The Fall (22 page)

— day 71 —
 

T
he day dawned and my limbs were heavy with fatigue. The night had been awful. Sleep had come late and brought only dreams about myself not being myself anymore, dreams about turning into the redhead, tied to a bed and being drugged, or a happy-ever-after horror with Moriarty. Although his softness was precisely what I had attempted to lure out, the web of lies, betrayal, mind games, threats, and control had begun to blur the edges of what appeared real and what was being pretended.

I had paced my room for many hours, trying to push Moriarty from my mind. There were more pressing matters I had to focus on. Thoughts about how I could possibly make the best of the always too-short meetings with Holmes. I needed to know how far he had progressed with Moriarty’s henchmen, how long I would have to remain here and let this man crawl under my skin.

I feared for my father. The odds were that Moriarty had sent a man to track him from England to Germany, possibly even to Switzerland. There were too many things escaping my control and my knowledge. As long as I was available to Moriarty, my father would be safe, or so I hoped. But after Holmes had made his arrests, would my father be able to go back home, or would someone be awaiting him there? Someone Holmes would be unable to catch?

Surrendering to exhaustion, I had finally rolled up in my blanket and shut my eyes, picturing Holmes in his armchair across from me, smoking his pipe, and discussing the newest developments in our case. It hurt, so I pushed him away, too. Remaining now was only Moriarty.
James
. I had whispered the name and the sound alone drove coldness into my heart. I’d have to keep it there for a while longer, for I knew that by betraying the monster, I would hurt the man.

Soon after my arrival at the medical school, I made for the lady’s. The smell of cheap perfume overlaying the faint tobacco aroma told me Holmes had been there already. After a minute of waiting, I left.

An hour later I was luckier and found him with yet another middle-aged female costume clinging to his frame.

‘Are you alright?’ I asked. He made a gesture of pinching his lips and jerking his head towards the window. I nodded in reply.

‘Anna, you wanted to see me. What is it?’ he asked, his voice at half-mast. Anyone eavesdropping would just be able to hear us.

‘I have reason to believe that Moriarty will soon send Moran to assassinate my father,’ I cried theatrically. ‘Oh, I beg you to go to Germany and save my father!’ I stepped closer, he lowered his head, and I whispered into his ear, ‘He wants you out of England for a week, do you have a clue why that is?’
 

‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Please do not worry yourself,’ he said a little louder. ‘I will certainly do my best to save him.’

Much quieter, and with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he added, ‘What a wonderful opportunity to be invisible for an entire week.’
 

 
I knew I could trust him to give the impression that he had left for Germany, while in truth being somewhere entirely different. Yet, this charade made me very nervous.

I stretched up to him and spoke into his ear, ‘An assassination is exactly what I fear for my father.’

‘Trust me,’ he urged quietly, straightened up, and said louder, ‘Why would Moriarty want to kill your father?’

‘How far did you get with Moriarty’s men?’ I whispered. His shoulders sagged a little, and with them, my hope of an early escape. I tried not to show it, but probably failed.

‘I don’t know,’ I exclaimed, ‘I can only guess that he wishes to eliminate witnesses.’

Holmes bent close to my ear and said softly, ‘It appears as though he has planted a seed for two secret organisations — one involving men from the military, the other from the government. As far as I have been able to ascertain — and I am relying heavily on my brother’s information — each of these groups consists of only four or five men. Neither the government nor the military at large appear to have any knowledge. So far, Mycroft and I have not been able to name anyone. All we have are suspicions.’

‘I might be helpful there,’ I whispered. He tilted his eyebrows. ‘Trust me.’ I tried a smile. ‘Holmes, Moriarty knows our signal. Should I ever drop a glove when exiting the brougham, it’s because he has asked me to meet you.’

‘I thought so. His two men have been circling the lavatory today. You told him?’

I nodded.

‘Hum…’ huffed Holmes rather loudly and started stomping around the room. ‘I will take the next ship to the continent. We must make haste!’ he almost shouted, took a long stride towards me and whispered, ‘How much does Moriarty trust you now?’

I frowned. ‘He doesn’t need to trust me.’ My lips accidentally brushed his cheek. Holmes didn’t seem to notice. ‘I’m inferior in physical and intellectual strength and he can dispose of me whenever he wishes to do so. He believes himself safe.’

In a way, Moriarty was safe. The little control I had was negligible.

Holmes’s breath tickled my neck. ‘I will have someone wait at the sewers every night,’ he whispered, ‘between seven and eight. If I don’t receive a message for two consecutive days, I will come and get you.’

I didn’t dare look up at him, certain that my cheeks were rather red. I gazed down at his hand, took it in mine, and squeezed it gingerly. Then I turned away and left before throwing away what little strength kept me upright.

