The Enigma Variations. Chapter 19/22: Through a Glass, Darkly
Title: The Enigma Variations. Chapter 19/22: Through a Glass, Darkly
author: ghislanem70
rating: NC-17
word count: 7,520/ 110,000 total (complete)
warnings: explicit sex, graphic violence, reference to sensory integration syndrom
Summary: An alternate Series 3 AU. After Sherlock's death in The Reichenbach Fall, John finds he's still got one thing left to live for: to take down Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty -- who is Not Dead, after all. A dark!John fic.
disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
Track: Dubbed to Death/Clubbed to Death Remix: (note: this is a remix of Rob Dougan's Clubbed To Death/Kuryamino Variation from Ch. 3.
http://youtu.be/RqBMouNgZcM
"But the man had hereditary tendencies of the most diabolical kind. A criminal strain ran in his blood, which, instead of being modified, was increased and rendered infinitely more dangerous by his extraordinary mental powers."
- Sherlock Holmes on Professor Moriarty, The Final Problem.
“Today we were unlucky, but remember we only have to be lucky once - you will have to be lucky always.”
-- IRA statement on the Brighton bombing, October 12, 1984.
I. Prelude.
John chose a hotel resembling a tower block of council flats, not far from touristy Brighton Pier. Sherlock looked out over the rooftops.
"I'm sorry we can't stay somewhere... better."
"Better?" Sherlock was baffled. He approved their surroundings. The hotel was nearly empty. It was the off season. The room was cheap. It was private. It was even clean, something he knew John appreciated. He briefly tried to imagine-- for almost the first time-- what 221b looked like now. Had John left the flat exactly as it was before... or had he cleared away all evidence of his dead flatmate? He didn't like the feeling in the pit of his stomach when he visualised John in either scenario, so he put the images away. Soon, very soon, he would be able to observe for himself. For now, what they had was this small room in an anonymous hotel in Brighton. There was a bed. It was perfect for their purposes.
"Well, with a view of the sea," John said. The sea had always brought him a measure of happiness, and it was something he had never shared with Sherlock. It was so close, but they weren't free to just go walking along the seashore. So many simple things seemed impossible; time felt suspended. But he was finished with waiting. Soon, he thought.
"It's... fine. You chose well. Staying away from the oceanfront was the best way to stay invisible. And I'm quite certain we haven't been followed."
John frowned at this, and Sherlock didn't have to imagine what he was thinking now. Follow everything that leads to Moriarty, John had said. John had also said,
I’ve always protected you. I’ve killed for you. I’ll do it again. And I’m never going to stop until it’s over.
* * *
"Look, John," Sherlock pointed at the outline of a massive Victorian hotel in the distance. "That is The Grand Hotel."
John looked. "Does it mean something to you?"
"Moriarty told many lies, but he also sometimes told the truth. Only when it benefitted him. Of course."
John gave a short, harsh laugh. "Of course. He's not the only one, Sherlock."
Sherlock didn't know what to say. I won't go back to the way things were, John had said. He had been thinking about this very hard. Because that was John's price. And so, he had determined that it wasn't going to be enough anymore, probably, to just fill the silences with bursts of verbal fireworks about cases. Even though John always said he was amazing when he did that. He considered reaching out to touch, but that still felt new and dangerous and in some undefinable way like a bad move on a chessboard. There was a saying, 'tongue-tied.' He couldn't meet John's eyes, still in those foreign dark contact lenses. Seemingly inscrutable, but not to him. Not now. He studied the floor instead: synthetic, a few stains, cigarette burn in the corner, near the window, someone stood there for a long while, after-- no, what to say to John? Guilty as charged, obviously. I've lied to him, the biggest lie that's ever been told, likely.
Lies. Sometimes it had been confusing, between the two of them -- him, Moriarty -- whose web of truth mixed with lies was truer?
I'll burn... the heart out of you.
I have been reliably informed that I don't have one.
But we both know that's not quite true.
He reached out his hand and laid it tentatively on John's shoulder, and John stood still, allowing it, not trying to take more than what was being offered. The right one, he knew that was good. His fingers didn't squeeze or demand anything, just the feel of John's solidity under the palm of his hand was enough. His thoughts immediately cleared. Now was as good a time as they would ever have to review the evidence in the final problem.
II. Breadcrumbs: Hansel and Gretel.
"Moriarty sent an envelope to 221b, filled with breadcrumbs, John, remember? To remind me --"
At John's deepening scowl, he stopped. It's only you, and Mycroft, and Moriarty that are the privileged ones. Ordinary idiots need not apply.
"-- to remind us -- that there really was a trail of clues, like Hansel and Gretel following the breadcrumbs through the forest. "An old fashioned fairy tale needs an old fashioned villain." But which clues did he really want us to follow? Which were a blind?"
"Do you know now?"
"The story of Hansel and Gretel is mostly remembered for the evil witch, and her house made of sweets."
"Those poor innocent children. The poisoned candy. And the boy, the painting.... If you hadn't got to them in time--"
"Not the first time he'd killed a child. But he didn't think Carl Powers was innocent. It's the only crime he involved me in directly where he admitted he a personal motive to kill."
"Until he decided it had to be you."
* * *
III. The I.O.U. Apple. Snow White.
"Yes. Poison. Moriarty came to tea, and carved a red apple from 221b: I.O.U, it said when he was finished."
"Fairy tales. Snow White and the poisoned apple."
"A sleep in which Snow White apparently dies, but she's really in suspended animation, a magic sleep."
"And awoken by true love's kiss. Harry always hated that one. But Sherlock-- Moriarty couldn't have meant that. He meant you to die for real."
"Maybe it's not me at all. Maybe it's about someone Moriarty wishes could come back from the dead. Somebody he loved. The girl with the swim medal, Estella Hillier."
"But he says I.O.U. with the apple. It makes no sense."
"It makes sense if Moriarty blames me in some manner for her death.... Which would seem to be impossible. Or ... How he feels about her death now. He wanted to burn my heart out. But I know now he wanted to watch you suffer, too. It was all important. Even though he always said you were ordinary, actions speak louder than words. Moriarty spent a lot of time on you, John, as well as words. He was jealous that I had you. He didn't have anybody. And he seems not to have wanted anybody. Except her."
* * *
IV. Breadcrumbs, Hansel and Gretel. (Reprise)
"And so, the breadcrumbs?"
" In Grimm's Fairy Tales, the children leave breadcrumbs to guide them. But they get lost when the birds eat their crumbs. They find a witch's house made of sweets. A trap. Like the poisoned candies that he left for the children to eat, yes, that much is clear. But what if Moriarty was saying something else? In Hansel and Gretel, the father abandons his children in the forest... because he can't take care of them."
He went to his backpack and pulled out his copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales, the one that Moriarty had left for him to find at the children's school. He knew it by heart now, but read it along with John all the same. John wanted them to be on the same page now.
"So in the end," John said, " Hansel and Gretel returned to their father and brought him jewels that they had taken from the witch's house. Did Moriarty ever say anything to you about his own father?"
"No. Well, perhaps. You were there for part of it, John: "Daddy's had enough, now!" At the pool. And when he came to tea: "Daddy loves me best!" He meant me to think he was talking about all the people supposedly fighting for his magic "key to open all locks." Maybe he even thought that was what he meant. I believe that the term "father complex" is still in vogue in psychoanalysis."
There was a long silence. Sherlock bit his lip. Stupid, stupid. John's therapy. He'd snuck back online, finally, when he knew John was asleep and read John's blog greedily, guiltily. There wasn't much. He'd been back to his therapist. It took a long time, 18 whole months. But he finally went back. The bravery of it confounded him.
John cleared his throat. Went still.
"John-"
"Don't. Just don't. Moriarty. His voice... changed. I always remember that."
"A trail of breadcrumbs... In the end, the journey led back to the father's house. You and I both learned that the trail of crumbs really did lead to Ireland. His mother lives in Dromintee, and his brother lives in Dublin. Nothing of the father-- yet. But I've a theory about that now. Moriarty admitted that he-- Richard Brook-- was from Ireland at the time of his trial. He made sure it was all over the papers. Why did Moriarty want us to know that?"
"Maybe he didn't mind you knowing because he intended you to die before you had a chance to go there and look into it. Just another way to play you. Moriarty didn't ever tell you anything he didn't actually want you to know, but that doesn't mean he intended that you could do anything about it. And -- I should tell you that Mycroft --"
V. An interlude upon the question of the complicity of Mycroft Holmes.
He had a hard time getting even the name out. He was pretty sure there was no way at all he could ever tell Sherlock about that night in 221b, about his coat and scarf, the rain, too much anger and pain and loneliness, and far too much whisky.
"What about Mycroft?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he looked instantly suspicious, as he always had done when Mycroft's name arose. Now John wondered if that was less because he was distrustful of his brother, and more because he was afraid that his brother trusted John, and might tell John things that even Sherlock wouldn't.
