Fic for Rainydayslove33: Infinity Between the Pages
Title:Infinity Between the Pages
Recipient: Rainydayslove33
Author: methylviolet10b
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, James Moriarty, John Watson
Universe: Granada AU
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Major Character Death, spoilers for a lot of Granada episodes, AU, brief reference to ACD canon timeline and another fandom (see end notes for details)
Summary: Mycroft contemplates his options after a conversation with Sherlock. Mycroft’s options are rather more extensive than anyone knows.
I sat for some time after Sherlock’s departure, thinking over what he had said. Long enough for one of the servants for the upper rooms to return to the speaking room where Sherlock and I had held our conference, and inquire whether I needed anything further.
“Yes, room and time to think,” I told him testily. “Bring me a brandy, and then see that I am not disturbed for another three-quarters of an hour.”
There are advantages in being one of the founding members of the Diogenes. The servant obeyed me implicitly, as I knew he would. Nor did I have any fears that I would be disturbed after he delivered my brandy and left. I waved a hand at his departing back, dismissing him and everything else. For now, and for the next three-quarters of an hour, there would be nothing in this room but the fire flickering in the fireplace, the books in their silent rows on the walls, and a white-haired, imposing, English gentleman in a black suit, sitting in an armchair and staring into the flickering light reflected in his brandy-glass, apparently lost deep in contemplation.
Apparently. So it would appear, to anyone who dared look in the door. The chances of that were remote, and not just because I am one of the founding members. At the moment, very few people in London would be capable of finding the door to this room, much less interrupting me. Certainly not any of the servants. And of those so capable, two were fellow founding-members, and would not intrude upon me for the world - or allow anyone else to do so.
And they, like myself, have ample ways of ensuring that their will is obeyed in these matters.
The Diogenes is a club for unclubbable men, as I said to my brother in a whimsical mood. And I did not lie. We are, at the general level, a society for those who enjoy the benefits of comfortable chairs, high-quality spirits, fine tobacco, quality dinners, and the most recent papers, all without the bother of social interaction. We come here for comfort, and quiet, and as a way to escape the need for discourse, or the wearing of public masks.
But there are other benefits for a few of us, ones that far outweigh the daily conveniences found in the public rooms. I closed my eyes and called upon one of those now. Here inside these walls, it was safe to breathe out in a measured cadence and focus all the power of my considerable will on calling up certain energies in age-old patterns. No words were required, no mystical incantations or ancient chants, but I allowed my lips to shape a few syllables all the same. I could feel the weight of centuries upon them, the taste of time upon my tongue.
When I next opened my eyes, the room looked exactly the same. I stood up and strode briskly for the door, unhampered by the effects of weight and time that sometimes bother my mortal frame. Out of habit, I glanced back at my chair. My body rested exactly as I had left it, comfortably cushioned by the leather seat, the glass of brandy resting perfectly balanced in one palm. My physical form would remain so, safe and unmoving, until my return. Satisfied, I opened the door and stepped into the next room, which was not the hallway I had used when I physically entered the room.
The room I entered had many different appearances. To some, it resembled the Great Library at Alexandria; to others, one of the ancient Greek or Roman temples. The first tutor to bring me here saw it as the Oracle at Delphi. But I am British down to my soul, in this life and in the several previous. So to me, in this lifetime, the room has only ever worn one face: the great reading room of the British Library at the British Museum.
The domed roof stretched upwards in its familiar shades of blue, cream, and gold, and the room itself was the expected maze of stacks, shelves, tables, and chairs. The high windows, however, did not look out on the streets of London (I had climbed up to check, once, when I was much younger and considerably more foolish). No, the windows looked out at nothing at all, just a shining whiteness reminiscent of the pearlescent insides of an oyster shell. If I were a man prone to whimsy, I might envision this place as living in the heart of a pearl, nestled somewhere in the oyster of all human consciousness.
Fortunately, I am not a whimsical man. Or a poet.
I made my way carefully among the desks and chairs, heading for one particular resource. Along the way I saw a few other souls, some apparently reading newspapers, others poring over ancient books, all thoroughly absorbed in their own researches. None acknowledged me, and I did not speak with them. That was not why I was here. And disturbing others could bring down penalties.
Oh yes. This place, like all libraries and repositories of knowledge, has its rules and its guardians. And I vastly preferred to have nothing to do with the librarians that ruled here. Interactions with them never failed to give me a monstrous headache.
I found the tome I wanted awaiting me on a lectern, one with a padded seat built as part of its structure. I appreciated the courtesy, although the fortuitous placement could just as easily be interpreted as the inner workings of my own unconscious mind. Even now, there was so much I did not truly understand about this place. I suspected that should I ever become so enlightened as to understand its mysteries, I would find myself reborn as one of its guardians, with no need to ever resume a physical life. The thought made me shiver, even as I sat down and opened the heavy, vellum-bound book.
