Ingenium (✓) | Sherlock Holmes

🎓 7*reminiscence

Raja Mosey Trim.

James Moriarty.

My mouth could not have been more agape than it already was. I must have remained in that compromising position for quite some time, considering that James's simper enhanced by the second.

"I surely disarmed you, didn't I?" He inquired, scratching his stubble in a pensive manner.

Besides Rhea, he was the only one who could climb the walls I have built so meticulously and trim them down to nothing. Of course, the degree of destruction was of another type: Rhea's was purely unintentional, gentle and understanding, whereas James's was the ultimate definition of evil.

Even though Rhea almost matched my intellect, Moriarty's capacity was identical. If we could only be described through algorithms, he and I would have appeared as one person.

There is an old saying that stresses upon the idea of opposite attraction – for example, those teenagers' stereotypes about the bad boy and the good girl. As odd as it may sound, identical individuals were magnets to one another as well. I always fancied being provoked by James, and he always enjoyed solving my riddles.

However, in that particular moment – when I collapsed in front of him due to my blood loss – that attraction ceased its development.

"I have never pictured you on your knees. It suits you better." His voice was laced with bitter mockery, while his body was circling mine like a predator's.

I gulped a few times, feeling my mouth rather dry – a physiological reaction which was more than obvious, but apparently in times of life and death, I found it quite amusing to state the evident.

If it wasn't for the pool of blood carelessly contemplated by James, I would have probably collated all variables for a solution. My mind was as blank as a conducting wire after a particle had vanished. No studies would have aided my situation.

A queer thought suddenly stroke my mind. During our conversations, Rhea mentioned that prayers, as abominable as they seemed for a rationalist like me, were helpful. In spite of that, she omitted the fact that a non-believer's prayers would most likely go unnoticed. Was I supposed to pray? How on bloody Earth would a prayer sound? Maybe like a letter, starting with Dear God?

While I was being dragged to the original torture room and my eyes were slowly, but steadily closing, I started a monologue in my head. I bore absolutely no idea about the entity to whom I was addressing, but let's assume that it was, in fact, God.

Dear God (indeed, a letter commencement sounded more plausible),

I have no evidence of Your existence, but if Rhea strongly believes in You, then You must be more than a simple product of imagination. I find myself on a plane with a single destination - death. There seems to be no way out of this impediment, and I could really use whatever power You own. If You can send the Holy Spirit or any other possessions to aid me, I promise that I will reconsider and reanalyze my beliefs.

As soon as I internally uttered the last word, I drifted into unconsciousness. A few hours later – or minutes, I could not possibly count time references while being inert – I woke up to the sound of Rhea's voice. I groaned ruthlessly as I realized that I still could not move. Did she come to rescue me? How could she manage to find out my whereabouts? Were her lips just as moist as I recollected?

Bloody hell, I was most likely raving.

"She has a sweet voice, hasn't she?" James inquired, holding a remote in his right hand. He was over-playing a part of a course where she had to verbally present her assignment.