Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sasha jolted into awareness, sitting in a chair at a table. It was slowly becoming less jarring each time it happened, but it still nearly made her drop the wine glass she was holding.
Luckily, if anyone—including Professor James Moriarty, whom she was currently seated across from—noticed her flinch, they were kind enough not to register it.
They were at a Parisian-style restaurant.
All of the tables were for two people, seated in such a way that each couple were given the maximum amount of privacy from one another.
Thick, tropical plants that would be considered exotic and strange in the Victorian era helped serve as additional dividers to keep prying eyes at bay.
The perfect place for a criminal mastermind and…whatever she was to discuss their plans.
Whatever their plans were.
Suddenly, Sasha realized she really needed to come up with a plan. Something told her that if she didn’t find a way to control the situation—or at least guide it—Moriarty would be the one driving the proverbial bus. And that was something she very much did not want.
Because if she didn’t come up with a plot.
Vile would.
And that would be far, far worse.
But it was hard not to get distracted by everything around her.
She was in Victorian London—surrounded by people dressed in period garb, eating and chatting and the lights were gas lamps, and it was just so wild to see.
Being in Neverland had felt like a bad acid trip at Disneyland.
But something about this felt more…grounded. More real.
Moriarty was studying the menu with all the interest of a man who was reading the airplane safety card because he had forgotten to bring anything else to do for the flight.
It was so bizarre. Moriarty. The Moriarty.
But that wasn’t true, was it? He wasn’t the Moriarty. He was a Moriarty. Her version of him, just as Hook had been her version of that particular villain. That might actually be a good thing. It meant she didn’t have to outsmart Arthur Conan Doyle. Just her own stupid brain.
And her sister’s.
And potentially Vile and Virtue’s. Which, therein was the question. How much of the plot was set by the two demigods, and how much was it set by her and her sister?
Maybe this was an opportunity to find out.
But, that left her once more with the glaring problem.
She needed a fucking plot.
Something original. Something that would get her and Sidney out of this mess. But what could she possibly do with Sherlock that hadn’t been done before? What did she have to work with?
There were only two unique variables in play. Her and her sister. If she was Irene Adler, there was no doubt in her mind that Sidney was Dr. Watson. And if she knew her sister at all, Sidney was trying to snog Sherlock already. Which led her to the epiphany she needed.
This could either go very right or very, very wrong.
“We can sit in silence if you prefer.” She took another sip of her wine and put it back down on the table. She was going to need it for what was going to come next. “I assume you get very little peace and quiet during the rest of your day.”
“I assumed you were regretting your choice to come to dinner with me. You did look quite troubled there for a moment.” Moriarty smirked at her, lifting his gaze briefly from the menu before returning his attention to it, as boring as it clearly was.
The man was a chess master, and everything around him was a game. A game he found perpetually unchallenging, she realized. That was his obsession with Sherlock—finally, someone who could keep him on his toes.
Sadly, she didn’t think she was smart enough to be his equal. The question was, was she even smart enough to sit down at the table with him? “Simply committing myself to what is to come, is all.” That was true. “Unlike what I have heard of you, Professor—”
“James, please.” He smiled again lightly.
“James,” she corrected. “I…am unaccustomed to plotting someone’s downfall. Leveraging someone’s hubris to your advantage is one thing. To plot to take or destroy their lives is another thing entirely.”
That had his attention. He placed the menu down on the plate in front of him, those dark eyes staring through her. “And what has our mutual acquaintance done to warrant such a drastic response from you?”
“I cannot abide by arrogance. The man sought to destroy both my reputation and the reputation of another simply because he could not let an unanswered question remain unanswered. He knew the answer. He simply needed to prove it to the world.” She grimaced, glancing away, playing her part.
“If he truly believes himself to be such a paramount of intelligence and virtue, why does he feel the need to constantly be such a public braggart?” She couldn’t help but emphasize the word.
Moriarty laughed quietly, a deep and not unpleasant sound. He sat back against the upholstered bench, watching her with a deep curiosity. “While I agree with you on the subject of his need to flaunt his intelligence, I am curious as to your belief in his need to flaunt his benevolence. Continue.”
“He believes himself above the common man in more ways than one. He believes himself to be the arbiter of both truth and justice. And it is the latter that I cannot suffer. No man is a god. Not him.” She met his dark gaze. “Not you.”
He lifted his glass to her. “Hear, hear.”
She tinked her glass to his and took a sip.
“I am glad to hear you speak in such a way, if I might be frank. I thought I was losing my mind for a time. To see such…blatant hypocrisy at play?” He shook his head.
“And to have no one else seem to see it for what it was. Do you know how many laws that man breaks on the regular, simply because he feels it is in the name of the greater good?”
“Who is he to say what is the greater good and what is not?” She tilted her head to the side just slightly. “I am certain you do not wake in the mornings considering yourself to be some paramount of villainy.”
“Mm, only a few of them.” He chuckled, a playfully dark twist layering over his smile.
It made her cheeks go warm.
“Since you are clearly aware of my…extracurricular endeavors, I will be frank—I do not consider myself benevolent, benign, or righteous, Miss Adler.” His smile faded. “I am a terrible and dangerous man who seeks only power and influence.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic. You are a terrible and dangerous man who searches for a game that rises to the challenge of his wit.” She rolled her eyes. “If you were only after power and influence you would be a politician.”
That had him laughing again, almost loud enough to disturb the nearby tables. “Oh, Miss Adler.”