The gilt-edged pages fell open exactly where I needed them to, of course. As I trailed one finger down the list of names, I reflected once again how unfortunate it was that my brother Sherlock could not do this for himself. But mysticism - magic, if you will, although nothing like the fairy stories, and certainly nothing akin to the card-turners like Mr. Houdini, or the 'spiritualism' espoused by shabby fellows such as Dr. Doyle - remains a closed book to my brother in this life, as music is to me. I am tone-deaf, you see, and so I cannot truly appreciate music, or understand its influences at anything other than an abstract, intellectual level. In a similar fashion, my brother's senses, for all their mortal keenness, cannot perceive the occult energies that move throughout the universe except when heavily under the influence of certain drugs, and even then he has no real understanding, and certainly no control. Naturally, he does not believe in the occult, and has no true knowledge of all that I do for the British government. He amuses himself by teasing me about my laziness, and telling me that I specialize in omniscience. He will never know that at least half of my sedentary habits are dictated by a life of the mind, one that he can never share - and that a great deal of the knowledge that guides my advice to various ministers comes not just from the synthesis of multitudes of documents and a perfect memory for recall, but also from more esoteric researches.
I cannot see the future. Not truly. But I can understand the workings of the world and the currents beneath the tides of human events at a level that my brother never can. And I use that knowledge for the betterment of my country and by extension all mankind, as best I am able.
Except for days like this, when I use my unusual talents on my brother's behalf (who also works towards the greater good in his own fashion). My finger stopped on the name my brother had mentioned to me. James Moriarty. Ostensibly, he was nothing more than a mathematics professor, well-known and respected in his field, but otherwise perfectly ordinary. My brother had confided his suspicions about the man, about his being the criminal genius at the heart of a vast network of crime, and asked me for my opinion on the matter. He did not come out and ask for my help directly, but I could sense that he was debating doing so, if I concurred in his hypothesis that there was, indeed, an entrenched criminal network with international scope. He would want help in learning if he was in fact correct, and in stopping Moriarty, if he was truly the sinister figure my brother believed him to be.
I wanted to know more, before my brother decided to ask me directly. Before I had to decide what answer to give him.
I studied the name on the page. It was writ large, with heavy lines, and the jet-black ink reminded me strongly of the carapaces of beetles. The name was both unmistakable, and yet curiously difficult to read; the initial plainness of the print deceptive, hiding the complexities beneath. I let out a long breath as I studied the indications. Certainly a powerful man, influential well beyond the norm, with a deep, subtle, pervasive intelligence. The shading of the ink, and the way it lay on the page, suggested that his influence was far from benign. His presence on the page was disruptive, practically poisonous.
But there was no shimmer around the name, no hint of mystical energies echoing the letters or twining around the syllables. Whatever else he might be, this Professor James Moriarty was not an occult practitioner. Whatever problems he might be responsible for, they were purely mundane ones. As such, they were on a level that my brother was certainly equipped to meet. My involvement would not be required, as it would be if Sherlock were going against someone with extra gifts such as mine.
I closed the book with a relieved sigh. Truly, I was glad that my assistance was not mandatory. I had quite enough to do as it was, with the government in the state it was in, and the French hostilities in Africa, not to mention some troubling signs of domestic unrest among various discontent factions. Helping Sherlock would mean more tasks to manage, more effort, more possible disruptions of my routine. If Sherlock did decide to ask me for assistance, I would not deny him if the request was something small, reasonable, but I would not feel it necessary to undertake anything too strenuous. I could safely put him off, if need be.
Or could I? What might happen if I do not assist Sherlock to the best of my ability?
The thought came out of nowhere, and stilled my hand before I raised it from the now-closed book. True, my brother did not need my help, not in the sense of needing the abilities he did not realize I had to counter those of a foe who also held those abilities.
But not requiring that particular kind of assistance was not the same as a casual dismissal of the need to support my brother. And I had been perilously close to doing so, at least in my own mind.
Why?
I should look deeper.
It was an annoying idea. I had already expended a great deal of time and energy simply looking into this Moriarty person. I wavered, weighing the inconvenience and nuisance of further effort against my sense of curiosity. Sherlock is not entirely wrong when he accuses me of indolence, but in this instance, my affection for him won over the impulse to let things proceed without further interference. I took a deep, measured breath, and then let it flow outwards, blowing over the book I still touched while focusing my mind on my brother, Moriarty, and the future.
A soundless explosion of bright light seared through my mind. For an instant, I could perceive absolutely nothing. I could not think, I could not move, I could not do anything but exist.
When my senses cleared, I found myself still sitting at the lectern, one hand touching the tome, just as before.
