Chapter IV: Nemesis
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Taken from "The Final Problem" by Mr. Ithel Williams. Published in 1890 by The Strand.
"If I were assured of your eventual destruction I would, in the interests of the public, cheerfully accept my own."
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Lady Carmichael's case had gone poorly. Her husband was dead and there were signs that Moriarty was back. Ghost were not real. Necromancy could only reanimate a corpse, not resurrect a life. There must have been a solution, but what?
For two days, Jareth sat in the parlor room of 221B, trying to discover how Moriarty could have survived. It was both impossible and improbable.
Jareth had told Sarah that he was waiting for the devil. On the third day, the devil showed up, singing.
"By the time I go to New York/I was living like a king/Then I used up all my money/I was looking for your ass." The Napoleon of Crime stopped behind Jareth. "Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."
"And possibly my answer has crossed yours," Jareth said.
"Like a bullet."
The detective carefully got to his feet to face Professor Moriarty.
Moriarty cracked his neck. "It's a dangerous habit, to finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one's dressing gown. Or are you just pleased to see me?"
"You'll forgive me for taking precautions," Jareth said as he unconsciously blocked the route to the bedrooms even though Sarah and Edmund had gone out to the Watsons'.
"I'd be offended if you didn't." Moriarty took out a small pistol from the breast pocket of his jacket. He continued to play with the gun as the conversation continued as if it going off meant nothing to him. "Obviously I've returned the courtesy. I like your rooms. They smell so... manly. You would think with those two bothers around all the time their scent would be here too, but no. As always, you overpower those around you."
"I'm sure you've acquainted yourself with the rooms before now."
"Well, you are always away on your little adventures for The Strand. Tell me: does the illustrator travel with you? Do you have to pose during your deductions?" Moriarty wandered over to the fireplace.
Jareth walked quietly so he could stand behind his nemesis. "I'm aware of all six occasions you have visited these apartments during my absence."
"Seven."
"What?" Jareth said in genuine surprise.
"Seven. Did you honestly think your wife and son were off limits to me? They looked… peaceful as they slept. I can understand. On a different visit, I found out you have a surprisingly comfortable bed." Moriarty smiled at Jareth.
"I will kill you."
"Already did that once. It still gives you nightmares, though you're not sure if it because you should have done it sooner or at all."
"You killed yourself. It is never another person's fault when a person commits suicide."
The consulting criminal shrugged. "Either way, you won't do it again." Moriarty ran his fingertips along the top of the mantelpiece, picking up dust along the way. "Did you know that dust is largely composed of human skin?"
Jareth nodded that he did.
Moriarty licked his fingertips. "Doesn't taste the same, though. You want your skin fresh... just a little crispy."
Jareth sighed to cover his disgust. "Won't you sit down?"
"That's all people really are, you know: dust waiting to be distributed. And it gets everywhere... in every breath you take, dancing in every sunbeam, all used-up people."
"Fascinating, I'm sure. Won't you sit..."
Moriarty stared down the muzzle of his gun and blew into the end of it three times. "People, people, people. Can't keep anything shiny. Do you mind if I fire this, just to clean it out?" He pointed his gun towards Jareth.
The detective returned the favor. They both stood still for several moments before Jareth pulled back his gun first, but Moriarty followed close behind.
"Exactly. Let's stop playing, Jareth. We don't need toys to kill each other. Where's the intimacy in that?"
"Sit. Down. James."
"Why? What do you want?"
"You chose to come here."
"Not true. You know that's not true. What do you want, Jareth?"
"The truth."
"That. Truth is boring." He began to walk across the room to the sofa. "You didn't expect me to turn up at the scene of the crime, did you? Poor old Sir Eustace. He got what was coming to him."
"But you couldn't have killed him."
"Oh, so what? Does it matter? Stop it. Stop this. You don't care about Sir Eustace, or the Bride or any of it. There's only one thing in this whole business that you find interesting. The Bride put a gun in her mouth and shot the back of her head off, and then she came back." He shrugged. "Impossible. But she did it, and you need to know how. How don't you? It's tearing your world apart not knowing."
The room began to shake.
"James, you're trying to stop me... to distract me, derail me."
"Because doesn't this remind you of another case? Hasn't this all happened before? As your sister's attempts at making you believe that there is some order in this world has told you, 'There's nothing new under the sun.'"
"What was it? What was it? What was that case? Huh? D\o you remember? It's on the tip of my tongue. It's on the tip of my tongue. It's on the tip of my tongue. It's on the tip..." Moriarty rested the muzzle of the gun on his tongue, "...of my tongue."
"For the sake of Mrs. Hudson's wallpaper, I must remind you that one false move with your finger and you will be dead."
Moriarty spoke incoherently.
"I'm sorry?"
James pulled the gun out of his mouth. "Dead... is the new sexy." He proceeded to blow his brains out once again.
Yet Moriarty jumped back up as if blood and brains had not gone flying all around him. "Well, I'll tell you what: that rather blows the cobwebs away."
"How can you be alive?" Jareth asked quietly.
"How do I look, huh?" He spun around to show where his skull had been blown to bits. "You can be honest. Is it noticeable?"
"You blew your own brains out, James. How could you survive?"
"Well, maybe I could back-comb."
"I saw you die. Why aren't you dead?"
Moriarty stepped closer and whispered. "Because it's not the fall that kills you, Jareth. Of all people, you should know that. It's not the fall. It's never the fall. It's the landing."
As the world fell apart, Jareth could hear music from instruments not yet made. "This way or no way/You know I'll be free/Just like that bluebird/Now ain't that just like me?"
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A/N: Every time I think Moriarty can't get any creepier… but at least he's not Magnussen.