“Irene.”
“Irene,” he corrected with a grin. “You are surprising, indeed. Explain.”
“Someone of your intelligence and capability for manipulation would have the House of Lords wrapped around his finger in a month’s time. No, dear James. You play in the shadows because you enjoy the threat it brings. The challenge. You do not wish to play cards, you wish to play Russian Roulette.”
“I despise games of chance.”
“There are no games of chance when you are playing the person across the table from you. Poker is a game of psychology, not luck.” She sipped her wine again. She had the distinct suspicion she was going to go through a bottle on her own, and she was going to need it.
“Touché, madame.” Glancing behind her, Moriarty sighed. “Apologies in advance for what is about to follow.”
Furrowing her brow in confusion, she had no idea what he meant until the waiter walked up, and Moriarty proceeded to order dinner for both of them. That would be why she didn’t have a menu but he did. She didn’t even notice until that moment.
He ordered her the lamb. He got the duck. Once the waiter left, he looked at her with an expression that simply said sorry. “If I ordered incorrectly, we can switch plates once they walk away.”
It was her turn to laugh. She’d never had anyone order for her before. It was actually kind of quaint in a stupid way, since it wasn’t something she had to live with every day of her life. “It’s quite fine. I’ll enjoy it, I’m certain.” She’d never had lamb.
“An asinine practice, if you ask me.” He shook his head and sipped his own wine. “Why you are not allowed to simply decide upon what you eat…”
“Because I am not expected to pay for it. I do not think they factor in my salary as a performer versus yours as a professor.” It was her turn to smirk at him. “I’ll slip you some pounds once we leave tonight.”
That had him laughing again. “I am quite capable of paying for dinner, Irene. But I appreciate the thought. Yes, on public record, I expect you do gross more than I.”
“On public record.”
“What is a professor to do, when one must make the mortgage and one has an…overabundance of time,” he leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, smiling at her with that wicked darkness again, “but find ways to amuse oneself?”
“And if you don’t believe in love, well, I assume your evenings are spent alone.
” There was something about that smile of his that sent a not-entirely-unpleasant shiver through her.
She had to remember who she was talking to.
Not the fictional character—but the manipulative, malicious demigod behind it.
“I never said that.” He lifted his glass. “Simply because my associations with others are not…permanent does not mean they are infrequent.”
That had her biting back a laugh that definitely would have been impolite in her current setting. “Well,” she said through an exhale when she was pretty sure she could speak again without snickering. “I hope that’s not how you expect this evening to end.”
“Mm. No. I expected not. This seems more business than pleasure. At least for now.” He paused. “Do let me know if that changes. Though I would hate to damage your reputation, sullying yourself with a lowly professor such as I.”
“Perhaps it would do the world some good to think a man’s intelligence should be valued higher than his influence or the size of his wallet.” She let out a breath. “Not like I believe it ever will.”
“And therein you find the reason why I play the professor by day, where any other profession would have been open to me.” He regarded his wine thoughtfully, swirling the liquid in the glass and watching the light dance off the crimson surface. “The world is eager to disregard a teacher.”
“Save for one.”
“Save for one.” His dark eyes met hers again. “Our mutual annoyance. Tell me, my dear Irene, do you have a remedy in mind?”
It was time to make her move. He was leaving a gap on the board. If she made an effort, she could tell he would follow her lead. Taking a breath, she held it for a moment. “Yes. In fact, I believe I do.”
“Enlighten me.”
“You and he share a similar…predisposition when it comes to the company of others. You spun the world for you find it a waste of your time—physical dalliances to scratch particular itches notwithstanding.” She had to pause as the waiter walked over with their first course.
She kept her head held high, not flinching from her topic of conversation. No. She had to show she meant this.
Picking up her fork, she glanced down at the foie gras on her plate. Another dish she’d never had before. For some reason, the cruelty of the force-fed goose liver she was staring at felt fitting to the situation. “Save for one exception.”
“I am familiar with the doctor.” He shook his head. “Harming him out of revenge is…trite, don’t you think? Unless you think to hold him hostage.” He laughed, clearly finding the idea a waste of time.
“Hardly anything so mundane. At least, I hope I have managed to come up with something that might be a bit more creative. Enough to suit your tastes, at any rate.” Now she was talking to both of them. Moriarty and Vile.
And for a moment, she swore it was both of them smiling back at her. “I’m listening.”*
“I do not dare pretend that I can contend with Sherlock—or you—in a battle of wits for long.” Taking a bite of the foie gras she decided it was…
extremely too salty for her tastes. But it’d be rude not to continue eating.
So, eat, she did. “That I bested him once in such a regard is a compliment I will not expect to have paid to me twice.”
“Then how do you expect to ‘best’ him?” He arched an eyebrow at her.
“In the other realm in which he finds himself superior to all—the ethical.” Here was the gamble. “We will not hold the doctor hostage. Nor will we kill him out of revenge. But that is not to say that we will not need him to be placed in real danger.”
It was clear she had his full attention. He leaned forward again, ignoring his own first course. “Go on…”
Twisting her napkin in her lap beneath the table, she silently begged her sister for forgiveness. Because if this went wrong? Sidney was in trouble. But she had no choice.
Whatever Vile would come up with would be far, far worse.
Sasha braced herself. “I’m going to describe to you something called ‘The Trolley Problem.’”
* And indeed, we were. -V