What was not the same was the hand touching the book on its other side, the one belonging to the mirror-twin Mycroft sitting across from me on an identical seat. Beyond him was milky-white nothingness; the rest of the room had vanished. I stifled the impulse to look behind me, to see if I too was floating in the void.
“Ah. It worked,” the other Mycroft sighed with evident relief. Looking at him, I could see subtle differences. His sideburns were slightly longer and more unkempt than mine, and his face showed an unhealthy sheen of sweat. There were minor differences in our clothing, too, but all those changes aside, there was no question that this was me.
“Rather, one possible me,” I murmured, as I finished putting together the evidence of my senses. I had known of the possibility of this, but I had never encountered it myself, or even known anyone who would admit to the experience. “And circumstances must indeed be dire, if I have done this.”
“For me, yes, of course. Irretrievable. That much is obvious to us both,” my alternate self said briskly. “For you, possibilities remain. I had hoped - gambled - that you might choose to look, as I did not do.” Regret twisted the familiar features across from me. It was incredibly disconcerting. “You must help Sherlock.”
“Why?” I demanded. “You know as well as I that it is not required, and that doing so treads perilously near the line that we have sworn not cross.”
“And so I reasoned, when I faced this choice,” the other Mycroft agreed. “But I failed to consider how the influence of James Moriarty might spill over into the realms that do concern us, despite his own lack of mystical abilities. And my arrogant assumption - and consequent inaction - cost us all.”
“How?” I demanded.
I saw my face grimace again. “The tale would take too long to tell in words. Time is short. But I can show you, if you are willing to take the chance.” He extended his free hand towards me.
The danger was extraordinary. Simply touching him could very well destroy us both.
I did not hesitate. I knew myself well enough to know that if I had hazarded materializing to myself already - which I manifestly had - then any further risk was justified, even necessary. I reached out with my own free hand and touched his.
Another explosion, this time not of light, but of memories - mine, and yet not.
…the headline of a newspaper: WATSON: GUILTY
Watson? My brother’s Watson? Guilty of what? I had met the man once, and a more decent, more loyal example of a British gentleman you could scarcely hope to meet. I liked him tremendously, not least for his obvious devotion to my brother, and the beneficial effect their friendship had on Sherlock’s overall well-being.
Scarcely had the question flitted through my mind than more memories came, piling on thick and fast:
…a heinous triple murder, a soldier, his wife and child…a man John Watson had bitterly quarrelled with in his Army days…
…reading of the arrest in the morning paper…
…my brother’s face, shocked pale beyond the norm, as he told me(not-me) of the terrible choice given to him by Professor Moriarty and implored my aid in helping clear his friend’s name, for he could never submit to Moriarty’s demands…
…interference at every turn, stymieing all our efforts…
…Sherlock, desperate, telling me that he would go to Moriarty the night before the final day of the trial…
…the wheels of British justice, though corrupted by Moriarty in parts, still proved too rigid and inflexible once set in motion for any of us to stop, Moriarty included…
…a summons to the prison where John Watson awaited execution, a briefly-worded request that asked me to come alone… John Watson, drawn but resolute in his cell, telling me that he had demanded Sherlock’s word that he would not attend the hanging, for both their sakes, but asking me to attend, on the off-chance that my brother failed to stay away…
My gorge rose. I fought back the nausea, helpless to stop the overwhelming tide of memories continuing to flood through me.
…the crowd was smaller than such a sensational case would normally draw, and I saw many deeply unhappy faces among the jeering throng. A brave soldier to the last, John Watson stood calmly while the noose was fastened around his neck, and when asked if he had any final words, simply replied: “I am innocent. God save the Queen.” I closed my eyes, unwilling to watch, only to have them fly open again as I sensed (too late!) a familiar presence I should have detected earlier. My gaze flew to a dishevelled sea-captain whose entire attention remained fixed on the platform. He looked nothing like my brother, but I knew him all the same…
…I witnessed my brother’s soul shatter, heard its wordless, anguished scream at the same moment my mortal ears registered the sound of John Watson’s neck snapping at the end of a well-tied noose.
I reeled, the utter horror smashing through my usual reserve even when witnessed second-hand, so to speak.
“Moriarty meant to break Sherlock, although I truly believe that he thought he could prevent the execution and bring our brother to heel,” my other self rasped out as still more memories pressed into my mind. “But he had no idea what Sherlock was truly capable of once removed from all moral constraint. In particular, he overlooked our brother’s genius for chemistry.”
I felt my other self’s hand trembling in my grasp - or was it my own shudders shaking our grip? It was impossible to tell.
