Moriarty must have known I was weighing my options—perhaps my pause was too long. He interrupted me.
“Enough. I believe you. You have dealt with me faithfully. Now listen to me, John Watson. Listen.” There was a strange, almost desperate urgency in his voice. “It is time to put aside love. It is even time—and what a dreadful risk it is, considering the item in my hand—to strike a blow against unity. Here is the only thread of hope I can see for you and I extend it willingly as I did once before: serve me. Two of my lieutenants are dead. You are a man of great intelligence, great resourcefulness. You have been an effective agent. Holmes must die. I cannot allow the only magical being who could defeat me to slip my trap. But you are no such threat. If you will use your gifts in my service, you may live.”
I shook my head. “You could never trust me,” I pointed out.
Moriarty gave a wry laugh. “No. I could. I would have to break you, that is all. I’d have to hurt you so badly you’d know you could never best me—so you’d fear to even try. I’ve done it many times before and I tell you, it works. I’d have you in such a state that if you ever thought I thought you had betrayed me, you’d take your own life, rather than let me get my hands on you again.”
“You’d torture me to make me loyal?” I asked, incredulous at how forthright he was being. And God help me, I think he was. Apparently, my good reason and my truth fulness had earned me some of the same, care of James Moriarty.
He nodded earnestly. “Yes. Yes, the lesson would be horrible. I cannot describe how much. And even with your history of injury and despondence, you cannot guess how much. Yet, you will come through it. And we both will profit from it.”
“I know your goal,” I told him. “If my sources are to be believed, you intend to sacrifice all reality, to gain omniscience and omnipresence. How could I help you, knowing it would result in my own destruction and the destruction of all I know?”
“Oh, you won’t mind that,” Moriarty scoffed. “Really, you underestimate how broken you’ll be.”
And do you know the horrible thing? I believed him. He was the expert, after all, and it seemed as if we were being wholly honest with each other. My options were narrowing. Yes, I thought, it must be an all-out rush. Was there any way to give myself an advantage? Could I distract him? Not by any conventional means, surely. His attention was razor-sharp and focused on me. Holmes could distract him, perhaps, but he was so close to me he had no chance of drawing Moriarty’s gaze all the way off me. And how could I signal him to make the effort, without giving away my intention?
Ah! But there was another way! If I couldn’t take Moriarty’s attention away from me, I could at least get him off balance. I could make him laugh. He was human, after all, and humans will always look for a way to break tension. The question was: did I have a joke that would surprise or amuse him enough?
I rather thought I did. And, in fact, he had inspired it only a few moments before.
Holmes was still looking up at me, searchingly. I wanted to tell him not to worry—that I would handle this. But how could I? Despite my familiarity with Holmes and the physical distance to Moriarty, I could only assume that any communication Holmes had a chance of understanding would be decoded unerringly by the master manipulator we faced. I gave him only a squinty little nod—a gesture of assurance.
Which was ironic, considering Moriarty’s words at that moment.
“You will need to voluntarily opt in,” he said. “It cannot be a passive decision. Of course, I should make you kill Holmes. That’s a very active way and the guilt would bind you to me. But I know you’d refuse. And we can’t have you refuse. Argh, very well! I will kill Holmes. It is a mercy—and you cannot expect many from me. Let it stand as a token of how eager I am to work together. Here is what we will do: you must say, ‘All right, shoot him,’ and I will. I’ll then shoot you, as well. Only to injure you, you understand. An insurance against mischief until my men have come to help me remove you. Think nothing of it. Compared to what is coming, it will be—”
I interrupted him. “Professor Moriarty, I fear you have made a miscalculation.”
“What?” he said, visibly irked. “What miscalculation? In your character? In your devotion to Holmes? Now, now, Dr. Watson. Do not overestimate yourself.”
“No,” I said. “In your assumption that I am defenseless.”
“How?” he demanded.
“You have shown me that all that appears magical might not be. Emotion works in this place and before my very eyes, you summoned your soul-blade. What you failed to realize, Moriarty, is that you are not the only man who can…”
I then thrust back the tails of my coat,
