Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(86)

Though I was shaken by the accuracy of his observations, I did my best not to show it. From that point on, I conducted a fairly standard intake interview. The boy’s parents were deceased, killed two years earlier when their car slid off an icy road while they were returning from a New Year’s Eve party. His parents had both been successful attorneys.

At the end, I spoke with his aunt alone. I told her I thought I could help the boy, but that it might take some time. She agreed to bring him back for sessions twice a week.

I walked her out of my office to where the boy sat waiting in the hallway. I explained what his aunt and I had decided. He didn’t seem upset in the least. I bid them goodbye, and the woman started away. But the boy held back and, before catching up with his aunt, whispered something to me in a grave voice.

I returned to my office and stood at the window, looking down at the street, watching them get into the woman’s old sedan and drive away. The whole time, the final words the boy had spoken to me ran through my head: One thing you should know, Watson. Moriarty is here.



I’m a bit of a dreamer. That’s why my wife left me. Well, one of the reasons. And so, truthfully, I was inclined to be sympathetic toward Oliver Holmes, who, like me, and despite his protestations to the contrary, was someone wanting to be someone else. I found myself looking forward to our next visit three days later. When Oliver showed up, his aunt simply dropped him off, saying she would be back in an hour. She had errands to run.

We sat in my office, and I asked how his days had gone since I last saw him.

He cut to the chase. “I’ve been worried about Moriarty.”

“Tell me about him.”

“You know who he is, Watson.”

“I’ve read my Conan Doyle,” I said.

“Then you understand the evil he’s capable of.”

“Is this really Moriarty or another instance of some kind of, what did you call it? ‘A concrete reflection of a literary reality’?”

“Moriarty is not the source of all evil, Watson. But his malicious intent here is quite real.”

“So he’s up to something?”

“What a stupid question, Watson. Of course he’s up to something. The real question is what?”

“You’ve seen him, then?”

“Of course.”

“Can you describe him to me?”

“I’ve never seen him except in disguise.”

“If he was in disguise and you’ve never seen him otherwise, how do you know it was him?”

“A wolf may don sheep’s clothing, but he still behaves like a wolf.”

I sat back and considered the boy.

“Do you play chess?” I finally asked.

“Of course. Since I was four.”

“Care to play a game?”

“On my aunt’s nickel? Isn’t that a bit unfair to her, Watson?”

“Tell you what. I give every client one free session. We’ll count this as your free one.”

He shrugged, a very boy-like gesture, and I went to a cabinet and brought out my chess set.

“Carved alabaster,” he said, clearly impressed. “Roman motif.”

“I take my chess seriously.”

We set up the board and played for half an hour to a stalemate. I was impressed with how well he conducted himself. I’m no slouch, and he kept me on my toes. Mostly, however, it afforded me an opportunity to observe his thinking. He was aggressive, too much so, I thought. He didn’t consider his defense as carefully as he should have in order to anticipate the danger inherent in some of his bolder moves. He was smart, beyond smart, but he was still a child. I could tell it irritated him that he didn’t win.

“Tell me more about Moriarty,” I said.

“I believe he killed my parents.” It was an astounding statement, but he spoke it as a simple truth.

“Your aunt told me they died in an automobile accident.”

“Moriarty was behind it.”

“To what end?”

“I don’t know. Ever since I realized he was here, I’ve been observing him. I haven’t quite deciphered the pattern of his actions.”

“Observing him how?”

“How does one normally observe, Watson? I’ve been following him.”

This alarmed me, though I tried not to show it. His brashness, if what he told me was true, was the kind of heedless aggression I’d seen in his chess play. Though I didn’t believe in Moriarty, whatever the boy was up to wasn’t healthy.

A knock at the door ended our session. His aunt entered the office.

“Could I speak with you alone?” I asked.

“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” she said. “Perhaps next time. Come on, Oliver. We’ve got to run.”

When they’d gone, I was left with a profound sense of uneasiness. Whatever was going on, I couldn’t help thinking that the boy was heading somewhere dangerous, dangerous to him and perhaps to others. Frankly, I wasn’t sure what to do except bide my time until our next visit.



“Would you care to see him, Watson?” the boy asked. “Moriarty.”

His aunt had dropped him at the door to the building, and he’d come up alone. He’d insisted on a chess rematch, and while we’d played I’d probed him more about his obsession with that fictional villain.