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It is so hard. So incredibly hard.
Not the kind of hard that dulls with time, but the kind that sharpens the longer you live with it.
All of his effort. Every calculation, every contingency, every carefully stacked consequence. It was meant to converge cleanly. It had to. It was built like a proof.
And yet it failed.
Not loudly at first. Not with drama. Just a single deviation. A breath of air where there should have been certainty. A smile he did not account for. A variable he refused to name.
Everything collapses from there.
Not like stone. Like paper catching flame.
He stands in the aftermath, staring at work that should have held. The equations still balance on the page. That is the cruelest part—they are still correct, just no longer true.
So he begins again.
Brick by painstaking brick. He rebuilds his kingdom. He destroys himself.
It is necessary. That is what he tells himself. Necessity does not ask permission.
If it fails again, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Every waking moment he’s spent on this. Waiting for the day for his dream to be realized. To finally be whole.
He builds higher this time. Not toward the sky, but against it, blocking out everything that might enter uninvited. Light. Noise. Memory. Mercy.
It hurts. It cuts deep into him. But it’ll work.
The wind howls through the cracks in the stones.
He closes himself off and ignores all who call him. Fear of loss taking over. He can’t have a repeat. He can’t lose what he has.
This is all he has. This idea. This dream. This plan.
The world was a place where monsters inherited titles, where cruelty wore silk gloves and called itself nobility, where children vanished behind locked doors while society smiled politely and looked away.
Someone had to tear it apart. Someone had to become terrible enough to do it.
William had accepted long ago that the someone would be him.
The fortress was built around that truth.
Its foundation was simple: The Plan is necessary. The world cannot change peacefully. And William Moriarty must die for it to succeed.
Everything inside him rested upon those stones. So when the wind first appeared, he ignored it. Because wind was harmless, wasn’t it?
Intangible. Temporary. Meaningless against architecture.
And yet the fortress had begun cracking anyway.
Not from violence. From contradiction.
A smile offered too easily. A laugh that expected nothing from him. A man who looked directly at William’s carefully constructed monstrosity and still spoke as though there remained something inside worth saving.
Sherlock Holmes arrived in William’s life like wind forcing itself through fractures too small to notice until the entire structure begins to groan around them.
William hated him for it.
It makes no sense. He’s above this. Above these pathetic feelings. Above this need.
He plants his feet firmly on the ground and stands tall as the wind rushes past him, threatening to knock him down. Again.
But despite the height of his walls and the strength of his security, a little breeze manages to slip in, whispering promises of safety and comfort. Promising to sweep away the blood and the filth that he’s drowning in.
He steels himself before walking through the door. He’s doing this for the right reasons. The anti-hero in his horror story. But the curtains will close soon enough on this tragedy.
The meeting room quieted the instant William entered.
Not out of fear alone, though fear existed. Rather, the silence came from recognition. The others understood instinctively when William was no longer simply their leader, but the architect of something inevitable.
William crossed to the head of the table and set a thin folder down against the polished wood.
“Albert,” he addresses his older brother sitting in the armchair, “what can you tell me about the Lord of Yorkshire?”
Albert leaned back slightly in thought. “Gildroy Sherman Morricaster. Viscount. Shipping wealth. Political influence.” His expression hardened. “Connected to Enders.”
The room shifted immediately.
Bonde’s amusement vanished.
Moran swore beneath his breath. “Oi, if he wa’ in Count Enders’s circle, wa’ he not there that night at the Baskervilles?”
“Evidently not.” The growl came from soft-spoken Fred, shocking most in the room.
Moran stands up. “Well then. Let’s get rid o’ ‘im.”
“Calm yourself, Sebastian, it’s not that simple,” Louis scolds. “Let Brother explain.”
William nods his thanks to his little brother and continues. “As we know, Count Enders and his band of merry men have enjoyed kidnapping, hunting, and the torturing of children. We took care of most of the nobles that night at the Baskervilles, but one seemed to slip through our fingers. This must be rectified.”
“I’m going to assume that we’re going to kill him at the ball he’s holding next month?” Bonde guesses.
“Precisely, and this is how we’ll accomplish it.”
The Plan demanded precision.
And precision demanded patience.
The wind brushed softly against the windows.
William ignored it.
He spread operation plans across the table while the others gathered around him. Entry routes. Escape routes. Timing. Poison delivery. Scotland Yard response estimates.
Every detail locked cleanly into place.
A perfect structure.
