When Your Ship Comes In 2/3
Title: When Your Ship Comes In
Writer: life_downsized
Alternate links: FFN
Status of work: Complete: 1/3
Characters and/or pairings: Sherlock, some vague references to Sherlock/John and Moriarty/Moran
Rating: R
Warnings, kinks & contents: Some scenes of graphic violence
Length: 5,429
Author's note: My eternal gratitude to darkdeeplakes and making_excuses for taking this and whipping it into shape, and as usual my love and thanks to everyone over at the BSH for their continued support. This work is a completed fic in three parts. Title taken from 'Ships' by Anais Mitchell.
Summary: O Muse! Sing in me and through me tell the story of that man skilled in all the ways of contending, a wanderer, harried for years on end… After the Fall Sherlock finds himself on an Odyssey of his own: a journey to bring down the remains of Moriarty's empire and ensure the safety of those he loves. Like Odysseus, he'll face perils and dangers that no man should have to face and like Odysseus, he'll find his way home again someday.
The sea was calm that night as Sherlock stood on the balcony, looking out over the beach. He'd taken the opportunity to bathe in a bathtub as wide and deep as the river Styx, and had slept for a while in one of the many silent rooms that the house contained. The sky was dark and peppered with small stars the likes of which were foreign to a London mind, and the quiet rush of the sand disintegrating under the surging roar of the North Sea was the only sound to be heard. He took in a deep gulp of salty air, and wandered back through to the vast sitting room, throwing himself on a lavish sofa. It was five to nine.
When the minute hand clasped the hour, he heard the key click in the lock but he didn't flinch at the noise. Instead, he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of a coat being hung up and a pair of crisp footsteps that walked across the wooden floorboards into the living room, and then abruptly stopped. There came a great sigh.
"Hello, Sherlock," said Mycroft wearily.
"Mycroft," returned Sherlock, and his eyes snapped open. His brother was standing in the doorway, cutting a silhouette into the square of yellow light. His jacket was draped over his shoulder, and his shirt unusually rumpled.
"How was the drive?"
Mycroft smiled tightly. "Fine, thank you." He threw his jacket on a chair and rolled up his sleeves like he was about to go into a boxing match. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Already had one."
"Of course." Mycroft rubbed at his eye with the palm of his eye, and then sat primly down on the armchair, resting his left ankle on his right knee. "Where have you been?"
"Fine."
"Not how have you been, Sherlock, where have you been?"
Sherlock didn't reply; just continued to stare at the ceiling, feeling his brother's eyes boring into him like a pneumatic drill. In his peripheral vision he could see Mycroft clasping his hands into a steeple and pressing them to his lips.
"You know, a child sex-trafficking ring in Germany was closed up a few months ago; a group that nobody could get to. We had our best people on it and nothing. And then, out of the blue, we're told that apparently a 'concerned benefactor' alerted the police to their whereabouts. That wouldn't have anything to do with you, now, would it?"
Sherlock smiled. "Me? No. John Drysdale had quite a lot to do with it, though."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "John Drysdale? How touching."
"John is one of the most common names in the English language, Mycroft; do try not to become sentimental."
"Why are you here, Sherlock?"
"I need information - any files you might have on Sebastian Moran."
"Is that all?"
Sherlock frowned up at the clean ceiling. "Yes."
"No it isn't."
"You're right. Why did you clear my name?"
"Because I don't want people thinking you're a fraud," Mycroft replied lightly.
"That's the whole point!" Sherlock snapped. "He…they are supposed to think I'm a fraud because then they won't come looking for me!"
There was a long silence in which the detective tried very hard not to look at his brother.
"Do you want to know what John is doing right now?"
Sherlock flinched. "Mycroft, this isn't the time, it's not why I'm here-"
"No, Sherlock." Mycroft's tone was commanding and fierce; a tone he rarely used. The last time Sherlock had heard it was on a grounded plane half a year ago, and before that it had been when he was lying nearly comatose in St. Bart's hospital. "You chose to care. I warned you not to but you didn't listen to me and you did it anyway. You can't pick and choose. You may not want to listen, but these people will be heard."
Sherlock didn't reply.
"Right now John is being besieged by countless tabloid reporters who want an exclusive scoop. There is always at least one standing outside his door when he leaves in the morning and one when he returns. If he tells them to leave, they ignore him. If I tell them to leave they do, but then they're back the very next day. They think he's an easy target because he's an ex-soldier with a limp, but what they don't know is that during every second of free time he has he looks for you. He scans every newspaper, follows every possible lead even when he knows it's a dead end. He does not believe you are a fraud, and he wants to know what made you jump; what was impossible enough that you had to die for it. He's looking for you, Sherlock, whether you like it or not."
Sherlock licked his rapidly drying lips. "And the others?"
"Mrs. Hudson is back from visiting her sister in Bath, but she is finding it difficult with John back in Baker Street. She hasn't asked him for the rent in months. It's lucky her inheritance was as big as it was otherwise Doctor Watson might have found himself one flat short. DI Lestrade has been reposted to the Serious and Organised Crime division. It's a step down from Homicide but at least my saved favours could guarantee his future at Scotland Yard."
Sherlock didn't speak for a very long time. Then he said, "I need the file on Moran."
"No need. Moran was raised by his mother in a council estate in Surrey. She was a paranoid schizophrenic and committed suicide when he was seventeen. He never did very well in school, often exploded into fits of violence and assaulted a learning mentor when he was in his Third Year. He joined the army aged eighteen but was forced out when he shot an Afghan citizen on a whim. Aside from that, there's nothing on him. Nothing can be traced back. His file is clean."
"How do I find him?"
Mycroft sighed deeply, as if he was forcing all the air from his lungs. "We currently have very little information on his whereabouts. We have been led to believe he is currently residing under a false name in Istanbul."
Sherlock smirked. "Wrong. He's in London."
"Oh? And how did you learn that?"
"By asking the right person. Honestly, the Secret Service really is incompetent."
"You don't have to tell me," Mycroft smiled. "I work with them."
There was a very long silence. Minutes might have passed in that vast expanse of time, or hours, Sherlock wasn't quite sure. Outside, the rhythmic beating of the sea kept on, calling him away.
"I'm going back to London. I need to collect information on Moran's whereabouts."
Mycroft raised a pencil-sharp eyebrow. "Are you sure that's wise?"
"I don't have any other options."
"Would you like me to arrange for some protection?"
Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Don't be ridiculous. My homeless network is all the protection I need, and a lot more capable than your people."
Mycroft winced imperceptibly. He looked exhausted; drained. "Do you go out of your way to make yourself obnoxious or is it a naturally occurring variable?"
"High-functioning sociopath, brother, I thought we'd had that covered."
"No you're not."
Sherlock frowned. "Excuse me?"
"You clearly consider me a fool, Sherlock. Everyone else might swallow that line, but I won't. You wish to refuse my help? Fine. But I care for you, and I want you to be safe."
