DEVIL JOHN

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Academic Elitism: an institutional issue

Sorry for being so rant-y lately, but the elitism of university has been a problem for me from the exact moment I accepted my scholarship with a signature and a handshake in high school. (The scholarship was later revoked due to state up-fuckery, but that’s another story, and I was already in too deep by the time they told me).

My parent’s house was only an hour north, my younger sister had already claimed my room, but I was excited. I was in the furthest dorm building, because that’s where the scholarship kids went, it was like a poor kid diversity hall, every few doors was someone from a completely different background, but we were all poor except our Swedish RA, and there was an odd pride in that. We all had various scholarships: robotics, dance team, nerds like me, etc. (not the football or hockey athletes though, they had their own dorm next to the library for… reasons, lol).

But being the last hall, it wasn’t actually full, most of us had entire rooms to ourselves, often whole suites; our hall was co-ed, but rooms were only occupied at every-other, staggered down the corridor. Only the front two halls were used, the back two closed off for construction or codes or something. We had to hike up the hill for dining halls, which was fine until snowdays that shut the whole campus down (and I mean west Michigan ones, with 4+ feet of powder and ice underneath). I had an old computer my dad got me for graduation and I didn’t know it was old until my peers started calling it a dinosaur. I had to use the library computers to write and print papers, and most places I went, I ran into the other scholarship kids. We didn’t talk much, just a head bob here and there, awareness at our similarities and an annoyed spite at being thrown together this way. It was lonely for everyone.

I had a purple flip phone I’d gotten only that calendar year (2009) and was still learning to text with (abbreviations? instant messaging? what?). My roommate had come down from Alaska to live near her dad, we’d talked in the summer, but I never saw her. I moved my things in and her stuff was on her side, I texted her about going to turn in paperwork and when I came back, there was a note on my bed and all her things were gone, she couldn’t do it, had never been away from home for even a night. She left a few mismatched socks and a bag of junk pens that I resented for years. 

Social media was mostly a way to talk to people across campus and exchange homework and party times/locations. We posted over-edited photos of our food and still jogged with our mp3 players and ipods. But within two years, I had to trade in my computer three times and upgrade to a smartphone to keep up with the expectations of communication. Professors would cancel classes by emails an hour out, and if I was on campus, I simply didn’t get the message, running between classes with 19 credit hours and three jobs. Work would call in or cancel my appointments (tutoring) and I needed to be able to communicate at the rate of my peers, so though it wasn’t something we could easily afford, my parents let me get the smartphone and my dad helped me find computers that could keep up with writing papers and researching without having to go to the lab, which saved so much time. 

There was little understanding for my suffering. I didn’t have a car, I had to call my parents and organize a time to get home or take the train which was more expensive than waiting around on an empty campus. They were often things that even the wealthiest students had to deal with, but there were so much more of them for us, more stress, more problems, more solutions, more consequences, and in some ways, more determination.

I spent plenty of breaks holed up in my room, but when the swine flu/H1N1 outbreak happened, guess where they quarantined students?

In our hall. 

Not the back one that was closed. In the room attached to my suite. 

After half a semester alone, suddenly strangers shared my bathroom. I never saw them, I would just hear the formidable click of the bathroom lock followed by the shower. A week later I got a blue half-sheet note in my mailbox about quarantines. The other kids were as pissed off, as we watched kids escorted in with blue masks and were told to just get cleaning wipes from the front desk –they ran out in a week. 

We were the recyclable students, brought in to trade scholarships for university grade averages. Many of my friends were struggling with scholarship qualifications and gpas (which only encouraged my continual obsessive perfectionism and involvement). 

We were expendable. 

I didn’t understand the elitism then, or I did, but I’d twisted it in my head from years tossed between private and public schools. I was an invader, I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I wanted to be. I understood that I didn’t deserve it, that I had to work harder to stay. I completed Master’s coursework for my Bachelor’s degree, finishing two BA programs (anthropology and English: creative writing) and 2 minor programs in philosophy and world lit, lead several campus groups and volunteered with honor’s societies. I spent hours on campus every day, running home just to go to one job or the other. I slept about four hours a night and I still romanticize it because I loved it. And I was good at it. It was a closed system, easy to infiltrate, easy to watch and observe and follow, to feel protected from the world, but there were always ways that I came up short. 