The Plan must move forward. They’re in the final stretch now, leading up to the Final Problem. London will burn, and William will finally allow his fortress to collapse on him. A new society will arise, one with equality. His actions are a necessary evil to bring the crimes of the Nobility to light. He’ll never get to see the society he’ll build, but he can rest easy knowing his brothers will reap the benefits of his evil.
Yet while he explained Morricaster’s death, William became aware of Albert watching him when no one else was paying attention.
Not suspicious.
Not afraid.
Grieving.
As though Albert could already see the shape of the ending William intended for himself.
William looked away first.
• • •
The university dismissed late that evening.
By the time William stepped from the bookstore onto the street, dusk had already settled over Durham in cold shades of blue and gold. He adjusted the book tucked beneath his arm and started toward the carriage waiting farther down the road.
Wind rustles through the walls, and William turns to see a familiar pony-tailed male bound towards him.
“Liam!”
Sherlock Holmes closes the distance with effortless certainty, like the world simply makes room for him.
William’s expression adjusts into something polite. “Mr. Holmes.”
“Come on,” Sherlock grins. “We’re past that. Call me by my first name!”
But William stands strong against the raging winds and just smiles politely. “What brings you to Durham, Mr. Holmes?”
“Would you believe me if I said I came to see you, Professor?” Sherlock smirks slyly.
The wind howls in William’s ears, and his fingers go numb. “Not for the slightest second.”
Sherlock’s grin fades, and he looks discouraged. “Fine, I’ll tell you. I’m here on a case.”
“I don’t see Mr. Watson with you.” William tilts his head inquisitively.
Sherlock actually looks a little sheepish. “John is better at talking to people than I, so he’s out gathering information from the locals.”
“Ah, can I be of service to you, Mr. Holmes?” William inquires, ignoring the wind in his ears. “I might know something that can assist you.”
Sherlock looks like Christmas came early and eagerly nods his head enthusiastically. William is reminded briefly of a puppy. William brings him to a local cafe that was open late, and they pick a table in the back. William sits opposite the cafe entrance and places his book face down on the table. Sherlock eyes it for a moment, decides against it, and starts talking immediately after he sits down.
“What do you know of Leonard Mellvile?” Sherlock asks.
“The aristocrat who lives near the cathedral? Not much, I’m afraid.”
Sherlock sighs. “Seems he’s been murdered. Knife to the throat, pretty bloody, and all that nonsense. Lestrade suspects his wife. I say it’s the butler.”
William nods. “It’s most likely the butler.”
“It’s always the butler!” Sherlock complains.
William hides a smile behind his napkin; he did indeed pay the butler to kill his master.
“BUT,” Sherlock continues, eyes drawn to William’s face down, “it doesn’t make sense. The butler was only loyal to Mellvile because he paid well. I profile him as a man who would do anything for money. Someone must have paid him to kill his master.”
“It’s an interesting theory; who do you suspect?” As if William didn’t already know the answer.
“Who else but the Lord of Crime, of course? It fits his style completely. Corrupt nobleman found dead? Butler easy to buy off? All of the pieces fit. All except his identity, obviously.” Sherlock levels a stare at William, a smirk dawning on his face.
Wind blows in between them. “Ah yes,” William says. “The Lord of Crime. Can you prove it?”
Sherlock grumbles, “Not yet. But I will. I will catch him.”
“Best of luck to you, Mr. Holmes.” William stands up, “I really must be off now.”
“Wait!”
William smiles internally. Of course.
“What book have you got there?” Sherlock asks, curiosity getting the better of him.
William sits back down and picks the book up, staring at the cover with a small smile. The wind is terribly strong, and his walls shake. “This? Oh, just something I picked up.” He turns the cover around, and Sherlock chokes when he reads the title.
The Sign of the Four by Conan Doyle.
“Wh-why would you read that?” Sherlock looks as if the book personally offended him.
“I find your adventures to be quite interesting, Mr. Holmes,” he answers sweetly. “It seems I was correct about a chemical dependency.”
Sherlock balks, and his face flushes bright red. “Oh shut up, I can’t believe John actually wrote that.”
“I find Watson’s writing entertaining.”
“Traitorous,” Sherlock corrected. “Half the stories make me sound deranged.”
William considered him briefly. “Only half?”
Sherlock barked out a laugh.
The sound hit William strangely.
Warmth was a dangerous thing. It slipped beneath defenses unnoticed. A fortress could withstand siege engines for years and still fall because someone opened a gate from the inside.