"You're not my mother, Mycroft," Sherlock scoffed.
"And you're not my responsibility, yet here we are. I know you were never quite grabbed by the concept of familial ties, but do try to accept that some people actually tolerate your presence in their lives."
"I don't need to tolerate yours."
"Then why did you come here? It's quite clear you already know more about Moran than my team do, and that you already know how you are going to deal with him. What possible value could this visit entail, if not sentimentality?"
Sherlock didn't know how to reply to that. Mycroft smiled triumphantly.
"I'm going to have to go underground for a while," the detective said eventually. "Find out where he's hiding; how best to get to him. I probably won't be in Britain for long."
"The frailty of genius is that it needs an audience…" Mycroft pondered. "I think this may be the first entirely selfless act you have ever performed. Well done."
"Don't patronise me, Mycroft, it doesn't become you."
"Mummy would be so proud."
"Please. She always preferred you. You were the good child. Didn't it ever get boring, being so good all the time?"
Mycroft shook his head. "You think she preferred me? God, no. I was too much a - what is that term you're so fond of? A high-functioning sociopath. You had fire. Passion. Emotion. You still do. Of course…" He drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. "I was the one who sat through hours of detoxing just so Mummy wouldn't have to see you in that state."
Sherlock rested his fingers on his mouth as Mycroft slowly unfurled himself from the chair. The older Holmes stood silently in the middle of the vast room before reaching into his pocket and drawing out a credit card. He looked at it thoughtfully.
"When are you leaving?" he asked.
"Tomorrow."
Mycroft hummed, and then laid the small slab of plastic on the arm of the sofa, next to his brother's mess of hair. "Take this, then. I understand you're going incognito but I'd hate to see you starve in the process."
Sherlock didn't touch the card.
"Spend the night here. You're always welcome, you know."
"Thank you."
Mycroft leant against the doorpost and sighed once more, looking as if he were about to be physically sick under the burden of his words. "Sherlock…you know I - care for you, very deeply. I just wanted you to know that."
"I thought you said caring wasn't an advantage."
The politician smiled. "Well, there's an exception to every rule. I'm sure our good Doctor will understand."
"Goodnight, Mycroft."
"Goodnight, Sherlock."
It was probably as close to love as they would ever get.
By the time the sun began to rise over the Whitstable beach and the sea, the sofa was empty and Sherlock was already gone.
In every experiment, there was an anomaly; an outlier, something which could not have been predicted, no matter how thorough the scientist. This outlier could appear as a mark on a graph which threw the results sideways or as a small glitch in the mechanisms involved. In the case of Sherlock Holmes, the outlier appeared on a cold and rainy day that was buried in the cavity of Dalston, North London.
For the past few weeks the streets of London had made an acceptable if not comfortable sleeping-place. The people he had formally employed had taken him in as one of their own, encompassing him like a protective shield so that, in their company, he blended into the brick walls and the concrete as they did. People never looked twice at a homeless person. Once or twice some sympathetic Sixth Former had bought him a coffee from Starbucks, but not once did they recognise his face. His appearance had changed dramatically since his last television emergence, but even so the inhabitants of the Capital were almost unrepentantly unobservant, despite the 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' graffiti he saw dotted here and there.
In his mind, he had drawn a locus: a circle that surrounded everywhere that was three miles away from his previous residence. Outside the circle, he could operate freely with little concern of being seen by people he knew. Within the circle was the danger zone. He could see the imaginary lines as clearly as if they had been marked on the pavement, and he had informed his colleagues to prevent him from stepping even one foot over the barriers. They, of course, could come and go as they pleased - he had informed them that they would be rewarded handsomely once everything had been fixed - and sometimes he would ask them to visit Baker Street, just to make sure no remarkable changes had taken place. They were fond of this sentimentality, adopting a new name for themselves: the Baker Street Irregulars.
And so the life of Sherlock Holmes continued.
Moran had proved to be a difficult fish to catch. His name cropped up in several petty criminal gangs here and there, but he never seemed to be one place - rather, he flitted around like a phantom. There were rumours everywhere: it seemed that Moran was in Italy and Spain and Serbia, all at the same time. Sherlock looked up at the blank-slate sky and for a moment thought fondly of Moriarty's insistent flamboyance. At least the man had been easy to find.
There was a crick in his neck, and Sherlock rubbed at the sore spot with one hand. He had heard that Moran was involved with a gang in Dalston, and had come to investigate the small chance that the gossip might take him somewhere. The day was cold; the sort of cold that crept into your bones, and he regretted letting Molly keep his coat after the autopsy. He rubbed his hands together, and stepped out of the alleyway onto Mare Street.
He stopped.
There was a Turkish café opposite him, surrounded by a ring of bright yellow police tape that rippled in the breeze like the sail of a ship. Two more strips of tape were blocking off the rest of the road, creating a small island, and a police car was parked within its perimeters. The window of said café had a small hole in its centre, with trails of cracked glass stretching out to the wooden frame - a shooting gone wrong, presumably.
Another police car pulled up, sirens blazing, and a slim figure climbed out from the front seat. Sherlock felt his heart falter and he quickly pulled back into the shadows. For a moment, he didn't know how to go on. He could have turned back immediately, ignored it all and continued on his path. But the seed of temptation had already been planted deep within his heart. Nobody would recognise him, he told himself, and so with a tentative movement he stepped out of the alley and into the deserted street.
At the same time, a man came out of the café, and stood on the pavement, glaring at the new arrival in disbelief. The figure - a woman - ran a hand through her unkempt hair.
Then Greg Lestrade opened his mouth and called: "What the hell are you doing here?"
For a moment, Sally Donovan said nothing. As Sherlock came to a stop, he heard her reply, "Investigating a crime scene, Greg - same as you."
"This isn't your division," said Lestrade, rubbing his hands together.
"There's a man lying dead. It is my division."
Ah. So that answered the question of who had replaced Lestrade as head of Homicide. Now that was a shame. But then, the Met always had liked a sycophant.
Lestrade shook his head with a haggard sigh, and raised his hands in defeat. "Fine, then. I'll just be off, shall I?"
He pushed past her, walking purposefully towards the police van, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Sally bit her lip and called, "Greg, wait!"
The DI stopped in his tracks. "What do you want, Donovan?"
Sally flinched at the formality. When she next spoke, her voice was so soft that Sherlock strained to hear it. "I just…talk to me, please."
"What about? You've already been given the case file, haven't you?"
"You know that's not what I meant."
Lestrade sighed deeply. "Yeah, I do. God help me."
"Sir, I…we used to be friends; can't we talk about this?"
"There's nothing to talk about. He died, I got fired and you got my job. He was innocent. You were wrong. Does that clear things up?"
"I didn't ask for this!" Sally called, and Sherlock wasn't sure whether she meant the promotion or the other thing.
"Well, it damn well looks like you did!"
