Holmes takes the opportunity to let his concerns for the case take over, rather than continue on a conversation with Watson that would no doubt be distracting and possibly a little heartbreaking. He focuses intently on the street instead, looking out the window and watching impatiently for Moran to reveal himself. He still isn't exactly sure how he'll react upon seeing Moran. Logic dictates that he ought to be enraged, or that he ought to at least be able to keep a level head, but after weeks, months of not quite being killed, of seeing his face suddenly when Holmes had had no idea he'd been followed... Moran rattles him.
He hopes Watson's presence will bolster him, and he's very grateful Moran is not as observant as Mycroft, or Moriarty, even. He doesn't want it to be read that he and Watson aren't exactly getting along swimmingly.
His fingers stop their impatient tapping on the windowsill when he sees him. There was never any chance that Holmes wouldn't see him immediately when Moran walked into his line of sight. His blood runs cold, but he keeps a grip on himself, and he backs away from the window. Reaching out, he snatches Watson's wrist and pulls him swiftly into the darkest corner. With his free hand, he presses his finger to Watson's lips to indicate the need for silence.
His other hand doesn't release Watson's wrist. Maybe he and Watson aren't quite able to go back to their romantic relationship, but he thinks Watson, even now, wouldn't begrudge Holmes the comfort that this tight grip is obviously seeking.
Watson followed, far too used to these sorts of situations, even after a span of three years. There was a difference, though, one that felt incredibly awkward and wrong to him. He shifted his hand slightly, enough to entwine his fingers with Holmes's properly. To do otherwise was unthinkable; it was necessary to communicate reassurance, comfort, and safety far more clearly than Holmes's fingertips along were able to.
He was keenly aware of the thump of his heart, the sound of his own breathing. He put his free hand to his pocket, his fingers brushing the hilt of his revolver.
He was eager, he found, to lay eyes on this Moran, at last.
When he'd been alerted to Holmes's return to London, he knows he should have been frustrated. He should have been irritated, angered that he'd been tricked, that Holmes had wriggled away from him and managed to arrange this comeback. He isn't frustrated, though; he isn't frustrated at all because how boring would it have been for Holmes to fade away in an opium den? How unsatisfying?
This is far better. This is thrilling.
Moriarty had liked that about Moran. He would've been frustrated, but he would've been thrilled, too. Moran would've helped him see that this is really a blessing in disguise.
He mounts the stairs to this house with Moriarty on his mind; he's already sneering to himself, here in the dark, that in a moment he'll be putting a bullet through the head of Holmes's lover, and it will destroy him.
It will destroy him in the way that Moran's death wouldn't have destroyed Moriarty. Moriarty was too smart to let someone under his skin like that.
His hands don't shake anymore at that thought; there was a time when that had made him sick, when they were in the thick of things. Now... Now it doesn't bother him. (The truth is Moran is a man who feels, and that's a hurt he feels keenly; he's also a man of determination, and so pretends that he doesn't.)
Oh, but he will be happy to murder Watson and watch Holmes fall apart. Maybe he'll even convince Holmes to throw himself into the Thames. Maybe he'll be there to see it. That would be fitting, wouldn't it? Moriarty into Reichenbach, the falls so huge and majestic and terrifying and unfamiliar but beautiful; and Holmes into the Thames, so choked and polluted and so very London. It's where Holmes deserves to rot.
He sets up his gun, and his body hums with anticipation; his breath catches in his throat, his heart thuds with excitement. He's been held back from this kill for far, far too long. He puts the good doctor into his sights, and his sneer grows.
If Holmes and Moriarty are parallels, he can see the parallels between himself and this man, the faithful right-hand man, the one left behind to mourn. He deserves this, too. (For being loved, his mind does not add.)
He holds his breath, places his finger on the trigger, and waits one -- two -- three heartbeats, and before the fourth one settles, the gun makes its whisper, and across the street, a bullet tears through the glass of the window in Baker st., and it rips a hole into Dr. Watson's forehead.
Holmes counts his heartbeats too as he waits for Moran to pull the trigger. Seeing him here in person, in all his fierce excitement, in all his vigor and delight in killing Watson, chills Holmes. He'd been quivering in nervous anticipation, but the shudder that comes when Moran steps into the room is from something entirely different. He's grateful that Watson holds his hand like this, comforts Holmes back, for he could really use the reminder that he isn't alone just now.
