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It was a night specifically for beginnings and endings when William James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes crossed paths for the first time, a tangling of orbits that the moon bore witness to in a garden empty of warm bodies but full of possibility — there was no other comprehensible way to word this meeting of the minds, no simple “once upon a time” to tell the generations that came afterwards about what happened.
It was a largely uncomplicated affair that left the kind of lasting impression that preserves a friendship in a fossil for years that comes afterwards, but that’s a large leap to make at the start of a story that is so focused on the start and finish. The stuff in the middle is fun precisely because of what transpired before and after. So, let’s begin.
There are three things to know about William James Moriarty, and all who have known him, at least superficially, can account for them in varying combinations of awe and annoyance: his was a mind that the gods of myth would have favoured had they existed, he lived on his secrets the same way the common man survived off food and water, he had a Shakespearan charm to his every little deed that was in equal parts enchanting and unsettling.
Easy enough to remember, because William was easily not a forgettable man. He’d been crafted specifically to be remembered, for the clear, smooth tone of his voice that could buoy any heart, and even for the redness of his eyes and paleness of his hair. A man spun from glass. But these are small matters, and there are bigger ones to attend to.
There are three things to know about William James Moriarty, and there is only one person to account for them — William himself. First, being this: at any given moment, he is certain the next time he picks up a gun or a knife, it will be his last. A life like this leaves little room for repentance without compromising efficiency. You’ve got a sharp mind , he’s told, and he smiles, thinking of it (not fondly, but very fittingly) as a blade resting behind his eyes, a shrapnel bomb ticking the same second over and over but not quite exploding.
That is the burden of being the person in the room who knows, sometimes even against his will, everything that the others don’t. The burden of having it paired with a vigilante ambition.
The second and third are a lot more simple, but still a dear secret: his redeeming quality, above everything else, has always been his brother, Louis. And this burden is something William prefers to carry by himself. All fairly simple. So, moving on.
It is evening, when it begins.
The prelude to it all is an amalgamation of neatly pressed suits, polite clapping, the sloshing of wine in bottles for the teachers and the gurgling of a chocolate fountain reserved for the attending students. Farewells and welcomes are matters of great importance, and grandeur, at a private college like this one, where William has the pleasure of teaching a small but dedicated class of students who were relieved they would be learning from him another year.
A baseless fear — William wouldn’t have been allowed to leave, even if he wanted to — because the college cared too much for having the William James Moriarty, young genius heartthrob of 24 with 2 doctoral degrees, teach in their classrooms. They’d given him free reign and access to funds to explore a third dissertation in his own time.
It is an evening of mingling, and William is not adverse to talking to people, but this is proving to become tiring quickly. After all the clapping, the farewell speeches for the departing faculty members, and then more clapping, the speeches for the new faculty members, he is too inclined to find a corner to fall asleep in, if it weren’t for his vehemently active brain that was drinking in everything too hungrily. It was automatic, and therefore, difficult to control. He’s sure he’s going to be catatonic for the next week, if only to recover from this entire affair, and hearing the same thing over, and over, and over — god, help him, he is about to develop an aneurysm.
“I loved your work on the binomial theorem,” Someone said at some point, shaking his hand viciously enough for him to tighten his grip on the wine glass in his other hand, “and your research on fractals was amazing! I’ve heard you’re going on your third dissertation —” They were still shaking his hand, and William was gritting his teeth against a passive-aggressive smile, “ — and that it’s about time travel?”
William, with the pretence of needing to retrieve his handkerchief and wipe an invisible stain, was finally able to withdraw his hand. “Quantum loops, actually, but close.”
“Oh.” It was clear they didn’t know what he was talking about, but he heard those unspoken words all the same: Wow, what a genius .
Genius. Genius. The word sounds ugly, even at the best of times, even if it isn’t spoken with the intention of making it so — William’s personal qualms, naturally, because the word is so excruciatingly isolating . In a room full of people, and all it takes is the intimation of it that makes a sudden vacuum burst into existence within his chest, growing like a rot. It is starting to get hot — he should perhaps be moving on. He thanked the person with a courteous bow and moved on, only to get caught in worse spiderwebs.