It would be so easy, Sherlock mused, to go over there: to stride up, and solve their case for them; to prove them both wrong. After all, Moriarty was dead; his name had been cleared, and the deep, ferocious tug on his heart was so, so painful. It would be easy, and it would be wonderful. He opened his mouth to call out to them, but at that moment a young officer who he didn't know stood in his path and batted his hands like Sherlock was some disgusting bluebottle.
"Back off, mate. This is a crime scene, not the bloody Odeon."
Before he had any time to object Sherlock had turned on his heels and walked, nearly running, from the high street. Once he was back in the secluded safety of the alleyway he leant against the wall, breathing tightly. Then he swiftly picked himself up and walked the other way, without once looking back.
Behind him, the police van drove away with its sirens wailing.
There had been a man who knew a man who knew where Sebastian Moran was hiding. Then there had been a messy jumble of time which, when he tried to look back over it made his head throb. Somewhere within that labyrinth had been a plane ride, most of which was blanketed by the thick delirium of sleep. He had awoken in a bright white room with light streaming through the windows, his shoulders burning from the unaccustomed luxury of a mattress against them instead of a pavement. It had taken him a while to remember where he was and this frightened him, like someone had taken the floor from underneath his feet and replaced it with a bottomless sea.
He'd ended up in San Sebastián, on the north coast of Spain. Moran probably thought he was being terribly funny, hiding out here. Sherlock had been hoping that his new nemesis would have a little more finesse about him, but then again, this time he wasn't here to play.
He sat on a bench by the docks and watched the seagulls wheeling and cajoling around the tall masts. A boat was pulling into the harbour, leaving behind little ripples in the blue water. He felt too hot, too sticky, and although he'd splashed some cool water on his face before checking out of the hotel, he hadn't had a proper shower for weeks. He'd left all of the clothes that Molly had provided for him back with the homeless network, and had used Mycroft's card to purchase a cheap white shirt and some black linen trousers, yet the newness of the garments did nothing to freshen his spirit. The midday sun was too glaring. He missed British clouds.
Sherlock suddenly registered the hard step of boots against the wooden pathways as a man walked past his bench. The man's hands were shoved violently in his jeans - expensive, but well-worn; he had a lot of money but didn't want to show it. Sandy blonde hair, cropped, army style. He walked casually, but his posture was upright: a military career, then. Tan lines around his wrists suggested he'd been here a while but definitely wasn't a native, and - oh. Oh.
It took all of Sherlock's restraint not to leap up and grab Moran by the collar there and then. He clasped his hands together, and watched as the rifleman - he looked exactly like he did in the CCTV photographs - wandered over to the boat that Sherlock had been watching earlier. A figure, too far away to examine properly, but overweight and clearly male, disembarked the rusty vessel and shook Moran's hand. Then they walked away together, in the opposite direction.
Quietly, Sherlock stood up, and began to follow them.
The two men made their way over to a sleek black car that was parked by a row of houses, and as soon as the doors opened Sherlock took off into a run. The car reversed out of its slot, and began to drive away. The detective almost tripped over his feet as he ran into the road and then screeched to a stop as the car, the figure and Moran drove off into the distance.
Then there was a blare of horns, and Sherlock wheeled around to see a black and yellow taxi behind him, the driver shouting at him through the window. A grin spread over his face, and he scrambled over to the car and climbed into the back seat.
"Policia," he calmly said to pacify the angry yells of the driver. "Seguir." He gestured towards the car ahead of them. With a Spanish obscenity on his lips, the driver banged at the dashboard with his fist and reluctantly began to drive.
Sherlock took a deep breath, and wiped the sweat from his brow.
They tailed the car for a long time, down long, winding roads and up steep slopes towards the base of Mount Uli. The air inside the cab was sticky and thick with the all-pervading smell of leather and cigarette smoke. The driver was clearly having an affair with his sister-in-law, but that was by-the-by. Sherlock kept his eye trained on Moran's vehicle ahead of them and recited the periodic table in his head to keep calm. Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium.
By the time he got to Mendelevium the black car had pulled up outside a perfectly innocuous white villa, and Sherlock hissed for the driver to stop the cab. Not once taking his eyes off the two men who went through the front door, he took a couple of euro notes from his pocket, flung them at the driver and quietly slid out of the car, barely registering when it swiftly drove away. He took a good look at the house. Wall around the outside garden; easy enough to scale. No discernable security system or cameras on the outside: the house was a place of relaxation, a getaway, probably somewhere that very few people knew about. All this was good and would work in his favour, and he tried very hard not to be troubled by the fact that maybe it was too easy.
Sherlock bought a newspaper that he couldn't focus on and sat on a bench which had a good view of the villa, keeping up a quiet surveillance. The heat of the sun was unforgiving, his blood reprimanding him with every thick beat. There seemed to be no sound in that quiet place and everything was still, stagnating in the sunlight.
When the detective's mouth had dried and his damp shirt hard begun to grasp at his torso, the door to the villa opened once more and Moran and his companion came out, laughing together at some private joke. Sherlock could see the second man better now. He - about fifty - made a squat figure next to Moran, with his grey suit bulging out in front of him - married, no children. The man's eyes were enclosed by glasses - cheap, prescription, worked in public services - and his hairline was beginning to recede. He looked familiar, which was surprising, but Sherlock couldn't instantly put his finger on it and he didn't have time to sort through his mind palace; not right now.
The two men got back into the black car and drove off, heading back towards the centre of town. Sherlock left the newspaper forgotten on the bench and wandered over to the villa. He checked the road, and found it as empty as it had ever been. Then, with one swift movement he leapt at the wall, hoisting himself up on an uneven brick and down the other side.
He had been hoping that there was nobody in the house that he would have to contend with, and found himself lucky. Moran's garden was cool and shaded and silent, with a swimming pool in the centre that reflected the sky and green plants running alongside the wall. Sherlock pulled his foot free from a now-trampled Mexican Flame vine, and wandered noiselessly along the width of the pool towards the back door. When he pushed it, it opened under his hands with little fuss.
As he had expected, Moran's house was similar to his garden: crisp and cool, unpretentious. Within minutes Sherlock had located the kitchen and took several long drinks of water from the tap, draining them into himself like he had been hollowed out. Then he washed up the glass and left it on the draining board. There was little of interest in the fridge or in the sitting room. He lay on the sofa and rested for an hour before resuming his search. A rack of Bob Dylan CDs, some Henning Mankel books and a boxset of The Killing - irrelevant. Upstairs, Sherlock found a loaded Heckler & Koch stashed away in a desk drawer. He picked it up for safekeeping, switched the safety on and pushed it into the waistband of his trousers, noting with distaste the way the cold metal rubbed against his hip. Underneath the gun was a small piece of paper on which, written in looped, cursive handwriting, read the words: Dear Seb, please enjoy this little token of my appreciation. - J x.