…the first explosion that ruined one of the taverns frequented by some of Moriarty’s men was initially blamed on a gas leak, but even then, the fact that the few survivors were all irreparably insane raised the gravest doubts in my mind. For I knew that an expertise in chemistry easily translated into the making of bombs, and then there were recent government researches into various kinds of poison gas, ones I knew my brother had read…
…another leak, this time in the holding cells of Scotland Yard, claimed not only all the prisoners held there, but the lives of a dozen policemen and at least two Inspectors, including one by the name of Bradstreet. Another, Lestrade, lived, but was brutally maimed by falling debris…
…the death toll from one particular railway incident numbered in the hundreds, including one Colonel Sebastian Moran…
…the final explosion destroyed nearly a block of homes, including the one in which James Moriarty had been hiding…
…two days after Moriarty’s demise, Sherlock disappeared, last seen heading towards the Thames. I felt the moment his life snuffed out…
“Enough!” I wrenched my hand away from my other self’s grip and used it to cover my mouth. I struggled against the urge to be sick. “I see.”
“Not entirely.” The alternate Mycroft looked even more ill than I felt. “The evil wrought by Moriarty’s actions - and Sherlock’s - was awful enough, but the distraction of it meant that I missed…other things.” Although we no longer touched directly, I sensed the echo of some of those events, passed through our common connection through the book. There was nothing specific, just a sense of decay, and horror, and the diminishment of all I held dear and sacred.
And I saw something else, something that I should have observed straight away. “You’re dying.”
“The price of this gamble,” my other self calmly agreed. “And you will pay, too, although you will not remember anything that has passed here, not directly. I cannot tell you what your cost might be, any more than I can tell whether this event will change your choices, or whether the course of your future will remain the same as mine despite my efforts.”
“Yet even with all that in doubt, you felt it was worth the payment, on my behalf as well as yours,” I observed.
The other Mycroft was no more patient with self-evident statements than I. “Obviously.”
“Then it must be so. I thank you for your bravery, and for the chance of a happier outcome than the one you experienced.” A dangerously sentimental sentence, particularly for us, but I meant every word. And I could see in the expression on the rapidly-paling complexion of my mirrored face that my other-twin understood me perfectly.
“Take care of our brother, and of our country,” he whispered. “Farewell.”
He lifted his hand from the vellum.
Another explosion of light, this time accompanied by a series of images, ones I tried to hold onto even as they slipped through my mind like rushing water through a sieve:
…Sherlock, fighting for his life in a back alley against three ruffians…
…accepting an award from the highest levels of French government…
…my brother, wrestling with another man at the summit of a terrible waterfall…
…two figures plunging to their inevitable deaths…
…one figure falling alone, screaming in rage as he disappeared into the roaring mists…
…a telegram - no, two telegrams, telling two different tales…
…John Watson, dressed all in black, unsteadily speaking to me of the last time he saw my brother alive, emotion clogging his voice…
…a simple funeral, myself in black, staring at a monument with no body beneath…
…John Watson again, yet not - so changed I would hardly have known him, how could he have changed so? - climbing the stairs to a modest residence, a doctor’s practice and home in one, his steps dogged by a mysterious stooped figure…
…that same John Watson, collapsing to the ground, my newly-revealed brother leaping to his assistance…
…my brother, much older, aiding me in a government matter of gravest import, John Watson by his side…
…Sherlock, older still, assisting me yet again…then I, assisting him…
…much older still, yet resolute, agreeing to leave everything, everyone (including Watson) behind on a dangerous, open-ended mission to help save our country - and perhaps the world - from the greatest threat of war ever seen in our lifetimes…
…myself, greatly changed, wearing some strange suit and confined to a bizarre bath-chair, singing and raising one leg - wearing women’s stockings and shoes???...
I came back to myself with a start. I felt as if there had been some noise, some disturbance - a great disturbance - in the library, but when I looked up, all was as it had been. I raised my hand away from the book, and used it to wipe my brow. I was surprised and disturbed to feel it come away from my forehead damp with sweat. The strain of my presence here, my researches, was clearly greater than any I had experienced in many years. It should not be so - I had asked a simple question, and seen the straightforward answer - and yet the evidence was incontrovertible.
Clearly, there must be more about this James Moriarty business than met the eye.
I shakily rose to my feet and made my way out of the library, heading back towards my body and a well-deserved rest. My thoughts were still unsettled, yet decided in one particular. I would tell Sherlock in the morning that if he wanted my assistance, I would help him in any way that I could. And I would, come what may.
Regardless of any mystical threat Moriarty’s activities might or might not present, Sherlock was my brother, and that was reason enough to bestir myself.
It was that simple.
Author’s Notes: The references to the “greatly changed” John Watson is an allusion to the fact that at this time in the Granada series (before Reichenbach), the role of John Watson was still being played by David Burke, but that starting with The Empty House, the role was taken over by Edward Hardwicke, who would play the character until the end of the series. The reference to the bath-chair, women’s stockings, and shoes, however, is an homage to the (arguably) most famous role the actor who played Mycroft (Charles Gray) appeared in: that of Doctor Scott, in the movie adaptation of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Recipient: Rainydayslove33
Author: methylviolet10b
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, James Moriarty, John Watson
Universe: Granada AU
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Major Character Death, spoilers for a lot of Granada episodes, AU, brief reference to ACD canon timeline and another fandom (see end notes for details)
Summary: Mycroft contemplates his options after a conversation with Sherlock. Mycroft’s options are rather more extensive than anyone knows.
