The Worst Meeting with Miss Holmes (1)
All the most vicious things in the world are made by the English. It was one of the few phrases from his faint memories of his previous life that the reincarnator James Moriarty could still recall, but he was certain the person who said it knew nothing about the English. Anyone who truly understood the English would know it wasn't that the English made vicious things—it was that the English themselves were the vicious ones.
The scene unfolding before his eyes in his dream was proof enough of that. Sometimes his dreams blurred so seamlessly with reality that it was hard to tell them apart, but he could spot the difference at a glance. Unlike all the other idiots, he knew he was just about the only one with average intelligence. Above all, the sight before him couldn't be explained by anything but a dream.
"Jimmy, look straight ahead, focus! I told you, if you move, you'll ruin the photo!"
But such thoughts had to be cut short. His mother from this life—still youthful in appearance—scolded him in a stern voice. Only then did Moriarty realize he'd regressed to his ten-year-old self. After the Great Famine had ruined the family, they'd lived in poverty ever since, but that day they'd scraped together every penny, borrowing ill-fitting suits from neighbors just to look the part. He'd naturally reverted to his boyish form, squeezed into a child's formal suit that only looked decent from afar and felt miserably uncomfortable up close. He never imagined he'd have to wear this shabby thing again, even in a dream. He couldn't help resenting the fact that he knew it was a dream but couldn't control it. Dreams were supposed to be freeing, but this one seemed intent on puppeteering him through the entire event.
It was boring and idiotic, but he had no choice but to follow the dream's script. Dreams or reality, both were filled with the same dull, foolish affairs and people. The three Moriarty brothers—including his own brothers—their mother and father: all the living family members gathered in the parlor, huddled together, staring straight ahead. He could understand his mother's scolding, at least. They had to stay still for the photo. In their dire straits, they'd splurged on a photographer for a family portrait, so no mistakes could be tolerated.
In a world full of magic and bizarre steam-powered contraptions, he couldn't fathom why photography alone remained so antiquated, but he had to stay silent as a wax doll. In that sense, he almost envied his little sister lying on the floor. At least she was dead, so she felt no discomfort, and no one minded her just lying there.
Yes, his dead little sister. Unlike him, alive and aware, she was long gone—her face pale, her body stiff and cold for ages, reduced to a mere corpse on the floor. He couldn't even recall her face clearly, so he stole a quick glance at the floor when the photographer and his mother weren't looking.
Even in the dream, she looked just as he vaguely remembered from that time.
Her name was... Jane? No, Sally...?
The name didn't come to him. He wasn't the sentimental type to care about a dead sister. He hadn't expected to pose for another family photo with her in a dream, but that was the extent of it. Even when she'd died, he'd felt nothing. The youngest of the Moriarty family and their only daughter, she was five years younger—a clingy nuisance who followed him around relentlessly. He had to treat her like a brother out of obligation, but his parents foolishly thought they got along well. So when she died, he'd had to fake his grief.
Come to think of it, she'd never been useful in life. But this reincarnated 19th-century England was an era rife with death. Every family lost two or three children before their fifth birthday. His sister had joined those unlucky numbers. Considering he and his brothers had survived the horrific Great Famine that ravaged Ireland, her fate seemed especially unfortunate.
Alive or dead, she'd been an utterly unremarkable little girl who stirred no emotion in him. Back then, he couldn't understand his idiot brothers' tearful wailing—and he still didn't—but he was clever enough not to show it. No, he even mimicked them. Even in a death-saturated life, openly showing no grief wouldn't do.
Moriarty excused himself by reasoning that, as a reincarnator, he simply couldn't feel familial bonds toward this family. But even he found the sensibilities of 19th-century Englishmen bizarre beyond comprehension. When his sister died, his parents—like all other English folk—had the maid wash her body thoroughly, dressed her in her finest clothes, and called a photographer for a family portrait. Just like the scene playing out in this dream.
It was a rite every Victorian Englishman experienced at least once. If a child died young, they'd pose with the corpse; if an elder passed, with the stiffened body. All together, commemorating the dead. Supposedly to honor and remember them, but it was grotesque and inefficient. He could never grasp the point of powdering the corpse for the drab black-and-white photo, propping it up with a bouquet to mark it as dead, and laying it out as if peacefully asleep.
But this time, his dead sister's presence proved oddly useful. He had only one sister, and only one dead sister—so spotting the dream was easy. Unless some penny dreadful nonsense happened and the corpse came back to life, no family would pose for a second photo with it.
"Alright, one more, Mrs. Moriarty. And Mr. Moriarty, perhaps change your pose? Kneel beside Miss Jane—yes, perfect. Look down at her tenderly, like always, so we remember her well!"
From the photographer's chatter, her name must have been Jane. But the boredom didn't lift. Suppressing a yawn, he waited for the dream to end. Fortunately, it didn't last long. Now fully lucid, the scene soon blurred.
And from the real world came a voice: "Moriarty, wake up."
"...How long was I out?"
"About twenty minutes. We let you sleep—plenty of drunks passed out anyway."
Rubbing his eyes, he turned toward the voice and saw the usual vacant face. He didn't bother remembering the name. He'd never been so dim as to forget names, but this fool was no different from the rest, so why bother? The idiot couldn't read minds, of course, and spoke up with obvious familiarity—as if they were friends. Moriarty never corrected the delusion; it occasionally proved useful.
"Dodgson the stutterer bug you yesterday?"
"Nah. Just chatted about post-graduation stuff."
Professor Charles Dodgson taught mathematics at their Oxford Christ Church College. He wasn't really a stutterer, but his timid nature made him trip over words in meetings, earning the nickname from mischievous students.
Mention of graduation piqued the other's interest. Unlike Moriarty, the early graduate, this one still had time left at school.
"If I were you, I'd stay on for research. Paycheck, and tenure's a sure thing for you."
"...Think of it as a sabbatical. Dodgson said a couple good papers might land me a spot anyway. He likes me well enough."
"So, thought about the gig I mentioned? No plans? Tutor kids, pocket some cash for the year. Plenty of free time."
Moriarty fell silent at the suggestion. A minor dilemma. The fool wasn't wrong. A tolerable path lay ahead, if boring. Smart enough for early graduation, with a knack for math honed by scholarships, he'd even gotten recommendations from professors like Dodgson. Staying on for research and prepping for a professorship made sense. Steady pay, however modest. With no family support after the Famine's fall, risks were unwise.
Yet he planned to ditch it all—to wander recklessly, against his nature. Why? Boredom, probably. Life since reincarnation had been dull. Ireland was hellish; Oxford, a den of fools pretending to be clever. London? Trash-filled streets teeming with trashy lives.
Maybe he'd gambled on escaping the tedium. But he already sensed failure and regretted it. Survival came first. The tutoring offer was a lifeline he couldn't ignore.
Still, he hesitated. Teaching dimwit brats would be duller than Oxford's senile lectures.
But as emphasized, options were scarce.
"Fine, I'll do it."
"Good man. Already told Mr. Holmes you'd take it."
"...Holmes?"
"Oh, didn't mention? It's their second son."
The fool prattled on, sipping beer, but Moriarty tuned him out. He murmured "Holmes" under his breath. Maybe not so boring after all.
Even he couldn't have imagined the existence of Sherlock, the Holmes family's youngest daughter, whom he'd meet while tutoring.