I, Moriarty

“It is with great deliberation that I commit my tale to paper, for the edification of all who may chance upon it. I have deemed it prudent to confine my narrative to less than three thousand words, as I am given to understand that the average gentleman's faculty of concentration extends no further. It seems only fitting that at least half of the literate populace should be privy to my extraordinary account. And so we begin…

In the year of our Lord 1859, I entered this world, born to a family of modest means in the ancient city of York. From the very dawn of my consciousness, it became abundantly clear that I possessed an intellect far surpassing that of my peers. While other youngsters grappled with the rudiments of arithmetic, I found myself effortlessly unraveling the most intricate of mathematical conundrums.

My dear parents, both staunch pedagogues, did their utmost to nurture my unnatural abilities, though they could scarcely fathom the true depths of my genius. Yet, it was within the confines of our humble abode that I first encountered the harsh realities of this world. My mother, a furious woman, would unleash her wrath upon all who refused to bend to her will. She taught me a lesson I have never forgotten: that to be shrouded, imperceptible, undetectable was to be safe. My father, a man of stern disposition, believed fervently in the adage "spare the rod and spoil the child." His belt was ever at the ready, and I bore the brunt of his misguided attempts at discipline with stoic resolve. 

Within the schoolroom of learning, I stood apart, an unremitting titan among imperceptive mortals. My academic pursuits were completed with promptness and precision that left my fellow pupils begrudgingly resentful. Yet, this intellectual prowess came at a terrible cost. The headmaster, a brutish man with a penchant for corporal punishment, seemed to take insidious pleasure in attempting to beat humility into my person. His cane never left his grip and battered both my flesh and my psyche.

Despite these trials, or perhaps because of them, I escaped further into the realm of numbers and theorems, finding solace in the elegant simplicity of mathematics. The physical world, with its arbitrary cruelties, held little appeal when compared to the pure logic of equations and proofs.

By the time I had reached my twelfth year, I had thoroughly exhausted the curriculum of my local academy. My parents, recognising their inability to further challenge my burgeoning intellect, made great sacrifices to secure my admission to a prestigious boarding school in the heart of London. It was within these august surroundings that my academic prowess truly began to flourish, though the spectre of violence continued to loom large.

The boarding school, while offering intellectual stimulation beyond my wildest dreams, was also a breeding ground for the basest of human instincts. Older boys, emboldened by their seniority and the tacit approval of the faculty, subjected their juniors to unspeakable torments. I, with my superior intellect and physical frailty, became a favoured target for their vicious games.

It was during these dark days that I first began to contemplate the nature of power and the arbitrary rules that governed society. I observed how those in authority wielded their power with impunity, how strength and connections often trumped merit and intellect. These lessons, learned at such a tender age, would shape my worldview in ways I could scarcely have imagined at the time.

At the tender age of fifteen, I published my inaugural mathematical treatise, a groundbreaking discourse on the binomial theorem. The academic world was set aflame with excitement. 

As I left behind the world of my youth, I vowed that I would never again be at the mercy of those who sought to dominate through brute force. I would forge my own path, using my intellect as both shield and sword against a world that had shown me nothing but cruelty...

Universities vied for the honour of my attendance, and I found myself thrust into the glaring spotlight of scholarly acclaim. After careful deliberation, I selected Cambridge, drawn by its rich mathematical heritage and the opportunity to engage with some of the finest minds in all of Christendom.

The rarefied atmosphere of university life suited me admirably. I thrived in an environment that celebrated intellectual pursuits and sought to push the very boundaries of human knowledge. By my twenty-first year, I had secured my first doctorate and was well on my way to becoming one of the youngest professors in Cambridge's illustrious history. 

My work on dynamics and celestial mechanics promised nothing less than a complete revolution in our understanding of the cosmos. Yet, as my star ascended in the firmament of academia, I found myself increasingly isolated. My esteemed colleagues, while outwardly respectful of my intellectual prowess, were decades my senior and regarded me more as a curiosity than a true peer. Pupils, intimidated by the sheer force of my genius, shunned my lectures. I began to feel the crushing weight of my own exceptionalism, a burden that would only grow more onerous with the passage of time.

The pivotal moment arrived in the year 1884. 

I, now twenty five and a full professor, submitted a paper on the dynamics of an asteroid for publication in a most prestigious journal. Months of silence elapsed, and upon inquiring about the delay, I was struck dumb with shock to discover that my paper had been summarily rejected. More alarming still, a strikingly similar treatise was soon published under the name of one Professor Henry Hutton, a well-connected but decidedly mediocre mathematician from Oxford. I was certain beyond the shadow of a doubt that my work had been pilfered. 