Inside a filofax, Sherlock located various phone numbers and names, some of which had been hastily and recently scratched out. A couple of Moran's notations caught his eye - 09.05.12 expect ship. Zylstra 6:49am R. Portbury - but most meant nothing. One page had been ripped out and was gone forever. There was no laptop to break into and no reason to do so even if it had been there. Once Moran was gone, Troy would fall.
The sky outside had started darkening, casting great waves of red sunset across the house that, when Sherlock looked out the window, were reflected in the rippling pool. He slowly wandered back downstairs with the gun chafing at his side. It didn't take long to find a suitable alcove, with a convenient curtain to conceal him from view. Satisfied, he took up his position behind the burgundy fabric, and waited.
When the door clicked open, about an hour later, Sherlock felt a shiver dance along his spine. The two men were laughing jovially in the same way they had been earlier, and he pressed himself tightly against the wall.
"No, I mean, she were a nice lass and all," one of the men was saying. "But I'm past my prime." Thick, Northern accent - Sheffield, probably. Moran's companion. His familiarity was grating, now.
"Well, girls around here, you pay them enough and you'll find them surprisingly compliant," laughed Moran. His voice was deeper, rougher, and far more dangerous that his friend. "But let's get down to business, shall we?"
"Oh, Sebastian," sighed the Northerner with glee. His words were followed by the sound of his fat hands slapping together. "I thought you'd never ask."
Two bottles had the tops snapped off them. Sherlock tried to steady his breathing. "How much were you hoping for?"
"How much are you willing to give?"
A quiet laugh. "I've got some stuff going down in the city. There's this kid - Adair - been kicking up a fuss and he's got some people involved that I need to keep quiet. Just make sure there's not too much made of it. Fifty thou."
There was a hum of disapproval. "Seventy five."
There was a long pause, and then a dark chuckle. "Jones, you greedy bastard!" said Moran appreciatively. "Sixty."
"Sixty five."
"Now you're just fucking with me. Sixty."
There was a long, drawn-out sigh. Then a resigned agreement: "Sixty."
There was a fluttering rustle as banknotes were counted out, and then Moran said, "Sixty thousand. Buy your wife something nice."
"Ta very much," grunted Jones, and there was a chink of the two bottles being bumped grudgingly together.
"Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to turn the conversation to something else."
"Oh, aye?"
"John Watson."
Instantaneously, Sherlock felt how his blood refused to continue pumping around his body, like it had been salted over. He swallowed, suddenly feeling light-headed and drowned.
"What about him?"
"He's started snooping around where he's not wanted. I want to take care of him, and I'd appreciate it if maybe somebody else could have done the deed - Tom Ruskin, for example."
A long pause. "You…you'd give me Ruskin in exchange for Watson?"
"Ruskin's indispensible, but the press doesn't know that. Plus you get Watson off your hands - I hear he caused you some trouble when Holmes was arrested."
A mumble of affirmation. "Decked me right across the face, the little shite."
Oh. Oh. Athelney Jones - of course. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut. How the hell could he have been so damn blind?
"You'll have no problem if he's found dead in his flat, then? Suicide, of course. Just like his little mate, yeah?"
"None whatsoever."
Sherlock felt close to vomiting. When he was young, he had learnt all about the Cost-Reward effect: about how, when aroused by fear or desperation, one had to measure up the danger and make the decision to turn and run, or stay and help. Now, standing in Moran's house with a loaded Heckler & Koch, there was nowhere to run to, and he had nothing left to lose. He swallowed against his dry throat, and tried to even his frantic pulse. Then he took the handle of the gun, pointed it straight out in front of him, and pulled back the curtain.
Jones had been standing facing the alcove, and so his reaction was immediate. His face drained of all colour so that, rather than a man, he resembled a bloated corpse. He reached out a fat finger and cried, "Jesus fucking Christ!"
Moran turned, and his eyes slowly made a trail from Sherlock's face right down to the muzzle of the gun in his hand. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to come out," he said, resting his hands casually in the pockets of his jeans.
Behind him, Jones was still trembling. "He's dead; he's fucking dead!"
"Well done, Superintendent, a brilliant impersonation of an idiot," Sherlock snapped, his voice rusted and rotten.
Moran laughed. "Jim told me you were a prickly bastard," he grinned. Then, without taking his eyes off the detective, he added, "Why don't you go outside for a bit, Al? Have a smoke. Clear your head."
However stupid Jones was, he couldn't miss the clear dismissal in Moran's voice, and he quickly scuttled out of sight. Moran looked Sherlock up and down.
"You knew I was alive," said Sherlock. "How?"
Moran ran a hand through his cropped hair. "You really should know better than to threaten people's better halves, Holmes," he said. "You threw yourself off a building for Doctor Watson - or didn't throw yourself off, clearly - so you should have known, really, not to say anything about Miss. Avilov."
Sherlock blinked. "Emilia Kovalenko. She told you."
"Well done, genius," Moran replied patronizingly.
"But how did she-"
"She mentioned someone was causing trouble. It wasn't too difficult to figure out who that someone was, even with that frankly appalling attempt at a disguise. Jim always said you were smart but, really, I'm just not seeing it." Moran scratched at his neck, and gave a smile that was almost apologetic. "And I'm not even that smart; not really. But, you see, that's why I'm going to win. You just want things to be clever, all the time. You think because there's some special rule that means geniuses can't kill each other, but I'm not a genius, so I'd have no problem with just picking up a gun and shooting you right between the eyes. In fact, I just might."
Sherlock remembered how once upon a time, in a sitting room in London with a clock hanging over his head, Moriarty had turned to him and said, 'Maybe I should get myself a live-in one.' It made Sherlock feel physically nauseous to think that this specimen of a man who stood in front of him now was the best that the consulting criminal could do. Jim was probably laughing in his grave. Because this, this antithesis, this mere parody of John, this was the final insult.
"You forget I'm not playing a game anymore," he said.
Moran just shrugged. "You haven't shot me yet, have you?"
"No. Not yet."
And before he could be sucked into yet another whirlpool, Sherlock raised the gun, and fired a bullet right into Sebastian Moran's left eye.
The blood spurted, thick and black; spattered onto the tiles of the floor and the white walls, onto Sherlock himself. Moran reeled back and then crashed against a counter, flopping pathetically down to the floor and then slumping as liquid, clotted and tinged with something else that Sherlock didn't want to think about, crawled in spots towards him. Sherlock felt his hand let go of the gun; barely heard it clatter to the floor. Moran was dead, unrelentingly so, and his one remaining eye stared blindly at the ceiling.
There was a crash as Jones barreled in from the garden, and then he stopped by Moran's warm body, the toe of his shoe kissing a red puddle.
"You…" the policeman began, and then Sherlock turned and ran, through the back door and into the cold, dark garden. He leapt at the wall, fumbling through clinging plants that he could not see, and then there was a crack as a bullet hit the brick near his foot. With one monumental push, Sherlock heaved himself over the wall, and then down into the street, and then he took off running into the night.