I didn’t have leggings or Northface fleeces or Ugg boots or name brand anything (except a pair of converse I got in 8th grade from my Babcia). I had old high school sweats and soccer shirts, hand-me-down clothes from sisters and cousins that mix-matched a style I thought was unique but I now understand screamed I don’t really belong here. Example: I went to propose an independent study to a professor I really admired and I panicked about what to wear. I still cringe at the memory, gahhhhhh, but I pulled on what I thought was a decent dress because it had no rips or stains or tears and though I’d picked it up from a clearance rack, it was the newest thing and therefore the best. But in retrospect, it was definitely a “party” dress, I grabbed a sweater, hoop earrings that had always been beautiful in my neighborhood, and heels I never wore otherwise, and presented my idea. This old professor was just like “um…did you dress up for me?” Clearly spooked by red flags and I realized my mistake. Saved by quick thinking I clarified “no, I have a presentation later,” and being a familiar face in the social sciences department, I let him assume I was dressed up as something. I just went in my sweats and t-shirts after that, got a haircut that tamed the wavy frizz and learned the importance of muted tones, cardigans, and flats.

I made a lot of interesting friends in the process, people who also stuck out from the American Academic culture: exchange students, older (non-traditional) students, rebels, and other poor kids. But that also meant that we all evolved during our time there, so friendship was quick and fleeting as we adapted or dropped out or remained oblivious, lost in our studies and dreams of changing the world or our lives. 

I had no idea how to approach the dining halls because I could only afford the bronze plan that was included with my room+board scholarship. I could enter the hall ten times per week, with four included passes to the after-hours carry-out (this was an upgrade from the free high school lunch I was coming from). I met other kids on this plan and their dorm rooms had fridges and microwaves and shelves of ramen and mac’n’cheese. Mine was sparse, my fridge had jugs of water from the filtered tap in the common room, and though it had a shared kitchenette, it always smelled bad or was being used and the nearest grocery store was Meijers which was a 15-20 minute drive from campus. I used so much energy dividing up my meals and figuring out how to sneak food from the hall for later or just learn to not eat, which is another story involving malnutrition, broken bones, and the American Healthcare System.

We like to summarize the college experience with fond struggles. I went back to my old high school to watch my younger sisters’ marching band competition that first year (it’s MI, and they were good). My old art teacher (not much older than we were but she felt so much older at the time, also her maiden name was Erickson and so was her fiance’s so she didn’t “change” her name and that blows my mind to this day), anyway, she stopped me to ask how school was going, and I was not prepared to be recognized in anyway and stammered out something like “oh, yeah, stressful. Fun, cool, yeah,” like the eloquent well-educated student I was. And she said, “oh, I loved it, don’t you love it? Everything’s so charming, and being poor? Oh man, it’s hard for a while, but it’s so good to go through.” 

I was dumbfounded at her reference to poverty as a thing to go through when you’re a student. I again had to remember that I was infiltrating places where people weren’t just marginally more well-off than I was, but far beyond, in a place where they couldn’t comprehend an alternative, couldn’t conceive of surviving poverty, of not having a reliable place to fall if you mess up, parents who couldn’t support you if things went wrong, who couldn’t save you from having to drop out if scholarships were canceled because the money just wasn’t there.

Talking with my parents never worked, and I recently found this video by The Financial Diet about Boomer shame in being poor, where many Millennials were united by it and it was #relatable. But all this is to say that there are so many layers and ways we develop in higher education that are often overlooked by the romantic nostalgia of the elite expectation. What we demand from education vs. what it offers us in return is rarely equal for students coming from poverty, and it starts with that first sacrifice of looking at money and deciding it has to be worth it to do something bigger, and that education is a necessary piece of that goal.

Now I live near Brown University, I’ve been to Harvard when we lived in Boston and recently took a trip to Yale with bold expectations. I am friends with several people who work at these places and I hear the same things: so many students are in a place where their obsessions are considered more important than the larger world, an argument that Shakespeare is a woman is more important to prove than the greater issues of sexism in society as a whole, while others are trained to look at data and the world as a pocketable fact-book, going to conferences and  week-long summits and then off to D.C. to make important decisions about places they’ve never been to, for people they’ve never met, about problems they’ve never experienced.  

It’s not new. It’s not romantic. It’s not nostalgic. It’s just sick. 

I was horrified at New Haven. I have read so many social science reports and papers and experiments and academic bullshit that has come from professors at Yale with a big badge of ivy-league validation. So much of this research was focused on homelessness and culture clash and socio-economics in America, as that was my “dissertation” that got me discounted master’s classes for my BA in Anthropology. Anyway, my point was that I thought this noble, proud university that put out so much research was going to be situated in something of a utopia, where their research is put into practice. Obviously, I was wrong, but I didn’t expect how wrong. (I had also started reading Leigh Bardugo’s Ninth House, so… there’s another thing).

