  He produced his reading spectacles, cleared his throat, and recited the most vile description in the annals of English crime.  " 'Case 17.  Lust murder.  The murderer, known as Jack the Ripper, has never been found.  It is probable that he first cut the throats of his victims, then ripped open the abdomen and groped among the intestines.  In some instances, he cut off the genitals and carried them away.  In others he only tore them to pieces and left them behind.'  From an official analysis by Richard von Kraft-Ebing, in his writing Psychopathia Sexualis.  Now do you understand the magnitude of my fear for interlopers like yourself?"

Sherlock did not respond.  He gnawed on his lip for a moment.  At last he sighed, "Most atrocious.  Unspeakable.  The man, whomever he may be, is damned beyond any measure of grace.  But I already was aware of the monster that we are, together, combating.  Now, I thought you said you were hungry for some crabs."

They arrived at a large fish stand, stacked high with raw seafood, from full bodied fish to fillet.  In the center stood a tall, firm-built man, fine-haired and pale as a sheet, but vigorous as a seasoned athlete as he sliced and stacked his produce.  As they approached, he looked up at them through faint blue eyes and flashed a true marketer's winsome grin.  "Gentlemen," he greeted, giving a large, multi-flecked fish a decisive cut.  "What's your pleasure?"

"A dozen crabs, please," Mycroft retorted, tossing a few sovereigns on the bloodied cutting board.  Haughtily he added, "Your freshest."

"Very good, sir," the fisherman nodded, making one final swipe at a fish before kneeling to retrieve his crustacean-stuffed cartons.  "Very good, very good."

In the duration, Mycroft turned to Sherlock, as if gauging his younger brother's powers of observation.  A red flag flashed before the young Holmes's mind and he scoured the area for some significant detail.  A lack thereof made him restless; Mycroft was indeed even more intelligent than he, and would have flourished in the work of a private consulting detective had he the same work ethic as his younger brother.  This uncontestable fact forever needled Sherlock Holmes with a competitive edge towards his own kin; the thought that Mycroft had noticed something that escaped him was almost intolerable.  "Sir," he asked of the fish seller, "what is your name?"

The retailer maintained his congenial smile as he folded Mycroft's crabs in fresh, clean white paper and handed them over.  "My name is Joseph Barnett, sir.  At your service."

Both Holmes brothers stiffened, as if choreographed.  Mycroft pointedly cleared his throat.  With this hint, Sherlock knew he'd hit his mark.  "Charmed.    I should like to return to purchase your produce when I have as great a fund of leisure money to spend."

The fisherman laughed, tipping his hat. He crossed himself. "Understood, sir.  Verily, verily!  To be hard up is to constantly sacrifice our little pleasures!  And may I inquire the name of my new patrons?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this eager buyer is my brother Mycroft.  Tell me, Joseph, was I imagining what I saw, or are you left-handed?"

"I am indeed, indeed, sir." 

"Most unusual!"  Mycroft cut in with admirably pretended jolly enthusiasm, clapping his fat hands together.  "As is your pocketwatch—where did you get it, sir, if I may ask?  I'd fancy buying my own with that . . .ah . . . 'great fund of leisure money,' as my brother so charmingly puts it." 

Again the seller, Barnett—a known suspect before their very eyes—chuckled.  "Why, sir, I purchased this lovely watch at the Reflector's Pond.  The owner, James Stephen, is quite a watch connoisseur and sells the devices as a side profit of sorts.  I . . ."  Here, suddenly, their retailer bent over and fell into a violent coughing spell.  Mycroft's nostrils curled with disgust, but Sherlock braced the man as best he could across the table, in his arms, to keep him from falling over.

"Are you quite alright?"

"Yes, yes, sir, bless ya, bless ya.  I have some wicked manner of asthma, you see.  In any case, I was recently fired from my employ, that of my father, framed for stealing some fish for my own enjoyment.  I'm now an independent seller.  Mr. Stephen was ever courteous to me after finding this out, and ever since he's been obsessed, for some strange reason, with asking me to his place and begging me to appraise and purchase all his new watches. At least once a week, sir!  He's really quite in love with them, sir.  I admit I sometimes splurge on a new watch head or chain here or there, if only to satisfy him.  He's a bit peculiar, Mr. Stephen is."

"How amusing," the younger Holmes forced a laugh.  "Well, we have kept you long enough gabbing idly, haven't we?  Thank you for the crabs, we shall enjoy them—and I shall be back for more."  Infinitesimally, his voice darkened, and he watched for some sign of response from the fisherman.

None came.  "Excellent, sir. I shall look forward to it," said Joseph Barnett, returning to his cutting. 

The Holmes brothers strode on down the street, towards a waiting cab, where the young Baker Street Irregular called Wiggins sat, having hailed the cab for his idol Sherlock Holmes's convenience.  The detective nodded at his young friend, who doffed back, and handed him a few coins.

A voice of moments past accosted them—Barnett.  Huffing and puffing, the young fisherman was brandishing a small slip of paper, import on his face.  "Your receipt, good sirs! Your receipt, your receipt!"

Mycroft grunted with annoyance.  "So good of you to remember to give it us before we left the market."  He snatched the paper up.

"Begging your pardon," Barnett replied, with a humble bow.

"It's quite alright," Sherlock Holmes interceded cordially, taking the opportunity to fiercely study the young seller one last time.

"Your pardon," the man said again, nervously, blinking to himself.  He reddened with inexplicable frustration.  "Really, really, sir.  Really."