Which, in the event, he actually had.
"Mycroft said-- he said that it was you. The one that fed him the script. All those little tidbits that he gave to Moriarty. Things that got splashed in the papers. The things that brought you down. Your brother put on a very good act, you know -- he seemed so torn up about it, after. And I believed him. I guess I still want to believe him. So. I guess it's time to get the cards out on the table, love. Does Mycroft, or does he not, actually know you're not dead?"
John remembered Mycroft at the funeral, a perfect picture of dignified devastation. Too perfect?
"I -- it's true. Mycroft and I tried to play the game with Moriarty. And it went too far. On both sides. Does Mycroft know I'm alive? He and I have always had plans... for how to deal with the foreseeable necessity of disappearing. But I didn't tell him my plan this time, and I have never contacted him... after my "death," nor has he ever attempted to contact me. Which in my mind, balance of probabilities -- Well, I would say that he at least suspects by now, surely."
And just like that, he couldn't hold it in; the thing stuck in his chest loosened. It was time to start stripping away the secrets. "Sherlock. I've got something to get off my chest. About Mycroft."
Sherlock looked at him, that penetrating look. Afghanistan or Iraq? It had reeled him in then.
No turning back. No backing down.
"If you think my brother has any secrets from me about his regard for you, John, you must think I'm not very observant. I've been... gone a long time, and you thought I was dead. I took a lot of trouble to ensure that you did. And it's possible, I'm being very charitable here, that Mycroft thought so too."
"But --"
"Well, then. There isn't anything you need to say about Mycroft that I ever need or want to hear. I mean that." He turned away and whispered, "What I mean is. Please. I'm not sure, you see, that I could actually stand it."
It felt something like being kicked in the stomach, John thought. A blossoming of pain, and the relief when it started to lift.
It really was impossible to keep a secret from Sherlock Holmes.
* * *
VI. Daddy, Margaret Thatcher, and the IRA.
"All right. So. An apple. A dead girl that Moriarty wishes he could have kissed, wishes he could bring back to life? Snow White. And Moriarty running on about his dad. Breadcrumbs. Hansel and Gretel. Which I'm guessing means to you, a father who abandoned his children."
"And children who then kill a witch and steal her jewels to bring back to their faithless father. Justifiable homicide, to be sure. But still. In a very real sense, they had to earn their way back. With blood and money."
"So you said you have a theory. What's this Grand Hotel got to do with it?"
"Once I saw the pictures from the swim club, I knew. I had started to form the theory in the Three Steps Pub in Dromintree. Those three men, the ones that kidnaped Moriarty's brother. They had to have been IRA. 'You've got a nerve coming to the Three Steps,' they said to Mick."
"Because the Three Steps has such a history with the IRA. They didn't think Mick deserved to sit there. Implication being, he or his family are enemies of the IRA."
"Yes, and they accused Mick and Moriarty of "hiding" -- "where is it?" they asked. What were they looking for? The Moriarty brothers -- by the way, the brother and mother went back to her maiden name when they returned to Ireland. Easier. Probably the name Moriarty was very much unwelcome. But Jim didn't care. It was more fun to throw it in their faces."
"But .... what's the IRA got to do with Brighton? --- wait. I remember. Margaret Thatcher. The bombing."
"Yes, John. The Brighton bombing. You've indeed gotten better at the science of deduction, just as you said."
"Margaret Thatcher died this past April. All of the tales about the Iron Lady were paraded about, including that one. I wouldn't have remembered otherwise."
"So modest, John. Modesty is not actually a virtue, you know. It gets you precisely nowhere."
"I've never been known to boast, I hope."
"No, never. I don't want that to change. I'm the one... I'm the one that has to change, maybe. I don't know if that's possible now. I suppose... you know that. I never told you what Moriarty said to me in the cab that night. He played me a private video. "This is the story of Sir Boast-a-lot. Sir Boast-a-lot was the bravest and cleverest knight at the round table, but soon the other knights began to grow tired of his stories... and some of them began to wonder, "Are Sir Boast-a-lot's stories even true?"
"No, you know you never told me that. You never told me a lot of things. Someday, you'll want to tell me everything."
"No, you're wrong, John. I'll never want to."
"But you will. No other way. I can't promise I'll like it. I can only promise to listen."
Sherlock looked so forlorn that John could only pull him in, hold him, tight and close, and wait for the tiny relaxing of Sherlock's taut body against his. Every limb seemed bony and restless against his, even twitching a little. But John held tighter, and his muscles finally, almost imperceptibly unwound against his and they warmed each other, just breathing. Every breath a gift. Nothing else mattered except to make sure nothing ever stopped them from staying like this.
He didn't care about Moriarty in this moment, the endless puzzles like a Russian nesting doll. He pulled Sherlock slowly down to the bed, and pulled the bedcover over them. It was hard to observe (yes he was much more observant now) how difficult it was for him, still, to be so close. He could almost hear Sherlock commanding his skin not to flinch; the concentration was etched in his face, and he couldn't really watch Sherlock endure this, and him the cause. He felt guilt begin to steal through his veins, whisper in his ear, cold tendrils of doubt: he's been so alone, so shattered, he'd do anything to get his life back. He doesn't know what he wants.
"Can I just-- ". Sherlock put his head on John's chest, a heaviness that John couldn't bear to imagine losing now, not for anything. And yet. Did he deserve this? Did Sherlock really want it?
"Sherlock. It's all right. I'm not going anywhere. But this has to go at a pace you feel, well, comfortable. What I said before, about not going back to the way things were. I don't want you to--"
"-- I just want to lay here. I am comfortable, John. Very. I like the sound. But I can hear better if we aren't talking."
John stopped talking, and Sherlock listened to his heartbeat. He even counted.
And for an hour, everything really was better than it was before.
* * *
"So. You needed Moriarty to think you believed that story: "Sir Boast-a-Lot." You needed me to believe that. And I just couldn't. I never did. Not for an instant, you know that, right? You had to know."
"I did my best. So you could stay alive. I hoped you would believe. It would have made it easier for you, I thought." And he had thought so.
"Easier for me-- you think-- the very idea that I could believe such utter, unmitigated lies about you, how could you?"
"I said I hoped. But all I really had to do was make sure you believed I was dead. Someday you'll tell me the story of how you found out I wasn't. I presume you dug up my grave. The only way to be sure, the only thing I couldn't completely fake. Hence, you did a DNA test. Where did you get a sample of my actual tissue? Or was it blood?"
"That's a story I won't be sharing."
"Very well. Just so you understand, secrets can go both ways."
"Sherlock. Let's talk about the Thatcher bombing, if you please."
"Very well. You finally have a fascinating crime that you solved, using deductive methods as well as forensics, and won't share. I'm not sure I like this turn up, John. Fine. The IRA bombed the Grand Hotel in Brighton in 1984. Margaret Thatcher was there for a Conservative Party conference. She wasn't harmed, because the bomber made a mistake. But five people were killed, and 30 were injured. The IRA claimed responsibility the very same day."
"So --- the question is, what does this have to do with a kid from Northern Ireland in Brighton in 1989, the year Carl Powers died? And in 1988, the year we see Moriarty in this photo, looking at Estella Hillier winning her swimming medal?"
"It has to do with fathers. They caught the bomber: Patrick Magee. Magee confessed that he worked with a team, but refused to name them. Magee stayed in the Grand Hotel under a false name a month before the bombings, and he planted the bomb with a long timer. What happened to Magee's confederates? Was someone from Dromintee, perhaps, among them?"
"I see. Moriarty's father. He's an IRA man."
"A bomb maker. His son Jim has followed in the same line, obviously, bombs are one of his special hobbies. Magee took the blame and took the fall -- but Moriarty's father, we asume, went free. Or perhaps faced reprisals from the IRA for failing to assassinate Thatcher, despite the other deaths."
"But why would an IRA man bring his sons, and presumably their mother, with him to Brighton for an operation?"
"Cart before the horse. I'm betting they had good reason to be here, apart from the bombings, and perhaps that is even why they were chosen. We know that Magee was here in Brighton a month before the bombings to do his advance work. The fact that Moriarty remained here as a schoolboy for several years after the Brighton bombing points to pre-existing family ties to the area. So they came as a family, for a family visit -- for cover. They didn't go back to Northern Ireland after the bombing, not for more than a decade. It is likely that they couldn't."
"And so they stayed in Brighton."
"Yes." Sherlock showed John his neat notes. "Timelines are important."
1984: The Brighton IRA bombing.
1986: First Babes in the Woods murders in Wild Park.
1988: photograph showing Moriarty as he watches Estella win a swim contest at the Brighton Swim Club. Carl Powers looking on.
1989: Carl Powers dies in a swimming pool on a field trip from Brighton to London. I unsuccessfully try to call the police's attention to his missing shoes. I first come to Moriarty's attention. And he to mine, in a way.
July 1991: Moriarty watches Estella win another swim contest in Brighton. She seems unaware of his presence.