Part One | Part Three
Writer: life_downsized
Alternate links: FFN
Status of work: Complete: 1/3
Characters and/or pairings: Sherlock, some vague references to Sherlock/John and Moriarty/Moran
Rating: R
Warnings, kinks & contents: Some scenes of graphic violence
Length: 5,429
Author's note: My eternal gratitude to darkdeeplakes and making_excuses for taking this and whipping it into shape, and as usual my love and thanks to everyone over at the BSH for their continued support. This work is a completed fic in three parts. Title taken from 'Ships' by Anais Mitchell.
Summary: O Muse! Sing in me and through me tell the story of that man skilled in all the ways of contending, a wanderer, harried for years on end… After the Fall Sherlock finds himself on an Odyssey of his own: a journey to bring down the remains of Moriarty's empire and ensure the safety of those he loves. Like Odysseus, he'll face perils and dangers that no man should have to face and like Odysseus, he'll find his way home again someday.
The sea was calm that night as Sherlock stood on the balcony, looking out over the beach. He'd taken the opportunity to bathe in a bathtub as wide and deep as the river Styx, and had slept for a while in one of the many silent rooms that the house contained. The sky was dark and peppered with small stars the likes of which were foreign to a London mind, and the quiet rush of the sand disintegrating under the surging roar of the North Sea was the only sound to be heard. He took in a deep gulp of salty air, and wandered back through to the vast sitting room, throwing himself on a lavish sofa. It was five to nine.
When the minute hand clasped the hour, he heard the key click in the lock but he didn't flinch at the noise. Instead, he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of a coat being hung up and a pair of crisp footsteps that walked across the wooden floorboards into the living room, and then abruptly stopped. There came a great sigh.
"Hello, Sherlock," said Mycroft wearily.
"Mycroft," returned Sherlock, and his eyes snapped open. His brother was standing in the doorway, cutting a silhouette into the square of yellow light. His jacket was draped over his shoulder, and his shirt unusually rumpled.
"How was the drive?"
Mycroft smiled tightly. "Fine, thank you." He threw his jacket on a chair and rolled up his sleeves like he was about to go into a boxing match. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Already had one."
"Of course." Mycroft rubbed at his eye with the palm of his eye, and then sat primly down on the armchair, resting his left ankle on his right knee. "Where have you been?"
"Fine."
"Not how have you been, Sherlock, where have you been?"
Sherlock didn't reply; just continued to stare at the ceiling, feeling his brother's eyes boring into him like a pneumatic drill. In his peripheral vision he could see Mycroft clasping his hands into a steeple and pressing them to his lips.
"You know, a child sex-trafficking ring in Germany was closed up a few months ago; a group that nobody could get to. We had our best people on it and nothing. And then, out of the blue, we're told that apparently a 'concerned benefactor' alerted the police to their whereabouts. That wouldn't have anything to do with you, now, would it?"
Sherlock smiled. "Me? No. John Drysdale had quite a lot to do with it, though."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "John Drysdale? How touching."
"John is one of the most common names in the English language, Mycroft; do try not to become sentimental."
"Why are you here, Sherlock?"
"I need information - any files you might have on Sebastian Moran."
"Is that all?"
Sherlock frowned up at the clean ceiling. "Yes."
"No it isn't."
"You're right. Why did you clear my name?"
"Because I don't want people thinking you're a fraud," Mycroft replied lightly.
"That's the whole point!" Sherlock snapped. "He…they are supposed to think I'm a fraud because then they won't come looking for me!"
There was a long silence in which the detective tried very hard not to look at his brother.
"Do you want to know what John is doing right now?"
Sherlock flinched. "Mycroft, this isn't the time, it's not why I'm here-"
"No, Sherlock." Mycroft's tone was commanding and fierce; a tone he rarely used. The last time Sherlock had heard it was on a grounded plane half a year ago, and before that it had been when he was lying nearly comatose in St. Bart's hospital. "You chose to care. I warned you not to but you didn't listen to me and you did it anyway. You can't pick and choose. You may not want to listen, but these people will be heard."
Sherlock didn't reply.
"Right now John is being besieged by countless tabloid reporters who want an exclusive scoop. There is always at least one standing outside his door when he leaves in the morning and one when he returns. If he tells them to leave, they ignore him. If I tell them to leave they do, but then they're back the very next day. They think he's an easy target because he's an ex-soldier with a limp, but what they don't know is that during every second of free time he has he looks for you. He scans every newspaper, follows every possible lead even when he knows it's a dead end. He does not believe you are a fraud, and he wants to know what made you jump; what was impossible enough that you had to die for it. He's looking for you, Sherlock, whether you like it or not."
Sherlock licked his rapidly drying lips. "And the others?"
"Mrs. Hudson is back from visiting her sister in Bath, but she is finding it difficult with John back in Baker Street. She hasn't asked him for the rent in months. It's lucky her inheritance was as big as it was otherwise Doctor Watson might have found himself one flat short. DI Lestrade has been reposted to the Serious and Organised Crime division. It's a step down from Homicide but at least my saved favours could guarantee his future at Scotland Yard."
Sherlock didn't speak for a very long time. Then he said, "I need the file on Moran."
"No need. Moran was raised by his mother in a council estate in Surrey. She was a paranoid schizophrenic and committed suicide when he was seventeen. He never did very well in school, often exploded into fits of violence and assaulted a learning mentor when he was in his Third Year. He joined the army aged eighteen but was forced out when he shot an Afghan citizen on a whim. Aside from that, there's nothing on him. Nothing can be traced back. His file is clean."
"How do I find him?"
Mycroft sighed deeply, as if he was forcing all the air from his lungs. "We currently have very little information on his whereabouts. We have been led to believe he is currently residing under a false name in Istanbul."
Sherlock smirked. "Wrong. He's in London."
"Oh? And how did you learn that?"
"By asking the right person. Honestly, the Secret Service really is incompetent."
"You don't have to tell me," Mycroft smiled. "I work with them."
There was a very long silence. Minutes might have passed in that vast expanse of time, or hours, Sherlock wasn't quite sure. Outside, the rhythmic beating of the sea kept on, calling him away.
"I'm going back to London. I need to collect information on Moran's whereabouts."
Mycroft raised a pencil-sharp eyebrow. "Are you sure that's wise?"
"I don't have any other options."
"Would you like me to arrange for some protection?"
Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Don't be ridiculous. My homeless network is all the protection I need, and a lot more capable than your people."
Mycroft winced imperceptibly. He looked exhausted; drained. "Do you go out of your way to make yourself obnoxious or is it a naturally occurring variable?"
"High-functioning sociopath, brother, I thought we'd had that covered."
"No you're not."
Sherlock frowned. "Excuse me?"
"You clearly consider me a fool, Sherlock. Everyone else might swallow that line, but I won't. You wish to refuse my help? Fine. But I care for you, and I want you to be safe."