I sat for some time after Sherlock’s departure, thinking over what he had said. Long enough for one of the servants for the upper rooms to return to the speaking room where Sherlock and I had held our conference, and inquire whether I needed anything further.
“Yes, room and time to think,” I told him testily. “Bring me a brandy, and then see that I am not disturbed for another three-quarters of an hour.”
There are advantages in being one of the founding members of the Diogenes. The servant obeyed me implicitly, as I knew he would. Nor did I have any fears that I would be disturbed after he delivered my brandy and left. I waved a hand at his departing back, dismissing him and everything else. For now, and for the next three-quarters of an hour, there would be nothing in this room but the fire flickering in the fireplace, the books in their silent rows on the walls, and a white-haired, imposing, English gentleman in a black suit, sitting in an armchair and staring into the flickering light reflected in his brandy-glass, apparently lost deep in contemplation.
Apparently. So it would appear, to anyone who dared look in the door. The chances of that were remote, and not just because I am one of the founding members. At the moment, very few people in London would be capable of finding the door to this room, much less interrupting me. Certainly not any of the servants. And of those so capable, two were fellow founding-members, and would not intrude upon me for the world - or allow anyone else to do so.
And they, like myself, have ample ways of ensuring that their will is obeyed in these matters.
The Diogenes is a club for unclubbable men, as I said to my brother in a whimsical mood. And I did not lie. We are, at the general level, a society for those who enjoy the benefits of comfortable chairs, high-quality spirits, fine tobacco, quality dinners, and the most recent papers, all without the bother of social interaction. We come here for comfort, and quiet, and as a way to escape the need for discourse, or the wearing of public masks.
But there are other benefits for a few of us, ones that far outweigh the daily conveniences found in the public rooms. I closed my eyes and called upon one of those now. Here inside these walls, it was safe to breathe out in a measured cadence and focus all the power of my considerable will on calling up certain energies in age-old patterns. No words were required, no mystical incantations or ancient chants, but I allowed my lips to shape a few syllables all the same. I could feel the weight of centuries upon them, the taste of time upon my tongue.
When I next opened my eyes, the room looked exactly the same. I stood up and strode briskly for the door, unhampered by the effects of weight and time that sometimes bother my mortal frame. Out of habit, I glanced back at my chair. My body rested exactly as I had left it, comfortably cushioned by the leather seat, the glass of brandy resting perfectly balanced in one palm. My physical form would remain so, safe and unmoving, until my return. Satisfied, I opened the door and stepped into the next room, which was not the hallway I had used when I physically entered the room.
The room I entered had many different appearances. To some, it resembled the Great Library at Alexandria; to others, one of the ancient Greek or Roman temples. The first tutor to bring me here saw it as the Oracle at Delphi. But I am British down to my soul, in this life and in the several previous. So to me, in this lifetime, the room has only ever worn one face: the great reading room of the British Library at the British Museum.
The domed roof stretched upwards in its familiar shades of blue, cream, and gold, and the room itself was the expected maze of stacks, shelves, tables, and chairs. The high windows, however, did not look out on the streets of London (I had climbed up to check, once, when I was much younger and considerably more foolish). No, the windows looked out at nothing at all, just a shining whiteness reminiscent of the pearlescent insides of an oyster shell. If I were a man prone to whimsy, I might envision this place as living in the heart of a pearl, nestled somewhere in the oyster of all human consciousness.
Fortunately, I am not a whimsical man. Or a poet.
I made my way carefully among the desks and chairs, heading for one particular resource. Along the way I saw a few other souls, some apparently reading newspapers, others poring over ancient books, all thoroughly absorbed in their own researches. None acknowledged me, and I did not speak with them. That was not why I was here. And disturbing others could bring down penalties.
Oh yes. This place, like all libraries and repositories of knowledge, has its rules and its guardians. And I vastly preferred to have nothing to do with the librarians that ruled here. Interactions with them never failed to give me a monstrous headache.
I found the tome I wanted awaiting me on a lectern, one with a padded seat built as part of its structure. I appreciated the courtesy, although the fortuitous placement could just as easily be interpreted as the inner workings of my own unconscious mind. Even now, there was so much I did not truly understand about this place. I suspected that should I ever become so enlightened as to understand its mysteries, I would find myself reborn as one of its guardians, with no need to ever resume a physical life. The thought made me shiver, even as I sat down and opened the heavy, vellum-bound book.
