FIC: Inevitable
Jan. 30th, 2009 12:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
prof_pangaeaTitle: Inevitable
Author: professor pangaea
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Disclaimer: Mr. Holmes and the eminent Professor James Moriarty are now in the public domain, but of course I give ultimate credit and thanks for their existence to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Summary: The immutability of the autumn, the inevitability of the spring.
Notes: Written to cheer up![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eponymous_rose; she gave me the prompt "Holmes, Moriarty and a tree". Thanks to lizbee for looking it over.
The professor stood underneath a large, spreading oak. The promise of spring was held in the tiny green leaves which unfurled, fresh and vibrant, all along its branches. Holmes watched him from afar. He knew how to blend in amongst the multitudes who strolled through Regent's Park, how to see without being seen.
So Moriarty stood, and Holmes watched.
Moriarty seemed quite at ease, enjoying the sights and smells of new growth and damp soil. He took his top hat off and let a faint breeze brush across his bare head, disarranging his thin hair. He smoothed it back with his right hand in a gesture that Holmes recognised from his youth with a strange, sad pang. The image of a much younger Moriarty formed unbidden in his mind; the professor standing in front of a problem on a blackboard, rolling a piece of chalk back and forth in his left hand while the fingers of his right hand ran absently through his hair; still grey, but not nearly so thin. How the soft strands would curl round the back of his ears.
There was only a month or two left for him. Perhaps three at the outside. Then Holmes's carefully laid plans would have run their course, and Moriarty would be fettered, trapped. The police would have him and all the principal members of his gang, his organisation would be in pieces and his reputation ruined. Everything Moriarty had ever worked or cared for would be destroyed utterly. Holmes's nostrils quivered. It was inevitable, it was all laid out, and all that was needed was the performance of some routine gestures on his part and the passage of time. He felt as a painter or sculptor must, when studying a masterpiece they have made, that wants only the last few strokes of the brush, the last few rasps of the chisel. As a general must feel when he has waged war and has won, and waits only for his enemy to come to him and plead for mercy in his defeat.
He remembered being on the other side. Remembered the frustration of having the the man who had planned the affair with the French gold slip through his fingers, the helplessness with which he had listened to Birdy Edwards's fate. The simple disappointment when he, so young, so naive, had looked up from his chessboard to see Moriarty smile softly at him and say, "Checkmate."
He watched as Moriarty gazed up at the branches hanging over him. The professor looked contemplative and peaceful, and Holmes could not help but hope that he would be there to see Moriarty's face when everything finally ended. He thought that Moriarty would never know the feeling of peace again, and he thought that was good. Fitting. For when had Holmes truly known peace since Moriarty had intruded himself upon Holmes's life, all those years ago? Fleeting hours amongst the wilderness of years. Now they could be matched once more, each a mirror of the other's disquiet and devastation.
Moriarty put his hat back upon his head and then turned, and Holmes found the professor looking back at him calmly, without surprise. He stood, frozen and foolish, feeling as though he had suddenly been pushed to the edge of a tall precipice. Moriarty gazed at him for a few moments, his expression neutral, and then smiled at him. It was a strange smile, edged with amusement and not a little pride, and it made Holmes sick to his stomach. Then he touched his hand to the brim of his hat, turned, and walked slowly away.
Holmes watched him until he disappeared amongst the people and trees.
Two more months.
As always, feedback and criticism are both welcome and cherished.
Author: professor pangaea
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Disclaimer: Mr. Holmes and the eminent Professor James Moriarty are now in the public domain, but of course I give ultimate credit and thanks for their existence to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Summary: The immutability of the autumn, the inevitability of the spring.
Notes: Written to cheer up
eponymous_rose; she gave me the prompt "Holmes, Moriarty and a tree". Thanks to lizbee for looking it over.The professor stood underneath a large, spreading oak. The promise of spring was held in the tiny green leaves which unfurled, fresh and vibrant, all along its branches. Holmes watched him from afar. He knew how to blend in amongst the multitudes who strolled through Regent's Park, how to see without being seen.
So Moriarty stood, and Holmes watched.