October 1991: second Babes in the Woods murder: Estella Hillier is killed in Wild Park.
VII. The Murder of Carl Powers. Reprise.
"Moriarty killed Carl not just because of the laughing," Sherlock said,"but for the reason for the laughing. For laughing at him, and Estella saw it. That was really the problem, I suspect."
"It was all over this girl. Estella Hillier. It had to be. Look at these photos. Look at how Carl is looking at her. Look at how Moriarty is looking at her."
He knew from experience. How long had he looked at Sherlock like that-- imagining he never knew? Until he finally, but far too late, realized that the greatest of detectives had to have observed it, as he observed everything else.
"Moriarty was in love with Estella, but Estella didn't even know he existed. Probably she liked Carl better, swim competitor and all around great kid, as I found out at the time. Moriarty wasn't on the swim team like Carl. And he's a psychopath. Can it be any kind of coincidence that a girl that Moriarty clearly was obsessed with, should end up murdered?"
"But wait-- if Moriarty was in .Brighton when Carl was killed, why didn't anybody connect him? Even after you found the trainers? Even the Yard didn't find a thing."
"Neither did I. Looking in the wrong place. At the time, we checked all of Carl's classmates. Moriarty wasn't one of them, didn't even go to his school. Private Catholic school we'll find, surely. And he wasn't on Carl's swim team. Those photos were checked, too. But nobody thought to look at the photos from the Girl's Swim Club. Moriarty went just to watch Estella. And that's where he met Carl, and that's where he got laughed at."
"So you said you didn't think Moriarty killed Estella-- then who did?"
"If Moriarty was going to kill her, wouldn't he have done it when he killed Carl Powers? Although on the other hand, Moriarty is very fond of long-range planning when it comes to really important murders. He likes to draw out the game."
They both contemplated the fall.
"And so, do you think he's planning to kill her, when we see him in these pictures?"
They looked at Moriarty: the picture wasn't very good, but there was no mistaking that intent, hungry expression. Covetous. Desirous.
"I think he still wanted something from her in this last photo. But a few months later, she was dead."
"So, Moriarty finally realised that she wouldn't give him what he wanted. And killed her for it, I guess."
* * *
VIII. The Matter of Two Deaths on a Rooftop.
"Perhaps. But John. Moriarty thought it was so very important to "burn the heart out of me." He even thought he was helping me, he really did. Helping us both to stay alive, to not be bored. Giving me a game to play. And to play the game, I didn't just have to lose my heart -- I had to find it. And then it had to burn. Like he found his and lost it. The hard way. I think somebody taught Moriarty that lesson. But after the swimming pool, John, I think he decided it was much more of a challenge to make me kill myself over you, to make that sacrifice -- than to make me watch you die. He would have killed you afterward, anyway, no matter what he said. I knew that. Did you know that Moriarty killed himself first? A fake, but he meant me to believe it was real, and did his very best to be convincing. But I was out of time, if I didn't throw myself from that roof --"
"Sherlock, please --"
"Just this bit and we're done. It's like setting a broken bone."
(crush fracture)
"-- If I didn't do it-- jump -- right then, his snipers would have got to you that very minute, John. I had to be sure they saw me dead. That was the deal that Moriarty made. Either I died for you, or you died because of me. And not only you. Mrs. Hudson. Molly. Lestrade. Perhaps, even Mycroft. I presume that in the confusion in the street after I fell, that Moriarty was able to make a quiet getaway. He was prepared with a way to have his blood cleaned up - his was every bit as convincing as mine, and he likely had even better sources -- and get unnoticed off the roof. No doubt he had help -- as I did."
"Sherlock -- I meant it when I said I want you to tell me everything. If it needs to be now, then tell me. You're alive. I think I can try to start working on not seeing you. . . fall, every time I close my eyes. But I guess if I had a choice--"
"You would wait until we are finished with what we came here to do."
"Right. I know what I came here to do. Do you?"
"We're going to bring Moriarty back to Brighton. Because it's the one place he won't be able to resist coming back to."
"Right. But he can't come back for you. You're dead, and you're staying dead. Dead is safe. But I'm not dead."
He pulled out his laptop, smiling to see clear evidence that Sherlock had been using it while he slept. He had put a great deal more in the way of security measures in place since Moriarty had hacked it. But for this, Moriarty wouldn't need to hack. He would just have to read the newspapers.
"What are you doing?"
"Sending a little story to a good friend in the press. Let's just say she owes me a favour. The less scrupulous media -- the ones that don't go in much for fact checking -- will be reading it out within the hour, I should think. So hang on tight. Jim Moriarty is coming back to Brighton."
True to his word, Kitty Reilly had The Daily Mail's top headline:
"Twenty Years On, New Evidence In The Babes In The Woods Murder of Estella Hillier."
-- Exclusive to the Daily Mail by Kitty Reilly.
* * *
IX. Riddles and Tea with Sherlock Holmes: Moriarty, Elgar, Bach.
While they waited, Sherlock's fingers drummed restlessly. John was again reminded of his violin. And music.
"Sherlock. That music. On your mobile. And on Moriarty's mobile."
"Yes, John. You listened. I must say I'm surprised. Lestrade never made anything of it, did he?"
"No. But I tried. I figured out what the magpies meant."
"I'm very impressed! John, you amaze me. Four magpies, with La Gazza Lladra being the first. "Four magpies for death," the old folk rhyme. Moriarty was playing it, at the Tower. A secret code, if you will, just for me. Telling me that this was the beginning of the game, a game that could end only one way -- my death. Or his. But it only made sense after the fourth magpie, the wax seals. By then, I knew for certain."
"And the Bach. That, I couldn't figure out. And Moriarty, with Elgar's Enigma."
"Ah. For that, I need to tell you a little history lesson. Moriarty came to tea, and left that apple. I had already heard the music on his mobile, it was evidence in the trial, although the Crown didn't know what to make of it, of course. 'Elgar's Enigma.' Elgar was obsessed with puzzles, you know. Elgar famously broke a code that had been unsolved for perhaps 20 years. A man very much to Moriarty's taste - he loves puzzles, codes and riddles. Moriarty warned me to get used to riddles, when I said I didn't like them. The Engima Variations -- the 'enigma' is still unsolved, one of the most famous riddles of all time."
"So I gathered. I figured I wasn't going to solve what about a thousand geniuses before me hadn't. Have you solved it?"
"I don't believe it will ever be solved. It was a secret he deliberately took to his grave. And although he loved a good puzzle, I wonder if that fact is the biggest clue, in the end. There are at least five solid theories, and probably a few dozen more that are very shaky indeed, about the Enigma. What matters, then, is what Moriarty thought the answer was, or perhaps what he thought I would think the answer was, among all the choices floating about. And what that says about him, or about me. But about the Elgar Enigma later. First, the tea."
* * *
X. Bach's Unfinished Fugue.
"I was playing Bach on my violin as he came up, and this is what Moriarty said:
"You know when he was on his deathbed-Bach-he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end." And I said, "-- and the dying man jumped out of bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it."
"Okay. What else?"
"Moriarty was sorry, I think, that I seemed to fall for the trap so easily. He really wanted to leave a clue for me, a real clue. So he added, 'Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody.' "
"He meant the Bach Fugues I found on your own --- on your mobile. The Yard took it, of course.... but I had Lestrade copy the music for me. The last one was unfinished, stops in the middle of a bar. I looked it up. And I listened, you know. To all of your music, and all of Moriarty's too. Until Mrs. Hudson made me turn it off. Couldn't bear to hear it all over again."
Sherlock considered this with surprise. He hadn't expected that John would ever do that. He hadn't expected John to do anything but try to forget. His worst fear had been that perhaps, he would find a way, even with his shot-up shoulder, to reenlist and return to Afghanistan. But that he would turn detective, no. And then he chastised himself for continuing his fault of underestimating John. Of all the persons he had ever known, who had surprised him the most, without ever trying? Indisputably John Watson.
"That's. Yes. Well done. I shall have to, well....ah. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft...."
"Yes. Yes, you will. We all will. But not today."
"Well then. The music. I downloaded it after my little tea with Moriarty, because he so specifically mentioned the unfinished Bach piece. But that story he told me about it was a fake. A blind. Like so many of his stories, and so many of mine -- meant for him, I mean. He saw I wasn't going to correct him, that I fell for it -- to all appearances."
"So what's the truth then? About the unfinished piece?"
"What happened was that when Bach died -- blind from failed operations to save his sight, and crippled by stroke-- he left the Contrapunctus Number Fourteen unfinished. And his son added an explanatory note to the score after his father's death:
'At the point where the composer introduces the name BACH -- for which the English notation would be B♭-A-C-B♮-- in the countersubject to this fugue, the composer died.' "
"Okay, so: Bach left his name in the music. That's what the story was really about? Why?"