The gilt-edged pages fell open exactly where I needed them to, of course. As I trailed one finger down the list of names, I reflected once again how unfortunate it was that my brother Sherlock could not do this for himself. But mysticism - magic, if you will, although nothing like the fairy stories, and certainly nothing akin to the card-turners like Mr. Houdini, or the 'spiritualism' espoused by shabby fellows such as Dr. Doyle - remains a closed book to my brother in this life, as music is to me. I am tone-deaf, you see, and so I cannot truly appreciate music, or understand its influences at anything other than an abstract, intellectual level. In a similar fashion, my brother's senses, for all their mortal keenness, cannot perceive the occult energies that move throughout the universe except when heavily under the influence of certain drugs, and even then he has no real understanding, and certainly no control. Naturally, he does not believe in the occult, and has no true knowledge of all that I do for the British government. He amuses himself by teasing me about my laziness, and telling me that I specialize in omniscience. He will never know that at least half of my sedentary habits are dictated by a life of the mind, one that he can never share - and that a great deal of the knowledge that guides my advice to various ministers comes not just from the synthesis of multitudes of documents and a perfect memory for recall, but also from more esoteric researches.
I cannot see the future. Not truly. But I can understand the workings of the world and the currents beneath the tides of human events at a level that my brother never can. And I use that knowledge for the betterment of my country and by extension all mankind, as best I am able.
Except for days like this, when I use my unusual talents on my brother's behalf (who also works towards the greater good in his own fashion). My finger stopped on the name my brother had mentioned to me. James Moriarty. Ostensibly, he was nothing more than a mathematics professor, well-known and respected in his field, but otherwise perfectly ordinary. My brother had confided his suspicions about the man, about his being the criminal genius at the heart of a vast network of crime, and asked me for my opinion on the matter. He did not come out and ask for my help directly, but I could sense that he was debating doing so, if I concurred in his hypothesis that there was, indeed, an entrenched criminal network with international scope. He would want help in learning if he was in fact correct, and in stopping Moriarty, if he was truly the sinister figure my brother believed him to be.
I wanted to know more, before my brother decided to ask me directly. Before I had to decide what answer to give him.
I studied the name on the page. It was writ large, with heavy lines, and the jet-black ink reminded me strongly of the carapaces of beetles. The name was both unmistakable, and yet curiously difficult to read; the initial plainness of the print deceptive, hiding the complexities beneath. I let out a long breath as I studied the indications. Certainly a powerful man, influential well beyond the norm, with a deep, subtle, pervasive intelligence. The shading of the ink, and the way it lay on the page, suggested that his influence was far from benign. His presence on the page was disruptive, practically poisonous.
But there was no shimmer around the name, no hint of mystical energies echoing the letters or twining around the syllables. Whatever else he might be, this Professor James Moriarty was not an occult practitioner. Whatever problems he might be responsible for, they were purely mundane ones. As such, they were on a level that my brother was certainly equipped to meet. My involvement would not be required, as it would be if Sherlock were going against someone with extra gifts such as mine.
I closed the book with a relieved sigh. Truly, I was glad that my assistance was not mandatory. I had quite enough to do as it was, with the government in the state it was in, and the French hostilities in Africa, not to mention some troubling signs of domestic unrest among various discontent factions. Helping Sherlock would mean more tasks to manage, more effort, more possible disruptions of my routine. If Sherlock did decide to ask me for assistance, I would not deny him if the request was something small, reasonable, but I would not feel it necessary to undertake anything too strenuous. I could safely put him off, if need be.
Or could I? What might happen if I do not assist Sherlock to the best of my ability?
The thought came out of nowhere, and stilled my hand before I raised it from the now-closed book. True, my brother did not need my help, not in the sense of needing the abilities he did not realize I had to counter those of a foe who also held those abilities.
But not requiring that particular kind of assistance was not the same as a casual dismissal of the need to support my brother. And I had been perilously close to doing so, at least in my own mind.
Why?
I should look deeper.
It was an annoying idea. I had already expended a great deal of time and energy simply looking into this Moriarty person. I wavered, weighing the inconvenience and nuisance of further effort against my sense of curiosity. Sherlock is not entirely wrong when he accuses me of indolence, but in this instance, my affection for him won over the impulse to let things proceed without further interference. I took a deep, measured breath, and then let it flow outwards, blowing over the book I still touched while focusing my mind on my brother, Moriarty, and the future.
A soundless explosion of bright light seared through my mind. For an instant, I could perceive absolutely nothing. I could not think, I could not move, I could not do anything but exist.
When my senses cleared, I found myself still sitting at the lectern, one hand touching the tome, just as before.
What was not the same was the hand touching the book on its other side, the one belonging to the mirror-twin Mycroft sitting across from me on an identical seat. Beyond him was milky-white nothingness; the rest of the room had vanished. I stifled the impulse to look behind me, to see if I too was floating in the void.
