Author's Note:
A bit nervous about this one—Holmes, I have no problems with, but Moriarty is another matter. The original Professor is one of my favorite characters to mess with, but this Moriarty is a little different, isn't he? Well, hope it works.
EDIT: OH MY WORD, I HAD NO IDEA I POSTED UP TOTALLY THE WRONG THING! I AM SO VERY SORRY! *blushes furiously* To make a long story short, I'd accidentally uploaded chapter 5 of a totally different story to this collection as the fifth update! I've just deleted that upload and changed number 6 to number 5... and here you go, the originally-intended number 5. My sincerest apologies, ladies and gentlemen.
To my reviewers:
zara2148: Perhaps "surreal" wasn't the right word. *winces* Well, you can judge for yourself. Thank you! I like the back-and-forth that they have in the show—very adorable. ^_^
Shizuku Tsukishima749: Heh, thank you! =D I had fun with just that little bit of dialogue. Ooo, I hope you can talk your mom into it! Really, I do! There's more to selling one's book than making money—there's also the joy of sharing the story with others and seeing them enjoy it. =)
Disclaimer: Characters and situations are either in the public domain or property of DiC. Moriarty's memory of November 1890 is © Aleine Skyfire 2011. All rights reserved.
==6. Your Enemies Closer==
Rating: T
Summary: Moriarty comes upon a depressed Great Detective and decides to help Holmes out a bit.
Pairing(s): none
Warnings: depression, discussion of bipolar disorder
Word Count: 1,153
"So being home alone for the night was not a ploy to catch me? My dear Holmes, I am disappointed."
He was further disappointed when he stepped into the sitting-room and found his archenemy slumped in his armchair before the fire, brooding. Sherlock Holmes's blue eyes (was there a hint of grey in them?) stared unseeingly into the dancing flames. Were it not for the telltale rise and fall of the man's chest, Moriarty would have checked for a pulse.
So. The man was in one of his "black moods," then. Moriarty remained in the doorway and folded his arms. "Holmes."
"Go away." Emotionless tone. No movement otherwise, not even of the eyes.
Moriarty leaned on the doorjamb and cocked one challenging eyebrow. "You'll have to make me."
The blue eyes flicked towards him momentarily (ah, a definite grey tint—his color must be returning). It was the only response he received.
He frowned. The detective's behavior was beyond childish and unreasonable—what the devil was wrong with the man? "Very well, then. I don't suppose there's any tea or coffee to be had?"
At last, Holmes sighed. "Moriarty. Please. Leave and allow me to wallow in my misery, or must I demonstrate yet again that I am the superior fighter?"
Moriarty chose to ignore the "superior" cut in favor of saying, "I don't think you'd do it. Not now. Not when you're like… this."
The blue-grey eyes narrowed. "Really."
"Really." In another lifetime—literally—James Moriarty would never have resolved to play the psychiatrist for Sherlock Holmes. Even in this lifetime, he hesitated—the man was his archenemy, after all. On the other hand…
There was nothing else for it. Moriarty would have to play the shrink.
He strode into the room and settled into the armchair opposite the detective, saying, "Now, Hol—"
The younger man startled him by jerking to life and snarling, "Get out of that chair."
Moriarty realized his blunder even as he stood: that armchair was Dr. Watson's. The real John H. Watson's. Idiot, he berated himself. That chair is sacred ground. "My apologies, Holmes." He bowed before taking a seat on the settee.
Holmes allowed himself to sink back into his chair and shut his eyes. "What are you doing here?" Interesting—the man made no attempt to conceal his weariness.
"I was looking forward to an enjoyable evening of clashing wits. Instead, I find myself ethically unable to leave my archenemy in the throes of melancholy."
That garnered a short, humorless laugh from the other man. His eyes remained closed. "Even my vivid imagination has difficulty in seeing you with any sort of ethics."
"What intellectual enjoyment is there in defeating a depressed enemy who is not even trying to use his vast intelligence?"
"Touché, and thank you."
Moriarty waited a few moments, drumming his fingers on the settee arm in irritation. Eventually, he said, "So. I do believe this is the first time you've had one of your old black moods since your resurrection."