"We heard you the first time," Mycroft snapped, turning his back to Barnett.  But Sherlock fixed a hard stare upon their assailant. 

The fisherman folded his pale, hairless arms across his chest and cowered, still blinking and blushing, back to his butcher's block. 

"I am surprised," sniffed the plumper Holmes, scowling over the head of the unsavory street urchin called Wiggins, "that you did not bring us down here or back to your boarding house in that ridiculous Benz motorcar of yours.  It better suits your impetuousness. Or perhaps you're just seeking an excuse to be rid of my company now that I've served your purpose."

Sherlock turned to speak directly to his brother for the first time since they departed Barnett's stand; he ignored Mycroft's typical needling, instead bent on picking his brain. "Well, brother, what do you make of that little encounter?  There's enough evidence now to fully incriminate James Stephen, and yet Mr. Kelly, Mr. Ferrier, and Mr. Barnett still hold sway in my thoughts." 

Mycroft held his brother in steely, unyielding eyes.  "You must weigh the evidence for and against each of them, Sherlock.  I brought you to that fisherman's stand to provide you with a chance to examine him as a possibility.  But I shan't help you make your actual deductions.  No.  Think on it by yourself, if you insist on meddling in the affairs of Her Majesty's Secret Service."

"At the moment, I shall discard this suspect in light of studying another," the younger Holmes mused aloud.  "For I shall require an interview with Mr. Ferrier's—Mr Ferrell's—charming daughter Katherine quite soon."  He glanced at his brother.

But Mycroft's face, true to his word, betrayed none of his own judgments.  "Good afternoon, Sherlock," he half-clucked, speaking smugly, though not a trace of real amusement surfaced in his frosty, automaton-like bearing.  "And be careful, you interfering pup.  Always interfering!"

"Danger is part of my trade," Sherlock Holmes threw back, mounting the cab and signaling it to move forward. 

"One more thing," Mycroft shot, grabbing the side of the carriage window, forcing the driver to stop.  His lidded gray eyes glinted with a challenging sheen.  "Brother, I have many informants, and they've been offering me disquieting rumors of late that you've rubbed elbows with colleagues in this case who are decidedly . . . beneath British Law.  Rather Machaivellian, wouldn't you say?"

Sherlock glared back at him.  "Tsk, Mycroft.  'Always interfering,' aren't you?"  He reached into his brother's waistcoat pocket and grabbed at the receipt written in Joseph Barnett's hand.  "Since you probably won't be needing this . . . "

"What's that you always say, brother?"  The elder Holmes snatched the note back, prying it loose from his sibling's long, eager fingers.  "Ah, yes.  'Never assume.'  It is my receipt, with my money.  Find your own investigative references.  Good day."

Sherlock ground his teeth behind his lip.  "Very well, Mycroft.  But pride goeth before a fall.  Be careful that your urge to solve this case doesn't become the Ripper's greatest ally." 

"You're the master detective, aren't you?" the oldest sibling hissed back, withdrawing from reaching distance of the carriage window.  Still waving the document before his brother's eyes.  "You'll do just fine.  That is, if your friend Watson is not more bark than bite about your prowess in his little stories." 

Sherlock sighed.  He pounded on the roof of the carriage and bid it ride on past his brother's clutches.  He did not look back at Mycroft's face as he rode on to the markets closer to Baker Street, where Watson was waiting to shop for more produce for Mrs. Hudson's latest culinary masterpiece.

At least that masterpiece, the detective amusedly assumed, would not include any remnant of red lobster or kidney pie.  No guests existed in Mrs. Hudson's abode that still harbored such tastes.

Sherlock Holmes was in for a surprise.

" 'You make me quite despair for a woman's lot.'

'Oh, don't despair.  No.  Because the many choose to leave their fates unquestioned, like so many sheep herded through gates, does not mean a few nimble lambs can't leap their traces and go merrily down the lane.' "

--from Good Night, Mr. Holmes, by Carole Nelson Douglas

            Dusk descended by the time that Professor Moriarty awoke from the deepest, most peaceful slumber of his life.  He started, glaring around at the surroundings of Mrs. Hudson's drawing room—the crackling fire, its light flickering off the warm red rug and clean creamy walls, and between two lush armchairs, a table hosting two China teacups nearly emptied of their now-tepid Chamomile.  At last he remembered where he was and why; slowly he flexed his long limbs and basked in the simple glory of feeling welcomed and replenished. 

            He rose and strode to the kitchen and silently watched Marie Hudson ironing dry his shirt and trousers; then he was struck with the realization that these were the clothes in which he arrived at her house. Stunned, he glanced down at his attire: a long dressing gown robe that was unfamiliar, but that fit his height and weight perfectly.  He glanced at the initials and snorted a laugh. 

"S.H."  

How deliciously ironic.

"Oh!"  Mrs. Hudson turned, surprised at the sound of Moriarty's laughter.  A brace of hand towels, also subject to her ironing board, sat in her arms.  "You're awake already?"  She nodded at his clothes.  "They're a little drier now, aren't they?" 

You're home already?  He smiled wordlessly back; the salutation reminded him so of the day that they had first met one year past, and he had walked into his revitalized hideout, welcomed to her bright little face in the door of his own dining room, her arms clutching a load of his towels, with the same accomplishment, the same conquest, surrounding her. A little cleaner now, isn't it? 

Yes, it certainly was.  Everything was clean and new now.

She chuckled at his uncharacteristic quietness.  Not knowing, never once realizing, how lovely she was—how capable of stealing his breath.  "I daresay, James, that you look positively dashing in Mr. Holmes's robe.  One moment and I'll have you back in the clothes in which you would be caught dead." 