“Ah. It worked,” the other Mycroft sighed with evident relief. Looking at him, I could see subtle differences. His sideburns were slightly longer and more unkempt than mine, and his face showed an unhealthy sheen of sweat. There were minor differences in our clothing, too, but all those changes aside, there was no question that this was me.
“Rather, one possible me,” I murmured, as I finished putting together the evidence of my senses. I had known of the possibility of this, but I had never encountered it myself, or even known anyone who would admit to the experience. “And circumstances must indeed be dire, if I have done this.”
“For me, yes, of course. Irretrievable. That much is obvious to us both,” my alternate self said briskly. “For you, possibilities remain. I had hoped - gambled - that you might choose to look, as I did not do.” Regret twisted the familiar features across from me. It was incredibly disconcerting. “You must help Sherlock.”
“Why?” I demanded. “You know as well as I that it is not required, and that doing so treads perilously near the line that we have sworn not cross.”
“And so I reasoned, when I faced this choice,” the other Mycroft agreed. “But I failed to consider how the influence of James Moriarty might spill over into the realms that do concern us, despite his own lack of mystical abilities. And my arrogant assumption - and consequent inaction - cost us all.”
“How?” I demanded.
I saw my face grimace again. “The tale would take too long to tell in words. Time is short. But I can show you, if you are willing to take the chance.” He extended his free hand towards me.
The danger was extraordinary. Simply touching him could very well destroy us both.
I did not hesitate. I knew myself well enough to know that if I had hazarded materializing to myself already - which I manifestly had - then any further risk was justified, even necessary. I reached out with my own free hand and touched his.
Another explosion, this time not of light, but of memories - mine, and yet not.
…the headline of a newspaper: WATSON: GUILTY
Watson? My brother’s Watson? Guilty of what? I had met the man once, and a more decent, more loyal example of a British gentleman you could scarcely hope to meet. I liked him tremendously, not least for his obvious devotion to my brother, and the beneficial effect their friendship had on Sherlock’s overall well-being.
Scarcely had the question flitted through my mind than more memories came, piling on thick and fast:
…a heinous triple murder, a soldier, his wife and child…a man John Watson had bitterly quarrelled with in his Army days…
…reading of the arrest in the morning paper…
…my brother’s face, shocked pale beyond the norm, as he told me(not-me) of the terrible choice given to him by Professor Moriarty and implored my aid in helping clear his friend’s name, for he could never submit to Moriarty’s demands…
…interference at every turn, stymieing all our efforts…
…Sherlock, desperate, telling me that he would go to Moriarty the night before the final day of the trial…
…the wheels of British justice, though corrupted by Moriarty in parts, still proved too rigid and inflexible once set in motion for any of us to stop, Moriarty included…
…a summons to the prison where John Watson awaited execution, a briefly-worded request that asked me to come alone… John Watson, drawn but resolute in his cell, telling me that he had demanded Sherlock’s word that he would not attend the hanging, for both their sakes, but asking me to attend, on the off-chance that my brother failed to stay away…
My gorge rose. I fought back the nausea, helpless to stop the overwhelming tide of memories continuing to flood through me.
…the crowd was smaller than such a sensational case would normally draw, and I saw many deeply unhappy faces among the jeering throng. A brave soldier to the last, John Watson stood calmly while the noose was fastened around his neck, and when asked if he had any final words, simply replied: “I am innocent. God save the Queen.” I closed my eyes, unwilling to watch, only to have them fly open again as I sensed (too late!) a familiar presence I should have detected earlier. My gaze flew to a dishevelled sea-captain whose entire attention remained fixed on the platform. He looked nothing like my brother, but I knew him all the same…
…I witnessed my brother’s soul shatter, heard its wordless, anguished scream at the same moment my mortal ears registered the sound of John Watson’s neck snapping at the end of a well-tied noose.
I reeled, the utter horror smashing through my usual reserve even when witnessed second-hand, so to speak.
“Moriarty meant to break Sherlock, although I truly believe that he thought he could prevent the execution and bring our brother to heel,” my other self rasped out as still more memories pressed into my mind. “But he had no idea what Sherlock was truly capable of once removed from all moral constraint. In particular, he overlooked our brother’s genius for chemistry.”
I felt my other self’s hand trembling in my grasp - or was it my own shudders shaking our grip? It was impossible to tell.