"You're not my mother, Mycroft," Sherlock scoffed.
"And you're not my responsibility, yet here we are. I know you were never quite grabbed by the concept of familial ties, but do try to accept that some people actually tolerate your presence in their lives."
"I don't need to tolerate yours."
"Then why did you come here? It's quite clear you already know more about Moran than my team do, and that you already know how you are going to deal with him. What possible value could this visit entail, if not sentimentality?"
Sherlock didn't know how to reply to that. Mycroft smiled triumphantly.
"I'm going to have to go underground for a while," the detective said eventually. "Find out where he's hiding; how best to get to him. I probably won't be in Britain for long."
"The frailty of genius is that it needs an audience…" Mycroft pondered. "I think this may be the first entirely selfless act you have ever performed. Well done."
"Don't patronise me, Mycroft, it doesn't become you."
"Mummy would be so proud."
"Please. She always preferred you. You were the good child. Didn't it ever get boring, being so good all the time?"
Mycroft shook his head. "You think she preferred me? God, no. I was too much a - what is that term you're so fond of? A high-functioning sociopath. You had fire. Passion. Emotion. You still do. Of course…" He drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. "I was the one who sat through hours of detoxing just so Mummy wouldn't have to see you in that state."
Sherlock rested his fingers on his mouth as Mycroft slowly unfurled himself from the chair. The older Holmes stood silently in the middle of the vast room before reaching into his pocket and drawing out a credit card. He looked at it thoughtfully.
"When are you leaving?" he asked.
"Tomorrow."
Mycroft hummed, and then laid the small slab of plastic on the arm of the sofa, next to his brother's mess of hair. "Take this, then. I understand you're going incognito but I'd hate to see you starve in the process."
Sherlock didn't touch the card.
"Spend the night here. You're always welcome, you know."
"Thank you."
Mycroft leant against the doorpost and sighed once more, looking as if he were about to be physically sick under the burden of his words. "Sherlock…you know I - care for you, very deeply. I just wanted you to know that."
"I thought you said caring wasn't an advantage."
The politician smiled. "Well, there's an exception to every rule. I'm sure our good Doctor will understand."
"Goodnight, Mycroft."
"Goodnight, Sherlock."
It was probably as close to love as they would ever get.
By the time the sun began to rise over the Whitstable beach and the sea, the sofa was empty and Sherlock was already gone.
In every experiment, there was an anomaly; an outlier, something which could not have been predicted, no matter how thorough the scientist. This outlier could appear as a mark on a graph which threw the results sideways or as a small glitch in the mechanisms involved. In the case of Sherlock Holmes, the outlier appeared on a cold and rainy day that was buried in the cavity of Dalston, North London.
For the past few weeks the streets of London had made an acceptable if not comfortable sleeping-place. The people he had formally employed had taken him in as one of their own, encompassing him like a protective shield so that, in their company, he blended into the brick walls and the concrete as they did. People never looked twice at a homeless person. Once or twice some sympathetic Sixth Former had bought him a coffee from Starbucks, but not once did they recognise his face. His appearance had changed dramatically since his last television emergence, but even so the inhabitants of the Capital were almost unrepentantly unobservant, despite the 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' graffiti he saw dotted here and there.
In his mind, he had drawn a locus: a circle that surrounded everywhere that was three miles away from his previous residence. Outside the circle, he could operate freely with little concern of being seen by people he knew. Within the circle was the danger zone. He could see the imaginary lines as clearly as if they had been marked on the pavement, and he had informed his colleagues to prevent him from stepping even one foot over the barriers. They, of course, could come and go as they pleased - he had informed them that they would be rewarded handsomely once everything had been fixed - and sometimes he would ask them to visit Baker Street, just to make sure no remarkable changes had taken place. They were fond of this sentimentality, adopting a new name for themselves: the Baker Street Irregulars.
And so the life of Sherlock Holmes continued.
Moran had proved to be a difficult fish to catch. His name cropped up in several petty criminal gangs here and there, but he never seemed to be one place - rather, he flitted around like a phantom. There were rumours everywhere: it seemed that Moran was in Italy and Spain and Serbia, all at the same time. Sherlock looked up at the blank-slate sky and for a moment thought fondly of Moriarty's insistent flamboyance. At least the man had been easy to find.
There was a crick in his neck, and Sherlock rubbed at the sore spot with one hand. He had heard that Moran was involved with a gang in Dalston, and had come to investigate the small chance that the gossip might take him somewhere. The day was cold; the sort of cold that crept into your bones, and he regretted letting Molly keep his coat after the autopsy. He rubbed his hands together, and stepped out of the alleyway onto Mare Street.
He stopped.
There was a Turkish café opposite him, surrounded by a ring of bright yellow police tape that rippled in the breeze like the sail of a ship. Two more strips of tape were blocking off the rest of the road, creating a small island, and a police car was parked within its perimeters. The window of said café had a small hole in its centre, with trails of cracked glass stretching out to the wooden frame - a shooting gone wrong, presumably.
Another police car pulled up, sirens blazing, and a slim figure climbed out from the front seat. Sherlock felt his heart falter and he quickly pulled back into the shadows. For a moment, he didn't know how to go on. He could have turned back immediately, ignored it all and continued on his path. But the seed of temptation had already been planted deep within his heart. Nobody would recognise him, he told himself, and so with a tentative movement he stepped out of the alley and into the deserted street.
At the same time, a man came out of the café, and stood on the pavement, glaring at the new arrival in disbelief. The figure - a woman - ran a hand through her unkempt hair.
Then Greg Lestrade opened his mouth and called: "What the hell are you doing here?"
For a moment, Sally Donovan said nothing. As Sherlock came to a stop, he heard her reply, "Investigating a crime scene, Greg - same as you."
"This isn't your division," said Lestrade, rubbing his hands together.
"There's a man lying dead. It is my division."
Ah. So that answered the question of who had replaced Lestrade as head of Homicide. Now that was a shame. But then, the Met always had liked a sycophant.
Lestrade shook his head with a haggard sigh, and raised his hands in defeat. "Fine, then. I'll just be off, shall I?"
He pushed past her, walking purposefully towards the police van, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Sally bit her lip and called, "Greg, wait!"
The DI stopped in his tracks. "What do you want, Donovan?"
Sally flinched at the formality. When she next spoke, her voice was so soft that Sherlock strained to hear it. "I just…talk to me, please."
"What about? You've already been given the case file, haven't you?"
"You know that's not what I meant."
Lestrade sighed deeply. "Yeah, I do. God help me."
"Sir, I…we used to be friends; can't we talk about this?"
"There's nothing to talk about. He died, I got fired and you got my job. He was innocent. You were wrong. Does that clear things up?"
"I didn't ask for this!" Sally called, and Sherlock wasn't sure whether she meant the promotion or the other thing.
"Well, it damn well looks like you did!"