"You are capable of anything, aren't you?"  he praised her, leaning on the edge of the nearest countertop.  Perhaps his amicability would mask the complete haze over his memory of the past several hours.  "But, ah, Mrs. Hudson, did . . . did we . . . ?"  He paused, reddening; in his awkwardness he knocked several pots and ladels off of the stove top.

She glanced down at him as he scrambled all about the floor retrieving her wares, and quickly concealed an impish grin; then as he rose, she cocked an eyebrow. "Did we what, James?"

He gulped, turned a color rivaling the flush of a beet; then he dropped the spoons, dishes, and ladels into the sink, the loudness of it not helping to assuage his embarrassment.  He gestured at his discarded clothing.  "Well, you know . . ."

She pursed her lips and whisked the iron once more, decisively, over the pleat of his white trouser legs.  "Never fear, love, my virtue is still intact."   The mischievous grin returned to her lips, and this time she did not bother to hide it.  "All you've done since we went together to the drawing room is sleep.  You barely got into the sitting chair and drank your tea before you went out like an oil-deprived gaslight. But I did manage to get you to go to Mr. Holmes's quarters and change into something drier beforehand."

"Oh, good!" Air flew from his mouth, something between a wail and a sigh of relief.  "I should not have wished to take advantage of you for all the pleasure in the world."

She giggled, ruddiness glowing in her own cheeks. "Why, thank you.  Here are your clothes." She tossed the garments into Moriarty's arms and turned her back to him as he changed.  He tossed his archrival's dressing gown onto a nearby chair with the disgust of peeling a leopard's skin.

"I just had a thought."

"No great surprise," she replied, removing her apron.

" . . . Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."  His heart skipped for a moment of delight before he continued.  "Have you ever ridden a bicycle?  They're quite popular lately.  I built one myself—rode it here, in fact.  Would you like to take a turn about the neighborhood before it gets dark?"

"I would love to!"

She followed him out to the side of her boarding house, where a red, two-wheeled contraption sat among her lilies. 

"What a peculiar thing this is!"

He smirked, mounting the device.  "Are you afraid to ride it?"

A fire came into that sea green gaze.  "Of course not!"  she declared, leaping up behind him.  And then they began to move.  Faster.  And faster, until all that surrounded them became a great multicolored blur, a huge undulating brushstroke.  "Oh, my!  It is much like flying!"

"Precisely," Moriarty replied.  He glanced at a bobby manning a nearby street pole, and pedaled harder, producing distance from the man and his swinging club.  His thoughts, having roved to the haunting consequences of his underworld life, returned to the joy of the present.  "Has Holmes ever told you about . . . Waxflatter's flying machines?"

She hid her shock well; it was an incredible act of selflessness for a man who had seen himself, as a boy, prey to the cruelty of Waxflatter's brutish friends, to discuss the issue merely for the sake of her entertainment.  And to link it to knowledge that Holmes alone possessed, no less. So she spoke delicately, and gratefully, dropping her head softly against his back as they rode.  "Why, no.  He rarely mentions his schooldays."

"Ask him sometime."  Moriarty took one of her hands, wrapped around his waist, and squeezed it to prove something—to admit something.  He cleared his throat, but his voiced remained hoarse.  "After all, Waxflatter was really not that bad . . . for an Englishman.  The English . . . I've been thinking . . . they're not . . . not all bad, I suppose."  He shrugged, pretending not to realize the gravity of his own confession.  But he had spoken like a child learning a new language.  Speaking its first words of true life, metamorphosed. 

 "I am glad you noticed," Mrs. Hudson said, squeezing the Irish-Egyptian orphan's hand back.  She changed the subject for his sake, to return the favor.  "And I say once again that I absolutely adore this contraption of yours!"

"Shall I make one for you?"

"Oh, I would love it!" She spread her arms out and flung her head back as they turned the corner.  "Think of the things I could accomplish each day with the speed and agility of this marvelous invention!  I only hope Mr. Holmes is not cross when I start to outdistance that blessed little motorcar of his—for I shall, mark me!"  Grinning, she pushed her hair, having escaped the confines of its many pins, out of her eyes. 

" . . . The house was awfully quiet when we left," Moriarty observed, slowing to a leisurely pace.  "Where is Holmes?"

They rounded the second corner and returned to port at 221 Baker. 

 "Holmes is still out with Mycroft, and plans to meet Dr. Watson at the nearby market to buy me some cooking supplies," Mrs. Hudson explained.  " But Todd and Smiley are upstairs, eating all of Watson's stew, no doubt." Her breath, her giggles, tickled his neck; he shivered as she dismounted.  "They came by about an hour ago because they were worried about you. Smiley, however, tells me that he 'knew all along that you would succeed'—I can't imagine," she finished, her voice growing deviously playful, "what he meant by that.  I told him you were indeed enjoying a long nap after a day of marvelous culinary work." 

"He's a good boy.  I admit it, they both are."  Moriarty gave a satisfied sigh.  "And I am glad that I could give my favorite hostage even a moment's pleasure."

"Far more, my favorite criminal," she teased back. 

They strode inside, arm-in-arm, her head against his chest, her ears soaking up the comforting sound of his heartbeat.  But they were soon greeted by a low, moaning noise that overpowered all others in the silence.  They were not alone. 

