Three
Two weeks later, under the alibi of Clarence House, Holmes was hunting down Moriarty's men. Many would soon flee the country, he knew, and he had every intention to follow them. And follow them he would.
Five of Moriarty's men still in London. Two had already been apprehended, and Holmes was sure he would make quick work of them and return to his old life before the year's end.
However, he was not expecting one of the brighter henchmen to catch his scent, and Holmes only caught two before the other three took off. He cursed himself for his foolishness—Moriarty was not the type to surround himself with blathering fools, after all—and thought up of a new plan.
The year was already beginning to reach its end. Christmastime was right around the corner, and Holmes couldn't help but to think of his dear friend. He thought about him quite often, in fact, though he had never before had time to check up on him.
He fashioned his best disguise, and made his way to the market he knew Watson and Mary purchased their weekly groceries at. Every Sunday, mid-afternoon. Mary had a knack for keeping things consistent.
His eyes were set beneath thick white eyebrows, his mouth concealed by a beard to match. He hobbled around the market, finally taking a seat beside a grower Watson often visited. And he waited.
Not long after he took his post he saw the doctor himself. Holmes felt something flitter in his chest, between fear and anticipation. Mary was not accompanying him, and even from a distance Holmes could detect the distressed air coming from him. His head drooped ever so slightly, he leaned on his cane more than he usually did, and he had a slouch to his usually pin-straight posture. Something was wearing on him.
Suddenly remembering the sickness that he had seen in his friend's wife months ago, Holmes realized that 'something' was Mary.
She is dying, he thought to himself. Holmes felt his heart ache for him. First he had lost one of his best friends, and now he was losing his wife.
Holmes had to look down as Watson turned towards him, but he did not expect anything—why would he?—and quickly spoke with the grower.
"A dozen apples, please."
The grower grunted in understanding, and handed him a bag. "Threw an extra couple in there for tha lady," he told the doctor with a tip of his hat. "Do tell 'er I wish 'er a good recovery."
Watson smiled, thanked him, and limped off.
It was such an inconvenient time for Holmes to have to hunt down Moriarty's men.
He stood quickly, and made his way to the nearest alleyway. The midday sun shone through the fog as bright as it could, but the alley was still dark and Holmes suddenly felt ill at ease. He turned to look behind him, and soon found himself pushed face-first against the wall by a strong hand on his neck.
"Such a shame it would be if something was to happen to the good doctor," a familiar voice snarled in his ear. "Pity about the lady. Illness took its shot at her before I could."
Holmes quickly elbowed away the arm, and whirled around to face the speaker. "Moran," Holmes growled, the name leaving an ill taste in his mouth. "Have you chosen to stay in London as your underlings fled to various parts of Europe?"
Moran ignored him, and nodded at Holmes's shoulder. "I see you still haven't got that fixed," he jeered. "Bloody awful if it were to slow you down when you can least afford it."
Holmes would have punched the man right there and then, if a man had not walked past them just then. Holmes leaned in close, his teeth gritted as he hissed in the other man's ear.
"I'm after you, Moran," he threatened him. "I've already apprehended four of your men. Three remain. I will make quick work of them. Know that if you cross my path, I will not hesitate to grant you the same favour." He paused his nostrils flared and his teeth bared in a sneer, and then continued. "And know as well that if you dare hurt Watson, or Mary, Hell is not strong enough a word for what I will bring upon you."
Moran laughed, a bare, humourless sound. "We'll see about that," he told Holmes as he walked back into the streets. Holmes wished he could give chase; he wished he could pound the man's face into the street. But that would have to wait; his cover could not be blown.
Holmes wondered how Moran had known he was still alive. The image of the man in the forest of Reichenbach suddenly came to him, and he rested a hand to his face in irritation. Of course, he would go to check if his employer was in fact still alive. And when he saw that it was Holmes that had survived the fall, he would immediately plan his downfall.
Making a noise in the back of his throat resembling a growl, Holmes ran back to Mycroft's.