“I do have one question, though, if you’ll permit me, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock nods in the affirmative. “You’ve already read it, then.”
“At the end of the case, Watson secured a wife, and Jones received all the credit. Tell me, Mr. Holmes,” William’s smile turns sharp. “What did you receive at the end of it all?”
Sherlock stares at him, mouth slightly agape. It’s not often someone catches the ‘World’s Greatest Detective’ off guard, and William feels a pride spark in his chest. The wind rattles.
After a moment. Sherlock responds, “Confirmation that you, my dear Liam, are the Devil.”
William surprises himself with a laugh that bursts from his chest. Sherlock beams at him, and the wind howls loudly, shaking the exterior of his fortress.
“If you may excuse me, Mr. Holmes, but I really must be off.”
“Sure, sure. I presume you’ll be at Viscount Morricaster’s ball next week?”
William turns back to look at him, numbness slowly starting to climb his fingertips. “I will be attending with my brothers.”
Sherlock’s smile is nearly deranged. “Wonderful, I shall meet you then.”
William was unable to return his smile. His plan will not change with Sherlock’s presence. It must not.
• • •
William smiles at the nobleman who just introduced himself as Count Steclair. He hopes he’ll lose interest and walk away soon, but for now, he entertains conversation. At the corner of his eye, he notices Moran, disguised as a waiter, moving into position.
There is no sign of the Holmes brothers, and William is getting restless.
Steclair finally excuses himself to go chat up another nobleman, and William sighs in relief, making his way to the back of the ballroom, ready to get into position.
“There you are!” a voice startles him. Wind flies up around him from all directions.
He turned to smile at Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes.”
Bonde is in position behind him. Albert too. Good, everything is in order. It’s all following his plan.
“Turns out it really was the butler!” Sherlock beams.
He keeps Sherlock talking about the case and distracts him with questions so he won’t notice anything amiss. So he’ll ignore Fred when he hands the Viscount his drink.
“Any leads on the Lord of Crime?” William asks.
“Nay, but this was definitely his hand.”
Across the hall, someone screamed.
The ballroom froze.
Morricaster collapsed beside the champagne table, clawing desperately at his throat before crashing lifelessly against marble flooring.
Chaos detonated instantly.
Sherlock moved first.
Of course he did.
He crossed the room in seconds and dropped beside the body, sharp eyes scanning details faster than most men could comprehend them.
“Cyanide,” he announced grimly.
Panic swept the ballroom. Someone in the crowd screams. William watches his crew slowly move out; the deed is done. He feels numb. Wind caresses his face. Scotland Yard arrives to take the corpse away, declaring the ballroom a crime scene and that no one is allowed to leave. When Sherlock stands and turns around again, William and his crew are long gone.
The ride back to the Moriarty Manor is filled with unexplainable tension. William sits with Albert in the back of the carriage and refuses to meet his eyes.
Albert sighs and breaks the heavy silence. “Will, it’s going to be alright. I know all of this is taking a toll on you, but you’ll be alright.”
William doesn’t bother with a response. His castle walls, dripping in blood, are holding strong.
The eldest Moriarty brother shakes his head sadly but doesn’t push. The plan will move forward; it’s the only way.
William throws himself into his planning. The Final Problem is dawning, and everything must be perfect. His death will complete the grand finale of his life’s work. He ignores Albert and Louis’s pleas to change the plan. “Will, there has to be another way.” But he won’t. He doesn’t deserve another way. This can only end in his demise. The perfect scapegoat.
The wind howls and whistles words of disagreement. It promises peace, hope, and love in a familiar voice that William tries to erase. It tells him of repentance and acceptance, and William wants to believe that he can have it. But it’s no use. He’s already made his decision. The plan won’t change. He won’t fall for the same trick twice; his fortress is reinforced this time.
Sherlock Holmes knocks on his door three weeks after the murder of Viscount Morricaster, three weeks before the Final Problem.
William greets him in his office. He notices the way Sherlock’s eyes take everything in, not missing a single detail. He smiles pleasantly. “What brings you here, Mr. Holmes?”
Sherlock doesn’t beat around the bush and cuts right to the chase. “At the ball, you were gone before the Yard appeared.” It wasn’t a question. “You knew the murder was going to happen.”
The room tightened around them.
Sherlock stepped closer slowly, studying William with unbearable intensity. “I considered every possible suspect,” Sherlock said quietly. “Politicians. Foreign groups. Criminal organizations.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “Then I realized I’d been making the wrong assumption. Once you eliminate all which is impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”
William remained perfectly still.