When he hears the tinkle of glass across the street is when he makes his move.
Fighting is nothing new to Holmes, but it's nothing new to Moran either. Though he prefers long-range combat, he's definitely a skilled fighter, and he's fueled by rage and the leftover adrenaline from having (he thinks) just shot Watson. And Holmes... Holmes looks into Moran's fierce eyes and remembers the Falls, remembers dodging Moran's bullets, and his focus isn't as steady as it should be.
Moran overpowers him, knocks him to the ground, closes his hands around Holmes's throat and leans in close to hiss in his face.
"Today's the day, Mr. Holmes. So glad you didn't die in that den; this is far more satisfying."
His breath stinks, and Holmes claws at his hands, attempting to fight him off, and attempting desperately not to look beyond Moran to Watson.
Watson acted quickly; he was a man made for action, after all. When Holmes was in peril, too, he didn't have to think. There was only one thing he could possibly have done, after all.
His hand was already on his revolver, and in a heartbeat he had rushed out with it at the read. Even in the heat of the moment, even after witnessing the man assassinate his double across the road, he couldn't quite bring himself to shoot the man in cold blood. There was no way to do such a thing safely, either, not with him struggling with Holmes. He would sooner cut off his own hand than risk injuring Holmes.
So, before he could have consciously thought any of this, Watson rushed up behind Holmes and Moran, struggling on the ground, and brought the butt of his revolver down upon Moran's head, hard.
Holmes coughs when Moran's weight falls on him; the man went from crushing his throat to crushing his chest, but at least the latter is far less dangerous, and Holmes pushes him aside. He gets to his feet quickly, unwilling to be such an easy target on the floor for much longer, should Moran come to too soon. He's still coughing when straightens, and he rubs absently at his throat, watching Moran, but it seems he's out cold.
He looks to Watson then because it's safe, because he wants to, because he may have just saved Holmes's life and Holmes is breathless (not just from nearly being choked) and his body is thrumming with victory and excitement. And Watson is right there, Watson saved him. There aren't even any bitter or confused feelings in this. He's exhilarated , and he loves Watson, and he wants, instinctually, desperately, to kiss him.
This is victory. This is the three worst years of Holmes's life over.
There is no thought in Holmes's mind, no doubt, as he strides across the short distance between himself and Watson. He lays one hand on his waist and the other against his shoulder, hand fisting in the material, and he pulls Watson against him. He kisses Watson with all the enthusiasm of a man who's just been handed his life back to him -- because that's what just happened, and really, Watson is the life that's been ripped away from him.
Maybe Watson doesn't agree, but there's no room for that in Holmes's mind right now.
It was an icy sort of shock; Watson's mind was still full of anger, vengeance, the thrill of battle. How dare this man stand between he and Holmes, how dare he come in here now, with his airgun, and attempt to make the separation more permanent.
He raised his hand with the intention of pushing Holmes away, of warding him off (with force, if necessary), but after so long without being kissed his resolve failed him. He would have even if it hadn't been such a desperate, longing, hungry sort of kiss. Watson melted into it, his fingers clenching into Holmes's hair, for the moment forgetting all thought of how angry he was with Holmes, how hurt. There was just the two of them, finally joined after so very long.
And then Moran gave a sort of moan, beneath them, and Watson pulled back in alarm, startled out of his mindless joy. There was still a very dangerous man on the ground with them, and he was still not sure how angry he was with Holmes.
Holmes starts and looks down at Moran, but it doesn't seem likely that he'll do much more than moan just now. Still, they need to hurry, and maybe it's good that they can't talk about what just happened. Holmes tries to read Watson's reaction as he (a little uncertainly) takes his hands off Watson's body and steps away from him completely.
It's an effort -- even through the situation's urgency -- to draw away from Watson and blow on the police whistle. The men Lestrade sent (and Lestrade?) will be here shortly, and as much as he'd like to be alone with Watson, maybe the forced aversion of what just happened would be good for them.
Watson had kissed back. He should be deliriously happy about that, but it had been an adrenaline-rich moment; Watson might regret it later.
He's glad to hear the officers stomping noisily up the steps, so he doesn't have time to say anything to Watson.