Moriarty seemed quite at ease, enjoying the sights and smells of new growth and damp soil. He took his top hat off and let a faint breeze brush across his bare head, disarranging his thin hair. He smoothed it back with his right hand in a gesture that Holmes recognised from his youth with a strange, sad pang. The image of a much younger Moriarty formed unbidden in his mind; the professor standing in front of a problem on a blackboard, rolling a piece of chalk back and forth in his left hand while the fingers of his right hand ran absently through his hair; still grey, but not nearly so thin. How the soft strands would curl round the back of his ears.
There was only a month or two left for him. Perhaps three at the outside. Then Holmes's carefully laid plans would have run their course, and Moriarty would be fettered, trapped. The police would have him and all the principal members of his gang, his organisation would be in pieces and his reputation ruined. Everything Moriarty had ever worked or cared for would be destroyed utterly. Holmes's nostrils quivered. It was inevitable, it was all laid out, and all that was needed was the performance of some routine gestures on his part and the passage of time. He felt as a painter or sculptor must, when studying a masterpiece they have made, that wants only the last few strokes of the brush, the last few rasps of the chisel. As a general must feel when he has waged war and has won, and waits only for his enemy to come to him and plead for mercy in his defeat.
He remembered being on the other side. Remembered the frustration of having the the man who had planned the affair with the French gold slip through his fingers, the helplessness with which he had listened to Birdy Edwards's fate. The simple disappointment when he, so young, so naive, had looked up from his chessboard to see Moriarty smile softly at him and say, "Checkmate."
He watched as Moriarty gazed up at the branches hanging over him. The professor looked contemplative and peaceful, and Holmes could not help but hope that he would be there to see Moriarty's face when everything finally ended. He thought that Moriarty would never know the feeling of peace again, and he thought that was good. Fitting. For when had Holmes truly known peace since Moriarty had intruded himself upon Holmes's life, all those years ago? Fleeting hours amongst the wilderness of years. Now they could be matched once more, each a mirror of the other's disquiet and devastation.
Moriarty put his hat back upon his head and then turned, and Holmes found the professor looking back at him calmly, without surprise. He stood, frozen and foolish, feeling as though he had suddenly been pushed to the edge of a tall precipice. Moriarty gazed at him for a few moments, his expression neutral, and then smiled at him. It was a strange smile, edged with amusement and not a little pride, and it made Holmes sick to his stomach. Then he touched his hand to the brim of his hat, turned, and walked slowly away.
Holmes watched him until he disappeared amongst the people and trees.
Two more months.
As always, feedback and criticism are both welcome and cherished.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-01-31 11:57 pm (UTC)i don't know if you've ever read a slight trick of the mind, but that seems to be one of the central themes of the book, which is probably why i love it.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-01 12:49 pm (UTC)I don't tend to have much 'book fanfic', since outside of slash etc I'm mainly interested in pre- or post-canon stories. A Slight Trick... is one of the few 'fiction'* items on my Holmes shelves. As someone once said, fan readers often fall into two groups: people who want 'more of' the canon, and 'more from' the canon. I'm in the 'more from' category, and tend to be more interested in odd stories, slash, and post-canon tales rather than straight pastiche. As a result, I tend to rely on other people to point out the interesting 'adventure' type reading.
Have you ever read Mister Clive & Mister Page by Neil Bartlett? I'd vowed to stop mentioning it to people because they mostly give me funny looks after reading it, but apparently I can't help it.
* Of course it's all fiction, but ah...I'm not sure what you call it if it's not really pastiche.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-01 08:49 pm (UTC)perhaps! i will own that it is not very holmesian, but i like how cullin uses holmes as a sort of tool in exploring some of the fundamental mysteries of life. i think he said in an interview that he started writing the book without the main character being holmes, but a original character who was an old man, who was perhaps a detective in his youth. then as he was working on it he realised that holmes was really who he was writing about, in a strange way, and decided to skip the middleman and make the old man holmes.
i used to have SO MANY holmes pastiches (i got rid of a lot of my books when i kept moving every few months, but i've still got a couple shelves of holmes), and i've read even more from libraries and such. when i first started i liked regular pastiches -- i.e., conan doyle could have written that! but eventually i became rather bored with that -- if i want doyle, i have him, you know? and i was always more enthralled with the "more than" category, which is why some of my favourite books and stories are the crazy ones, the ones where holmes in an android in the future or fighting the occult or that just approach the whole thing from a different direction than normal.
Have you ever read Mister Clive & Mister Page by Neil Bartlett?
no! but it looks damned interesting. *puts on mental to-read list*