I appealed to the journal's editors, to the academic board, even to the authorities at my own beloved university. But at every turn, I was met with polite dismissals and thinly veiled insinuations that I was overwrought, perhaps even of unsound mind. 

The academic community that had once lauded me now closed ranks, protecting one of their own against the accusations of a young upstart. The betrayal cut me to the quick. I had dedicated my life to the pursuit of knowledge, to expanding the horizons of human understanding. And to what end? To have my life's work stolen, my reputation besmirched, my genius called into question? 

The hallowed halls of academia, which I had once revered, now seemed rotten to the very core. In the months that followed, I withdrew from public life, citing concerns for my health. In truth, I was embarking upon a new course of study. 

If the legitimate world would not recognise my genius, perhaps there were other avenues to explore...

I began by applying my mathematical prowess to the intricacies of the stock market. Utilising complex algorithms of my own devising, I found myself able to predict market fluctuations with uncanny accuracy. 

My personal wealth grew at an exponential rate, but more than that, I discovered a hitherto unknown thrill in manipulating the system, in outwitting those who fancied themselves clever.

But the stock market, dear reader, was merely the beginning of my foray into the world of illicit enterprise. I soon realised that my prodigious skills could be applied to all manner of clandestine activities. I commenced with modest endeavours, using my predictive models to aid smugglers in evading the watchful eyes of customs officials. 

From these humble beginnings, I graduated to more elaborate schemes: currency manipulation, art forgery, and even the subtle art of election rigging. As my criminal enterprises expanded, I found myself adopting a page from the playbook of that infamous American criminal, Adam Worth. I must confess, no one approached the art of criminality quite like our cousins across the Atlantic. I accomplished in meeting with this extraordinary man and learned much from his exploits.

I set about creating multiple identities, each with its own carefully crafted backstory and network of associates. To the world at large, I remained Professor James Moriarty, a reclusive but respected academic. But in the shadowy corners of London's underworld, I became known by other, more colourful sobriquets: The Professor, The Spider, The Master of Malfeasance, and most grandiloquent of all, The Napoleon of Crime.

I took particular pleasure in orchestrating elaborate heists. Like Worth, I developed a passion for fine art, not for its aesthetic value, you understand, but for the exquisite challenge it presented. I orchestrated the theft of a Caravaggio from the National Gallery, a feat that left the good gentlemen of Scotland Yard utterly baffled. The painting was never recovered, but I kept it hidden in a secret room within my London townhouse, a private trophy of my criminal genius.

As my reputation grew in the criminal world, I established a strict code of conduct for my operations. Violence was to be avoided at all costs. 

This was not out of any moral compunction, you understand, but because it was inefficient and drew unwanted attention. I preferred subtlety, misdirection, and the careful manipulation of human weakness. 

My criminal empire became a well-oiled machine, with myself at its centre, the spider in a vast web of illegal activities. Yet for all my success in the underworld, I never forgot the slight I had suffered in academia. 

I used my growing influence to systematically destroy the careers of all my professorial peers, starting with Hutton. 

Anonymous tips led to accusations of plagiarism, fabricated data, and pervasive impropriety. Within a year, Hutton was forced to resign in disgrace, his reputation in tatters.

But even this victory felt hollow. I realised that I had outgrown my desire for mere revenge. I now craved something greater: a challenge worthy of my intellect. The criminal world, for all its dangers and complexities, was beginning to bore me. I could predict and manipulate outcomes with such ease that it hardly seemed sporting.

It was in this state of restless ennui that I first became aware of one Sherlock Holmes. I read about the detective's exploits in the newspaper, initially dismissing him as yet another self-aggrandizing charlatan. But as Holmes's reputation grew, I began to pay closer attention. Here, at last, was a mind that might be capable of understanding my own. 

A worthy adversary. 

I began to orchestrate small crimes, not for profit, you understand, but as a test. I watched with growing excitement as Holmes solved each one, coming ever closer to the centre of my web. Philandering with the detective became my obsession. 

I stood at the window of my study, gazing out over the fog-shrouded streets of London. A small smile played across my lips as I contemplated the mystery I had taken months to orchestrate. For the first time in years, I felt truly alive. In my hand, I held a newspaper with the headline: "Sherlock Holmes Solves the Case of the Beryl Coronet." 

"Well, Mr. Holmes," I murmured, "let us see how you fare against a real challenge."

And so, dear reader, I bring my narrative to a close. I trust that this account has provided you with a glimpse into the mind of a man whom society has deemed a villain, but who sees himself as nothing less than a genius unbound by the petty constraints of conventional morality. 

Whether you view me with admiration or abhorrence, I care not. For in the end, it is not the opinion of the masses that matters, but the recognition of that one mind capable of truly understanding my own. 

And that mind, I believe, belongs to Sherlock Holmes. 

Our great game has only just begun.”