There in the front hallway, apparently fully unaware of their return, were Kat Ferrell and Sebastian Moran, the eager fiancées.  Moriarty's chief henchman was murmuring a liquid flow of French (or perhaps it was Italian, for Sebastian knew every romantic tongue) endearments in the lady's ear.  At intervals he stroked her hair, kissed her, and clutched unmentionable places of her body.  The moaning was coming from Marie Hudson's lady friend, who was all but ready to hike up her skirts right in front of the Professor and widow's eyes.  "My God," he whispered to the landlady in his arms, "I suppose the polite term for those two is fondness." He let out a naughty snicker. 

"Do not let the wild shows between them deceive you, James. They are sometimes more in love than either of them can bear," Mrs. Hudson replied, trying to force herself from smiling in light of the hideous impropriety.  "And there's nothing more wondrous than that.  However . . ."  She sighed and then, pointedly, cleared her throat, reaching to turn up the gaslight in the hallway to a blinding intensity.

"Oh, my!"  Kat wailed, flinging the Colonel's sinewy form off her.  "Oh, dear, pardon us, Marie, we thought you were upstairs an' Sebastian an' I were just, um, in the neighborhood . . ." Her voice trailed and, with a mortified Sebastian, she took in the man in whose arms Mrs. Hudson cuddled.  Then her grin, despite her embarrassment, snuck to a degree of mischief that was devilish.  "Why, Professor."  She arched her eyebrows at Mrs. Hudson.  "We certainly didn't know you were here!" 

"It's all right," Moriarty chuckled, waving at his friend and the barmaid.  "You needn't go to Sebastian's Conduit Street house each time you feel . . . affectionate.  Why, we found your performance quite inspirational." 

"Oh?"  Here Mrs, Hudson craned her neck up to look him in the face.  She tried to mask her pleasure with faux shock.  "Did we?" 

Together, Sebastian and Kat let out a hoot of amusement; the barmaid buried her rosy-cheeked face into his chest. "You're a real corker, Marie," the landlady's friend giggled, before she and her ornery fiancée vanished to make their love in other, more discrete quarters. "Winnin' over any one of 'em ye please!" 

The widow and professor exchanged an indulgent roll of eyes. Then silence fell over the couple as they returned to the drawing room and nestled into each other in the armchair.  They found themselves again sharing a once unbearable solitude. 

Love.  The word that she had spoken of another pair still weighed heavy on Marie Hudson's tongue.  And she realized why.  " . . . James, may I ask you a question?"

Moriarty's face lay plain his amazement that she should even wonder.  "Anything."

She knew what she lacked in Tommy then.  She had not been able to say something to Tommy. And she never would.  "If you were to . . . well, let us imagine a man that wants only to make a widow, for whom he cares, happy.  He is an earnest, well-meaning man.  He does everything imaginable to emulate her late husband, because she treasured that husband so very much."

Moriarty shifted weight under his lover, antsy with his thoughts.  He wrapped his arms around her waist, hugging her closer as he pondered the notion.  "As in, essentially, trying to replace that husband?"

"Precisely.  What would you say to that man?"

He rested his chin on her head.  " . . . I can't say, because I can't comprehend how this man would try to steal away this widow's past and then pass it up to her as her future.  It would be foolishness—thievery, like . . . like something I would do . . . to do anything except love her in his own fashion, fiercely, and from the core of his own being . . .and . . . well, hope, I suppose, to be lucky enough someday to find that there's room to spare in her heart for him, as well."  He looked down at her, nose buried in all her tumbles of canary hair.

Mrs. Hudson just smiled back, her head resting against his chest, her gentle green eyes somehow piercing him, as always.  "Something you would do?"  she queried.  "I doubt that."

  " I . . . Sorry, was I rambling?"  Something about Moriarty's demeanor had grown shifty, too alert for the haven in which he now reposed.  Something had made him uncomfortable.  He let out a high-strung laugh, shifting weight again.  But this time his hands slipped out from around her waist.  "I, ah, tend to have a habit of rambling, I'm afraid."

Marie Hudson did not notice the change in his countenance. She was too awed by the perfection of his response. 

She had not been able to say it, the impossibly simple, grand phrase that withered all grief, healed all wounds, to a man, not in the way that one speaks to one's mate in the dark, whispered between bedsheets and his arms as a newlywed, since she was 19.  She had not been able to say the wondrous it—not to Tommy.  Not even to Sherlock Holmes.  She needed so badly to say it to someone now.  So she took a deep breath, and said, "I love you."

Moriarty's entire body stiffened.  She could almost feel the warmth of his grip turning to ice—his very veins crystallizing. 

And then the Eden of Mrs. Hudson's drawing room experienced its first ice storm. 

"I need air," the criminal choked, as though a noose had materialized, though invisibly, around his neck.  He wiggled out from under her, standing. "May I . . .?"

Mrs. Hudson sat stricken and stunned.  "What on earth . . .?" she began, trying to stop him, while her world crumbled around her.  Then she realized her mistake—she had cornered him.  She had cornered a multiply scarred wild beast, and, even in kindness, such an act was terrifying.  At last she let him go.  "Of . . . of course.  I'll . . . I'll go get us some biscuits.  Come to the kitchen when you are refreshed."

"Marie, I'm sor . . ."

She stopped him with a flail of her arm, face blazing red.  "No, no, don't. It's . . .it's fine.  Go on, get your air." 

Moriarty watched his hostess tripping over her skirts in her rush to escape.  Almost as desperate as he was to do the same.  It was still raining outside.  So, perversely, while she busied herself in the kitchen, he fled upstairs to the den of his greatest foe, as if somehow he would find solace in the most unlikely place. 

