11 – The meeting with Miss Holmes was the worst (11)
“Thankfully, you haven’t had a fight since you came here, but they often have marital fights.”
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“Is this connected to the gun?”
At Moriarty’s query, Sally glanced around for a moment. Caricaturing their masters was one of the main joys for the servants and maids of this era, but they had to be careful.
Sally opened her mouth in a whisper to Moriarty.
“It’s an empty gun, but when they fight, he often takes out this gun and waves it around. Of course, the madam also knows about it, so she just raises her voice even more.”
“……That’s a rather unique habit.”
Moriarty uttered in brief admiration.
It was quite a strange habit, but if you thought of it as a drinking habit, it wasn’t that strange. Even in the small and boring land of England, many people had different habits.
The act of pointing an unloaded gun at his wife while drunk and having a marital fight was unique, but it was certainly not an impossible habit.
It was certain that Holmes’ habit of carrying a gun was the one the locals knew well, but they put it aside as long as it wasn’t loaded, or at least that was what the maid added.
An understandable belief. After all, an unloaded gun wasn’t dangerous.
“But still, I mean, he never hits the lady or anything. Plus, the pastor is, after all, a good person, genuinely faithful and kind to me, the maid. In fact, if it wasn’t for a couple quarrel, he treats the lady, the master, and the young lady very well.”
“It was unexpected to find out Mr. Holmes was like that. He didn’t seem the type.”
When Moriarty asked a bit more on the topic, Sally simply shrugged. Just usual gossip about the master, she thought, and didn’t suspect anything about the inquiries.
“You can’t just blame the pastor, though. After all, the lady does provoke… It’s not uncommon, right? For a couple in a countryside like this to fight over a man.”
“You mean Mrs. Holmes is having an affair?”
Other people’s private lives are always interesting to third parties. Knowing this, Moriarty asked back as if intrigued.
Seeing Moriarty’s interest, the maid continued cheerfully.
“Ah, well, the lady never actually had an affair, I suppose. But, I think the pastor is getting older and every time they fight, she seems to intentionally give such an impression. You….didn’t feel it yourself, Moriarty?”
“I had no idea.”
He knew. Subtle glances from Mrs. Holmes suggested something more than just towards a tutor.
Of course, he ignored it perfectly.
Mrs. Holmes’ look didn’t ask or attempt for anything more than the maid’s explanation
However, everything, from the relationship between Mr. Holmes and Mrs. Holmes, to their trivial habits, were invaluable information for Moriarty.
He quickly started calculating in his head, like proving an equation.
Was it possible?
To someone else, this would be risky, too reliant on a slim probability.
But I’m different. Moriarty assured himself. He wasn’t the fool who allows them to move on a minute chance. He knew they’d move exactly as he thought.
And I can make it happen. He was confident he had the ability.
“Moriarty?”
“Ah, I was just finding words to write, sorry, Sally. Anyway, thank you, I’ll give it back once I’m done.”
After quickly saying what he needed to, Moriarty left Sally who subtly tried to start a conversation and returned to his room in the annex.
Suppressed from his excitement, he focused on the task at hand. No matter how scary the thoughts, he was cold and rational, prioritizing tasks according to importance.
After finishing the letter, giving back the pen to Sally, and putting the letter in the mailbox for the mailman to collect, Moriarty was able to return to his room.
He let out a deep breath and plopped down on the bed. Like a thief who was holding his breath for stealing, he had to let out a deep sigh.
His cold heart, however, began to beat faster than usual. His usually cold-blooded self was feeling warmer than it should be.
He was certainly more excited than usual.
“No, this is…this is bad. It’s a crime, a sin. I’m not a villain… It should stop with playing with Sherlock.”
He murmured unusually. In fact, he intentionally spoke out loud. It seemed like the only way to stop himself.
At the same time, however, his agony tempted him. A snake tempted him. And the snake assumed Moriarty’s face.
