50 – Reunion with the Teacher was Worst (5)
“Did I take the joke too far? Or has she not grown to the level I want yet? What do you think, Moran?”
In weariness, James Moriarty, a professor, looking jaded and much like his old pupil, uttered as if lamenting.
While nobody watched them within his office, if the higher-ups of Oxford or the dean saw his state, they may frown and remind him to maintain his dignity.
In truth, James Moriarty, usually impeccably dressed, was now slouched in his chair, his shirt disheveled and his appearance unkempt, like a drowned corpse. His legs were arrogant enough to be crossed up on the desk, yet it somehow suited James Moriarty.
The room was heavy with the smell of smoke. In his hand he held a half-consumed cigarette that Sherlock, being the expert she is, would’ve detected was laced with a slight drug from the smell alone.
Although he wasn’t living as a drug addict due to memories of his previous life, it was impossible to completely avoid drugs in an era where opium and morphine were widely used as cure-alls.
Besides, Moriarty did receive some help when he couldn’t bear his boredom. It wasn’t a big deal at all. Nothing morally condemnable.
Because as a fine gentleman of London, one would share a few puffs of opium in the opium room arranged for the luxurious upper class at social gatherings, enjoying artistic exchanges through hallucinations.
If he had a pistol in his hand, he might have impulsively shot the wall. He was bored to that extent.
Of course, all of this was thanks to his youthful apprentice who still had a lot to learn.
In response to his question, Moran, who was working on documents at a small table next to him, answered coldly without looking up from the paperwork.
“It doesn’t seem like a matter I can judge, Master.”
‘She’s being difficult.’
She might have seemed like a secretary focusing diligently on her work while showing respect to her boss, but as someone who had spent a long time with Moran, nay, raised her himself, Moriarty could tell his pet wolf was being uncharacteristically childlike.
Of course, he didn’t point that out instantly. He took a moment to puff his cigarette and organize his thoughts.
In reality, Moran, who seemed a proper lady on the outside, was still a child, at least from Moriarty’s perspective.
He thought temporarily about his older brother’s children, that is, his naive nieces and nephews. No matter how family-oriented Moriarty was, even he would occasionally show them formal decorum.
Such formalities were very important for survival and for his true profession. How many benefits could he reap just by maintaining his external image as an efficient scholar and a young professor at Oxford University?
Showing a poor relationship with family was an obvious weakness, and contrary to his true feelings, he was a kindly uncle to his nieces and nephews, and a successful younger brother to his older brother.
Looking back, his young and unfortunate nieces and nephews always wanted attention, whether from their parents or their third uncle.
Perhaps Moran was the same.
After all, while Moran was a useful tool and a treasured collection to him, in some sense, she was a child he raised just like a niece. Of course, to Moriarty, who had been broken in some way from birth, the feeling of raising her felt quite faint.
Thus, Moriarty put out his cigarette casually and beckoned Moran over silently. Of course, Moran, who understood her master’s command with just that movement, quietly approached her master and sat before him, bending one knee as if to be knighted.
“Moran, Moran.”
“…Yes, Master.”
Moran answered slowly, savoring the kind hand of her master caressing her head. Of course, her eyes were solely focused on her master.
Now fully grown, she could no longer act childish as before. However, she still enjoyed the warm touch of his hand, stroking her head and ears, signaling that she was needed.
Feeling cheerful, she barely held back a whimpering sound, much like an animal would make.
Moriarty, who seemed indifferent to Moran’s feelings, continued to gently stroke Moran’s golden hair and ears as he spoke.
“It’s alright if you’re jealous of Holmes. I know you and Porlock aren’t on the best of terms right now, but you tolerate him, don’t you? What’s essential is you don’t show your resentment to me and that you don’t cause any friction when there’s work to be done. Those two points alone. I believe you are smart enough not to cross the boundaries I’ve set, Moran. Isn’t that right?”