At the signal, Lestrade brings his boys into the house. The shot had worried him, but then they'd all known that was going to happen. Not that Holmes had told him, but the irritating man had probably known he'd stop by to talk to Mrs. Hudson and find out that way. He's glad to hear the whistle, though, to rush in now, as much to put in darbies the man that would try to kill Watson as to see...
Sherlock Holmes. Alive.
Lestrade has the good grace to come in the room and step to the side as his boys rush around the man on the floor and start restraining him. They're twisting around to stare too, though, because this is Sherlock Holmes. It's hard to see in the poor light that comes in from the window, but it's definitely him.
Lestrade bites the inside of his cheek so as to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing onto him, just to make sure he's real.
"That you, Lestrade?" Holmes asks, and Lestrade almost smirks to himself that he isn't the only one who needs a little verification here.
"It's me alright, Holmes. You think I'd send anyone else?"
Though Holmes being back is something to be marveled at, Lestrade has his head about him. He turns his focus on Watson, wonders how he's handling this, and when he asks, "You alright?" it's as much about the man on the floor as it is about everything else.
He wasn't sure if he was all right or not, to be perfectly honest. He couldn't have really answered that question, and he was still feeling more than a little jumbled.
"Oh, I'm fine." Watson looked rather curiously at the revolver in his hand, as though seeing it for the first time. He was certainly thankful he'd brought it, even if he'd used it for a rather more non-lethal use. He still felt strange about it, and had to wonder why he didn't feel more of an urge to kill the man than he did. Some sort of sympathy, perhaps, for having one's lover forcibly removed from one's life. "I'm not entirely sure he realised I was here, to be quite honest. He was rather intent on Holmes."
He had to force himself to look at Holmes, was hoping his blush was invisible in the dim room. He almost wished Holmes hadn't kissed him. It would have made things so much more simple.
Perhaps the kiss had simplified things in its own way, to be honest, but he wasn't sure he wanted that simplicity, not yet.
"You're all right, aren't you? He didn't hurt you?"
"He'll have left his mark in the form of a few bruises," he says, forcing an airy tone to his voice; he waves his hand dismissively, which helps him feel a little more put-together. "No permanent damage, otherwise." Well, none inflicted today.
He turns his attention to Lestrade, still wary of his friend, still uncertain whether or not he should be expecting a punch to the other side of his face.
"I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected murders in one year won't do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey Mystery with less than your usual -- that's to say, you handled it fairly well."
So, this is a weird scene all around, and he couldn't begin to guess what's going on between Holmes and Watson. He'll have to come by soon, maybe catch Watson alone and have a chat. For now, though, he can't do anything except deal with Holmes and all his hesitant greeting; even his insult lacks its usual punch, and he sounds so... so nervous.
He's had a lot of time to think about this after he left Mrs. Hudson, after he had a talk with Mary and loitered around on Baker street for the past few hours. It's the wax figure of Watson that seems to settle it for him; this all has something to do with Watson's safety, he's sure of it. That's not to say Holmes maybe was an enormous prat about it all, but still.
"That's sweet, Holmes," he says wryly, but then his smile turns more serious. "It's good to have you back in London. And I'm not talking about my arrest record, before you try that."
Moran fights through the cloud in his mind, and he comes up fighting too, pulling against the arms that restrain him. His hands are in cuffs too, and he pulls against them, not caring overmuch about the metal that digs into his skin. His vision's already adjusted to the dark, but the coppers that hold him uncover their lanterns and bathe the room in light. He sees them there -- not just Holmes, but Watson too, the man he just shot, and with a cry of rage he pulls at the men that hold him again.
"You -- !"
It clicks, what Holmes must've done, and he glares at him.
This entire situation was strange, beyond strange. There was much that Lestrade would want to know, Watson had to assume, but no privacy or time to say it, even if Watson had no notion of what to say about any of what was going on. Now that the rush and adrenaline were over, what was he to do with Holmes now?
At the sound of a new voice, Watson tensed, and the glare he turned on Moran was close to murderous, defensive and angry. He had no urge to kill this man, but he was certainly angry, whatever else he might be. He had never killed in anger, though he had certainly killed for survival.
"You'd best keep him away from me, Inspector," Watson said, not taking his eyes off Moran. "The Colonel might find that I can be just as dangerous as he can be."