James Moriarty knew he was far from ordinary. He was a person who objectified himself to a striking degree.
He might have already noticed his problem from such behavior. If he was ordinary, he might have denied his shortcomings or peculiarities, or even tried to correct them.
However, he stayed strangely calm, as if it were someone else’s problem, and simply watched his peculiarity.
From the memory of his past life and from his narrow knowledge about Sherlock Holmes, he had been an anomaly.
But that was it.
It’s unclear whether his peculiarity stemmed from his pre-existence, or from being reborn as James Moriarty.
However, considering the relationship between Holmes and Moriarty, wasn’t the latter the answer?
‘No, no. I am James Moriarty. Not the Professor Moriarty inside someone’s story, I am me.’
But soon, he denied it. He didn’t want that. It couldn’t be. Living a parallel life to a character from someone’s story was too dull, and it was not supposed to be.
Only, only his actions and thoughts, and life, everything should only be his portion.
But as such, James Moriarty momentarily fell into fear that rarely occurred.
He was able to discern at least. He knew that he was not Professor Moriarty inside someone else’s creation, and he wasn’t swayed by it.
Thus the thoughts he had then came only from his free will. That momentarily made him frightened.
He had to admit it.
For the few months, he had been doing more than simply playing around with Sherlock. It was accurate to say they enjoyed playing together.
It was too much fun to create the puzzles for Sherlock, the puzzles intertwined with crime. With just a little more adjustment to reality, there would certainly be a stench-filled mystery of crime that could be used by someone, a mystery that would not be discovered unless there was a detective like Sherlock.
‘But it’s just a puzzle, this is crazy, it’s madness….’
If writing a crime novel makes you a criminal, all the writers would be imprisoned. Thus, Moriarty could have ended everything as a momentary memory.
But at that moment, he was visited again by another fear, the emptiness and fear that he had felt ever since he was reborn.
Boredom, terrible boredom, seemed to crawl up from the ground like a swamp trying to swallow him, and crawl up to his throat.
He had to struggle to survive. It didn’t matter what was sacrificed in the process. It was just like self-defense in order to survive.
He selfishly wanted to rationalize it that way.
It was clear that something had happened to his head since he was reborn. Otherwise, living day by day wouldn’t have been so boring. He was living because he couldn’t die.
Not that he was suicidal. He could not completely let go of the hope for life. It was clear it was an internal problem.
If nothing ever happened and he lived a boring and ordinary life until he died, he wouldn’t have had to agonize so much.
But he had already known joy.
On this boring planet, in the pitiful empire and the worthless continent, filled with horrible crimes by boring people, idiots, and disgusting scoundrels, there was a girl.
The child was the problem. The root of evil. His head hurt so much that he wanted to blame the child, knowing it was selfish.
It was after he had understood the pleasure. Moriarty already knew. He was now afraid of each day passing. Especially that in a given year, he had to return to Oxford and London, the boring places.
Knowing vividly what pleasure means, going back to boredom, to eternal boredom was a terrifying thing.
Perhaps for the first time in this life, he was earnestly wanting to live.
There was a moment when he even wanted to propose to her, willing to be considered a madman, just to be near her. Of course, it was nonsense so he ignored it immediately.
‘No, it’s not completely over.’
Sherlock was a smart girl and she had ambition. Despite being a girl, maybe someday she would come to Oxford, as a student and as a detective. Maybe she would make him her assistant instead of Watson, as she often said.
But she was a girl. A girl who had to grow under strict parents.
There was no need to emphasize the difference between the morals of this era and those of his past life. Whether Sherlock or Mycroft, those smart children had to walk on a path similar to those of rural landlords’ children.
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Of course, they had their own capabilities and ambitions and would eventually pioneer their own path. Moriarty knew this.
But wouldn’t it be too late then? Therefore shouldn’t he help out his charming disciple a bit?
Naturally, Moriarty knew he was lying to himself.
