A/N: Yep, this has been a wild ride. I was so not expecting the story to go this way. I wasn't kidding when I said Watson didn't like that part and wanted it over with, quickly. And, I had not yet answered most reviews because I was scared to death I was gonna give something away. So, for all of you that took the time to review, I cannot thank you enough for hanging in there. I promised I would not keep you hanging, so here I am once more. Now I can answer some questions.

Shell less snail: Yeah, ouch was kinda my reaction, too. And I argued this entire first half of the story out and the characters insisted it could work. So, that's the way it went.

Riandra: Oh yeah, it was Watson's voice. Mad with grief and rage, but still him. ;)

Sir elwood: Thank you for the wonderful review. I'm happy to know it's working and not getting too redundant. I had originally planned things out in an entirely different way for all but two of the series thus far. Spreading the pain around is more my thing. However, characters have taken over and rewritten most of it to suit their intentions. I hope not to keep you hanging for too long. However, I will request that you keep the reviews G-rated.

Peaceful Defender: Thank you for setting my mind at ease in regards to errors. That writing spree yesterday left me wanting to go back and re-read a dozen times tonight since I wasn't paying much attention to anything other than finishing that first part. Don't worry, they never stopped being friends. Friends are some of the cruelest enemies one can ever have, when the situation requires. It was all part of a bigger scheme.

To all other reviewers I might have missed, thank you very much for taking the time to let me know what you think! It helps a lot; and, as ever, please feel free to point out any mistakes so that I may correct them.

Chapter Eight

Holmes watched the pale, exhausted form of his sleeping friend from across the room of their little hideout in the sewers and tunnels beneath Paris. He was loath to wake the man, as he appeared to be in desperate need of some sleep. In the two days since the building had collapsed, they had done little more than sleep and talk. He had planned on keeping to the sewers for a day or two, at most. However, seeing how far Watson had deteriorated physically in recent weeks, he felt the need to give them a little more time to recover. What lay ahead in their little scheme was likely to be far more dangerous and they would both need their strength.

Seeing his friend sleeping peacefully for the first time in months without the use of alcohol was almost enough to convince him this whole thing had been a bad idea. He had feared for Watson's health and sanity during those months. He knew all too well the dangers of playing a part for too long or too well. Sigerson had to disappear into the wilderness of his mind never to be found again, for no better reason than Holmes had begun to lose his identity after so long a time. He shuddered as he recalled Watson's words that night. But the practical demonstration had effectively removed all doubts...

~o~o~o~

"Holmes, I'm telling you, we can do this," Watson insisted.

Holmes buried his face in his hands sitting beside the fireplace that cold March night, less than a week after the funeral. He could not help wondering if something inside his friend had been irreparably damaged by this latest loss. Watson seemed possessed by a quiet rage. He wanted to take on the organization that had—in his mind—been ultimately responsible for the death of his eldest son. It was his friend's latest, most intricate plan that left him questioning sanity more than anything. He wanted the same goal, but not when they were in such a precarious position and possessed so little information.

Not for the first time in the past week did he once again re-evaluate the man he called friend. How many times these last fourteen years had he so completely underestimated the man? How could he have not seen this? Holmes could not imagine what kind of provocation it would have taken before now to set the man on such a mad desire for justice. And the fact that Watson was willing to proceed with or without his help...

Finally Holmes straightened up and rose to head toward the table and tea Mrs. Hudson had left sitting for them on the table.

"No," he said flatly, keeping his back to his friend. He wasn't sure he could face the disappointment he knew would be there now. "This idea is madness. More to the point, you are possessed of an honest nature that leaves little room for acting abilities, as we have discussed in the past. There are other ways, and we will find them."

Watson did not respond. When Holmes finally turned back it was to find Watson staring quietly into the fire. He was not used to being the voice of reason in their partnership. It had always been Watson talking them out of dangerous and mad schemes and plots. To see the man so driven by a quiet rage disturbed him in ways he could not comprehend. Feeling the need to say more, he returned to his fireside chair.

As if sensing his friend were about to speak, Watson waved him away and rose from his seat. Holmes was not surprised to hear the front door closing minutes later. Holmes continued to sit, plotting a plan of attack. What information Watson had been given he had already shared. It was little enough, but there was more than Holmes could ever have dreamt. This organization was on a scale that made Moriarty's network of connections across Europe seem like little more than a gang of ruffians from Rotherhithe. He still did not know their true purpose, or any way to gain access from within or without that would be beneficial to them.

Holmes stared quietly into the fire, puffing away at his pipe, turning these thoughts over in his head. He was not aware of the passage of time, until the front door opened once more. He more than half expected the doctor to go straight up to his rooms. The stumbling steps on the stairs had him leaping from his chair, fearing some harm had befallen his friend. When he flung open the sitting room door, Watson had apparently been just about to do the same. He had only just enough time to register movement before Watson was collapsing into his arms.

Moments later the doctor shoved him away violently. Cursing creatively, the man told him quite clearly what he could do with that offer of assistance. Unsteadily and using various pieces of furniture for support, Watson stumbled his way to his fireside chair. Holmes, having caught the reek of alcohol from the man was caught somewhere between bemusement and irritation. This was no time for his friend to be indulging in such displays. Eyeing Watson's carefully deliberate movements as he attempted to light a cigarette with wavering hand, he settled back into his own seat.