Holmes's study retained its appearance of the ground zero of a tornado; it was immediately evident how Mrs. Hudson had managed to transform Moriarty's hideout into a place of order if this was the environment she was forced to clean—daily!  Letters were pinioned to the wooden mantelpiece with knives, tobacco scattered about the floor next to the toe of a Persian slipper, cigars reposed in the coal-scuttle.  On top of it all, the carpet was stained with various chemicals, and the liquid contents of Holmes's myriad of test tubes and pipettes hissed and bubbled at the intruder as he entered.  He was strangely charmed by his arch foe's environment, quite, in fact, at home amid the intellectual chaos. 

At last he found something that had earlier enchanted him:  Holmes's bookshelf.  Several casebooks, labeled in Watson's tame hand, leaned against the edge of the shelf, braced between the math formulas that the detective had tampered with and that the Professor had earlier appraised. 

They were also sandwiched between, to his supreme amusement, two well-worn, dog-eared and written-upon copies of his published dissertations on the Binomial Theorem and on the dynamics of an asteroid.  Amused, primarily, because Holmes would have been as mortified that Moriarty knew of his interest in his work as the criminal would be should the detective discover that his foe had voraciously read nearly all of Watson's writings in the Strand.

Ah, but the casebooks!  Every unofficial detail of Holmes's career, too confidential even to include in the Strand stories . . .

So tempting—and after his embarrassing panic attack downstairs, Moriarty needed distraction.  So he snooped.

He made his way to the fifth casebook, a brown leather-bound volume, because it was the thinnest and he feared the consequences of being caught in the act.  He leafed through it, pleased that every case he encountered involved him as the central antagonist.  The case of the Rosetta Stone, of the White Silver Getaway, and of the Queen's Royal Horse Theft, involving that irksome female thief Miss Christopher, were quickly skimmed before he stopped altogether at the case entitled "World Flight Championship":  For, in bold red letters, Holmes had added in his own hand on top of Watson's notes the exclamation, "Mrs. Hudson's flying was as superb a deterrent of that fiendish Moriarty's scheme as were the contents of her picnic basket!  Watson can attest to that—he was her passenger!"

Mrs. Hudson's flying.

Mrs. Hudson. 

She had been there? 

She had flown that day. 

An overwhelming flashback struck Moriarty, whose hands now trembled, making the entire book quiver, dropping loose pages from its volume.  He trembled and remembered. 

Holmes jumping off of MacBain's plane.  Holmes on the onyx plane wing. His plane wing.  Crawling towards him.  Breaking his plane and his plans.  Hate on the young detective's  face. Hate and betrayal.  A call for a nonexistent conscience, and yet that face . . . that face and his own squirming skin under that look of one betrayed . . . But damn him, kill him! Shoot him!  He ruins everything, everything!!! Kill the meddling pup!!! Food flung from the plane in front of them, rotten frits and an old cake, pelting Moriarty and his lackeys.  Filth.  Distraction.  Watson in the passenger seat, smirking, laughing, throwing food.  The pilot beyond sight.

Had that been the plane she had flown?  The plane he had shot at and tried to dice in two? 

Unknowing?

Oh, God, shame, shame, shame on me. Shame on this loveless bastard.  This bastard who should have known!

Battle. More food raining on them.  Todd and Smiley falling.  Parachutes opening.  And Moriarty had produced his pistol.  "I'll settle all accounts with you here and now, Holmes."  Oh how good one moment of security in his own triumph had felt.  One god damned moment of victory.  But no, Holmes had jumped, evaded his bullets.  MacBain's plane close behind.  Holmes caught in the arms of MacBain's plane.  Saved again.  Accounted for, loved, victorious.  How dare the victor cast him that reproachful look of the betrayed?  He was not the detective's  father, his mentor, his anything, not anymore.  It was just business, just bloody business. 

DAMN THAT BOY! 

And then his rage blinded him, until all he saw was Holmes's laughing face, and Watson's, and the faces of all of England pointing and laughing.  Their faces in the white reeling clouds, pointing and laughing and ridiculing.  Everywhere.  "You lose, you lose, you LOSE!"

And then the engine, the stolen MacBain engine, had begun to disintegrate.  Jumping out, realizing he had no parachute.  Making use of his cloak.  A moment of thanks to whatever god might acknowledge his existence for sparing him a most unpleasant death.  Then realizing, in yet another defeat, that he would give anything to be dead. 

Shame on me.

Dragged off by Todd and Smiley, exhausted, stupidly falling off the back of the steamcar, cloak caught in the wheels, yes, dragged off through the dirt and stones of Swedish soil, and nearly strangled, breaking bones and pride, as Lestrade and his men arrived to give chase.  Evading the police yet again.  Forming a quick, makeshift escape plan to London, again.  Hopping on board a barge bound across the Channel—hiding.  Again.

Oh, but not before he caught a glimpse at the beloved Mr. Holmes receiving spontaneous applause, as he landed with MacBain on the airfield and won Britain its trophy.  Far enough to torment his dreams as they sailed back to England.

And had it been her who landed the other plane?  Had she been there to witness him at his worst, and Holmes at his best?

Arriving in London ill, afflicted with sea-sickness, fever, influenza, a ruptured kneecap and a broken elbow.  Pausing to vomit on the deck before proceeding to their hideout.  But only dry heaving—nothing came up, really, for he hadn't eaten in days, so engrossed had he been in plotting his scheme and building his airplane.  Only dirt and ashes to show for it.  Yes, covered in Swedish dirt.  Forced to submit to the care of his lackeys as they helped him to limp through London, forced to feel sudden cutting remorse that they had to tolerate their failure of a boss on pain of death.  Forced to feel sorry for being a failure. A failure, a failure.