It would be so easy, Sherlock mused, to go over there: to stride up, and solve their case for them; to prove them both wrong. After all, Moriarty was dead; his name had been cleared, and the deep, ferocious tug on his heart was so, so painful. It would be easy, and it would be wonderful. He opened his mouth to call out to them, but at that moment a young officer who he didn't know stood in his path and batted his hands like Sherlock was some disgusting bluebottle.
"Back off, mate. This is a crime scene, not the bloody Odeon."
Before he had any time to object Sherlock had turned on his heels and walked, nearly running, from the high street. Once he was back in the secluded safety of the alleyway he leant against the wall, breathing tightly. Then he swiftly picked himself up and walked the other way, without once looking back.
Behind him, the police van drove away with its sirens wailing.
There had been a man who knew a man who knew where Sebastian Moran was hiding. Then there had been a messy jumble of time which, when he tried to look back over it made his head throb. Somewhere within that labyrinth had been a plane ride, most of which was blanketed by the thick delirium of sleep. He had awoken in a bright white room with light streaming through the windows, his shoulders burning from the unaccustomed luxury of a mattress against them instead of a pavement. It had taken him a while to remember where he was and this frightened him, like someone had taken the floor from underneath his feet and replaced it with a bottomless sea.
He'd ended up in San Sebastián, on the north coast of Spain. Moran probably thought he was being terribly funny, hiding out here. Sherlock had been hoping that his new nemesis would have a little more finesse about him, but then again, this time he wasn't here to play.
He sat on a bench by the docks and watched the seagulls wheeling and cajoling around the tall masts. A boat was pulling into the harbour, leaving behind little ripples in the blue water. He felt too hot, too sticky, and although he'd splashed some cool water on his face before checking out of the hotel, he hadn't had a proper shower for weeks. He'd left all of the clothes that Molly had provided for him back with the homeless network, and had used Mycroft's card to purchase a cheap white shirt and some black linen trousers, yet the newness of the garments did nothing to freshen his spirit. The midday sun was too glaring. He missed British clouds.
Sherlock suddenly registered the hard step of boots against the wooden pathways as a man walked past his bench. The man's hands were shoved violently in his jeans - expensive, but well-worn; he had a lot of money but didn't want to show it. Sandy blonde hair, cropped, army style. He walked casually, but his posture was upright: a military career, then. Tan lines around his wrists suggested he'd been here a while but definitely wasn't a native, and - oh. Oh.
It took all of Sherlock's restraint not to leap up and grab Moran by the collar there and then. He clasped his hands together, and watched as the rifleman - he looked exactly like he did in the CCTV photographs - wandered over to the boat that Sherlock had been watching earlier. A figure, too far away to examine properly, but overweight and clearly male, disembarked the rusty vessel and shook Moran's hand. Then they walked away together, in the opposite direction.
Quietly, Sherlock stood up, and began to follow them.
The two men made their way over to a sleek black car that was parked by a row of houses, and as soon as the doors opened Sherlock took off into a run. The car reversed out of its slot, and began to drive away. The detective almost tripped over his feet as he ran into the road and then screeched to a stop as the car, the figure and Moran drove off into the distance.
Then there was a blare of horns, and Sherlock wheeled around to see a black and yellow taxi behind him, the driver shouting at him through the window. A grin spread over his face, and he scrambled over to the car and climbed into the back seat.
"Policia," he calmly said to pacify the angry yells of the driver. "Seguir." He gestured towards the car ahead of them. With a Spanish obscenity on his lips, the driver banged at the dashboard with his fist and reluctantly began to drive.
Sherlock took a deep breath, and wiped the sweat from his brow.
They tailed the car for a long time, down long, winding roads and up steep slopes towards the base of Mount Uli. The air inside the cab was sticky and thick with the all-pervading smell of leather and cigarette smoke. The driver was clearly having an affair with his sister-in-law, but that was by-the-by. Sherlock kept his eye trained on Moran's vehicle ahead of them and recited the periodic table in his head to keep calm. Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium.
By the time he got to Mendelevium the black car had pulled up outside a perfectly innocuous white villa, and Sherlock hissed for the driver to stop the cab. Not once taking his eyes off the two men who went through the front door, he took a couple of euro notes from his pocket, flung them at the driver and quietly slid out of the car, barely registering when it swiftly drove away. He took a good look at the house. Wall around the outside garden; easy enough to scale. No discernable security system or cameras on the outside: the house was a place of relaxation, a getaway, probably somewhere that very few people knew about. All this was good and would work in his favour, and he tried very hard not to be troubled by the fact that maybe it was too easy.
Sherlock bought a newspaper that he couldn't focus on and sat on a bench which had a good view of the villa, keeping up a quiet surveillance. The heat of the sun was unforgiving, his blood reprimanding him with every thick beat. There seemed to be no sound in that quiet place and everything was still, stagnating in the sunlight.
When the detective's mouth had dried and his damp shirt hard begun to grasp at his torso, the door to the villa opened once more and Moran and his companion came out, laughing together at some private joke. Sherlock could see the second man better now. He - about fifty - made a squat figure next to Moran, with his grey suit bulging out in front of him - married, no children. The man's eyes were enclosed by glasses - cheap, prescription, worked in public services - and his hairline was beginning to recede. He looked familiar, which was surprising, but Sherlock couldn't instantly put his finger on it and he didn't have time to sort through his mind palace; not right now.
The two men got back into the black car and drove off, heading back towards the centre of town. Sherlock left the newspaper forgotten on the bench and wandered over to the villa. He checked the road, and found it as empty as it had ever been. Then, with one swift movement he leapt at the wall, hoisting himself up on an uneven brick and down the other side.
He had been hoping that there was nobody in the house that he would have to contend with, and found himself lucky. Moran's garden was cool and shaded and silent, with a swimming pool in the centre that reflected the sky and green plants running alongside the wall. Sherlock pulled his foot free from a now-trampled Mexican Flame vine, and wandered noiselessly along the width of the pool towards the back door. When he pushed it, it opened under his hands with little fuss.
As he had expected, Moran's house was similar to his garden: crisp and cool, unpretentious. Within minutes Sherlock had located the kitchen and took several long drinks of water from the tap, draining them into himself like he had been hollowed out. Then he washed up the glass and left it on the draining board. There was little of interest in the fridge or in the sitting room. He lay on the sofa and rested for an hour before resuming his search. A rack of Bob Dylan CDs, some Henning Mankel books and a boxset of The Killing - irrelevant. Upstairs, Sherlock found a loaded Heckler & Koch stashed away in a desk drawer. He picked it up for safekeeping, switched the safety on and pushed it into the waistband of his trousers, noting with distaste the way the cold metal rubbed against his hip. Underneath the gun was a small piece of paper on which, written in looped, cursive handwriting, read the words: Dear Seb, please enjoy this little token of my appreciation. - J x.