"No, Bach left his name in code. Coded notes that spelled out his name. And yes and no -- the Contrapunctus Fourteen is Bach's famous unfinished piece. But he did write a final, finished piece on his actual deathbed. Two days, before to be precise. That music is 'Now I Come Before Thy Throne,' and the words are,
Before your throne I now appear,
O God, and humbly bid you,
turn not your gracious face,
away from me, poor sinner.
"Sherlock. I'm happy to just go back to being considered an ordinary idiot if you'll tell me what it all means. It sounds like it was just another warning that you needed to be ready to meet your maker. Or at least that Bach wanted to be ready. Or it's all about Moriarty again -- that silly portrait, sitting on the throne with the Crown Jewels. What it has to do with you, and me, and all this--"
"Moriarty never said anything that wasn't important. Even if it wasn't true."
* * *
XI. The Clue's In The Name.
"And only once did Moriarty ever actually state, expressly, that he was giving me a clue: I asked him, who are you? And he answered, indirectly -- "The clue's in the name. Janus Cars."
"Ian Monkford. The two-faced god. I remember."
"But what has that to do with Ian Monkford? He was supposed to be dead, but he was really alive. New identity, all that. Two faces. But also, Jim Moriarty himself had two faces -- a actor, from Ireland; a criminal mastermind of no fixed above. Or more that two faces - countless, probably. A spider in a web. But then we have his brother, O'Neill -- who looks almost to be his twin. I've come to the conclusion that Moriarty and his brother form two halves of a whole -- Moriarty is by my own study a man who is mathematical, cerebral, devious, ruthless, and a master of the long, long game. His brother O'Neill, if my theory is correct, not so much. Mick O'Neill was an impulsive child-killer by the age of 15. The first Babes in the Woods killings are of the disorganized type, understandably; Estella Hillier's murder scene showed somewhat more planning, but fortunately less restraint. Much."
"Sherlock!"
"Just stating the facts, it is helpful when the clues are so very blatant. So, two brothers - criminals trying to earn the respect of their father, perhaps that's how it all started? Or even impress his employer, the IRA - who weren't having any of it. And so, their long exile."
"Or, Moriarty meant you, and him. Janus. Did you think of that? Even the Yard thought you were a stone cold criminal, at the end. And the very first day I met you, Sergeant Donovan told me that one day, you'd be found out as a killer. Because you get bored. Moriarty thought he saw that in you. Don't deny it, Sherlock. Maybe you even wanted him to. I've wondered about that. Because it was a game, but there's no doubt that you decided you wanted to play it."
"Yes, I wanted to play the game. Nobody else could have saved those people. Whether I cared, or not. I saved them. Me. You know it, even if everybody else thinks I was just a fraud and a fake, now."
The bitterness in his voice was even sharper, more hopeless now than before the fall, when Sherlock had asked John if even he doubted him now too. Along with Lestrade and all the others. "I know you for real," was all he could say, horrified and hurt to the core. He had chastised himself many a time over whether he could have said anything at all, or rather, if he said everything, to Sherlock in that moment.
Whether he could have turned the tide.
* * *
XII. The Enigma.
"No, you're right. So in the end I guess Moriarty couldn't have thought you were much of a sinner," John agreed. "So what about Bach's last song?"
"That's what Moriarty was after. And after all that talk about fairy tales, and old fashioned villains, we have Moriarty leaving clues framed in proper church music, written by Bach, a devout Lutheran, and Elgar, a devout Roman Catholic. Sinners and saints. In the end, Moriarty didn't consider me much of a sinner. He told me as much. One of the last things he said to me on that rooftop was that I was boring, and ordinary, and that I was on the side of the angels. I instantly proceeded to do all in my power to persuade him otherwise -- but on the whole, it was a very curious thing to say: on the side of the angels. Rather... biblical-sounding. And Moriarty never uses language idly."
"Okay. But what about Elgar? The Engima Variations: I wrote it down, you know. What Elgar said. You always told me to go to the primary source, hearsay is rubbish. Because I figured it meant something. Just like the four magpies:
The Enigma I will not explain - its 'dark saying' must be left unguessed, and I warn you that through and over the whole set another and larger theme 'goes', but is not played.... So the principal Theme never appears ... the chief character is never on the stage."
"Well, as I said. No one will ever solve it. I haven't, and I've tried. I hope you still have enough regard for my faculties, John --- "
"Yes, you're still a genius. Even if you can't solve old Elgar's problem. So what do we do?
"What is important is to discern whether Moriarty thought one of the potential solutions suited his purposes. And after the business with Bach, and the graffiti with angel's wings, I was felt I was being directed to solutions that seemed more... biblically based. And that leads to one of the better proposed solutions for the Enigma Variations: 1 Corinthians 13:12 reads For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
"Elgar was a practising Roman Catholic, and "darkly" was read as enigmate in the Latin of the Vulgate, John, which Elgar would have known. Just a week before Elgar completed the Enigma Variations, he attended a mass where this particular bible verse was read out. The verse is also commonly read at weddings today: 'the greatest of these, is love.'."
"So it's about a wedding? Moriarty's never been married. Neither have you." John refused to try to hide the flush he knew was creeping up his neck, which was only compounded by Sherlock's next words. Let Sherlock see it. I'm done trying to hide how I feel.
"Not about marriage. About something much better, and probably quite different based upon my own observation, which is actually extensive despite my lack of direct experimentation in the, ah, formalities."
He stepped back at John's discomfiture, which he could quickly see was turning into dismay, and then realised that he was actually proud that he could see that, even after so long apart. Seeing John even better than he likely would have before. When he was caught up in the game.
"All right, I see your point, John--"
"My point! I haven't said a word."
"You don't have to, it's plain as day, written in your face. And you're right. I admit I usually see marriage at its absolute worst. No, not marriage. The "dark theme" that "is not played," Elgar's Enigma -- the clue is that verse from Corinithians that Elgar heard in mass as he was finishing it. And decided to make it the biggest musical puzzle of all time. The Enigma, John, is love."
"Well, you're right then. That is much better." John smiled, for the first time since they came to Brighton. He remembered that little hostel room in Ireland, Sherlock clinging hard to him. And he had said that he loved Sherlock, then. The feeling filled him up now. Sherlock hadn't said it, not in so many words, and he didn't even expect that. He didn't even think Sherlock could say it. But he thought he was showing it now.
And for a moment, a clue that had been left by Moriarty somehow managed to shine a bright light, a light that he wasn't going to let Moriarty put out again. Moriarty had tried his best to take Sherlock from him.
This time, though, John was in the game, and he was playing for keeps.
* * *
XIII. The Sword.
"Okay then. Love. So, it's all about that poor girl that he loved. That's the Enigma? That's the puzzle that Moriarty wanted you to really solve?"
"I believe it was one of them. Maybe he didn't want me to solve it, he just wanted me to understand. That he had had a heart once too. And it wasn't worth it. That's what he was trying to teach me. I was a poor pupil."
"Then -- what about all the angels? Meaning what? The police? Me? Wait -- that graffiti, Sherlock. Near the flat. Painted on the wall. Did you know-- of course you didn't -- I hired Raz to paint something into it. Those grey angel wings. With "I.O.U." in red. Now... there's a sword. I put it there."
"Did you? That's -- that's, well, incredibly stupid, John. Didn't you think it would make Moriarty come after you again?"
"Yeah, I did. They already were. Moran was, anyway. And... I took care of it."
"God, John--- you can't, I can't.... Moriarty's going to be here, soon. Are you thinking what I think you're thinking? He won't be that obvious. He won't return to the scene of the crime. The woods where Estella died. Or the pool, either. We won't be able to just-- ambush him. We need more time, don't you see that? We need a very thorough plan."
"No more time. We're done with the game, do you understand? Or if you like, there's a new player in the game. John Hamish Watson. We'll find Moriarty like you always have. This time, I'll post a little invitation for a meeting. A meeting to discuss unfinished business-- left by the recently deceased Colonel Moran."
"I don't think he'd do it. He'll suspect a trap. And I can't have you meeting with him alone, John. And why would he agree?"
"Well, you're dead, for one. So he's got to be very, very bored. He doesn't want me digging into his affairs - that's why he sent Moran to fire a warning shot in Baker Street, outside the flat. If Moriarty wanted me dead, I figure he'd have had Moran do it a long time ago. I wasn't fit for... well, let's just say there's no way, no way on earth, Moriarty would have thought I was a threat. Not after you were gone. But things have changed. I've shown him I'm back in business. If he's paying any attention to London at all, he'll have already figured out I disappeared from London, the same day Moran was shot."
"No, John. I won't let you."
"It's the easiest way. I'm going to offer Moriarty my services. He has a job vacancy: he needs a new sniper. And I've proven my qualifications. I took Moran out. I'd even be quite happy to share with him who really shot Mr. Jeff Hope in the Study in Pink. As an added bonus, I'll offer to return something he left behind in Kitty Reilly's flat: Estella's swimming medal. I think Moriarty won't be able to resist. I think he'll want to make me his new favourite."
