The Meeting with Miss Holmes Was the Worst (11)
“Fortunately, there haven’t been any real fights since you arrived, Mr. Moriarty, but they do quarrel as a couple quite often.”
“Does that have anything to do with this pistol?”
At Moriarty’s question, Sally glanced around cautiously. Gossiping about the master was one of the chief pleasures for servants and maids in this era, but it required discretion. Sally leaned in and whispered to Moriarty.
“It’s empty, of course, but whenever they argue and he’s drunk, he pulls out this gun and waves it around. The madam knows all about it by now, so she just lets it slide and raises her own voice in response.”
“……That’s a rather peculiar habit.”
Moriarty offered a curt assessment. It was peculiar—quite peculiar, in fact—but if one chalked it up to drunken antics, it wasn’t all that unusual. Even in this insignificant, dreary corner of England, countless people harbored their own odd quirks. Pointing an unloaded pistol at one’s wife during a marital spat was distinctive, but hardly impossible. Above all, it wasn’t truly harmful. At least, that’s what the maid emphasized: the Holmes family and their neighbors knew the gun was never loaded, so they tolerated it. It wasn’t a misguided belief. An unloaded gun posed no danger.
“Still, he never hits the madam or anything like that. And the pastor is a good man, truly—devout, kind even to a maid like me. If it weren’t for these quarrels, he’s always good to the madam, the young master, and the young miss.”
“That said, it’s surprising to hear Mr. Holmes acts this way, based on what I’ve seen. He doesn’t strike me as the type.”
When Moriarty probed further, Sally shrugged. Viewing it as typical gossip about the master, she felt no suspicion toward his questions.
“Well, you can’t really blame it all on the pastor. The cause usually comes from… the madam, more often than not. It’s not uncommon in the countryside for couples to fight over a man’s attentions.”
“……Are you saying Mrs. Holmes has been unfaithful?”
Others’ private lives were always a tantalizing topic for third parties. Sensing this, Moriarty asked with feigned intrigue, and the maid, seemingly thrilled by his reaction, continued.
“Oh, no, the madam hasn’t actually been unfaithful—not that I know of, anyway. It’s just that the pastor’s getting on in years, and sometimes she puts on a show to provoke him during their fights. That…… surely you’ve noticed it too, Mr. Moriarty?”
“I had no idea.”
He knew. He’d caught Mrs. Holmes’s gaze lingering on him in ways that went beyond mere interest in the tutor. Of course, he’d ignored it cleanly. The maid’s account rang true: Mrs. Holmes’s glances never escalated to demands or advances. But to Moriarty, every detail—the dynamics between Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, their petty habits—was invaluable intelligence.
In that instant, calculations raced through his mind like a mathematical proof unfolding.
Is it possible? For anyone else, it would be a desperate gamble on slim odds, something to shy away from as reckless. But I’m different.
Moriarty could affirm it with certainty. He wasn’t some fool betting on faint probabilities that they might act a certain way. He knew they would. And he could make them. He had the ability.
“Mr. Moriarty?”
“Ah, I was just organizing my thoughts for the letter. Sorry about that, Sally. Thanks anyway—I’ll return the pen once it’s done.”
Moriarty wrapped up briskly, brushing off the maid’s eagerness to chat and bond, and retreated to his annex, his private room. Containing his excitement, he focused on the task at hand. No matter how daunting the idea, he was a cool, rational man who acted by priority.
Only after finishing the letter, returning the pen to Sally, and posting it in the mailbox for the postman did Moriarty return to his room. He collapsed onto the bed with a deep sigh, as if he’d been holding his breath for ages—like a thief who’d stifled his breathing during a heist. But defying the sigh, his cold heart began to beat faster than usual, his reptilian blood warming ever so slightly. He was undoubtedly excited, uncharacteristically so.
“No, this is… this is a bad thing. A crime, a sin. I’m… I’m not some villain. That should stay as mere play with Sherlock.”
He muttered aloud, unusually so. In fact, he’d done it deliberately, as if voicing it might restrain him. Yet at the same time, his inner turmoil tempted him like a siren’s call—a serpent coiling around him, wearing his own face.
James Moriarty knew all too well how far he strayed from ordinary folk. He was ruthlessly self-aware, perhaps to a fault—enough to suspect that very trait signaled a deeper issue. A normal person might deny their flaws or strive to mend them upon noticing. But he observed his peculiarities with chilling detachment, as if they belonged to a stranger.
Of course, his reincarnated memories and narrow knowledge of Sherlock Holmes already marked him as unusual. But was that the root? Or had it emerged upon rebirth, inheriting James Moriarty’s body and mind? Considering his bond with Holmes, the latter seemed likely.
No, no. I am James Moriarty. Not some fictional professor from a story. I am me.
But he rejected it swiftly. He didn’t want that. It couldn’t be. Living as a carbon copy of a created character was unbearably dull, unacceptable. Every action, thought, and moment of his life had to be his alone.
And so, for once, James Moriarty felt a rare flicker of fear. He could discern it clearly: he wasn’t beholden to any fictional Moriarty, nor swayed by it. Thus, the thoughts now stirring were purely his own free will.
That terrified him in a flash. He had to admit it. Over the past months, he hadn’t merely humored Sherlock. They’d played together, enjoyed it. Crafting riddles for her—riddles tangled in crime—had been pure delight. Refine them just a touch more realistically, and they’d become undetectable crimes, foolproof unless unraveled by a detective like her.
But they’re just riddles. This is madness, utter madness……
Writing crime novels didn’t make one a criminal; otherwise, every author would be jailed. Moriarty could end it as a fond memory. But then came another fear, the emptiness and dread that had haunted him since rebirth: boredom, a horrific, devouring swamp rising from the depths to choke him.
He had to thrash to survive. Sacrifices be damned—it was self-defense. Selfishly, he rationalized it that way. His reborn mind must be warped; how else to explain this daily tedium? He lived because he couldn’t die, yet he wasn’t suicidal. Hope lingered, faint as it was. An inner flaw, surely.
Had nothing changed, he might have endured a dull, ordinary life to the grave without this torment. But he’d tasted joy. In this dreary England, this piddling empire on a mediocre continent and planet, amid banal humans, fools, and petty crooks, there was a girl. She was the problem. The culprit. He ached to blame her, selfish as it was, for awakening him to pleasure.
Moriarty knew it now: the passage of days terrified him. The end of this prescribed year, returning to dull Oxford and London—it was unbearable. Having grasped what joy meant, reverting to eternal boredom was horror itself. Perhaps, for the first time in this life, he desperately wanted to live.
He’d even fleetingly imagined proposing to the girl, damn the madness, just to keep her near. Absurd nonsense, swiftly dismissed.
No, it’s not entirely over.
Sherlock was brilliant, ambitious. Despite being a girl, she might seek him at Oxford as student or detective. No—she would. Perhaps even take him as her assistant, Watson be damned. But she was a girl, raised under strict parents. No need to belabor the gulf between this era’s morals and his past life’s. She and Mycroft, those clever children, would tread the paths of rural gentry.
With their talents and drive, they’d forge their own eventually. Moriarty knew this. But wouldn’t it be too late? So, shouldn’t he nudge his dear disciple along?
Naturally, Moriarty knew he was lying to himself.