Inside a filofax, Sherlock located various phone numbers and names, some of which had been hastily and recently scratched out. A couple of Moran's notations caught his eye - 09.05.12 expect ship. Zylstra 6:49am R. Portbury - but most meant nothing. One page had been ripped out and was gone forever. There was no laptop to break into and no reason to do so even if it had been there. Once Moran was gone, Troy would fall.
The sky outside had started darkening, casting great waves of red sunset across the house that, when Sherlock looked out the window, were reflected in the rippling pool. He slowly wandered back downstairs with the gun chafing at his side. It didn't take long to find a suitable alcove, with a convenient curtain to conceal him from view. Satisfied, he took up his position behind the burgundy fabric, and waited.
When the door clicked open, about an hour later, Sherlock felt a shiver dance along his spine. The two men were laughing jovially in the same way they had been earlier, and he pressed himself tightly against the wall.
"No, I mean, she were a nice lass and all," one of the men was saying. "But I'm past my prime." Thick, Northern accent - Sheffield, probably. Moran's companion. His familiarity was grating, now.
"Well, girls around here, you pay them enough and you'll find them surprisingly compliant," laughed Moran. His voice was deeper, rougher, and far more dangerous that his friend. "But let's get down to business, shall we?"
"Oh, Sebastian," sighed the Northerner with glee. His words were followed by the sound of his fat hands slapping together. "I thought you'd never ask."
Two bottles had the tops snapped off them. Sherlock tried to steady his breathing. "How much were you hoping for?"
"How much are you willing to give?"
A quiet laugh. "I've got some stuff going down in the city. There's this kid - Adair - been kicking up a fuss and he's got some people involved that I need to keep quiet. Just make sure there's not too much made of it. Fifty thou."
There was a hum of disapproval. "Seventy five."
There was a long pause, and then a dark chuckle. "Jones, you greedy bastard!" said Moran appreciatively. "Sixty."
"Sixty five."
"Now you're just fucking with me. Sixty."
There was a long, drawn-out sigh. Then a resigned agreement: "Sixty."
There was a fluttering rustle as banknotes were counted out, and then Moran said, "Sixty thousand. Buy your wife something nice."
"Ta very much," grunted Jones, and there was a chink of the two bottles being bumped grudgingly together.
"Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to turn the conversation to something else."
"Oh, aye?"
"John Watson."
Instantaneously, Sherlock felt how his blood refused to continue pumping around his body, like it had been salted over. He swallowed, suddenly feeling light-headed and drowned.
"What about him?"
"He's started snooping around where he's not wanted. I want to take care of him, and I'd appreciate it if maybe somebody else could have done the deed - Tom Ruskin, for example."
A long pause. "You…you'd give me Ruskin in exchange for Watson?"
"Ruskin's indispensible, but the press doesn't know that. Plus you get Watson off your hands - I hear he caused you some trouble when Holmes was arrested."
A mumble of affirmation. "Decked me right across the face, the little shite."
Oh. Oh. Athelney Jones - of course. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut. How the hell could he have been so damn blind?
"You'll have no problem if he's found dead in his flat, then? Suicide, of course. Just like his little mate, yeah?"
"None whatsoever."
Sherlock felt close to vomiting. When he was young, he had learnt all about the Cost-Reward effect: about how, when aroused by fear or desperation, one had to measure up the danger and make the decision to turn and run, or stay and help. Now, standing in Moran's house with a loaded Heckler & Koch, there was nowhere to run to, and he had nothing left to lose. He swallowed against his dry throat, and tried to even his frantic pulse. Then he took the handle of the gun, pointed it straight out in front of him, and pulled back the curtain.
Jones had been standing facing the alcove, and so his reaction was immediate. His face drained of all colour so that, rather than a man, he resembled a bloated corpse. He reached out a fat finger and cried, "Jesus fucking Christ!"
Moran turned, and his eyes slowly made a trail from Sherlock's face right down to the muzzle of the gun in his hand. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to come out," he said, resting his hands casually in the pockets of his jeans.
Behind him, Jones was still trembling. "He's dead; he's fucking dead!"
"Well done, Superintendent, a brilliant impersonation of an idiot," Sherlock snapped, his voice rusted and rotten.
Moran laughed. "Jim told me you were a prickly bastard," he grinned. Then, without taking his eyes off the detective, he added, "Why don't you go outside for a bit, Al? Have a smoke. Clear your head."
However stupid Jones was, he couldn't miss the clear dismissal in Moran's voice, and he quickly scuttled out of sight. Moran looked Sherlock up and down.
"You knew I was alive," said Sherlock. "How?"
Moran ran a hand through his cropped hair. "You really should know better than to threaten people's better halves, Holmes," he said. "You threw yourself off a building for Doctor Watson - or didn't throw yourself off, clearly - so you should have known, really, not to say anything about Miss. Avilov."
Sherlock blinked. "Emilia Kovalenko. She told you."
"Well done, genius," Moran replied patronizingly.
"But how did she-"
"She mentioned someone was causing trouble. It wasn't too difficult to figure out who that someone was, even with that frankly appalling attempt at a disguise. Jim always said you were smart but, really, I'm just not seeing it." Moran scratched at his neck, and gave a smile that was almost apologetic. "And I'm not even that smart; not really. But, you see, that's why I'm going to win. You just want things to be clever, all the time. You think because there's some special rule that means geniuses can't kill each other, but I'm not a genius, so I'd have no problem with just picking up a gun and shooting you right between the eyes. In fact, I just might."
Sherlock remembered how once upon a time, in a sitting room in London with a clock hanging over his head, Moriarty had turned to him and said, 'Maybe I should get myself a live-in one.' It made Sherlock feel physically nauseous to think that this specimen of a man who stood in front of him now was the best that the consulting criminal could do. Jim was probably laughing in his grave. Because this, this antithesis, this mere parody of John, this was the final insult.
"You forget I'm not playing a game anymore," he said.
Moran just shrugged. "You haven't shot me yet, have you?"
"No. Not yet."
And before he could be sucked into yet another whirlpool, Sherlock raised the gun, and fired a bullet right into Sebastian Moran's left eye.
The blood spurted, thick and black; spattered onto the tiles of the floor and the white walls, onto Sherlock himself. Moran reeled back and then crashed against a counter, flopping pathetically down to the floor and then slumping as liquid, clotted and tinged with something else that Sherlock didn't want to think about, crawled in spots towards him. Sherlock felt his hand let go of the gun; barely heard it clatter to the floor. Moran was dead, unrelentingly so, and his one remaining eye stared blindly at the ceiling.
There was a crash as Jones barreled in from the garden, and then he stopped by Moran's warm body, the toe of his shoe kissing a red puddle.
"You…" the policeman began, and then Sherlock turned and ran, through the back door and into the cold, dark garden. He leapt at the wall, fumbling through clinging plants that he could not see, and then there was a crack as a bullet hit the brick near his foot. With one monumental push, Sherlock heaved himself over the wall, and then down into the street, and then he took off running into the night.
Part One | Part Three