My observations were validated by employees of ivy-league schools, who have watched over the past 2 decades as they grow more and more reclusive, hiding away from the public except through a few, probably well-intentioned, outstretched hands that do little to contribute to the world outside the university itself. These ivory towers are built by poaching: environments, observations, resources, research, and yeah, even students.

I love academia. I will sit in a library for hours just pulling down tomes (and putting them back in their proper locations like a dork) and drawing connections just for fun. But right now, I’m a bit bitter and spiteful and angry. 

When something like Coronavirus sneaks up on us, we have a tendency to throw the most expendable people under the bus as quickly as we can, and all I can think about is my shadow of a suite-mate sneezing and coughing with swine flu for two weeks, at how I refused to use my own bathroom and listened to my hall-mates’ advice about showering at the rec center a mile away as we all collectively locked our bathroom doors and were left there by the university to get sick without insurance to help with any foreseeable costs.

It’s not the same now, they’ve rebuilt the entire section of the campus, it’s odd to see it, I wonder where they put the expendable kids. Or maybe they don’t accept them anymore. I’ve worked in college admissions since then, and it is a scary industry of politics and preference and hidden quotas and image-agendas. Not all schools are industry monsters, but when you’re expendable, they sure do feel like it, whether you graduate summa cum laude with two degrees, six awards, and five tasseled ropes around your neck or not. 

I wish I had a positive message. I wish I was in a place to help people who feel expendable or like they can’t keep up with communications because of technology or language or network or environment. But I don’t have much right now. For all its posturing and linear progression, academia needs to create profit. All I can do is yell about this existing.

If you are feeling expandable in university, I can tell you you’re not alone. I can let you rant about all the small ways your peers don’t get it, whether its an accent they shit on or ceremonies you don’t have the right clothes for or textbooks you share with a friend to cut costs but then they hoard them. I can relate to you about guilt and that sneaking panic that fills you with anxiety at night as you question yourself and wonder if it’s worth it at all, if it’s necessary, if it’s okay to be expendable to follow something that feels bigger. I can validate your doubt and tell you that you’re not actually expendable, you’re a bridge. 

I’m sorry it still works like this. I wish we figured out how to change it by now, I wish I had secret shortcuts to tell you about, that there was more accountability or hope, but I’m not seeing it lately. I hope you do. <3

Watch: Jesse Williams is done with these excuses

John & Sherlock in a Gay Bar

Down with this Ship by FrostedFlame (PinkOrchid), 10 k, mature. Sherlock takes John dancing at a gay bar … for a case, supposedly. He expects John to be embarrassed by the outing, but Sherlock has never been so wrong about something. Bi-John in full club gear is a sight to behold!

Ridiculous by professorfangirl (lizeckhart), 6 k,explicit. A bit of plot, but mostly sex. John looks ridiculous in the outfit Sherlock makes him wear undercover to the gay bar, but remains so competent, ever the coiled and waiting warrior. Hot and then sweet sex when they get home and John throws him up against the wall.  A little bit of red pants. ;) Good character study of both of them. (Locked to AO3 users.)

 Strictly Business by milverton, 14 k, explicit. Classic cute Johnlock. John and Sherlock enter into a “sex only with no strings” relationship, but of course, those pesky feelings do follow. Love it. Bonus birthday lunch with Harry and friends, and a trip to a gay bar. Yum.

Time on my hands by Mildredandbobbin, 7 k words. Sherlock decides to experiment with his sexuality, and discovers gay bars. When John finally moves back into 221b, and discovers that Sherlock is picking up men for sex, he can’t not offer to be one of them. Lovely, and lyrical, this work has the feel of an inevitable pull of fate. So beautifully told from Sherlock’s point of view. (Locked to AO3 members.)

Yours by lookupkate, explicit, 3 k. John and Sherlock go to a gay club for a case. John gets hit on and Sherlock gets jealous. Gay sex ensues. Hot Toplock.

Dancing Home by May_Shepard, 6 k, explicit. John Watson loves to dance. He’s always loved it, even if he’s never said so. This is a fantastic look at John’s stealth lovelife with men, all the times he danced with someone special he could never acknowledge, crashing together in his mind as he dances with Sherlock at that gay bar on his Stag Night. Thumbs up – just incredible!