To be continued....
back: Chapter 18: The Babes in the Woods ( Read more...Collapse ) Next: Chapter 20: Four Angels ( Read more...Collapse )
author: ghislanem70
rating: NC-17
word count: 7,520/ 110,000 total (complete)
warnings: explicit sex, graphic violence, reference to sensory integration syndrom
Summary: An alternate Series 3 AU. After Sherlock's death in The Reichenbach Fall, John finds he's still got one thing left to live for: to take down Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty -- who is Not Dead, after all. A dark!John fic.
disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
Track: Dubbed to Death/Clubbed to Death Remix: (note: this is a remix of Rob Dougan's Clubbed To Death/Kuryamino Variation from Ch. 3.
http://youtu.be/RqBMouNgZcM
"But the man had hereditary tendencies of the most diabolical kind. A criminal strain ran in his blood, which, instead of being modified, was increased and rendered infinitely more dangerous by his extraordinary mental powers."
- Sherlock Holmes on Professor Moriarty, The Final Problem.
“Today we were unlucky, but remember we only have to be lucky once - you will have to be lucky always.”
-- IRA statement on the Brighton bombing, October 12, 1984.
I. Prelude.
John chose a hotel resembling a tower block of council flats, not far from touristy Brighton Pier. Sherlock looked out over the rooftops.
"I'm sorry we can't stay somewhere... better."
"Better?" Sherlock was baffled. He approved their surroundings. The hotel was nearly empty. It was the off season. The room was cheap. It was private. It was even clean, something he knew John appreciated. He briefly tried to imagine-- for almost the first time-- what 221b looked like now. Had John left the flat exactly as it was before... or had he cleared away all evidence of his dead flatmate? He didn't like the feeling in the pit of his stomach when he visualised John in either scenario, so he put the images away. Soon, very soon, he would be able to observe for himself. For now, what they had was this small room in an anonymous hotel in Brighton. There was a bed. It was perfect for their purposes.
"Well, with a view of the sea," John said. The sea had always brought him a measure of happiness, and it was something he had never shared with Sherlock. It was so close, but they weren't free to just go walking along the seashore. So many simple things seemed impossible; time felt suspended. But he was finished with waiting. Soon, he thought.
"It's... fine. You chose well. Staying away from the oceanfront was the best way to stay invisible. And I'm quite certain we haven't been followed."
John frowned at this, and Sherlock didn't have to imagine what he was thinking now. Follow everything that leads to Moriarty, John had said. John had also said,
I’ve always protected you. I’ve killed for you. I’ll do it again. And I’m never going to stop until it’s over.
* * *
"Look, John," Sherlock pointed at the outline of a massive Victorian hotel in the distance. "That is The Grand Hotel."
John looked. "Does it mean something to you?"
"Moriarty told many lies, but he also sometimes told the truth. Only when it benefitted him. Of course."
John gave a short, harsh laugh. "Of course. He's not the only one, Sherlock."
Sherlock didn't know what to say. I won't go back to the way things were, John had said. He had been thinking about this very hard. Because that was John's price. And so, he had determined that it wasn't going to be enough anymore, probably, to just fill the silences with bursts of verbal fireworks about cases. Even though John always said he was amazing when he did that. He considered reaching out to touch, but that still felt new and dangerous and in some undefinable way like a bad move on a chessboard. There was a saying, 'tongue-tied.' He couldn't meet John's eyes, still in those foreign dark contact lenses. Seemingly inscrutable, but not to him. Not now. He studied the floor instead: synthetic, a few stains, cigarette burn in the corner, near the window, someone stood there for a long while, after-- no, what to say to John? Guilty as charged, obviously. I've lied to him, the biggest lie that's ever been told, likely.
Lies. Sometimes it had been confusing, between the two of them -- him, Moriarty -- whose web of truth mixed with lies was truer?
I'll burn... the heart out of you.
I have been reliably informed that I don't have one.
But we both know that's not quite true.
He reached out his hand and laid it tentatively on John's shoulder, and John stood still, allowing it, not trying to take more than what was being offered. The right one, he knew that was good. His fingers didn't squeeze or demand anything, just the feel of John's solidity under the palm of his hand was enough. His thoughts immediately cleared. Now was as good a time as they would ever have to review the evidence in the final problem.
II. Breadcrumbs: Hansel and Gretel.
"Moriarty sent an envelope to 221b, filled with breadcrumbs, John, remember? To remind me --"
At John's deepening scowl, he stopped. It's only you, and Mycroft, and Moriarty that are the privileged ones. Ordinary idiots need not apply.
"-- to remind us -- that there really was a trail of clues, like Hansel and Gretel following the breadcrumbs through the forest. "An old fashioned fairy tale needs an old fashioned villain." But which clues did he really want us to follow? Which were a blind?"
"Do you know now?"
"The story of Hansel and Gretel is mostly remembered for the evil witch, and her house made of sweets."
"Those poor innocent children. The poisoned candy. And the boy, the painting.... If you hadn't got to them in time--"
"Not the first time he'd killed a child. But he didn't think Carl Powers was innocent. It's the only crime he involved me in directly where he admitted he a personal motive to kill."
"Until he decided it had to be you."
* * *
III. The I.O.U. Apple. Snow White.
"Yes. Poison. Moriarty came to tea, and carved a red apple from 221b: I.O.U, it said when he was finished."
"Fairy tales. Snow White and the poisoned apple."
"A sleep in which Snow White apparently dies, but she's really in suspended animation, a magic sleep."
"And awoken by true love's kiss. Harry always hated that one. But Sherlock-- Moriarty couldn't have meant that. He meant you to die for real."
"Maybe it's not me at all. Maybe it's about someone Moriarty wishes could come back from the dead. Somebody he loved. The girl with the swim medal, Estella Hillier."
"But he says I.O.U. with the apple. It makes no sense."
"It makes sense if Moriarty blames me in some manner for her death.... Which would seem to be impossible. Or ... How he feels about her death now. He wanted to burn my heart out. But I know now he wanted to watch you suffer, too. It was all important. Even though he always said you were ordinary, actions speak louder than words. Moriarty spent a lot of time on you, John, as well as words. He was jealous that I had you. He didn't have anybody. And he seems not to have wanted anybody. Except her."
* * *
IV. Breadcrumbs, Hansel and Gretel. (Reprise)
"And so, the breadcrumbs?"
" In Grimm's Fairy Tales, the children leave breadcrumbs to guide them. But they get lost when the birds eat their crumbs. They find a witch's house made of sweets. A trap. Like the poisoned candies that he left for the children to eat, yes, that much is clear. But what if Moriarty was saying something else? In Hansel and Gretel, the father abandons his children in the forest... because he can't take care of them."
He went to his backpack and pulled out his copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales, the one that Moriarty had left for him to find at the children's school. He knew it by heart now, but read it along with John all the same. John wanted them to be on the same page now.
"So in the end," John said, " Hansel and Gretel returned to their father and brought him jewels that they had taken from the witch's house. Did Moriarty ever say anything to you about his own father?"
"No. Well, perhaps. You were there for part of it, John: "Daddy's had enough, now!" At the pool. And when he came to tea: "Daddy loves me best!" He meant me to think he was talking about all the people supposedly fighting for his magic "key to open all locks." Maybe he even thought that was what he meant. I believe that the term "father complex" is still in vogue in psychoanalysis."
There was a long silence. Sherlock bit his lip. Stupid, stupid. John's therapy. He'd snuck back online, finally, when he knew John was asleep and read John's blog greedily, guiltily. There wasn't much. He'd been back to his therapist. It took a long time, 18 whole months. But he finally went back. The bravery of it confounded him.
John cleared his throat. Went still.
"John-"
"Don't. Just don't. Moriarty. His voice... changed. I always remember that."
"A trail of breadcrumbs... In the end, the journey led back to the father's house. You and I both learned that the trail of crumbs really did lead to Ireland. His mother lives in Dromintee, and his brother lives in Dublin. Nothing of the father-- yet. But I've a theory about that now. Moriarty admitted that he-- Richard Brook-- was from Ireland at the time of his trial. He made sure it was all over the papers. Why did Moriarty want us to know that?"
"Maybe he didn't mind you knowing because he intended you to die before you had a chance to go there and look into it. Just another way to play you. Moriarty didn't ever tell you anything he didn't actually want you to know, but that doesn't mean he intended that you could do anything about it. And -- I should tell you that Mycroft --"
V. An interlude upon the question of the complicity of Mycroft Holmes.
He had a hard time getting even the name out. He was pretty sure there was no way at all he could ever tell Sherlock about that night in 221b, about his coat and scarf, the rain, too much anger and pain and loneliness, and far too much whisky.
"What about Mycroft?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he looked instantly suspicious, as he always had done when Mycroft's name arose. Now John wondered if that was less because he was distrustful of his brother, and more because he was afraid that his brother trusted John, and might tell John things that even Sherlock wouldn't.
Which, in the event, he actually had.