Then a mad impulse.  "Todd, Smiley, I want to walk past 221 B Baker Street."  They had protested—it was late, they were hungry.  He had, around sneezes and coughs, insisted.  They had acquiesced. 

He just wanted to see them again—Holmes, Watson, their people.  To compare their happiness to his misery, to look inside the warm window of the boarding house and wish death on its two male inhabitants.  To feel righteous indignation at being so dreadfully abused by Fortune while Holmes wallowed in satisfaction.  Maybe he was a masochist.  Or maybe he was just obsessed. 

Failure.  Shame on me.

It was after 2 am, with no fear of a bobby's wrath to impede them walking openly down Baker Street.  A stranger's horse carriage in the garage where Holmes's motorcar reposed.  The MacBains.  Voices upstairs, audible, for the window, in the warm early summer night, was ajar.  A light upstairs, uneachable, as Moriarty and his men limped past 221 B.  Voices.  Watson:  "Now, remember, everyone, a great deal of our success was due to the contents of Mrs. Hudson's picnic basket!"

Laughter.

Holmes: " Ah! Ho, yes!  That may be so!"

More laughter, more joy of which Moriarty could not partake.

And then her voice.

Her lovely voice.  "I wish I could have asked the Professor if he enjoyed the dessert!"

Oh, God, her. Her!  Everything out of reach, embodied in her, shredding his heart as he stood there in the cool wee hours of summer, in the dark blue moonlight with Todd and Smiley's sweat-stinking forms brushing against his aching body.

Moriarty moaned aloud.  He wanted to cry out that he had loved it, even though the distraction of it had foiled him—if she had really thought of him alone when she had prepared it.  He wanted to climb the building wall and spirit her away, even then, the only person for whom his spirit and soul had been accountable.  But oh, he ached so. How weary he was. He sneezed hard, so hard that it sent volts of pain through his twisted muscles and broken bones.

Holmes again,  always Holmes who got the last word—always, always Holmes:  "I bet it was the bitterest thing he ever had to taste."

Failure.  Shame on me.  Oh, bittnerness, yes, Mr. Holmes.  But it was a way of life, not an isolated incident.

"Professor," Todd and Smiley all but recited, in unison, "we really messed up, didn't we?"

Failure! Shame!  And they were so used to it now!  They anticipated it!!!

Moriarty bowed his head to the ground, numbing himself to the laughter and toasts that continued to resound from the top floor of 221 B Baker Street.  He evaded the question.  " . . . I'm not well.  Let's go."

And they had gone. Gone away, gone to oblivion, to their hideout, their obscurity and unimportance, yet again.

And it had been her in that plane! Flying it!  He had almost . . . she had almost . . .

Oh, no matter what, no escape, no escape from himself!

Shame on me. Scum.  Shame.  Failure.. Shame.  Failure! Shame!

            "James?"  A voice of the present—yes, it was her again, it was Mrs. Hudson. 

Moriarty dropped the casefiles with a startled cry, clutching his suddenly ice-cold hands together.  Quickly he retrieved the book from the floor.  He leafed through it once more.  "Oh, Christ . . ."

            Her angelic features were soft but concerned.  "I couldn't find you downstairs, and it was raining, so I just . . . I was worried.  I'm glad to see you up here.  But I think perhaps something is troubling you."  She approached him slowly, gently, outstretching her hands.  "What is the matter, dearest?"

            "Don't call me that!" he howled.  "You poor creature, you've endured enough by my hands to treat me so kindly now!  And I myself was too blinded to realize it until . . . until I read this!"

            "Wh-what?"

Moriarty spoke with a voice that was distant, hollow and feeble.  "You didn't just accompany Holmes and Watson to Sweden during the World Flight Championship.  You flew the plane that carried Watson—when he threw all that food from your picnic basket to . . . to stop me."  Hands flew to the sides of his head and his body quaked, much as it had the day he had seen her with Tommy Nesbitt:  another obstacle.  Horror wracked his face with full comprehension.  "The plane that I shot at!"

            "You mean you . . ." Her own eyes roved and then focused sharply on his face, with gained clarity.  "That whole time we were airborne in battle, you didn't know that was me?"

"Of course I didn't!"  he wheezed.  " I didn't know back then that you were a pilot, I just knew your husband flew, and that those MacBains were his . . . My God!  I just saw Watson and . . . and he was in my way, and the enemy, and I never thought to check the . . . My God!  The whole time you were right there and I just kept shooting at . . . How could you think I would ever . . .and why should you have to forgive me these things?  You do not deserve that!"  He moaned, slamming the casebook down against the table, veiled in its madly flying foolscap pages.  "And still, what does it matter, when every time you're in my presence, whether I'd deliberately hurt you or not, I still endanger you?"

"James, stop that, you know that's not true . . ."

"I've made a mistake doing this—coming here, thinking I could simply . . .  Please forgive me, it is getting late," he snapped, fixing a glare so resolute upon her that she felt as good as smacked across the cheek.  The only thing that gave her a glimmer of doubt as to his sudden callousness was the haste with which he scrambled from the drawing room—the tense hunching of his shoulders and the briskness of his step.