“My son speaks highly of you,” Tate’s mother is saying, and William is smiling as amicably as he could imagine, already anticipating her next words. The twitch of her hand, the way she holds the handkerchief up to her mouth in the characteristic shyness of a skeptic confronting an expert, the gaze she pins on his forehead instead of meeting his, thinking he won’t notice (but he always does, of course), already tells him how the entire conversation was meant to go. He suppresses a sigh and maintains an amicable smile — best to let her say her piece and then find another conversation.
“I just don’t understand how he’s going to be using this anytime in the future,” She says, as expected.
This is theoretical mathematics , he wants to tell her tightly the way he’d done to all the students who had dropped out of his class only to file a complaint later, more about their vendetta with the subject than with his teaching methods. If you wanted anything else, you should have put him in applied mathematics . He doesn’t say this, of course, because he knows his time is better spent getting himself a refill of wine than with convincing a skeptic of the merits of studying his subject. So, he says something about Tate finding his own way, and then goes to get another much-needed glass.
“You seem unhappy.”
Louis appears, as if on cue, by his side, pouring himself another glass in tandem. The instant relief of having him close by is something else entirely, and William hopes it does not show in his face. Every slight change in temper can alarm Louis — sweet, charming Louis with his quiet, studious manner of caring about William and Albert, as if he’d been born to do nothing else — and William knows better than to ruin this evening in tandem for the both of them.
He is exhausted, though — that much is true — and he’s starting to think that this third dissertation was a poor decision on his part, and the wine is doing its work backwards by making him acutely aware of every body, every crease of fabric, and every sweat-stained collar in this room. Louis is a dampener for every wild sensation, thankfully, a conduit of silence.
“Not unhappy, just tired,” William says truthfully, and Louis hums.
They stand in companionable silence, shoulders pressed together, leaning into each other. If Louis notices the disproportionate weight of William’s posture against his, he says nothing, as diligent in protecting his brother’s secrets as ever. Sometimes, William wishes Louis would speak out of turn just to know if he can, but that is more of a selfish speculation than anything.
“The new staff look promising,” Louis says, filling in the silence with his gentle voice, “except for that Forensic Sciences T.A. who didn’t show up, and that Psychology professor — she’s been eyeing you weird since the beginning –”
“Recently divorced, given the band of fair skin on her finger,” William mutters automatically, as if reading off a list, “and ended it on terrible terms, given her bitterness when the band played that song, her wedding song naturally, because no one feels that strongly about Angel With A Shotgun — and it was due to been money-related problems, because she kept his Rolex for wearing, but the suit is old and ill-fitting, she hasn’t gotten the lint off her skirt. Assuming the man was blonde, because she’s been looking viciously at every fair-haired man in the room, not just me.”
Louis waits patiently until he’s done, which embarrasses William even more for throwing this kind of tantrum for no reason. A tantrum is what it is, at least for someone like him whose strong emotions either sputter out before they reach fruition or direct another feverish, passionate week of study until they disappear, and he collapses. A tantrum, and unfortunately, Louis is caught in the middle, unaware of the littlest thing, the hairpin trigger that has lit this fire. Genius, genius, genius — what do you want from me?
What a minor thing, what a painfully, unfathomably all-encompassing word that served to worship and isolate, two things for which William neither cared for nor longed for.
A room full of people, and he was here, a satellite at best, to be stared at through a telescope. It is just as well that he is aware and proud of his own intellectual prowess, unwilling to trade it for anything. This is a lapse in judgement , he promises himself, sucking the lip of his glass clean of wine to punctuate his own statement. Once this evening is over, it won’t matter .
“I’m going for a smoke break,” William says, handing his empty glass to Louis, even though he has a matchbox and no cigarettes. Maybe he’ll strike a match and watch something burn – no , he reminds himself, enough of that already .