"Mycroft said-- he said that it was you. The one that fed him the script. All those little tidbits that he gave to Moriarty. Things that got splashed in the papers. The things that brought you down. Your brother put on a very good act, you know -- he seemed so torn up about it, after. And I believed him. I guess I still want to believe him. So. I guess it's time to get the cards out on the table, love. Does Mycroft, or does he not, actually know you're not dead?"
John remembered Mycroft at the funeral, a perfect picture of dignified devastation. Too perfect?
"I -- it's true. Mycroft and I tried to play the game with Moriarty. And it went too far. On both sides. Does Mycroft know I'm alive? He and I have always had plans... for how to deal with the foreseeable necessity of disappearing. But I didn't tell him my plan this time, and I have never contacted him... after my "death," nor has he ever attempted to contact me. Which in my mind, balance of probabilities -- Well, I would say that he at least suspects by now, surely."
And just like that, he couldn't hold it in; the thing stuck in his chest loosened. It was time to start stripping away the secrets. "Sherlock. I've got something to get off my chest. About Mycroft."
Sherlock looked at him, that penetrating look. Afghanistan or Iraq? It had reeled him in then.
No turning back. No backing down.
"If you think my brother has any secrets from me about his regard for you, John, you must think I'm not very observant. I've been... gone a long time, and you thought I was dead. I took a lot of trouble to ensure that you did. And it's possible, I'm being very charitable here, that Mycroft thought so too."
"But --"
"Well, then. There isn't anything you need to say about Mycroft that I ever need or want to hear. I mean that." He turned away and whispered, "What I mean is. Please. I'm not sure, you see, that I could actually stand it."
It felt something like being kicked in the stomach, John thought. A blossoming of pain, and the relief when it started to lift.
It really was impossible to keep a secret from Sherlock Holmes.
* * *
VI. Daddy, Margaret Thatcher, and the IRA.
"All right. So. An apple. A dead girl that Moriarty wishes he could have kissed, wishes he could bring back to life? Snow White. And Moriarty running on about his dad. Breadcrumbs. Hansel and Gretel. Which I'm guessing means to you, a father who abandoned his children."
"And children who then kill a witch and steal her jewels to bring back to their faithless father. Justifiable homicide, to be sure. But still. In a very real sense, they had to earn their way back. With blood and money."
"So you said you have a theory. What's this Grand Hotel got to do with it?"
"Once I saw the pictures from the swim club, I knew. I had started to form the theory in the Three Steps Pub in Dromintree. Those three men, the ones that kidnaped Moriarty's brother. They had to have been IRA. 'You've got a nerve coming to the Three Steps,' they said to Mick."
"Because the Three Steps has such a history with the IRA. They didn't think Mick deserved to sit there. Implication being, he or his family are enemies of the IRA."
"Yes, and they accused Mick and Moriarty of "hiding" -- "where is it?" they asked. What were they looking for? The Moriarty brothers -- by the way, the brother and mother went back to her maiden name when they returned to Ireland. Easier. Probably the name Moriarty was very much unwelcome. But Jim didn't care. It was more fun to throw it in their faces."
"But .... what's the IRA got to do with Brighton? --- wait. I remember. Margaret Thatcher. The bombing."
"Yes, John. The Brighton bombing. You've indeed gotten better at the science of deduction, just as you said."
"Margaret Thatcher died this past April. All of the tales about the Iron Lady were paraded about, including that one. I wouldn't have remembered otherwise."
"So modest, John. Modesty is not actually a virtue, you know. It gets you precisely nowhere."
"I've never been known to boast, I hope."
"No, never. I don't want that to change. I'm the one... I'm the one that has to change, maybe. I don't know if that's possible now. I suppose... you know that. I never told you what Moriarty said to me in the cab that night. He played me a private video. "This is the story of Sir Boast-a-lot. Sir Boast-a-lot was the bravest and cleverest knight at the round table, but soon the other knights began to grow tired of his stories... and some of them began to wonder, "Are Sir Boast-a-lot's stories even true?"
"No, you know you never told me that. You never told me a lot of things. Someday, you'll want to tell me everything."
"No, you're wrong, John. I'll never want to."
"But you will. No other way. I can't promise I'll like it. I can only promise to listen."
Sherlock looked so forlorn that John could only pull him in, hold him, tight and close, and wait for the tiny relaxing of Sherlock's taut body against his. Every limb seemed bony and restless against his, even twitching a little. But John held tighter, and his muscles finally, almost imperceptibly unwound against his and they warmed each other, just breathing. Every breath a gift. Nothing else mattered except to make sure nothing ever stopped them from staying like this.
He didn't care about Moriarty in this moment, the endless puzzles like a Russian nesting doll. He pulled Sherlock slowly down to the bed, and pulled the bedcover over them. It was hard to observe (yes he was much more observant now) how difficult it was for him, still, to be so close. He could almost hear Sherlock commanding his skin not to flinch; the concentration was etched in his face, and he couldn't really watch Sherlock endure this, and him the cause. He felt guilt begin to steal through his veins, whisper in his ear, cold tendrils of doubt: he's been so alone, so shattered, he'd do anything to get his life back. He doesn't know what he wants.
"Can I just-- ". Sherlock put his head on John's chest, a heaviness that John couldn't bear to imagine losing now, not for anything. And yet. Did he deserve this? Did Sherlock really want it?
"Sherlock. It's all right. I'm not going anywhere. But this has to go at a pace you feel, well, comfortable. What I said before, about not going back to the way things were. I don't want you to--"
"-- I just want to lay here. I am comfortable, John. Very. I like the sound. But I can hear better if we aren't talking."
John stopped talking, and Sherlock listened to his heartbeat. He even counted.
And for an hour, everything really was better than it was before.
* * *
"So. You needed Moriarty to think you believed that story: "Sir Boast-a-Lot." You needed me to believe that. And I just couldn't. I never did. Not for an instant, you know that, right? You had to know."
"I did my best. So you could stay alive. I hoped you would believe. It would have made it easier for you, I thought." And he had thought so.
"Easier for me-- you think-- the very idea that I could believe such utter, unmitigated lies about you, how could you?"
"I said I hoped. But all I really had to do was make sure you believed I was dead. Someday you'll tell me the story of how you found out I wasn't. I presume you dug up my grave. The only way to be sure, the only thing I couldn't completely fake. Hence, you did a DNA test. Where did you get a sample of my actual tissue? Or was it blood?"
"That's a story I won't be sharing."
"Very well. Just so you understand, secrets can go both ways."
"Sherlock. Let's talk about the Thatcher bombing, if you please."
"Very well. You finally have a fascinating crime that you solved, using deductive methods as well as forensics, and won't share. I'm not sure I like this turn up, John. Fine. The IRA bombed the Grand Hotel in Brighton in 1984. Margaret Thatcher was there for a Conservative Party conference. She wasn't harmed, because the bomber made a mistake. But five people were killed, and 30 were injured. The IRA claimed responsibility the very same day."
"So --- the question is, what does this have to do with a kid from Northern Ireland in Brighton in 1989, the year Carl Powers died? And in 1988, the year we see Moriarty in this photo, looking at Estella Hillier winning her swimming medal?"
"It has to do with fathers. They caught the bomber: Patrick Magee. Magee confessed that he worked with a team, but refused to name them. Magee stayed in the Grand Hotel under a false name a month before the bombings, and he planted the bomb with a long timer. What happened to Magee's confederates? Was someone from Dromintee, perhaps, among them?"
"I see. Moriarty's father. He's an IRA man."
"A bomb maker. His son Jim has followed in the same line, obviously, bombs are one of his special hobbies. Magee took the blame and took the fall -- but Moriarty's father, we asume, went free. Or perhaps faced reprisals from the IRA for failing to assassinate Thatcher, despite the other deaths."
"But why would an IRA man bring his sons, and presumably their mother, with him to Brighton for an operation?"
"Cart before the horse. I'm betting they had good reason to be here, apart from the bombings, and perhaps that is even why they were chosen. We know that Magee was here in Brighton a month before the bombings to do his advance work. The fact that Moriarty remained here as a schoolboy for several years after the Brighton bombing points to pre-existing family ties to the area. So they came as a family, for a family visit -- for cover. They didn't go back to Northern Ireland after the bombing, not for more than a decade. It is likely that they couldn't."
"And so they stayed in Brighton."
"Yes." Sherlock showed John his neat notes. "Timelines are important."
1984: The Brighton IRA bombing.
1986: First Babes in the Woods murders in Wild Park.
1988: photograph showing Moriarty as he watches Estella win a swim contest at the Brighton Swim Club. Carl Powers looking on.
1989: Carl Powers dies in a swimming pool on a field trip from Brighton to London. I unsuccessfully try to call the police's attention to his missing shoes. I first come to Moriarty's attention. And he to mine, in a way.
July 1991: Moriarty watches Estella win another swim contest in Brighton. She seems unaware of his presence.