 Moriarty continued to trip over his words as he fled the frighteningly alluring prison of his lover's home.  "You will forget me.  Soon, now, you'll see.  It's just the Stockholm Syndrome, you know.  Powerful psychological phenomenon.  A former hostage starts to identify with her captor, no matter how wicked he might be. Why, we never even would have seen each other again were it not for the Ripper case."  He sniffed haughtily, averting his eyes from her as she chased him out the door. 

She darted in his path.  "I know what it is, James.  I have studied Sigmund Freud and his peers as well—all of that psychodynamic rot.  You forget that I am a learned woman.  I know that this thing of which you speak only occurs when the criminal has been cruel to his captor.  I cannot bring myself to recall you ever once raising a finger against me."

"But you'll outgrow me soon," he continued icily, as if she had never spoken.  "Oh, yes, indeed, Madam.  Just like the flower, once uprooted, flourishes in the soil that she once had to share with the weed.  Why waste both our time waiting for it?  Why not cut to the chase?"  Gently but firmly, he prodded her out of his way with his walking stick, and jotted down the steps, trying to get past her garden.

He didn't succeed:  She moved right back in front of him, her feet planted in the soil.  Real roses were growing now all around her, a poignant reminder of his act of love only a few weeks past.  "Yes, James, you forget much, don't you? Everything you want to repress, you succeed in forgetting.  Egypt, your friends, your reputable past, and me." 

At last he looked at her; like a magnet, she drew his gaze and his breath.  " . . . Don't call me James.  When did I ever give you permission to call me James?"

Marie Hudson dug her heels deeper into the fresh earth of her rose patch.  "You forget that I need no man's permission to do what I please.  You forget that you did give me permission, on the night that you took me hostage one year ago—the night that you kissed me, sir.  And, James, you forget that I can see right through you."

A strangled sound gurgled in Moriarty's throat.  Teeth clenched, he took his stubborn lover's shoulders and shoved her, roughly now, aside.  She lost her footing and fell into a briar bush with an angry, indignant gasp. "Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson," the Professor half-snarled, half-moaned, not seeing her fall—too desperate to escape.

            Mrs. Hudson stood again, flinging sod and leaves from her gown.  Her face flushed with rage.  "You're going to leave me?" she cried, so loudly that her voice rang between the Baker Street roofs and sent the pigeons to flight.  "Now?  After all that's passed between us, you would abandon me as if it were . . . easy?"

            This at last forced Moriarty to confront her.  "Oh, Madam!"  he groaned, pivoting to face his challenger.  He faltered for a moment, noting her ripped, mud-stained dress, and the tiny cuts on her bared forearms from the crushed rose bush. Regret and despair weighed his features. When he spoke, his cool voice had acquired a hoarse texture. " . . . You see what happens when we . . . we . . . God, lady!  Surely you of all people are aware that, sometimes, the most difficult things that we must do, we fashion to appear the simplest!"

            "Why? Why must an earnest lover wish to make himself appear false?"

            The criminal spoke slowly, in a dead, flat tone.  He spoke testily, as if the widow were a particularly trying pupil, rather than the woman he would give anything to cherish as his own.  "Because he is used to his numbness.  That's why, milady.  It is his safety, that unfeeling.  Because if he feels what is good, he will also feel horrible things, guilt and remorse and loneliness, frustration and self-loathing, quickly crushing his own heart.  What bloody good is a crushed heart to a sweet young thing like you?"

"My God, but you and Mr. Holmes are twins!"  She stamped her foot.  "It would never occur to you that my well being is my own to govern, would it?  James, how could you?  How could you lift my hopes skyward, give me kisses and plane rides and chocolate cakes, and then dash it all to pieces like this?" 

             Moriarty's jaw jutted; he tore his stare free of her.  But Mrs. Hudson leaned into him, into the backward arc of his body, into his very refusal to taint her.  "Stop that, sir," she breathed, battling with the telltale quiver in her voice.  "Just . . .stop it, I say."  Under that fair, deceptively fragile muzzle, framed by tousles of hair like liquid sunlight, her teeth gritted.

            "Lady . . ."  He took her hands, her reaching, comforting hands, and forced them to her sides.  His lips formed innumerable commands, none of which was he armed with the callousness, now, to utter aloud; finally, in a tone carefully flat, droning, as if straight from an injured and exposed jugular in the depths of his throat, he mustered, "Lady, please let go your hold on me. I do not want to be your undoing. I will hurt you, don't you see?  You must let go.  Go to Holmes.  Go to him, he's of honor and breeding . . . a . . . a good man. In all the years I've known him, indeed."

            Here Moriarty withdrew into the stingy glow of streetlight, cocooned in his mud-stained white cape; and here Mrs. Hudson saw, at last, something sequestered, forbidden from the knowledge of the rest of the world: tears, brimming, anguishing in their refusal to be shed.  And she knew in this moment that nothing in his life had been more difficult to say—nothing more difficult than foregoing his one chance at contentment, peace: admitting that the lovely young vessel of that joy was better cared for in the hands of his mortal enemy.

            She clutched her chest, fingered the brooch pinned to her high collar—the brooch from the first James that she had loved: James Hudson.  The brooch that James Moriarty had mended.  It throbbed inside her hand now, throbbed because she felt again the glorious giddy things that she had felt with her late lover alone.  She resolved not to move.

Moriarty felt her hesitation; thus he persisted.  When he spoke his voice had regained a bit of its characteristic sullen force.  "I made a promise to you.  I made the same promise to Mr. Holmes.  It is one I intend to keep." 

            The words of one year past rang unbearably through Mrs. Hudson's skull: 

If I ever get the chance, she had told him, we could see each other again.