It is a starless evening, with the moon standing sentinel above the dark garden that is surprisingly empty. From the smell, William can already tell there’s a thunderstorm tonight. Fitting. Jagged whips of lightning cross the sky, thunder follows — a marvel of sound and light. He counts the seconds between, muttering to himself as he does the calculation. 5 miles. The storm is 5 miles away. Good enough, maybe he will be washed anew before he returns home after the gathering.
“Got a lighter?”
William turns in the direction of the voice and finds a lean figure tucked onto the bannister of the small sitting area. It shifts and the stranger comes into view under the wan moonlight. In the dimness, William discerns the shape of a cigarette dangling from a pair of lazily curled lips.
“I have matches,” William offers, fishing them out of his pocket.
“In the year of our lord 2023,” The stranger mumbles, voice buoyed by a dry humour, but takes them anyway, striking one and helping himself. It is just as well that at least one of them is having a well-deserved smoke break. In the split second that the match flickers and lights up his face, and the following second that the stranger spends cupping his hands over the flame, frowning as he brings it to his cigarette, William has already identified him in the only way he knows how. It’s no small tell – the patchwork of bandages over his lean, corded fingers, skin evidently discoloured from strong acids where it isn’t covered in a bandage.
“You’re the missing Forensic Science T.A.,” He says.
“Obvious enough,” The stranger says, unbothered. Bored , even.
He does not ask how William knows. His eyes stay half-lidded with a contagious sort of lethargy as he leans back against the wooden pillar and closes his eyes, taking a slow drag and blowing out a cloud of smoke.
He almost melts back into the shadows, with his all-blue suit, undone down to its first three buttons to reveal a sheen of sweat over his bare throat that can only be a product of the recent heatwave (he’s not accustomed to the weather, so he’s not from here), his loose tie hanging around his upturned collar (obviously, unconcerned with appearances and by extrapolation, finds ceremonies such as today’s pretentious and bothersome), and his severe, inert face not unlike a sea that holds its breath before a storm. (Clearly, a man of unpredictable temperament.)
When he hands William back the matchbox, William knows it’s as good a dismissal as any, but does not walk away.
The stranger opens his eyes languidly, like an animal waking from its sleep. “Do you need anything from me, Mr Theoretical Mathematician?”
A thrill sparks jaggedly along William’s spine, but all he does is smile. “How’d you know?”
“The same way you did. Your counting, the chalk on the side of your hands, and the carpet fuzz on the side of your shoes — they assign old classrooms to the niche subjects with fewer students, with blackboards and carpets. The counting was a bit of a giveaway, so I hazarded a guess.” Another drag of his cigarette. Then, he closes his eyes, which fills William with an unnamed dread.
He’d had the sensation of something, however uncertain he is about the feeling. An anticipation, like the telltale tug of gravity that coaxes a boulder downhill. Pathetic as it is, he does not want this to be their first and last words.
He moves closer, until he’s breathing in the stranger’s secondhand smoke, watching for all of two seconds. There is much to be revealed from any person’s resting stance, the natural curve of their fingers, their posture when they sit and stand, the pattern of veins in their arms, the tilt of their head.
“You play the violin?” William phrases it as a question, testing the waters.
The stranger does not open his eyes, but he smiles, slow and indulgently in a manner that turns the space between them electric. William watches the stretch of his lips, the tilt of the cigarette close to falling out but caught between his teeth.
“Any more guesses?”
“You play the violin, but you’re not a musician — Mendelssohn is your go-to, by extrapolation,” William continued, “You have fighting experience in hand-to-hand combat – your resting stance says as much, and the veins in your arms, the visible calluses on your palms. Speaking of which, the discolouration from frequent but careless handling of acids, and the coincidence of a missing T.A. tells me you’re a self-studied chemist, at best, and here to earn a formal certification in Forensic Sciences for your primary career. Am I wrong?”
The stranger is looking at him intently now, his lips parting in a mad grin that makes William feverish at the sight of it.
“You’re right, but how’d you know?”