The thought of Moran setting himself up on Watson terrifies Holmes more than the thought of taking on Moran himself. It isn't that he doubts Watson's abilities; it's that Moran has snaked his way into Holmes's psyche to the point where he can't quite believe that he managed to capture the Colonel after all.
He can't show that he's shaken; he can't show a weakness in front of him, not now, but Holmes is shaken, feels weak, and so he has to appeal to performance. He has to appeal to the theater to carry him through.
That's the only reason he can come up with to justify what he says.
"Ah, Colonel!" says Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar; "'journeys end in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says."
Moran's face darkens, and Holmes grins as brightly as he can, to appear as unaffected as possible.
"I don't think I've had the pleasure of seeing you for -- what is it -- a year or so now? I see you found my second faked death as convincing as everyone else found my first."
He turns to Lestrade and Watson. "Gentlemen, may I introduce to to Colonel Sebastian Moran, late of Professor Moriarty's clan of criminals, and even later of Her Majesty's Indian Army, where he developed those shooting skills Moriarty would find useful. Your bag of tigers remains unrivaled, does it not, Colonel?"
Moran only sneers, and Holmes imagines that if he were an animal, he'd be snorting and stomping; the image helps him, and he clings to it.
"I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a shikari. It must be very familiar to you. Have you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with your rifle, and waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This empty house is my tree and you are my tiger. You have possibly had other guns in reserve in case there should be several tigers, or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing you. These," he points around, "are my other guns. The parallel is exact."
It feels delightful to be able to throw all of this in Moran's face, and soon enough his smile isn't plastered on, but fairly genuine.
Oh, the bastard. He thinks he's so clever, throwing Moran's habits in his face, and the thing is, he is clever. The thing that makes this terrible, unbearable, enough to make him spit nails is that Moriarty would have chastised him for getting caught in this way. So obvious. So expected.
He stops struggling, though his face is no less fierce, no less full of rage and murderous intent. He takes his eyes off Holmes only long enough to stare down this Lestrade. Maybe he should have gone after him, first. Shaken Holmes's defenses. Moriarty would have approved of that.
"Do I have to listen to this? If I am to be arrested, can we not get on with it? So far as I understand it, the law doesn't require me to put up with the infuriating ramblings of this man. But then, you are the experts."
He hopes Watson's presence will bolster him, and he's very grateful Moran is not as observant as Mycroft, or Moriarty, even. He doesn't want it to be read that he and Watson aren't exactly getting along swimmingly.
His fingers stop their impatient tapping on the windowsill when he sees him. There was never any chance that Holmes wouldn't see him immediately when Moran walked into his line of sight. His blood runs cold, but he keeps a grip on himself, and he backs away from the window. Reaching out, he snatches Watson's wrist and pulls him swiftly into the darkest corner. With his free hand, he presses his finger to Watson's lips to indicate the need for silence.
His other hand doesn't release Watson's wrist. Maybe he and Watson aren't quite able to go back to their romantic relationship, but he thinks Watson, even now, wouldn't begrudge Holmes the comfort that this tight grip is obviously seeking.
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He was keenly aware of the thump of his heart, the sound of his own breathing. He put his free hand to his pocket, his fingers brushing the hilt of his revolver.
He was eager, he found, to lay eyes on this Moran, at last.
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This is far better. This is thrilling.
Moriarty had liked that about Moran. He would've been frustrated, but he would've been thrilled, too. Moran would've helped him see that this is really a blessing in disguise.
He mounts the stairs to this house with Moriarty on his mind; he's already sneering to himself, here in the dark, that in a moment he'll be putting a bullet through the head of Holmes's lover, and it will destroy him.
It will destroy him in the way that Moran's death wouldn't have destroyed Moriarty. Moriarty was too smart to let someone under his skin like that.
His hands don't shake anymore at that thought; there was a time when that had made him sick, when they were in the thick of things. Now... Now it doesn't bother him. (The truth is Moran is a man who feels, and that's a hurt he feels keenly; he's also a man of determination, and so pretends that he doesn't.)