The Only Hope for Me is You by alexabarton, 11 k, explicit. It’s the last weekend before school starts and Sherlock Holmes is out on the pull. John Watson is starting a new job and a brand new life after the break down of his marriage. It’s only meant to be a one-night stand until it all turns a little bit complicated. Teenlock. John is much older than Sherlock.

The Gay Bar Scene that never was by MadSophHatter, 1 k, teen. The gay bar scene from The Sign of Three as I envisioned it. Featuring a confused Sherlock, halfnaked men, sexy dancing and John who is absolutely not jealous.

We’re Going To A Gay Bar by CommunionNimrod, 8 k explicit. Without a case, Sherlock is being driven out of his mind with boredom. He is also being driven out of his mind with his desire for his flat mate and best friend, John Watson. Since he can have neither, he needs to find another way to silence his mind and occupy himself that doesn’t end in turning back to drugs. The night takes them to a nearby gay bar.

For a Case by ckerased, 2k, teen. Sherlock convinces John to come to a gay club with him to get information for a murder case. When Sherlock begins getting a bit too friendly with one possible witness, John intervenes.

With Me By Your Side Always by janescott, 2 k, mature. John and Sherlock go to a gay club for a case. Everyone starts hitting on John, but he thinks they’re just trying to get to Sherlock through him. Meanwhile, Sherlock is fuming.

Whisper Game by astudyinrose, 11 k, explicit. John is on his stag night at a gay club a few weeks before he ships out to Afghanistan…when he meets Sherlock Holmes.

Inertia Creeps by chucksauce, 3 k, explicit. John should’ve known something was up when he came home one evening to Sherlock pacing before the windows only to pivot on one heel and pin him with a stare. That didn’t mean, however, that he was prepared to show off his thespian chops by pretending to be Sherlock’s boyfriend in the middle of a gay bar for the sake of a case.

By the Pale Moonlight by alexxphoenix42, 5 k, explicit. Sherlock notices that once a month, John gets tarted up, slips off to parts unknown, and stays gone till the next morning with nary an explanation. Sherlock can’t resist a mystery of any stripe, but certainly not one that involves JOHN.

Denial by A_Candle_For_Sherlock, 4 k, gen. “Imagine john and sherlock going to a gay bar for a case and the bartender/manager recognizes sherlock and is all like, ‘Sherlock!! I haven’t seen you in years! How are you? Is this your boyfriend?‘” Or, what happens when denial finally gets too hard to maintain.

Devil John

Chapter 6 - Whiskey

Fandom:Sherlock

Rating: Explicit

Excerpt:

“She's leaving us, Harriet. Too good for the likes of us, I guess.” His mother smiles, one of those sad smiles that are meant to reassure, but never do. “At least I have you to depend on, Love. You won't leave me, will you John? Come here.”

She opens her arms and wraps them around him careful to hold her cigarette hand out, so she doesn't burn him. John reaches his left hand around to pat her back as she rests her head against his shirt. A moment later, he feels it grow damp from her tears.

“Don't let this happen to you, Johnny. Find yourself a good gentle wife to settle down with. One that doesn't drink or smoke too much. Then maybe your kids won't hate you and run off.”

“Mum, Harry doesn't hate you.”

“It's all right if she does. I don't blame her for it. And when you finally leave, I won't blame you either.”

John wraps both arms around his mother and holds her tight. “I'm not leaving, Mum. I won't abandon you, not ever.”

“My loyal John. Some girl is going to love that about you. My best, my brightest son.” She kisses his arm. Then everything fades and they are on the grey plane again.

John covers his face with his hands. How long had it been since he had even thought about his mother.

continued on AO3

Victorian Holmes Prompt Box is up and running!

This is an all-year-round prompt challenge for all Holmes universes set in the 19th century (ACD Canon, Granada, A Study In Emerald, etc.). You can post prompts or pick some to fill. Deadlines are optional: you can set them for your prompts or leave them open-ended. This is a no pressure challenge, so you can fill prompts at your own pace (if the deadline is not specified by the prompt poster). There is a prompt filling month twice a year, though, when everyone is encouraged to fill the prompts they’ve picked over the previous months (see announcements later). Any ratings, from Gen to Explicit. No word count restrictions. Artists and vidders are very welcome to join!

To post a prompt: log in to AO3 and hit the “sign up” button. To post prompts anonymously tick the “semi-anonymous” box when entering your prompt.

To view all prompts: go to the collection menu and choose “prompts”.