…the first explosion that ruined one of the taverns frequented by some of Moriarty’s men was initially blamed on a gas leak, but even then, the fact that the few survivors were all irreparably insane raised the gravest doubts in my mind. For I knew that an expertise in chemistry easily translated into the making of bombs, and then there were recent government researches into various kinds of poison gas, ones I knew my brother had read…
…another leak, this time in the holding cells of Scotland Yard, claimed not only all the prisoners held there, but the lives of a dozen policemen and at least two Inspectors, including one by the name of Bradstreet. Another, Lestrade, lived, but was brutally maimed by falling debris…
…the death toll from one particular railway incident numbered in the hundreds, including one Colonel Sebastian Moran…
…the final explosion destroyed nearly a block of homes, including the one in which James Moriarty had been hiding…
…two days after Moriarty’s demise, Sherlock disappeared, last seen heading towards the Thames. I felt the moment his life snuffed out…
“Enough!” I wrenched my hand away from my other self’s grip and used it to cover my mouth. I struggled against the urge to be sick. “I see.”
“Not entirely.” The alternate Mycroft looked even more ill than I felt. “The evil wrought by Moriarty’s actions - and Sherlock’s - was awful enough, but the distraction of it meant that I missed…other things.” Although we no longer touched directly, I sensed the echo of some of those events, passed through our common connection through the book. There was nothing specific, just a sense of decay, and horror, and the diminishment of all I held dear and sacred.
And I saw something else, something that I should have observed straight away. “You’re dying.”
“The price of this gamble,” my other self calmly agreed. “And you will pay, too, although you will not remember anything that has passed here, not directly. I cannot tell you what your cost might be, any more than I can tell whether this event will change your choices, or whether the course of your future will remain the same as mine despite my efforts.”
“Yet even with all that in doubt, you felt it was worth the payment, on my behalf as well as yours,” I observed.
The other Mycroft was no more patient with self-evident statements than I. “Obviously.”
“Then it must be so. I thank you for your bravery, and for the chance of a happier outcome than the one you experienced.” A dangerously sentimental sentence, particularly for us, but I meant every word. And I could see in the expression on the rapidly-paling complexion of my mirrored face that my other-twin understood me perfectly.
“Take care of our brother, and of our country,” he whispered. “Farewell.”
He lifted his hand from the vellum.
Another explosion of light, this time accompanied by a series of images, ones I tried to hold onto even as they slipped through my mind like rushing water through a sieve:
…Sherlock, fighting for his life in a back alley against three ruffians…
…accepting an award from the highest levels of French government…
…my brother, wrestling with another man at the summit of a terrible waterfall…
…two figures plunging to their inevitable deaths…
…one figure falling alone, screaming in rage as he disappeared into the roaring mists…
…a telegram - no, two telegrams, telling two different tales…
…John Watson, dressed all in black, unsteadily speaking to me of the last time he saw my brother alive, emotion clogging his voice…
…a simple funeral, myself in black, staring at a monument with no body beneath…
…John Watson again, yet not - so changed I would hardly have known him, how could he have changed so? - climbing the stairs to a modest residence, a doctor’s practice and home in one, his steps dogged by a mysterious stooped figure…
…that same John Watson, collapsing to the ground, my newly-revealed brother leaping to his assistance…
…my brother, much older, aiding me in a government matter of gravest import, John Watson by his side…
…Sherlock, older still, assisting me yet again…then I, assisting him…
…much older still, yet resolute, agreeing to leave everything, everyone (including Watson) behind on a dangerous, open-ended mission to help save our country - and perhaps the world - from the greatest threat of war ever seen in our lifetimes…
…myself, greatly changed, wearing some strange suit and confined to a bizarre bath-chair, singing and raising one leg - wearing women’s stockings and shoes???...
I came back to myself with a start. I felt as if there had been some noise, some disturbance - a great disturbance - in the library, but when I looked up, all was as it had been. I raised my hand away from the book, and used it to wipe my brow. I was surprised and disturbed to feel it come away from my forehead damp with sweat. The strain of my presence here, my researches, was clearly greater than any I had experienced in many years. It should not be so - I had asked a simple question, and seen the straightforward answer - and yet the evidence was incontrovertible.
Clearly, there must be more about this James Moriarty business than met the eye.
I shakily rose to my feet and made my way out of the library, heading back towards my body and a well-deserved rest. My thoughts were still unsettled, yet decided in one particular. I would tell Sherlock in the morning that if he wanted my assistance, I would help him in any way that I could. And I would, come what may.
Regardless of any mystical threat Moriarty’s activities might or might not present, Sherlock was my brother, and that was reason enough to bestir myself.
It was that simple.
Author’s Notes: The references to the “greatly changed” John Watson is an allusion to the fact that at this time in the Granada series (before Reichenbach), the role of John Watson was still being played by David Burke, but that starting with The Empty House, the role was taken over by Edward Hardwicke, who would play the character until the end of the series. The reference to the bath-chair, women’s stockings, and shoes, however, is an homage to the (arguably) most famous role the actor who played Mycroft (Charles Gray) appeared in: that of Doctor Scott, in the movie adaptation of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.