Holmes initially did not know where Moriarty's men had fled, but he prevailed and tracked them down. There was one that he had not initially known about, who met with Moran in Tibet, but within just a little over a year he had detained all but the two. Moran had escaped his clutches more times than once, and finally he had returned to London to continue the chase there.
Four months in, he had received a wire from Mycroft informing him that Mary had died. Holmes momentarily grieved for Watson's loss, but larger stakes were at hand and he did not have time to dwell on the matter.
Upon returning to London, Holmes set a larger plan into action. He would try to detain from killing Moran, but he knew that there were many things that Moran was capable that would bring Holmes to do it without a second thought.
"There's a telegraph addressed to you on the table," Mycroft told him upon two days of returning to London. "I thought you had said no one was to know of your presence?"
"They were not," Holmes told him, dread sinking in his stomach.
The telegraph was short, and it made Holmes's blood boil.
Nice weather we're having, Holmes. Perfect for a funeral. I only hope you're not too busy to attend.
It left no address, no sender, thought Holmes knew exactly who had sent it. He crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the fire, lowering his brows in dark thought. He paced in front of the flames, his hands held behind his back.
"Is something wrong, Sherly?"
Holmes barely heard the comment from his brother, for he tripped over one of the fire pokers that had been carelessly left on the ground. He threw out his arms to break his fall, and though his shoulder was nearly healed he felt a very slight pain as his weight fell upon it.
He hurriedly picked himself up, brushing himself off. Mycroft had risen from his spot and strode over, looking Holmes over with a careful eye.
"When was the last time you slept?" he asked him.
"Yesterday," Holmes told him.
"You're lying."
Holmes scowled, and continued pacing. "It matters not. I've gone without sleep longer than this."
Mycroft heaved a sigh, and settled back down onto his chair. "Whatever you say. Is there anything I may be of assistance for?"
Holmes paused, thinking through his plan once more. "Actually, there is one thing."
He spent a good quarter of the hour explaining to Mycroft, and then wasted the rest of the day plucking at his violin. When nightfall came and his brother retired for the night, he ran out of the house and all the way to Watson's new residence. He knew sleep did not have a place in the near future for him as long as Moran was still a free man.
He knew what kind of a man Moran was, and what exactly he was capable of. And he knew that he would target Watson first, to enrage Holmes, and then finish the job Moriarty never had the chance to finish and kill the detective himself.
It was Tuesday. Watson would probably have a client to see, and Holmes stuck close to his home while still staying concealed until he finally emerged. However woeful Holmes had thought Watson to be before he had left to jail Moriarty's men, he was a completely different man when Watson walked down the street. He had the slow step of a man much older than himself, and a somber air about him.
Holmes followed him, checking the windows of buildings as they walked. Anywhere where Moran could be lying in wait.
There was an abandoned house where Holmes knew that Moran would be able to set up and take a clear shot of Watson from his living room. He would take it when the streets were not busy and when Watson in his living room, most likely in the evening, and most likely within the next day or two.
Of course, this was all just an observation and a theory. But as always, Holmes somehow felt that it was correct.
So he set up a watch on the house, discreet and secretive about it. And as he had thought, the next evening the confederate came with his gun and tripod and entered the vacant building. And Holmes followed.
He entered the house silently from the back door, tiptoeing on feet quiet as a cat's to the main room. At first he thought he had made it in unnoticed, as Moran was adjusting his rifle to the right angle, but then he sighed, looked down, and turned.
"I can't do this with an audience, you know," he told Holmes impatiently, setting down the rolled cigarette he had been previously occupied with.
"Oh, too bad," Holmes told him with a twitch of his eyebrows and a lengthening of his face. "I was rather looking forward to observing your preparations."
"Only my preparations?" Moran inquired, a dark edge on his tongue.
Holmes nodded. "Yes," he stated, "only your preparations."
It was then that Moran leapt at him, bearing a knife from his pocket and bringing it down towards Holmes. The detective cursed at himself; he had not expected Moran to have any weapon other than his rifle with him.
Moran was an avid fighter—one must be to serve in Afghanistan. Holmes picked up a rusted old pipe to block Moran's slashes, but after a few hits it broke and Holmes stumbled back.