Sherlock pointed directly at him.. “The answer was standing in front of me the entire time.”
The wind battered the fortress walls.
“You,” Sherlock said softly. “You’re the Lord of Crime.”
Blood drips from William’s hands to the floor, but the wind is silent. “How did you come to that conclusion?”
“How’d you get the cyanide into the Viscount’s wine?” Sherlock fired back.
“I didn’t do anything; I was an innocent bystander, just like you.” William’s voice is pleasant, but his ruby eyes are malicious.
Sherlock suppresses a shiver. “All of the dots connect, starting with Count Enders on the Noahtic. You were there, too. And you knew about Jefferson Hope, as well. I believe that the murder on the train wasn’t your doing, but you just happened to be there. But Whitley and Melville? You were always there at the scene.” Sherlock pauses; William’s expression hasn’t changed the entire time he was speaking. “And now, finally, Viscount Morricaster, you slipped away before the Yard showed up because you knew the murder would take place. You weren’t frozen in shock like the rest of the audience.”
William should’ve denied it, should’ve told Sherlock he’s following a false lead, instead he asked,“And can you prove that?”
“Not yet.”
The certainty in Sherlock’s voice felt catastrophic.
“But I will.”
Stone ground against stone inside William’s mind as the fortress rose higher in response. Reinforced walls. Locked gates. Necessary distance.
Good.
Safe.
Sherlock continued watching him carefully. Not with disgust. Not with fear.
That was the problem.
William could have endured hatred easily. Hatred would have fit neatly into the architecture of the fortress. Villains were meant to be hated.
But Sherlock Holmes looked at him as though William remained painfully, undeniably human.
“You think you’re right,” Sherlock said quietly.
William’s smile sharpened. “I know I am.”
“No,” Sherlock replied. “You’ve just convinced yourself your death is part of the solution.”
The wind struck hard enough to shake the walls. William’s expression faltered almost imperceptibly. Sherlock saw it anyway.
“You built this entire crusade around martyrdom,” Sherlock continued. “As though dying for the cause somehow absolves you of what you’ve done.”
“Careful, Mr. Holmes.”
“But what if you’re wrong?”
The fortress shook violently.
“What if living is the harder choice?”
William stood abruptly. “Enough.” The word cracked through the room like gunfire.
Sherlock did not move.
Wind roared through the fractures spreading invisibly through the stone.
“I swear I’m going to catch you in my own way. The game’s afoot Liam.”
William forced composure back into place. “Catch me if you can, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock held his gaze. “When I catch you,” he said, “I’m going to save you.”
Everything inside William went still.
Save him?
Liam doesn’t deserve to be saved. Doesn’t want to be saved.
But he does. And that’s what angers him.
He walks Sherlock out so that he doesn’t wander in the halls and find potential evidence against him.
“Have a good night, Mr. Holmes.” William’s pleasant smile is plastered on his face again.
Sherlock smiles back, but there’s a new glint in his eyes. “Night, Liam. Oh, and for the record,” he calls over his shoulder, “I’m glad it was you!”
William doesn’t respond, but his fortress walls rattle in the force of the wind. The plan will remain unchanged.
• • •
Over the next three weeks, William hardly leaves his study. He spends every waking moment perfecting his plan. It’s all coming to an end now; he can finally rest. Albert and Louis try to stop him, but he pushes forward.
The stage is set perfectly. Everything is in order. The fortress stands tall and proud against the orange of flame.
He climbs higher. The bridge is a structure of broken wood and metal. William stares down at the water far below and halts in his stride. The wind blows softly through his hair. The accumulation of all his life’s work gathers here. The fire burning throughout London casts ghastly light on the water. He’s finally able to get what he deserves. He stands perched at the end.
He’s so close. One more step. One more. Just one more, and it’ll all be over. Why doesn’t he take it?
Maybe it’s not too late for me
Before he has the chance to walk over the edge, there’s a sharp and startled cry of “Liam!”
The wind explodes all around, and he nearly loses his balance with the force.
Arms suddenly wrap around him, holding him tight and pulling him from the ledge.
He allows himself to fall into them. The wind blows with a vengeance and sweeps him up, carrying him away from the pile of rubble that was once his castle.
“You're safe now, Liam,” Sherlock whispers fondly, turning him away from the fire of London.
And for the first time, he believes it.