Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

“Of late, I have experienced an itch,” the Professor says. “Initially, little more than a minor irritation. But over months and even years, it has become something I can no longer ignore.” He leans forward in his chair, brings me into his confidence. “There is no man who so controls his life as I do. Who is aware of, and able to control, every detail. No man surprises me or unsettles my plans. Except one. An individual who threatens to undermine my hard-fought discipline. We have never met and yet he thwarts me at every turn, threatens to cause a lifetime’s achievements to crumble and float away on the wind as though they were mere dust.”

“Who is this man?” I ask.

He takes a breath. This, I sense, may be the most honest thing he has said since entering the room. “He calls himself London’s greatest – and only – private consulting detective. The itch that threatens to consume me at the expense of all other things is named Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock Holmes.

Everyone knows the name. Over the last few years, he has emerged as a unique and quite brilliant eccentric in our country’s consciousness. Any man would rightly be able to quote you his address at 221b Baker Street, perhaps even name some of the many spectacular crimes that he has thwarted. He is a marvel of the modern age and, in the minds of many of my colleagues, the pinnacle of man’s intellectual evolution.

And he is my Professor’s nemesis.

“Tell me why this man vexes you.”

“Your profession,” the Professor says, “is little more than … quackery.”

“Then why are you here?”

He sits back in his chair. Regards me for a moment. His eyes are intense. They seem to be constantly searching for something. I sense that they will never be able to find it.

“It was … suggested to me. You studied, alongside Kraepelin, I believe. A fine mind. I trust that some of his genius may have rubbed off on you. Certainly, you have a reputation for assisting members of the gentry in coming to terms with their … hidden desires and personal problems. You are more than merely a carer for the lunatics locked within this asylum of yours. You have even offered assistance in exceptional criminal cases. Not unlike the detective, I suppose. But you retired from that work.” He smiles. “After the Ripper. But, fear not, I have read your notes and theories. Your work there was not without some results.”

My work on the Ripper case had been conducted on the understanding that my notes and theories would remain un attributed. The only copies remain with Inspector Abberline. My name appears nowhere on any official documents.

“The killer remains at large.”

“Perhaps,” the Professor says, and smiles. I notice his canines. They are sharp. I think of a wolf on the prowl. I try not to think of the man known as the Ripper. “What I require, my dear Alienist, is such assistance as you may offer the habitual opiate user or the man overcome by desires he knows to be wrong. I fear that the great detective may have needled his way inside my mind. That I have developed a sickness. One that affects every action I undertake. I would be rid of this. You have helped others to overcome their worst instincts. To hide certain unpleasant symptoms of the mind. Some mere habitual quirks, and others … well … I have reviewed your roster of your private patients—”

“No! That is impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible. Even the improbable. I have seen the files, have no doubt. And their names are as impressive as their problems are varied.”

“No,” I say. “You cannot—”

“I can and I have. I am one of the most remarkable and resilient minds you will ever meet. And you would do well to remember that.”

“Then what do you want of me?”

“Your assistance. And your insight. No more. I am not asking for your subservience or obedience. I am asking you to … help … me overcome this obsession. Help me to see that this Sherlock Holmes is, as all other men, beneath me in intellect and capability. Help me to forget him.”

He does not meet my eyes once during this speech. And, when he says the word “help”, it comes out weak and reluctant. A word that sounds unnatural slipping between his bloodless lips, no matter how many times he may force it.

Our session runs late. I lose track of the ticking of the clock that hangs over the mantelpiece. It is, however, my last appointment of the day. The only person waiting for me is my wife. And, when I explain to her my reasons, she will understand.

As the Professor leaves, I see there is a man waiting for him outside. By his bearing, I judge him to be military. Is this the briefly mentioned brother, James? But when my client refers to him as “Sebastian”, I dismiss the theory. During our session, he let slip only this one insubstantial sliver of personally identifiable information. I do not know if he did this on purpose or if his apparently infallible mind slipped for just a moment. But it fuels my own obsession to understand this strange and dangerous man, despite the fact my instincts scream at me to run into a dark hole and hide.

My wife is waiting for me when I return. She has been up since before I left, working in our shared library. She writes papers on the peculiarities of the human mind and, sometimes, I publish them under my name. We have discussed her submitting for a place of study, but the institutions we approach have been wary of a woman interested in psychology. Such is the way of the world. Perhaps one day, things shall change. Perhaps even in my lifetime.

“Where have you been?” She looks up from her desk and smiles at me.

“I am sorry. There was … I have a new patient.”

“Yes?”

“I find him … interesting.”

“Yes?”

I see the Professor once a week for the next three. At night, I return home and dictate from memory. My wife takes down dictation and overnight, as I rest, she writes up her thoughts and theories as the state of the Professor’s mind.

In the third week, I do not speak of him on my return.

“Something is troubling you?”

“I have made a terrible mistake. In treating this man.”

“Why?”

I try to answer, but the words stick in my throat.

“Talk to me.”

I clear my throat, walk away to get a glass of water. When I return, Emily looks at me. Her eyes are wide. She has dark eyes, and in the wrong light they appear almost black. But in them, there is intelligence and compassion. I drink from my glass and say, “I feel as though I have made a deal with the devil. No, I am certain that I have.”

Our theory – we treated it almost as a game, something light to indulge our curiosity – has become that the man was highly intelligent, and yet also delusional. He may or may not know Sherlock Holmes. He certainly claims that they have never met in person. I had believed at first that the Professor was an amateur detective himself and found the existence of Holmes to be a threat. But the truth is stranger than that.

The truth chills my soul.

“How can you hate a man you have never met?”

The Professor wags a finger. “A good question. You are full of good questions. No answers. But that is the nature of your profession. You rely on your patients to do the heavy lifting. It would not do for you to supply answers. To cow them with your intellect.”

I shrug. I have begun to feel more comfortable in his presence. “It is healthier for the patient to come to their own—”

“I have had men killed for asking bad questions,” he says. Quietly.

I almost laugh. It’s there. In my chest. Bubbling up to the surface, ready to break the tension. But he’s serious. Deadly serious. Looking at me now with those blue eyes, capturing me, letting me know that he will only tolerate me for so long before he snaps.