But he had said . . .  Gentle creature, if we had met earlier, my life might have changed for the better. He had said . . . "No . . ." But I promise one thing:  I will never let you become involved in my work again. . .

See you.  "No, never 'see you.' No, James—"

Confused, Moriarty pulled yet further from her, turned his head to the filthy cobblestone wall as Mrs. Hudson flung herself against him one last time, forgetting her own breeding and propriety, wrapping arms around behind his lean shoulder blades—pressing her head to his chest, face lost in her wildly tumbling hair. Against this final act alone did he stiffen, striving to pry her loose.  For it no longer signified girlish infatuation; it was clear now, it meant something closer to the stirring within himself.  And Professor Moriarty was terrified.  But he was weakening at last.  His voice again crumbled, submitted to a hoarse whisper; he was ashamed of his own powerlessness to her.  "Oh, God, Marie, please don't call me that.  I mean it! You must go to Holmes.  You must . . . go back to that pilot, Tommy.  Anybody.  But please just forget me."  

"I don't want your promise anymore.  Do you know what I said to Mr. Holmes the day you left me last year, and he found me?  Do you know what I told him, when I showed him the marble Smiley gave me, Todd's 'lucky die', and the hand holding them, the hand that you kissed?  I told him that it was the first time in my life that I had something so worth cleaning.  I meant more than your hideout, or your dishes, or your gun collection, you know.  And now you come to me still clean, with goodness in you that you have kept even in my absence, of your own doing—your soul is reformed.  And despite all that, you ask me to turn my back on you for good?  No, dear sir.  I will not."  Her own jaw jutted with resolve, and her eyes cast upward at him, shining brilliantly with tears of fervor, tears that, unlike his, spilled freely, bravely, all down her fierce little face. 

His very soul, the soul of which she spoke—what shards were left of it—was destroyed by the sight of her suffering. 

She rose up on her tiptoes and cupped his face in her hands.  Hands so warm in that bone-slicing London chill.  Warmth he'd not felt since the nights in the seaside crofts of County Kerry as a young man, in his grandfather's house by the fire with his half-brothers, lazy, sleepy with the hours long before the constant gnawing fear of being chased for his latest transgression against England.  Warmth he'd not felt, really, since the hot days in his homeland, Egypt, as a barebacked, gangly little boy with the sun soaking in through his fur and the arid sand between his toes.  Then Marie Hudson said that which James Moriarty had been so certain he'd buried the desire to hear:  "So I don't want your promises or your protection. James, I want you." 

Then she pressed her lips to his, searching, gently searching, like a feather tickling him.  Kissing him for the first time in a year.  His breath caught in his throat, sweat beading on the back of his neck, fur sticking to his skin.  His walking stick slid from his grasp onto the cobblestone.  Neither of them noticed the loud clangor it made. 

 And, pressing his mouth back against hers, hard, hungry, seeking, with a passion startling even himself, Moriarty was undone.  Every young fool's romantic fantasy became his again, for each of his 37 years.  Every doting, blithering charm.  His fingers found the lacings of her dress in the small of her back, and his heart began to pound.  So easy to untie.  "Let's go inside, shall we?"  he breathed.  The world be damned. 

            She did not answer; instead she took his hand coyly, kissed each side of his moustache and giggled at the amused crumpling of his brow, baptized a young girl again.  A mist rose around the London streetlamps, a glowing orb around each flame, rendering the ugly streets a fairy world.

            But the rendez-vous that was intended was not to be—not this night.  "I think that's a very good idea indeed, professor," came a gruff voice, and the two lovers turned shocked to face their intruder.  It was Dr. Watson, standing on the corner with a soggy bag of groceries and medical supplies:  looking acutely vexed.  His bristly moustache quivered.  "Then perhaps you two might explain what's afoot here."

            "No need for that, Watson," came another voice, one far more alarming—and Holmes stepped out of the shadows, equally laden with wares. A free hand rested on Watson's shoulder, pacifying him.   But his face—there was no way to distinguish the emotions strewn across it.  Intense, churning and conflicted, his eyes glittering with a remembered sense of at least one feeling in particular—betrayal.  Sharp steel fillings littered his low-pitched voice as he passed by, rising the stairs, not looking back once.  "No need at all." 

Admitting his defeat—with grace. 

            Sebastian, Todd and Smiley had come out on the foyer, each wearing his own unique expression of confusion.

            "I knew the professor were gonna make Mrs. Hudson his wife—didn't I say so way back the first day they met, didn't I?" Smiley murmured, somewhat too loudly, for Holmes's ears pricked and his hackles rose prickly as he passed by the three outlaws. 

            "Shut up, Smiley," Todd grunted.

The Colonel understood the moment he took in Holmes's face, and the closeness with which Moriarty and Mrs. Hudson stood against each other, in determined but fearful affection.  "Oh, bugger," he groaned. 

            "Oh, happiness," Kat Ferrell, emerging behind him, giggled, hands clasped.  She cast Holmes an inexplicable look of unabashed, spiteful glee. 

            He glared viciously back.  "Miss Ferrell.  Or should I say Miss Ferrier.  You and I have much to discuss in the near future."

            And then he went inside, shutting the door against her shocked face, against the confusion of Watson, O'Toole, Marrow, and Moran, against the beautiful, covetable thing between his mortal enemy and landlady—and shot upstairs to his study.

            The cocaine was waiting for him again.  Tonight even a little morphine might be tempting. 

            And thus, for once in his life, James Moriarty possessed something that Sherlock Holmes did not.

            A thing called love.

            .