Oh, but he will be happy to murder Watson and watch Holmes fall apart. Maybe he'll even convince Holmes to throw himself into the Thames. Maybe he'll be there to see it. That would be fitting, wouldn't it? Moriarty into Reichenbach, the falls so huge and majestic and terrifying and unfamiliar but beautiful; and Holmes into the Thames, so choked and polluted and so very London. It's where Holmes deserves to rot.
He sets up his gun, and his body hums with anticipation; his breath catches in his throat, his heart thuds with excitement. He's been held back from this kill for far, far too long. He puts the good doctor into his sights, and his sneer grows.
If Holmes and Moriarty are parallels, he can see the parallels between himself and this man, the faithful right-hand man, the one left behind to mourn. He deserves this, too. (For being loved, his mind does not add.)
He holds his breath, places his finger on the trigger, and waits one -- two -- three heartbeats, and before the fourth one settles, the gun makes its whisper, and across the street, a bullet tears through the glass of the window in Baker st., and it rips a hole into Dr. Watson's forehead.
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When he hears the tinkle of glass across the street is when he makes his move.
Fighting is nothing new to Holmes, but it's nothing new to Moran either. Though he prefers long-range combat, he's definitely a skilled fighter, and he's fueled by rage and the leftover adrenaline from having (he thinks) just shot Watson. And Holmes... Holmes looks into Moran's fierce eyes and remembers the Falls, remembers dodging Moran's bullets, and his focus isn't as steady as it should be.
Moran overpowers him, knocks him to the ground, closes his hands around Holmes's throat and leans in close to hiss in his face.
"Today's the day, Mr. Holmes. So glad you didn't die in that den; this is far more satisfying."
His breath stinks, and Holmes claws at his hands, attempting to fight him off, and attempting desperately not to look beyond Moran to Watson.
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His hand was already on his revolver, and in a heartbeat he had rushed out with it at the read. Even in the heat of the moment, even after witnessing the man assassinate his double across the road, he couldn't quite bring himself to shoot the man in cold blood. There was no way to do such a thing safely, either, not with him struggling with Holmes. He would sooner cut off his own hand than risk injuring Holmes.
So, before he could have consciously thought any of this, Watson rushed up behind Holmes and Moran, struggling on the ground, and brought the butt of his revolver down upon Moran's head, hard.
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He looks to Watson then because it's safe, because he wants to, because he may have just saved Holmes's life and Holmes is breathless (not just from nearly being choked) and his body is thrumming with victory and excitement. And Watson is right there, Watson saved him. There aren't even any bitter or confused feelings in this. He's exhilarated , and he loves Watson, and he wants, instinctually, desperately, to kiss him.
This is victory. This is the three worst years of Holmes's life over.
There is no thought in Holmes's mind, no doubt, as he strides across the short distance between himself and Watson. He lays one hand on his waist and the other against his shoulder, hand fisting in the material, and he pulls Watson against him. He kisses Watson with all the enthusiasm of a man who's just been handed his life back to him -- because that's what just happened, and really, Watson is the life that's been ripped away from him.
Maybe Watson doesn't agree, but there's no room for that in Holmes's mind right now.
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He raised his hand with the intention of pushing Holmes away, of warding him off (with force, if necessary), but after so long without being kissed his resolve failed him. He would have even if it hadn't been such a desperate, longing, hungry sort of kiss. Watson melted into it, his fingers clenching into Holmes's hair, for the moment forgetting all thought of how angry he was with Holmes, how hurt. There was just the two of them, finally joined after so very long.
And then Moran gave a sort of moan, beneath them, and Watson pulled back in alarm, startled out of his mindless joy. There was still a very dangerous man on the ground with them, and he was still not sure how angry he was with Holmes.
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It's an effort -- even through the situation's urgency -- to draw away from Watson and blow on the police whistle. The men Lestrade sent (and Lestrade?) will be here shortly, and as much as he'd like to be alone with Watson, maybe the forced aversion of what just happened would be good for them.
Watson had kissed back. He should be deliriously happy about that, but it had been an adrenaline-rich moment; Watson might regret it later.
He's glad to hear the officers stomping noisily up the steps, so he doesn't have time to say anything to Watson.
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Sherlock Holmes. Alive.
Lestrade has the good grace to come in the room and step to the side as his boys rush around the man on the floor and start restraining him. They're twisting around to stare too, though, because this is Sherlock Holmes. It's hard to see in the poor light that comes in from the window, but it's definitely him.