Walking back to my now almost empty laboratory, I thought of the involvement of government and military. Was there any possibility finding the guilty men and bringing them to justice? Was there even a law prohibiting the development of weapons for germ warfare — weapons too novel to be regulated or forbidden? Moriarty —
James
— had talked about the Brussels Convention on two occasions. Would he have enough influence to shape a new draft to his own liking?

— day 74 —
 

T
he click of the pipe on the coffee table pulled me out of my dream. James turned towards me, face softened, eyes dark. I remembered that the air around him had tasted different today. I remembered the shock it had brought, how my heart had tightened in my chest, how my knees seemed to lose their firmness. His intentions were clear before noon had struck and I used the remainder of the day to find my peace and willpower. His invitation to smoke opium, his hand on mine as he led me to the ottoman, the steady gaze, all betraying his decision to finally take what he needed.

His eyes intense, he reached out and touched my ankle. Only with the tips at first, then followed by long and precise fingers and the whole of his palm. He let it rest there, observing what my face would reveal. I let him see nothing, watched him in return, and marvelled at the dance of two intellectuals on a razor’s edge.

Slowly, he pushed his hand further up and I noticed the peculiar characteristics of expensive silk stockings — a quality I had been unaware of until now: this fragile barrier amplified the tingling sensation of skin slipping over skin. I found myself focusing on his hand instead of his face.
 

He pushed it higher, together with the hem of my dress. The fabric whispered softly, caressing my skin. His fingers curled into the tender hollow of my knee and an involuntary hiss escaped my nostrils. The corners of his mouth twitched, his irises blackened.

I knew he was waiting for a genuine response, while we played a dangerous game of deception, control, power, and exploration. I gazed up at him. His pupils were wide open, his expression calm. I closed my eyes, focusing on what my skin whispered and not what my mind shouted; thinking not of him, but of the man I loved, with a mind just as sharp and hands equally precise. As the slender hand travelled up along the inside of my thigh, brushed the garter, to finally rest only an inch away from what had got warmer than should be considered normal, I knew that I could do it.

I opened my eyes and was met by a scrutinising gaze.

His face hid every emotion as his hand slid away. He rose and started for the door.

‘Why do you find such pleasure in torturing me?’ I called after him.
 

He stopped. Without turning around he answered, ‘I never wished to torture you. My apologies. It will not happen again.’

He was about to leave. ‘And yet you walk away,’ I said softly.

His hand slipped off the doorknob. I rose to my feet and approached him. We were only inches apart; my palm resting on his shoulder accelerated his breath. He turned around, his hand went behind his back and turned the key in the lock. The metallic click tipped me forward.

A strand of my hair was stuck to the corner of my mouth and he brushed it away, his eyes resting on my lips for a moment. Then he pushed himself up. I increased the pressure of my legs around his waist, locking my ankles behind his back, curious for his response. There was a flicker of surprise, and then a smile as he rolled onto his side, still trapped.
 

‘I have a question that might be a little… delicate,’ he said.

I waited and he took this as an invitation to continue.

‘Were you intimate with Sherlock Holmes?’

‘I don’t think Holmes gets intimate with anyone,’ I said, hoping all he would hear was annoyance and the hurt pride of a rejected woman.

‘What a fool he is,’ he said, stroking the scar on my stomach. He did not ask how I had received it and I was grateful for that. His hand travelled further down to the triangle of black curls and came to a rest there. ‘Which hunger did I not satiate?’

‘Curiosity,’ I replied. ‘You had a woman every single night from when I arrived until you began courting me. You have not been intimate with a woman for two weeks. There was no need for you to abstain from the one to court the other. And yet, this is what you did. Why?’

Clearly surprised to hear me talking so openly about his sexual activities, he hesitated. ‘I find it necessary for my mental balance to have regular intercourse. At least once a day. But the routine had become… boring.’

‘Why would it suddenly bore you?’

‘It always had,’ he said.
 

I waited, but he did not continue.

‘How much more thrilling it is to combine necessary copulation with combat,’ I noted.

He laughed. ‘You have a sharp tongue.’

‘I do. But you knew that already.’ I pulled the blanket over us.
 

He slid his hand into the bend of my knee. ‘I very much like both your sharp tongue and your sharp mind,’ he whispered, as hunger flared up in his eyes and the pressure against the soft of my thighs grew.

Our combat was illuminated by electrical light and guarded by his watchful eyes. There was no escaping into the depths of my own soul. He saw and analysed every one of my reactions and every lack thereof.
 

I had been searching for his soft spots for weeks now. Once in a while, I thought I could peek underneath the beast’s hide. How astonishing it was to discover traits that deserved affection and how despicable of me to target these vulnerable parts.

When had he decided to put on armour and hide away the human? What would I do if he were to open the shell for me? Would I still plunge in the dagger?