“Let me guess a little more,” William offers, “Your cavalier manner of questioning suggests you have a perception of being the most-knowing man in the room — well-studied is my first guess, but the attitude can only be cultivated on Oxbridge grounds —” It took William little effort not to tell the stranger he had the makings of an Oxbridge wanker, “— and raised by a single mother. My last, if a bit far-reaching, guess. Anything I missed?”
He is met by laughter, loud and clamorous, a sound that initially teases out a flinch from him before he eventually warms, smiling as well. The stranger keeps his cigarette pinched between his fingers as he doubles over for a moment, breathing in before looking up.
“You just might be the most interesting thing that happened to me all evening. I’m Sherlock Holmes.”
You just might be the most interesting thing that happened to me all evening . The words create a tangible sensation, far more pleasant than any other compliment William had ever received. There is a certain satisfaction of being an event rather than a person, a happening rather than a human, that can only be understood as a feeble, newly-formed companionship.
Friends can be discarded, incidents such as this persist in the memory. The alarmingly quick inception of this sentiment would have thrown him off on any other day, but not tonight, when there is already someone who looks ready to understand.
William takes the hand Sherlock reaches out to shake with. “William James Moriarty.”
“You’re a swordsman?” Sherlock guesses, rightly of course, without leaving William’s hand and instead adjusting his grip until William’s fingers are curled under the press of his thumb. “I can tell by the texture of your palms, and your stance –” He leans in closer, as if to kiss it, but then says, a centimetre above William’s knuckles, “ — with a new leather grip, probably. Expensive hobby. You’re pretty well off. With a bit of a self-destructive smoking habit yourself –” He touches the old cigarette burn just below William’s cuff and the press of his roughened thumb on open skin is enough to light a second match against William’s wrist.
“Smoking, and chemical dependency,” William retorts, leaning in and catching a whiff of tobacco, and something stronger .
In response, his fingers tease the edge of Sherlock’s cuffs, against which Sherlock freezes. His skin warms to the touch, his pulse fluttering as William inches his fingers under Sherlock’s sleeves until his fingertips touch rough, puckered skin along his forearm; the journey itself is a relish of lean, corded muscle and a network of veins as elaborate and promising as a map of any city.
“Taken intravenously. From the smell, I’m assuming cocaine –” He reaches out with a finger and gently pinches Sherlock’s other sleeve, rubbing the coarse powder between his fingers when it stains his thumb. “Oxycodone. Crushed tablets, inhaled, judging from the coarseness.”
A silence persists, long and heavy and stifling, in which William allows himself to register the startling intimacy of this moment, not for all the touching that’s happening — Sherlock’s finger still pressed to his wrist and his own hand resting under Sherlock’s sleeves, tracing the dotted pattern of needle marks — but the darkness that gives them each a false sense of secrecy in observing the other without having to acknowledge it is the curiosity and not low visibility.
William is aware of the weight of this moment: nobody likes being told who they are by anyone else, stranger or not. This is a line he would not have dared cross with anyone in that hall, or on campus. But here is that line, crossed, and here is William, holding his breath, because he does not know for the first time, what will come of it. There are no outcomes to be calculated, only ones that can be faced. He’s out of his element, it’s a little exciting.
Laughter cracks across Sherlock’s face in unison with the thunder rolling over the horizon, and it’s a harsh, lovely, good-natured sound. “Oh, you are interesting! Tell me more, professor, what else have you learned about me tonight?”
William is almost inclined, but like a starving animal running on rations, he withholds. If he exhausts this conversation now, when will they speak again? No, it will simply have to wait — he’s got Sherlock’s interest, so this won’t be their last conversation. If it’s a matter of learning each other, they can sustain this curiosity for weeks, at least, until they’ve had their fill of each other and go back home with bellyaches. Not this evening, though, definitely not. So, William pulls away, clasping his hands behind his back and bowing in a formal salutation.
Sherlock grins, proffers a two-fingered salute, leaning back again. “See you next time, then, professor.” It’s almost a promise. William smiles.
It takes him tremendous effort to turn around and walk back into the building. He nearly braces himself for the dullness of reality that exists outside the garden, and that one meeting.
That is the beginning.