Lestrade bites the inside of his cheek so as to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing onto him, just to make sure he's real.
"That you, Lestrade?" Holmes asks, and Lestrade almost smirks to himself that he isn't the only one who needs a little verification here.
"It's me alright, Holmes. You think I'd send anyone else?"
Though Holmes being back is something to be marveled at, Lestrade has his head about him. He turns his focus on Watson, wonders how he's handling this, and when he asks, "You alright?" it's as much about the man on the floor as it is about everything else.
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"Oh, I'm fine." Watson looked rather curiously at the revolver in his hand, as though seeing it for the first time. He was certainly thankful he'd brought it, even if he'd used it for a rather more non-lethal use. He still felt strange about it, and had to wonder why he didn't feel more of an urge to kill the man than he did. Some sort of sympathy, perhaps, for having one's lover forcibly removed from one's life. "I'm not entirely sure he realised I was here, to be quite honest. He was rather intent on Holmes."
He had to force himself to look at Holmes, was hoping his blush was invisible in the dim room. He almost wished Holmes hadn't kissed him. It would have made things so much more simple.
Perhaps the kiss had simplified things in its own way, to be honest, but he wasn't sure he wanted that simplicity, not yet.
"You're all right, aren't you? He didn't hurt you?"
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He turns his attention to Lestrade, still wary of his friend, still uncertain whether or not he should be expecting a punch to the other side of his face.
"I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected murders in one year won't do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey Mystery with less than your usual -- that's to say, you handled it fairly well."
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He's had a lot of time to think about this after he left Mrs. Hudson, after he had a talk with Mary and loitered around on Baker street for the past few hours. It's the wax figure of Watson that seems to settle it for him; this all has something to do with Watson's safety, he's sure of it. That's not to say Holmes maybe was an enormous prat about it all, but still.
"That's sweet, Holmes," he says wryly, but then his smile turns more serious. "It's good to have you back in London. And I'm not talking about my arrest record, before you try that."
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"You -- !"
It clicks, what Holmes must've done, and he glares at him.
"You fiend. You clever, clever fiend."
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At the sound of a new voice, Watson tensed, and the glare he turned on Moran was close to murderous, defensive and angry. He had no urge to kill this man, but he was certainly angry, whatever else he might be. He had never killed in anger, though he had certainly killed for survival.
"You'd best keep him away from me, Inspector," Watson said, not taking his eyes off Moran. "The Colonel might find that I can be just as dangerous as he can be."
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He can't show that he's shaken; he can't show a weakness in front of him, not now, but Holmes is shaken, feels weak, and so he has to appeal to performance. He has to appeal to the theater to carry him through.
That's the only reason he can come up with to justify what he says.
"Ah, Colonel!" says Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar; "'journeys end in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says."
Moran's face darkens, and Holmes grins as brightly as he can, to appear as unaffected as possible.
"I don't think I've had the pleasure of seeing you for -- what is it -- a year or so now? I see you found my second faked death as convincing as everyone else found my first."
He turns to Lestrade and Watson. "Gentlemen, may I introduce to to Colonel Sebastian Moran, late of Professor Moriarty's clan of criminals, and even later of Her Majesty's Indian Army, where he developed those shooting skills Moriarty would find useful. Your bag of tigers remains unrivaled, does it not, Colonel?"
Moran only sneers, and Holmes imagines that if he were an animal, he'd be snorting and stomping; the image helps him, and he clings to it.
"I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a shikari. It must be very familiar to you. Have you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with your rifle, and waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This empty house is my tree and you are my tiger. You have possibly had other guns in reserve in case there should be several tigers, or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing you. These," he points around, "are my other guns. The parallel is exact."
It feels delightful to be able to throw all of this in Moran's face, and soon enough his smile isn't plastered on, but fairly genuine.
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He stops struggling, though his face is no less fierce, no less full of rage and murderous intent. He takes his eyes off Holmes only long enough to stare down this Lestrade. Maybe he should have gone after him, first. Shaken Holmes's defenses. Moriarty would have approved of that.
"Do I have to listen to this? If I am to be arrested, can we not get on with it? So far as I understand it, the law doesn't require me to put up with the infuriating ramblings of this man. But then, you are the experts."
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