Free The Fall by Annelie Wendeberg

warfare together impressed me every time. It scared me, too. My room to manoeuvre was very limited.
    ‘I will let Goff procure more mice and an array of cages. It will be difficult, though, to study the spread of disease in such a small room.’ I thought about space, air circulation, and isolation of infected individuals. None of it made sense. The risk of transmission was too high. ‘It will not be possible,’ I said finally.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘The laboratory is too small. If we want to study transmission, animals in control groups should be isolated from one another. We want to test the spreading of disease through wind, food, and water. But if the test subjects are all in one small room, sooner or later they will all be infected and we won’t know what exactly was the most efficient or the least controllable vector. Besides, if hospital staff suddenly contract anthrax, the project will be over before it begins.’ How curious that I could make it sound as though it bothered me to ruin our germ warfare project.
    He pressed his fingertips together and shut his eyes. His hunch worsened. ‘Would a warehouse be suitable?’
    ‘If it’s dry and its walls and ceiling are intact, yes. Can we guard it?’
    ‘Certainly.’
    ‘Some renovations might be necessary. We will probably need to pull up walls to separate rooms or seal doors,’ I added.
    ‘That won’t be a problem,’ he said in a strained voice as he rose to his feet. ‘To the smoking room,’ he squeezed through his teeth and walked ahead. I followed, wondering at how casual he appeared over financial issues. And then it hit me. So stupid of me! Who else would pay for research into novel warfare technologies if not the government and the military?  
    How odd. Although one essential puzzle piece seemed to have been found, the whole picture had just grown so vast that I could barely see its outlines.

    Once there, Moriarty sat down on the ottoman. His hand shook slightly as he opened a tin the size of his palm, revealing a brownish cake. He took a knife and pried a piece off, struck a match and lit a lump of charcoal on a platter, occasionally blowing onto it. The brown substance stuck to the knife’s tip, was held half an inch from the red heat. I could hear it sizzling. Uncertain whether he wished me to stay or to leave, I remained and observed.  
    Pungent smoke started to fill the room, and its odour felt strangely familiar. Much like the fireflies I had caught as a child.
    He used a slender pipe to blow air onto the brown lump, which I guessed to be opium. Then he sucked on the mouthpiece, blew at the drug, inhaled again. And so it went on, inhaling and blowing, until a minute or two later, he closed his eyes and leaned back, holding his breath.
    After a long moment, a thin sliver of fume exited his nostrils, curling upwards to disappear. The thought of a dragon brushed my mind.
    ‘Sit, please,’ he said softly, gesturing towards the ottoman’s end. I approached, my silk dress rustling a cautious whisper. He smiled and the change that came upon him shocked me. His expression was soft and friendly. His hand stroked his waistcoat as though this simple gesture gave him great satisfaction. Yet his mind seemed sharp and observant; he had noticed my slight hesitation.
    ‘You assume I am addicted? Well, maybe I am. Rheumatism creates the need for chemical relief.’
    ‘I doubt that.’
    ‘Excuse me?’ There it was again — the coldness in his voice that could cut through any conversation.
    ‘I doubt your physician made the correct diagnosis.’
    ‘Intriguing,’ he replied, appearing genuinely interested. ‘What is your diagnosis, Dr Kronberg?’ The lack of derisiveness in his voice confused me. I gazed at him, a little afraid of this new side of him, a little surprised and even relieved to see a part that I did not despise and fear at once.
    ‘It is not rheumatism that causes your pain, I believe. It is not aggravated by cold weather, for example. From