“The words of a writer and a romanticist. There are thousands of poor wretches in this city of ours who do not have the luxury to indulge in these ‘finer feelings’, as you call them. They react to the animal instinct of procreation and satisfaction. Love is abstract and ethereal. A heady potion, no doubt, but give me cocaine every time.”
I rose, lost for words and more angry than I could express. I made my way to the door, but was halted by Holmes’ cry.
“Oh, Watson,” he said, rising from his chair, “do not take what I say to heart. My words are no reflection on the nobility of your feelings or the genuine nature of your affection. They are the thoughts of a very odd and repressed individual who is so entrenched in his views of the world that he often forgets the hurt he may administer by expressing them. You are the normal, hearty and well-adjusted fellow in this partnership; I am the cold, calculating... and damaged other half. Forgive me if I have upset you.”
I glared at that pale, cadaverous face with contempt.
“Goodnight” I said, closing the door with some force.
I slept little that night. My mind was a whirlpool of thoughts. At first I was angry with Holmes for the contemptuous way he had dismissed the importance and quality of love; and I was also angry with myself for being goaded by his icy observations. I should have acknowledged that such was the nature of this man that his ideas and beliefs were ingrained and had nothing to do with my particular circumstances, and I cursed myself for not realising this at the time. Of course, I was also plagued by worry regarding Moriarty’s hold on me. After surviving the hurdle of the Agra Treasure and its threat to keep Mary from me, I was aware that that problem was a mere bagatelle compared to the danger that he posed to our relationship. With a snap of his fingers he could, if he so wished, have Mary eliminated. And it was all my fault.
I tossed and turned for most of the night as my brain sought a solution to my dilemmas. The grey light of dawn was creeping into the room before exhaustion allowed a shallow sleep to overtake me, my problems still intact and apparently insurmountable.
Twenty-One
The same evening that John Watson had discussed his romance with Sherlock Holmes, Professor Moriarty was entertaining a guest to dinner in his sanctum. The occasion was a business one, concerning forged documents and Bank of England plates. The matter was dealt with successfully. After the meal, the two men retired to the library to smoke, take port and relax.
“How is the business with Sherlock progressing?” asked the portly guest casually, as he prepared to take a pinch of snuff, delicately balanced on the back of his hand.
“I am rather bored with it now. It is true that your brother has developed into a crime-fighter without pareil, as we both suspected, and that with a little nudging from our man Watson he now follows the paths of crime which lie in a different direction from my endeavours. Paradoxically, that is part of my dilemma: the plan has been successful, and so there is no excitement in the case.”
Mycroft Holmes brushed away the errant grains of snuff from his waistcoat and peered over his pince-nez.
“Ah, well, the lion may only be sleeping. There may come a time when Sherlock will pose a serious threat to you,” he said.
“I would almost welcome the challenge. However, I suspect that now Holmes has a successful detective practice, the broad strokes of my crimes will no longer interest him. He is a connoisseur, and prefers rather bizarre miniatures to the simple, clean masterpieces that I create.”
“He always had a love of the unusual and the recherché.”
“There you are, then,” said Moriarty, leaning forward and pouring more port into Mycroft’s empty glass. “And now Watson is wanting to leave.”
“What on earth for?”
Moriarty curled his lip. “He has fallen in love.”
“Ah, he has, has he? Man of the world, this Watson, eh? No doubt it is with that young woman involved in the Agra Treasure investigation.”
“The same. He wants to marry her and most likely carry her off to suburban bliss away from Baker Street.”
“And you will allow him to go?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it is time to let the fellow slip his leash. He hasn’t put a foot wrong since he moved in with your brother, and now perhaps he is not needed any more. I would welcome your thoughts on the matter.”
Mycroft beamed and relaxed, his body slipping down comfortably into the depths of the chair, while his legs stretched forward until they almost touched the hearth.
“Well, it would leave you a little exposed again, although you have Mrs Hudson on hand. It might spice up the game.”
“It might,” agreed the Professor.
“I’ve never met this Watson, but from his reports to you and what you have told me about him, I gain the impression that he is a reliable fellow and that if he left he would remain true to you, or rather to his unwritten contract with you, especially if some threat were placed over his head to ensure his loyalty.”
“The girl...”
Mycroft beamed again. “Indeed. Love makes a man very malleable. Moreover, is it not likely that once having tasted the exciting fruits of detective work, Watson will never be able to keep away from the tree? After a few months enduring the monotony of domestic life, he’ll be banging on the door of Baker Street, begging for Sherlock to allow him to accompany him on some case or another.”
“I like the scenario. To facilitate this arrangement, it would mean moving pieces on the board in a radical fashion, but they have been static too long.” Moriarty drained his glass. “I appreciate your counsel, Mycroft. Wise words.”
“Informed words to some extent, at least. The man is my brother, after all.”
Moriarty chuckled. ‘That has always fascinated me. Two men from the same stable as it were, but both so different.’
“Not as different as all that. Oh, I know physically I would make two of Sherlock — that is my love of good food, good wine, good living.” He raised his glass and took a drink to illustrate his point before continuing. “But our brains are of a similar intellectual quality. It is just that we use them for different purposes. We both enjoy the thrill of intrigue, legerdemain on a grand scale... It’s just that we have taken diverse paths.”
Moriarty looked at the large man opposite him. His face was massive, but there was a keenness about the features that clearly denoted the man’s intellectual brilliance. His eyes, partly shielded by the golden rims of his pince-nez, were as sharp as knives. Despite the smooth words of explanation, Moriarty did not understand Mycroft Holmes, and this worried him. Of all the individuals who worked closely with him in his organisation, Mycroft remained the only dark horse. The Professor knew that in the world of crime one could not afford the luxury of close attachments — he himself had none — and yet Sherlock Holmes was this man’s brother, a dissoluble blood-tie. Mycroft had a shining intellect and therefore would be acutely aware that if his brother became a real threat to the organisation, Moriarty would have no compunction in sweeping him away, crushing him like a fly; and yet Mycroft revealed no concern or real interest in this possibility.
“The old adage is wrong. Chemically, blood is thicker than water, but in the metaphorical sense the idea is nonsense. I do not hate my brother, but on the other hand I have no special affection for him, either. We are two individuals making our own way in a cruel world. We each must face our own destiny.” Mycroft’s face creased into a smile. “Sorry, Professor, I’ve been reading your mind again.”
“In certain circumstances, that could be a dangerous occupation.”
“Then, sir, I shall have to ensure that those circumstances do not arise.”