October 1991: second Babes in the Woods murder: Estella Hillier is killed in Wild Park.
VII. The Murder of Carl Powers. Reprise.
"Moriarty killed Carl not just because of the laughing," Sherlock said,"but for the reason for the laughing. For laughing at him, and Estella saw it. That was really the problem, I suspect."
"It was all over this girl. Estella Hillier. It had to be. Look at these photos. Look at how Carl is looking at her. Look at how Moriarty is looking at her."
He knew from experience. How long had he looked at Sherlock like that-- imagining he never knew? Until he finally, but far too late, realized that the greatest of detectives had to have observed it, as he observed everything else.
"Moriarty was in love with Estella, but Estella didn't even know he existed. Probably she liked Carl better, swim competitor and all around great kid, as I found out at the time. Moriarty wasn't on the swim team like Carl. And he's a psychopath. Can it be any kind of coincidence that a girl that Moriarty clearly was obsessed with, should end up murdered?"
"But wait-- if Moriarty was in .Brighton when Carl was killed, why didn't anybody connect him? Even after you found the trainers? Even the Yard didn't find a thing."
"Neither did I. Looking in the wrong place. At the time, we checked all of Carl's classmates. Moriarty wasn't one of them, didn't even go to his school. Private Catholic school we'll find, surely. And he wasn't on Carl's swim team. Those photos were checked, too. But nobody thought to look at the photos from the Girl's Swim Club. Moriarty went just to watch Estella. And that's where he met Carl, and that's where he got laughed at."
"So you said you didn't think Moriarty killed Estella-- then who did?"
"If Moriarty was going to kill her, wouldn't he have done it when he killed Carl Powers? Although on the other hand, Moriarty is very fond of long-range planning when it comes to really important murders. He likes to draw out the game."
They both contemplated the fall.
"And so, do you think he's planning to kill her, when we see him in these pictures?"
They looked at Moriarty: the picture wasn't very good, but there was no mistaking that intent, hungry expression. Covetous. Desirous.
"I think he still wanted something from her in this last photo. But a few months later, she was dead."
"So, Moriarty finally realised that she wouldn't give him what he wanted. And killed her for it, I guess."
* * *
VIII. The Matter of Two Deaths on a Rooftop.
"Perhaps. But John. Moriarty thought it was so very important to "burn the heart out of me." He even thought he was helping me, he really did. Helping us both to stay alive, to not be bored. Giving me a game to play. And to play the game, I didn't just have to lose my heart -- I had to find it. And then it had to burn. Like he found his and lost it. The hard way. I think somebody taught Moriarty that lesson. But after the swimming pool, John, I think he decided it was much more of a challenge to make me kill myself over you, to make that sacrifice -- than to make me watch you die. He would have killed you afterward, anyway, no matter what he said. I knew that. Did you know that Moriarty killed himself first? A fake, but he meant me to believe it was real, and did his very best to be convincing. But I was out of time, if I didn't throw myself from that roof --"
"Sherlock, please --"
"Just this bit and we're done. It's like setting a broken bone."
(crush fracture)
"-- If I didn't do it-- jump -- right then, his snipers would have got to you that very minute, John. I had to be sure they saw me dead. That was the deal that Moriarty made. Either I died for you, or you died because of me. And not only you. Mrs. Hudson. Molly. Lestrade. Perhaps, even Mycroft. I presume that in the confusion in the street after I fell, that Moriarty was able to make a quiet getaway. He was prepared with a way to have his blood cleaned up - his was every bit as convincing as mine, and he likely had even better sources -- and get unnoticed off the roof. No doubt he had help -- as I did."
"Sherlock -- I meant it when I said I want you to tell me everything. If it needs to be now, then tell me. You're alive. I think I can try to start working on not seeing you. . . fall, every time I close my eyes. But I guess if I had a choice--"
"You would wait until we are finished with what we came here to do."
"Right. I know what I came here to do. Do you?"
"We're going to bring Moriarty back to Brighton. Because it's the one place he won't be able to resist coming back to."
"Right. But he can't come back for you. You're dead, and you're staying dead. Dead is safe. But I'm not dead."
He pulled out his laptop, smiling to see clear evidence that Sherlock had been using it while he slept. He had put a great deal more in the way of security measures in place since Moriarty had hacked it. But for this, Moriarty wouldn't need to hack. He would just have to read the newspapers.
"What are you doing?"
"Sending a little story to a good friend in the press. Let's just say she owes me a favour. The less scrupulous media -- the ones that don't go in much for fact checking -- will be reading it out within the hour, I should think. So hang on tight. Jim Moriarty is coming back to Brighton."
True to his word, Kitty Reilly had The Daily Mail's top headline:
"Twenty Years On, New Evidence In The Babes In The Woods Murder of Estella Hillier."
-- Exclusive to the Daily Mail by Kitty Reilly.
* * *
IX. Riddles and Tea with Sherlock Holmes: Moriarty, Elgar, Bach.
While they waited, Sherlock's fingers drummed restlessly. John was again reminded of his violin. And music.
"Sherlock. That music. On your mobile. And on Moriarty's mobile."
"Yes, John. You listened. I must say I'm surprised. Lestrade never made anything of it, did he?"
"No. But I tried. I figured out what the magpies meant."
"I'm very impressed! John, you amaze me. Four magpies, with La Gazza Lladra being the first. "Four magpies for death," the old folk rhyme. Moriarty was playing it, at the Tower. A secret code, if you will, just for me. Telling me that this was the beginning of the game, a game that could end only one way -- my death. Or his. But it only made sense after the fourth magpie, the wax seals. By then, I knew for certain."
"And the Bach. That, I couldn't figure out. And Moriarty, with Elgar's Enigma."
"Ah. For that, I need to tell you a little history lesson. Moriarty came to tea, and left that apple. I had already heard the music on his mobile, it was evidence in the trial, although the Crown didn't know what to make of it, of course. 'Elgar's Enigma.' Elgar was obsessed with puzzles, you know. Elgar famously broke a code that had been unsolved for perhaps 20 years. A man very much to Moriarty's taste - he loves puzzles, codes and riddles. Moriarty warned me to get used to riddles, when I said I didn't like them. The Engima Variations -- the 'enigma' is still unsolved, one of the most famous riddles of all time."
"So I gathered. I figured I wasn't going to solve what about a thousand geniuses before me hadn't. Have you solved it?"
"I don't believe it will ever be solved. It was a secret he deliberately took to his grave. And although he loved a good puzzle, I wonder if that fact is the biggest clue, in the end. There are at least five solid theories, and probably a few dozen more that are very shaky indeed, about the Enigma. What matters, then, is what Moriarty thought the answer was, or perhaps what he thought I would think the answer was, among all the choices floating about. And what that says about him, or about me. But about the Elgar Enigma later. First, the tea."
* * *
X. Bach's Unfinished Fugue.
"I was playing Bach on my violin as he came up, and this is what Moriarty said:
"You know when he was on his deathbed-Bach-he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end." And I said, "-- and the dying man jumped out of bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it."
"Okay. What else?"
"Moriarty was sorry, I think, that I seemed to fall for the trap so easily. He really wanted to leave a clue for me, a real clue. So he added, 'Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody.' "
"He meant the Bach Fugues I found on your own --- on your mobile. The Yard took it, of course.... but I had Lestrade copy the music for me. The last one was unfinished, stops in the middle of a bar. I looked it up. And I listened, you know. To all of your music, and all of Moriarty's too. Until Mrs. Hudson made me turn it off. Couldn't bear to hear it all over again."
Sherlock considered this with surprise. He hadn't expected that John would ever do that. He hadn't expected John to do anything but try to forget. His worst fear had been that perhaps, he would find a way, even with his shot-up shoulder, to reenlist and return to Afghanistan. But that he would turn detective, no. And then he chastised himself for continuing his fault of underestimating John. Of all the persons he had ever known, who had surprised him the most, without ever trying? Indisputably John Watson.
"That's. Yes. Well done. I shall have to, well....ah. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft...."
"Yes. Yes, you will. We all will. But not today."
"Well then. The music. I downloaded it after my little tea with Moriarty, because he so specifically mentioned the unfinished Bach piece. But that story he told me about it was a fake. A blind. Like so many of his stories, and so many of mine -- meant for him, I mean. He saw I wasn't going to correct him, that I fell for it -- to all appearances."
"So what's the truth then? About the unfinished piece?"
"What happened was that when Bach died -- blind from failed operations to save his sight, and crippled by stroke-- he left the Contrapunctus Number Fourteen unfinished. And his son added an explanatory note to the score after his father's death:
'At the point where the composer introduces the name BACH -- for which the English notation would be B♭-A-C-B♮-- in the countersubject to this fugue, the composer died.' "
"Okay, so: Bach left his name in the music. That's what the story was really about? Why?"