With unmatched speed, Moran had brought the knife down upon Holmes. He managed to dodge slightly, but he hissed out a breath as Moran just caught his chest. Holmes tripped over the broken pipe, and Moran suddenly turned and fled, grabbing his rifle.
And Holmes, of course, gave chase.
Moran was quick, and he knew the streets of London just as well as Holmes did. He ran until they were at the river, the nearly completed Tower Bridge where Holmes and Blackwood had their final encounter standing in their way. Moran slung his rifle over his back and began to climb, ascending the levels of scaffolding to reach the top.
Holmes followed, ignoring the faint pain from his shoulder. Deliberately kicking things in Holmes's direction, Moran finally reached the top of the structure and quickly set down his gun and readied it for use.
He reached the top sooner than Moran had expected, but he was no longer alone. The last grunt of Moriarty's was with him, and whipped out a pistol and took a quick shot at the detective.
Holmes felt a pain rip into his side, and he fell to one knee. Moran let out a laugh, picking up his rifle once more.
"Good job, Roderick," he praised the younger man. "You may useful to us yet." He walked over to Holmes, grabbing his right shoulder and forcing him up. "You may be a genius, Holmes," he snarled in his ear, "but even a genius can't take a bullet to the head and still live."
"Actually, you are indeed wrong in the matter. You see, if the path it travels—"
Moran shoved him to the ground. "Oh, shut up."
Holmes looked at the two men, wondering what was taking so long.
"You're a lot of work, Holmes," Moran told him. "I was looking forward to killing the doctor first, just to see your face. I guess we can't all have everything we want, though."
Holmes looked at him, and laughed.
Moran scowled at him, and cocked his gun. "Quit laughing, you glock!"
Holmes looked up at him, grinning ear-to-ear and still snickering. Moran snarled and shoved the butt of his rifle into Holmes's face, and Holmes felt his temple explode with pain. The spot would be dark with bruises sooner than not. His face hit the wood of the scaffolding, and when he got his hands under him to push himself up Holmes's grin had not faded.
"Wipe that smile off your face, or I'll shoot it off right now!" Moran roared, kicking the detective in the side—thankfully not the side that had been shot, but it hurt nonetheless.
"Oh, I rather think you will not," Holmes told him, rolling onto his side.
Moran bared his teeth to launch something else at him, but paused when he heart the shrill noise of a whistle and the yelling of the Yard.
"Stop right there!" Clark yelled at Moran and Roderick, several more officers following behind him. Lestrade was right on their heels, grinning when he saw the two men.
"Well well, what do we have here?" he said, taking the two in. "You're Sebastian Moran, are you not? We've been looking for you for some time."
Holmes was still faced away from them, half-laying on the ground. As Moran and Roderick were sent off with the officers, Clark bent down to lend him a hand.
"Good sir, we got the call from your acquaintance, Mycroft. Your efforts are much appreciated—"
Holmes grinned as he took in the shocked look on the constable's face.
"Think nothing of it," Holmes told him cheerfully, picking himself up as Clark was otherwise occupied.
"Holmes, sir!" Clark exclaimed, blinking as if to wake himself. "But how?"
Lestrade turned around at the name, and opened his mouth to speak but stopped when he saw the detective. His jaw dropped, moving as if trying to force words, and Holmes grinned.
"How excellent it is to see the two of you again," Holmes told them, clasping his hands behind his back. "I trust Moran in your hands. But for now, other matters are afoot."
He guessed that Lestrade had caught sight of his sorry state, for he called after him. "But Holmes, you're wounded!"
"Don't worry," Holmes told him, carefully lowering himself down onto a lower piece of scaffolding. "I'm going to see a doctor!"
Lestrade called something else after him, but Holmes ignored it. He would tell them of what had happened another day, but for now he needed to be somewhere else.
He had been shot, however, and the journey down was a painful one. He could tell by the position of the bullet that in his frenzy Roderick had not aimed properly and had missed Holmes's major organs, though he knew that if he did not see a doctor soon he would bleed to death.
As he limped his way through the streets, applying the white facial hair and wig, he noticed it was beginning to snow.