I added three prompts so far. One for Anthony Horowitz’s Moriarty plus one for Neil Gaiman’s A Study in Emerald (like, I have some questions after reading both. I don’t think I’m going to write in those ‘verses, but if somebody did, I’d be happy!) and one ACD (I’d love to write a story about it but I have zero headcanons). Absolutely anyone can add prompts! Even if you don’t intend to fill any :) Who knows, maybe your prompt will inspire someone!

Tagging everyone who liked/reblogged/commented on the previous post

@oldshrewsburyian, @jangma, @lilietherly, @sarahthecoat, @snorlaxpillow, @dis-queen-of-erebor, @mayumi122, @srajobrazy, @caroline4everfan, @tremendousdetectivetheorist, @sabrina-phynn, @detectiveoscarwilde, @thetribblewithspock, @meteoritesfallinthespring, @eltorige-blog, @aneholmes, @jeremyholmes, @revolant, @shatneredperson, @deaththeyamikid, @sanguinarysanguinity, @bumblum, @gardnerhill, @bowiecadmium

Please spread the word!

The Final Problem - 1

Summary:

Moriarty, damaged but not dead due to a self-inflicted bullet wound, kidnaps Sherlock and his three friends and threatens to kill them unless they can help him find the meaning of life.

Chapter 1 - Not Awake                           

Sherlock Holmes awoke one morning to find that he was not yet awake.

He was sitting in his flat at 221B Baker Street. The fireplace was lit. The noises of cars drifted in through the window. A gentle light was shining in through though the curtains. And something was horribly wrong.

Being disoriented was not a new occurrence for Sherlock Holmes, not with his reawakened interest in drugs, but Sherlock felt none of the hallmarks of waking after a high. Nothing except the hopefully temporary loss of memory of how he had got here.

He rose to his feet and placed a hand on the mantle as he tried to zero in on what exactly it was that was wrong. Everything appeared to be in its proper place: His framed bat. His skull. His letters. The knife was gone from the mantle, but he could see it in the wall, pierced through the Cleudo board. He remembered doing that in a fit of pique after John had refused to play with him simply because he insisted that the victim must have killed himself. All in all it looked like a perfectly normal day, except....

John had removed the board from the wall at Mrs Hudson's request, years ago, and at another time, through no fault of his own, it had been thrown into the fire. John had fished it out, but the board had been damaged beyond repair, and Mrs Hudson had thrown it away. But if that was so, how was it on the wall now?

Sherlock had heard of drug reactions where a person was thrown violently into a memory of the past. He discounted this quickly enough. John's mug was not in the kitchen rack, and his coat was not on the hook. His absence, along with the presence of the purple scarf that Molly had knit him after his return, were enough to show Sherlock that this was not a memory. This was home, but not home. Real, but not real. Perfectly familiar, but alien as another planet.

It wasn't until Sherlock knelt down and stared into the fire, that he understood that he was in a fantasy not of his own devising, for although the fire was burning brightly, the wood was not being consumed. Perhaps the laws of time could be bent so that one wall of the flat existed at a different time from the other wall, but Sherlock was not so foolish as to believe that the laws of entropy could be changed. Wood that burned must be consumed. If it was not consumed then the laws of physics did not apply.

Despite the fact that everything felt real to him, he realized that he was in a dream or a fantasy. It was obvious that the fantasy world was not of his own devising, because there was no John.

Sherlock walked into the hall and looked down over the railing. Despite the fact that his flat was on the first floor, the stairwell seemed to go on forever. He returned to the fireplace and frowned down at the fire before saying to the air. "Alright, I know that you are here. Come out, come out whoever you are."

He looked toward the sound of footsteps.

His eyes widened, but he shouldn't have been surprised, not really. Who else would think to trap him in an artificial world? Who else but James Moriarty?

He was dressed in a black floor length robe and a priest's collar. A picture of austerity somewhat undone by the sight of his Gucci shoes.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" he said as he strolled slowly into the room, hands clasped behind his back. He cast a lazy glance around before boring into Sherlock with the black malevolence of his eyes.

Sherlock gestured toward a seat. "Please."

"I'd rather stand," Moriarty said.

"No matter." Sherlock glanced at his own chair before deciding to sit in John's. He crossed his legs and interlaced his fingers setting them atop his knee. "I'm sorry that I have no tea to offer you this time, but it wouldn't be real tea anyway, would it? Where are we by the way?"

"As you can see, we are in your flat."

"No we're not."

"You looked down the stairwell. You tell me where we are."

"We appear to be in my mind palace, or a part of it at least. But I'm not doing this, so I must be dreaming."

