Games of Grief by C. J. Strange

Author:C. J. Strange [Strange, C. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Heartcandies Publishing
Published: 2019-04-02T16:00:00+00:00

9 Holmes' Dark Fate

Public Sovereign Library, University College London

November 6, 1:13pm

I must say, I have a strong dislike for libraries named after a government that customarily rejects the idea of its people reading. Or having free access to books. Or knowledge, in almost any shape or form.

But who am I to comment? I was unfortunately never consulted when this particular library was rebuilt, repurposed, and reopened. I’m only perusing the shelves, waiting for my gut to stir and kick in at the opportune moment to most effectively further my investigation.

This ‘Professor James Moriarty’ the young constable mentioned in exchange for some drivel about the Traugr should be easy to pluck out of a crowd, especially the crowds that typically gather in a university library.

And if not, mathematics and engineering students can be just as effortless to pinpoint. I should be able to garner a great deal of information on this paranormally-involved professor via those who spend time with him.

Remarkably, I needn’t go to the trouble.

I’ve barely scanned the first shelf of mathematics textbooks and theorums when I turn and bump into the broad, black cotton-clad chest of the very man I’m looking to research, and ultimately collide with.

I never imagined doing so quite this literally.

“I beg your pardon,” I say politely, flashing a smile.

However, as I move to side-step him, his hand snaps out and ensnares my wrist.

“You,” he breathes, looming almost a foot-and-a-half over me as he all but backs me against the stack of shelves. “You—”

“Me,” is my chipper (albeit slightly uncomfortable) response.

The clean-cut, sculpted hulk of a man I’m reasonably sure is James Moriarty whips his head back and forth, checking over both shoulders and toward each of the entrances in turn.

“My office,” he demands, a gruff tone that brooks no argument even from the most seasoned of rebels. “Now.”

“Yes, professor,” I answer with as much dry zest as I’m able to mete out. He hasn’t yet released my wrist—which, if this were our third date and I were considering getting serious with him, would be setting off a whole host of alarm bells in my brain—and he’s using it to discreetly frog-march me across the library, through one of the side exits, and down a placidly-colored hallway.

The journey to his office is a trifle longer than I might’ve liked. Despite several attempts to spark conversation, my incarcerator seems more keen on maintaining an uncomfortable silence than socializing with me.

“And it truly is such a shame,” I’m lamenting in far too dramatic a tone, as we belatedly reach a door marked MATHEMATICS—J.M. and come to a sudden stop. “Because I do imagine we would make such fine adversaries, if one could remove the stick from up one’s behind long enough to notice—”

He releases my arm with a slight shove, cutting me off. He fishes a set of keys from his pocket and stares at me while he unlocks the door, before pushing it open and stepping aside.

“My utmost apologies for the curtness of my manner,” he says,

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