"No, Bach left his name in code. Coded notes that spelled out his name. And yes and no -- the Contrapunctus Fourteen is Bach's famous unfinished piece. But he did write a final, finished piece on his actual deathbed. Two days, before to be precise. That music is 'Now I Come Before Thy Throne,' and the words are,
Before your throne I now appear,
O God, and humbly bid you,
turn not your gracious face,
away from me, poor sinner.
"Sherlock. I'm happy to just go back to being considered an ordinary idiot if you'll tell me what it all means. It sounds like it was just another warning that you needed to be ready to meet your maker. Or at least that Bach wanted to be ready. Or it's all about Moriarty again -- that silly portrait, sitting on the throne with the Crown Jewels. What it has to do with you, and me, and all this--"
"Moriarty never said anything that wasn't important. Even if it wasn't true."
* * *
XI. The Clue's In The Name.
"And only once did Moriarty ever actually state, expressly, that he was giving me a clue: I asked him, who are you? And he answered, indirectly -- "The clue's in the name. Janus Cars."
"Ian Monkford. The two-faced god. I remember."
"But what has that to do with Ian Monkford? He was supposed to be dead, but he was really alive. New identity, all that. Two faces. But also, Jim Moriarty himself had two faces -- a actor, from Ireland; a criminal mastermind of no fixed above. Or more that two faces - countless, probably. A spider in a web. But then we have his brother, O'Neill -- who looks almost to be his twin. I've come to the conclusion that Moriarty and his brother form two halves of a whole -- Moriarty is by my own study a man who is mathematical, cerebral, devious, ruthless, and a master of the long, long game. His brother O'Neill, if my theory is correct, not so much. Mick O'Neill was an impulsive child-killer by the age of 15. The first Babes in the Woods killings are of the disorganized type, understandably; Estella Hillier's murder scene showed somewhat more planning, but fortunately less restraint. Much."
"Sherlock!"
"Just stating the facts, it is helpful when the clues are so very blatant. So, two brothers - criminals trying to earn the respect of their father, perhaps that's how it all started? Or even impress his employer, the IRA - who weren't having any of it. And so, their long exile."
"Or, Moriarty meant you, and him. Janus. Did you think of that? Even the Yard thought you were a stone cold criminal, at the end. And the very first day I met you, Sergeant Donovan told me that one day, you'd be found out as a killer. Because you get bored. Moriarty thought he saw that in you. Don't deny it, Sherlock. Maybe you even wanted him to. I've wondered about that. Because it was a game, but there's no doubt that you decided you wanted to play it."
"Yes, I wanted to play the game. Nobody else could have saved those people. Whether I cared, or not. I saved them. Me. You know it, even if everybody else thinks I was just a fraud and a fake, now."
The bitterness in his voice was even sharper, more hopeless now than before the fall, when Sherlock had asked John if even he doubted him now too. Along with Lestrade and all the others. "I know you for real," was all he could say, horrified and hurt to the core. He had chastised himself many a time over whether he could have said anything at all, or rather, if he said everything, to Sherlock in that moment.
Whether he could have turned the tide.
* * *
XII. The Enigma.
"No, you're right. So in the end I guess Moriarty couldn't have thought you were much of a sinner," John agreed. "So what about Bach's last song?"
"That's what Moriarty was after. And after all that talk about fairy tales, and old fashioned villains, we have Moriarty leaving clues framed in proper church music, written by Bach, a devout Lutheran, and Elgar, a devout Roman Catholic. Sinners and saints. In the end, Moriarty didn't consider me much of a sinner. He told me as much. One of the last things he said to me on that rooftop was that I was boring, and ordinary, and that I was on the side of the angels. I instantly proceeded to do all in my power to persuade him otherwise -- but on the whole, it was a very curious thing to say: on the side of the angels. Rather... biblical-sounding. And Moriarty never uses language idly."
"Okay. But what about Elgar? The Engima Variations: I wrote it down, you know. What Elgar said. You always told me to go to the primary source, hearsay is rubbish. Because I figured it meant something. Just like the four magpies:
The Enigma I will not explain - its 'dark saying' must be left unguessed, and I warn you that through and over the whole set another and larger theme 'goes', but is not played.... So the principal Theme never appears ... the chief character is never on the stage."
"Well, as I said. No one will ever solve it. I haven't, and I've tried. I hope you still have enough regard for my faculties, John --- "
"Yes, you're still a genius. Even if you can't solve old Elgar's problem. So what do we do?
"What is important is to discern whether Moriarty thought one of the potential solutions suited his purposes. And after the business with Bach, and the graffiti with angel's wings, I was felt I was being directed to solutions that seemed more... biblically based. And that leads to one of the better proposed solutions for the Enigma Variations: 1 Corinthians 13:12 reads For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
"Elgar was a practising Roman Catholic, and "darkly" was read as enigmate in the Latin of the Vulgate, John, which Elgar would have known. Just a week before Elgar completed the Enigma Variations, he attended a mass where this particular bible verse was read out. The verse is also commonly read at weddings today: 'the greatest of these, is love.'."
"So it's about a wedding? Moriarty's never been married. Neither have you." John refused to try to hide the flush he knew was creeping up his neck, which was only compounded by Sherlock's next words. Let Sherlock see it. I'm done trying to hide how I feel.
"Not about marriage. About something much better, and probably quite different based upon my own observation, which is actually extensive despite my lack of direct experimentation in the, ah, formalities."
He stepped back at John's discomfiture, which he could quickly see was turning into dismay, and then realised that he was actually proud that he could see that, even after so long apart. Seeing John even better than he likely would have before. When he was caught up in the game.
"All right, I see your point, John--"
"My point! I haven't said a word."
"You don't have to, it's plain as day, written in your face. And you're right. I admit I usually see marriage at its absolute worst. No, not marriage. The "dark theme" that "is not played," Elgar's Enigma -- the clue is that verse from Corinithians that Elgar heard in mass as he was finishing it. And decided to make it the biggest musical puzzle of all time. The Enigma, John, is love."
"Well, you're right then. That is much better." John smiled, for the first time since they came to Brighton. He remembered that little hostel room in Ireland, Sherlock clinging hard to him. And he had said that he loved Sherlock, then. The feeling filled him up now. Sherlock hadn't said it, not in so many words, and he didn't even expect that. He didn't even think Sherlock could say it. But he thought he was showing it now.
And for a moment, a clue that had been left by Moriarty somehow managed to shine a bright light, a light that he wasn't going to let Moriarty put out again. Moriarty had tried his best to take Sherlock from him.
This time, though, John was in the game, and he was playing for keeps.
* * *
XIII. The Sword.
"Okay then. Love. So, it's all about that poor girl that he loved. That's the Enigma? That's the puzzle that Moriarty wanted you to really solve?"
"I believe it was one of them. Maybe he didn't want me to solve it, he just wanted me to understand. That he had had a heart once too. And it wasn't worth it. That's what he was trying to teach me. I was a poor pupil."
"Then -- what about all the angels? Meaning what? The police? Me? Wait -- that graffiti, Sherlock. Near the flat. Painted on the wall. Did you know-- of course you didn't -- I hired Raz to paint something into it. Those grey angel wings. With "I.O.U." in red. Now... there's a sword. I put it there."
"Did you? That's -- that's, well, incredibly stupid, John. Didn't you think it would make Moriarty come after you again?"
"Yeah, I did. They already were. Moran was, anyway. And... I took care of it."
"God, John--- you can't, I can't.... Moriarty's going to be here, soon. Are you thinking what I think you're thinking? He won't be that obvious. He won't return to the scene of the crime. The woods where Estella died. Or the pool, either. We won't be able to just-- ambush him. We need more time, don't you see that? We need a very thorough plan."
"No more time. We're done with the game, do you understand? Or if you like, there's a new player in the game. John Hamish Watson. We'll find Moriarty like you always have. This time, I'll post a little invitation for a meeting. A meeting to discuss unfinished business-- left by the recently deceased Colonel Moran."
"I don't think he'd do it. He'll suspect a trap. And I can't have you meeting with him alone, John. And why would he agree?"
"Well, you're dead, for one. So he's got to be very, very bored. He doesn't want me digging into his affairs - that's why he sent Moran to fire a warning shot in Baker Street, outside the flat. If Moriarty wanted me dead, I figure he'd have had Moran do it a long time ago. I wasn't fit for... well, let's just say there's no way, no way on earth, Moriarty would have thought I was a threat. Not after you were gone. But things have changed. I've shown him I'm back in business. If he's paying any attention to London at all, he'll have already figured out I disappeared from London, the same day Moran was shot."
"No, John. I won't let you."
"It's the easiest way. I'm going to offer Moriarty my services. He has a job vacancy: he needs a new sniper. And I've proven my qualifications. I took Moran out. I'd even be quite happy to share with him who really shot Mr. Jeff Hope in the Study in Pink. As an added bonus, I'll offer to return something he left behind in Kitty Reilly's flat: Estella's swimming medal. I think Moriarty won't be able to resist. I think he'll want to make me his new favourite."
To be continued....
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