"You are, and you aren't."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that this is real, in as much as you and I are really talking."

"But not real in any physical sense. How exactly is that possible? I saw you die."

"John Watson saw you die, and yet, here you are. Do you think that you could accomplish something that I could not? Oh Sherlock, don't be so naive. Death isn't enough to stop men like us from doing what we really want."

"And what do you want to do?"

"I'm doing it."

"Doing what? Talking to me in a dream?"

"Not so much a dream as a simulation."

"A simulation... Oh, of course. This world is artificial. A construct of my mind and yours combined. The traumatic limb therapy experiment!"

"Good, Good."

"A military funded experiment designed to reduce the shock of catastrophic limb loss injuries by allowing the patient to view themselves as still having their limbs, but it didn't work."

"They liked the world too much. Hated that when they left it, they still had no working limbs. The project was a failure. But the technology was a success, so I appropriated it."

"You tapped into their system. Made a simulated image of yourself in the computer which you flashed all over the country. A simulated image of a simulated body. That's why it looked so strange, but how is it that you look so much more real now?"

"That's because you are in the machine with me. The device allows us to create worlds from our memories and to interact with others in our created world. Most people can't tell this from the real world. Only people like you and I, who have trained our minds to a razor point, only we can consciously shape the world to our will."

"But if, as you say, this is just a simulated image, how do I know if you are the real Moriarty or not?"

"Oh, Sherlock," he said in a sing-song voice, "You know that, like Johann Sebastian Bach, I could never leave a song unfinished. Our melody is incomplete. The song ended, but you kept on playing past the end of the piece. That was VERY NAUGHTY of you."

"It's been nearly three years. Why haven't you shown yourself before now?"

"Well, a shot to the head is not without some side effects. I may not be quite as ... attractive as I once was, but I assure you, the brain is as agile as ever, and that's what matters in the end. Isn't that what you used to say, Sherlock? 'All the rest is transport.' "

"Alright. I'll assume that you're Moriarty. What do you want?"

"I already told you! I want the answer to the final question. You found the answer without telling me."

"What didn't I tell you?"

"You survived, Sherlock. You survived! How can you stand it? Living day in and day out. Dealing with ordinary people and their stupidity. We both cheated death, but somehow you've found the answer that has alluded me. How can you go on living in a world full of such pointless ignorance?"

"But... you obviously found a way not to die."

"There's a difference between existence and survival. I'm not dead, but I haven't found a way to survive. "

"Are you asking me? 'What is the meaning of life?' "

"In so many words, Yes!"

"That's not a scientific question. You should ask a priest."

"Oh, I did, I did! I talked to Father George at great length. It's in his honor that I am wearing these robes today. He tried to sell me some fairy story about God and Devils. He made a good case, but in the end, I rejected his answer as too simplistic. I know that you will come up with something better."

"Philosophy is not my area. If you were to talk to him again, perhaps...."

Moriarty stretched his neck one way and then the other, and his face went completely, horrifyingly blank. "Unfortunately, he's unavailable. You see, I sent him ahead to talk to his God. I asked him to put in a good word, but I'm not sure that he did."

"You're mad!"

"You already knew that."

"I can't help you find the answer to your question."

"It that your final answer? Because if so, your friends will die, but I'll make sure that they suffer first."

"My friends? Where are you keeping them?"

"They're here, with us in the simulation, all of them... except Molly Hooper. She was able to help you escape last time, so she wasn't invited to this little dream of ours."

"I don't understand why you're asking me this? There are billions of people in the world. There must be someone more suited to give you spiritual guidance than me."

"No. I tried that route. Who cares what stupid thoughts console an amoeba, because that's what ordinary people are compared to you and me, amoebas. It's like sitting alone in your room and playing with dolls. But I need to know, Is there anything at all worth living for?"

"Men have been asking that question for millennia."

"You, however, have considerably less time to figure it out."

"How long?"

"Eight hours."

"Eight hours?"

"Yes, or you all will die."

"But... I still don't understand. Why ask me?"

"Because, you're alive! And you told me yourself that you ARE me. I know that you've got the answer inside you somewhere, so off you pop!" Moriarty walked toward the open door. He turned back as he reached the hallway and said, "Find our answer, and don't fail me! Your friends escaped harm before, but there will be no mistakes this time. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

Moriarty smiled then, a smile that could freeze a man solid, then he left down the hall. Sherlock rose to his feet, and rushed after him, but he had vanished.

TBC

Luisa Capetillo (1879-1922): The Activist Arrested For Wearing Pants

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