Holmes sighed again, his eyes still closed. "Yes. Your point is?"
"Oh, really, Holmes, I do keep track of you, you know. You've had no end of cases lately. I've read the good Doctor's stories, all sixty of them—you didn't sink into depression unless you were without cases for a long period. Thus, this instance is unique."
"Not unique," Holmes whispered, his eyes fluttering open. "But I'll thank you to keep out of it."
Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "Not unique, eh?"
"What part of 'keep out' don't you understand? Honestly."
Moriarty ignored him. "Then your mood swings could be linked to any number of things," he mused aloud. "Fascinating."
Holmes frowned. "I am not your subject to study, Professor," he said coldly.
Moriarty shrugged. "I've nothing else better to do for the moment."
"Oh, for heaven's sake…"
"Have you ever considered that you may be manic depressive?"
"For heaven's sake," Holmes repeated, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Yes, I have, actually. I believe I qualify for Bipolar Disorder II, or something of the sort, thank you very much."
"It would fit," Moriarty nodded. "Therefore, you are experiencing a long-overdue depressive episode."
Holmes groaned and reached up for his deerstalker, smashing it onto his head and over his eyes. "Good grief."
"I thought we were making progress."
"We were doing nothing of the sort. You were sticking your nose into my personal affairs; something that, I might add, I have never done to you. Business affairs, yes. Absolutely. Personal affairs, no."
"I was only trying to help, my dear Holmes," Moriarty smiled wolfishly.
The brim of the deerstalker came up. "Enough." The detective's blue-grey eyes darkened. "Get out. Now."
Moriarty settled back into the cushions, folded his arms again, and raised both eyebrows.
Holmes stood, rising to his full height of 6'2". Despite his slim form, the man had a dominating effect upon a room when he chose to use it. "Moriarty, I am asking you as one gentleman to another: please leave now. I have no desire for this to descend into the more vulgar communication of combat."
Moriarty saw the thunder in the younger man's eyes, knew that the detective was dead serious. Well… it was fun while it lasted. At least he had finally provoked the lethargic child into action. He shrugged genially and stood. "Very well. Truly a pleasure, Holmes. We really must visit like this more often."
"I'm afraid that shall have to be saved for yet another lifetime. Now, please, the door."
Moriarty raised his hands, placating. "I'm leaving…" He stopped in the doorway, however, and turned back towards the detective. "After all, one should keep his friends close and his enemies closer."
For once, Holmes looked his mental age—technically, they probably were about the same mental age in this lifetime. "I think we do quite well in that regard," he said, sotto voce. "There are things that we know of our earlier conflicts that I doubt either of us will ever share with our companions."
The November of 1890 floated between them.
Moriarty remembered that, likely the lowest point Holmes ever reached. Captured, drugged, tortured within an inch of his life… For weeks, Holmes teetered on the brink of death or madness—but he recovered, and, five months after his rescue, struggled with Moriarty on a cliff above a waterfall in Switzerland.
No, those were not memories Holmes would share with Lestrade or the compudroid, nor would Moriarty ever relate it to Fenwick, his only true defeat at the hands of Scotland Yard.
"Quite so," Moriarty agreed quietly. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes."
As he stepped out of the building, he glanced up. A tall silhouette stood in the light of the sitting room window. It remained until Fenwick pulled up in the cruiser, and they sped off into the night. Moriarty had the feeling that the silhouette remained there much longer.
Author's Note:
I know that Sherlock's been diagnosed with multiple mental and/or mood disorders over the years, and that some fans think it's all rot. However, if you take a look at the Wikipedia article "Bipolar Disorder" and scroll down to the descriptions of subtypes, you can see for yourself that Holmes actually does qualify for Bipolar Disorder II. This would not necessarily impair his life or mental facilities—part of it simply means that he just gets severely depressed every now and then (and we know that he did).
That being said, I just wanted to do a story in which Holmes and Moriarty weren't fighting, were holding a civil conversation like the standoff in FINA. Like I said before, I hope it worked.
Holmes's captivity in 1890 is part of a novel that I'm currently writing, the first in a series. You can find the first few chapters of the book on my profile, entitled Deliver Us from Evil, Part I: Mortality.
Please review!
