Moriarity's Reprise - Part 1

One of the biggest challenges I personally face during the summer is finding time to sit down and actually write.  The pressures of being home with a pre-teen and keeping that young person active means that I have to get creative in order to be creative, if you catch my meaning ;).

That being said, until I can actually find a moment to wax prosaic on some other topic, please enjoy installment number 1 of "Moriarity's Reprise".  Like its predecessor, "The Case of the Missing Amati," it is a Sherlock Holmes pastiche based on a futuristic Sherlock.


Moriarity's Reprise - Part 1

The sound of the back door slamming jolted me awake.

“Draw the shutters, will you Mrs. Hudson?’ I heard Holmes say as I sat up in my chair and rubbed the remnants of my impromptu snooze from my face. “And please fix me a caramel chocolate latte.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” the house computer replied in its feminine monotone. “I shall notify you when your beverage is ready.”

As the shutters automatically started to close, Holmes walked into the living room and, crossing to his chair, sank wearily into it. I thought that he looked thinner and paler than usual.

“Yes, I have been using myself up a bit too freely of late, Watson,” he said before I could ask, stretching out his long legs. “I’ve concluded that my illustrious predecessor had a much easier time of it in his age. I often wondered what he would have made of the women of today.”

“Sylvia Moriarity again?” I asked.

“Yes, Sylvia,” Holmes muttered, and leaning his head back, shut his eyes.

The words “illustrious predecessor” always meant one thing coming from Escott Sherlock Holmes, or rather, was a reference to only one person – the Victorian Sherlock Holmes, the man whose genetic material was the basis for much of Escott’s own DNA. As his friend and colleague, I, James C. Watson, understood that better than anyone else, and better than anyone else, I understood the huge burden this legacy placed on Escott. It drove him to such rarefied achievements, that British Intelligence now considered him their top agent, despite his unofficial status.

Yet I also knew that another impetus lay behind those achievements, one that stemmed from a person living in the here and now: Sylvia Moriarty, the descendant of the self-proclaimed illegitimate son of the infamous mathematics professor, was fast becoming Escott’s greatest antagonist.

“I don’t know, Escott,” I said, hoping to ease his mind towards the mundane. “I think you are underrating the experiences that Sherlock endured during his career. Take for instance, the young woman who was so enamored with that ruthless German, Baron Gruner. She certainly had a will of iron.”

“Violet De Merville,” Holmes said, without opening his eyes. “And Baron Gruner was Austrian, not German.”

“Well, and then there was that unnamed noblewoman, who shot and killed the despicable blackmailer, Charles Augustus Milverton. And finally, there was Irene Adler, the only woman ever to beat Sherlock Holmes. You have to admit, she showed not only fortitude but intelligence.”

Holmes’ eyes flashed opened as he lifted his head. “I hardly think, Watson, that either a woman desperate to marry well, or a woman caught in the grips of despair, fall into the category of being strong willed. As for Irene Adler – well, one can hardly say that my predecessor was in his best form on that case. After all, he allowed himself to be duped from the start when he assumed his client was the victim and not the persecutor.”

His grey eyes flitted irritably towards the kitchen. “Mrs. Hudson, isn’t that latte done yet?”

“It’s just finished, Mr. Holmes,” the house computer intoned.

Rising from his chair, Holmes crossed to the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room and, reaching in, retrieved a large, frothy, steaming mug. I watched as he took a long draught from his drink, his eyes closing as if the soothing influence was grateful to him.