Moran didn’t immediately respond. She was aware that her master was not asking for an immediate answer.
Of course, she had to resist the urge to offer a reply she herself didn’t even know. Although this was a different case than her distaste for that low-grade magician. But she kept it in.
Because Moran was a faithful subordinate and a being that had to follow her master’s commands. It was her very existence and her precious reason for living.
More importantly, if the master were to ask ‘what’s different?’, she wouldn’t have been able to come up with a response on the spot.
From noble mtl dot com
Nevertheless, Porlock, even if he wasn’t as annoying as the magician ready to rip out his throat at any given order, was becoming equally, if not more, vexing to her.
Sherlock Holmes.
Having always stood by her master’s side after finding happiness post her master’s saving grace, the name was not new to her.
At first, she was just an abstract entity. She was simply someone who brought joy to the master and was expected to meet a miserable end like all of master’s opponents someday.
However, the more she noticed her master yearning for what seemed like a ten-year reunion, witnessing that meeting, and the way he looked at her, the more irate she became.
She’d barely known Holmes for a short span ten years ago. Just a mere acquaintance in a long life, an insignificant entity who sparked the interest of the master temporarily due to her intelligence.
Protecting the master’s side more than anyone and knowing the master best was Moran herself.
That’s why she was annoyed. Even before meeting Holmes, she disliked her. It felt like confronting the woman who seemed to covet her position when she first met the master, a foolish thought.
She didn’t like her from their first encounter. The way she looked at her, at the master, was unnecessarily audacious.
Such a fool to covet her place, giving a look as though the master should only look at her.
More than anything, a moment of doubt, whether she really should follow as the master desired.
However, for now, Moran had to suppress such personal feelings and carry out the master’s orders as before.
Moriarty, having the audacity to consider Moran a still immature wolf, was disappointed. Moran was too young to dissect complicated emotions.
“Each has their own objectives, Moran. You exist to follow my orders. Holmes has her own objectives. I’ve told you, right? What did I say?”
“…You said she exists to solve the riddles you give…”
“That’s right, you remember well. There is no need for you to understand. You’re not supposed to do that anyway, right?”
“Yes, master.”
“There you go, Moran. Nobody does it like you. I’m a bit disappointed with Holmes. I expected her to follow me around, certain that I was acting, or do something to reveal my true self. Still… she’s a little girl, moving emotionally… am I being too harsh? Maybe I should be careful not to break her. That would be a shame; it is rare to find someone who takes interest in secrets in this splendid city. That would really be boring; I’d die of boredom.”
Moriarty, rather than getting a perfect score, was considering remedial lessons. But a decade’s anticipation had made Moriarty patient, and he decided to give her a chance soon. He was also planning on getting rid of the boring act gradually.
Restart the real test soon. So Moriaty opened his mouth again.
“Moran, invite Miss Holmes over soon. Just for a casual cup of tea, you do the asking.”
“…Yes, master.”
‘Why is she still like that?’
Moriarty couldn’t help but feel strange as he saw Moran’s wolf ears droop sideways. On almost all fronts, Moran was an excellent secretary and useful tool that met Moriarty’s satisfaction, but she had a drawback of sometimes failing to hide her emotions in front of him.
It’s understandable that as a child, she’s afraid of losing attention. But still acting like a child even after a sufficient explanation is hard to fathom.
However, Moriarty let it slide. From his view, Moran was still a child, and children are primarily irrational. Moreover, he didn’t feel the need to think deeply about it.
Because she was a tool under his full control.
Indeed, this could be a weakness of the man named James Moriarty. Although he was smart and arrogant, capable of reading and manipulating people’s psychology, understanding his own emotions was a challenge.
Half-regrettably looking at the master who gently removed his hand, and with an emotion even she herself didn’t yet understand, Moran slowly stood up.
To follow the master’s command. Wolves follow the lead unless the alpha changes or a challenge ensues.