Catching sight of the man across from him, Watson let fly some of the most colorful language Holmes had not been aware the man had ever known. Of course, with his combined military background and being a physician to some of the lowest classes of society, it made sense he had learned at least something over the years. The fact that more than half of this was directed at himself did little to lessen Holmes' amusement initially. He well knew Watson drank rarely and never reached such a level of inebriation as he now witnessed. And, after all these years, Holmes knew he deserved a little of the verbal abuse he was now receiving. However, nearly an hour later as Watson began making some of those remarks more painful and deliberately hurtful, Holmes found he could take no more. Deciding it would be better to address this behavior when the man had sobered, he retreated to his room. Watson, for his part, never made it up the stairs to his own bedroom.

Not surprisingly, Holmes found him sprawled on the settee shivering as the fire had died out some hours ago. Taking pity on his poor friend, he had gotten the fire going and covered him with a comforter from his own bed. As the light began to filter through the sitting room windows Watson groaned painfully to announce his return to consciousness. Holmes watched for a few minutes as the man rolled and tried to find a way to escape the light. Remembering his friend's less than gentlemanly display of inebriation the night before, Holmes called for some coffee and toast, but could not find it in him to feel sorry for the man.

"What's wrong, Holmes? You did not appreciate my practical demonstration?"

Holmes nearly dropped his pipe when he turned back to find Watson cradling his head in his hands rubbing gently at his temples. Scowling darkly as he processed these questions, he moved around the settee to face his friend.

"I still find it hard to believe that people do this to themselves willingly on an almost daily basis," Watson commented, leaning back miserably.

"Practical demonstration?" Holmes queried, not liking where his mind was taking him.

Watson nodded carefully. When the maid knocked a moment later, he signaled Holmes to silence until the girl had left. Moving toward the table, Watson whispered into Holmes' ear as they approached.

"Quietly now," he hissed. "They must not hear."

"Watson—"

The promise of dire retribution in those green eyes had Holmes' reconsidering his next actions carefully. He silenced his next words as Watson poured himself a cup of coffee and carefully began munching on some toast, his green face telling Holmes all he needed. He waited for Watson to settle himself, before throwing the man a look that demanded an explanation. Watson again leaned close, his green eyes boring into Holmes' gray ones.

"Ms. Nessa will happily gossip with her sisters and give any information to a pretty-faced boy if he asks. James will sell any information for the right price. The only one we can trust here is Mrs. Hudson, and it is essential she believe the ruse."

Frowning darkly at these accusations against his own page boy and maid, Holmes cocked his head questioningly. "Last night was a ruse?"

Watson nodded. "I said we could make this work. It requires no acting on my part when I'm drunk and telling the truth."

Shocked, Holmes started. For several seconds he took in the earnestness in his friend's eyes. His face paled recalling some of the more cruel words that had passed his friend's lips the night before. The rush of color to his face a moment later had Watson sitting back with a satisfied smile. The silent conversation that took place then through gazes and gestures left Holmes feeling humbled once more by the man's greatly forgiving nature.

Watson continued to force himself to eat the toast provided to settle his roiling stomach and drank his coffee contentedly. Several minutes later, he rose to make his way to the warmth of the fire. Holmes joined him filling his pipe once more. Leaning close to each other to continue their whispered conversation, Holmes turned over every aspect of Watson's mad plan. It made a horrible kind of sense. He could see how such a daring plan would work in their favor, no matter which of the many directions the events would lead. The one in the greatest danger of all, in any case, would be Watson. Watson seemed more than willing to accept the risks and possible consequences if it meant giving Holmes what he needed to stop this organization.

Frustrated to silence by his friend's every counter-argument that left him no openings to dissolve the plan, Holmes sat back scowling darkly into the fire for several minutes. Watson allowed him to do so in peace, knowing this was not going to be easy for either of them. It would be most difficult for Holmes, as he would have to relinquish all control and consequences to Watson. Should this plan fail, Watson would be the one to pay the heaviest price in more permanent terms. None of this sat well with Holmes, and his friend's determination to see this through frightened him. Holmes could tell that, though Watson would not acknowledge this, he felt he had little enough to left to lose. Despite his own selfish thoughts to the contrary, Holmes could not entirely disagree. Such losses as those Watson had suffered these last four years did not leave a man in a very self-preserving frame of mind.

Leaning forward once more, Holmes forced Watson to meet his eyes as they continued their whispered conversation.

"If we go through with this, there's no going back," Holmes said fiercely. "No matter how the game plays out, we will likely never be able to return to London."

"I know," Watson replied, sorrow in every feature of his face. "I do not ask this lightly, dear friend. But you are the only one that can help me."

Watson's face hardened into a stony mask of determination as Holmes opened his mouth to protest once more. "Now that you know they are out there, you will not rest until they are caught. I know this. If you treat this as you did Moriarty, you stand little chance of success and anyone around us may be used against us. If we leave nothing and no one behind that can be used as a tool, we stand a chance of finding the source and getting the information to your brother, even if we do not survive ourselves. You were willing to walk away from your life once before to protect others. Are you willing to do so again?"

Holmes sighed as he sat back. Sadly he eyed his Watson. "Sacrificing my own life in the pursuit of justice is something I accepted as a possibility many years ago, dear friend. I will not sacrifice others."

Watson's humorless chuckle did nothing to ease Holmes' mind. "So, you're the only one allowed to play the martyr in this partnership?"

Holmes' glare could have given lessons to the snows of January nights on how to be cold.

"I apologize, that was out of line," Watson stated a moment later, somewhat chagrined. "But you must understand, Holmes, I do this willingly. If you do this alone, you may find some of the information you are seeking and even get it to your brother. If I do this alone, I will not survive and likely die accomplishing nothing. We share the same goal, and I will not be left behind this time."

That stinging reminder softened Holmes' gaze. He knew there was little chance at this point of talking his friend out of this madness. He only hoped that once things had progressed to the second stage that Lestrade might have better success. Though, given Watson's plans, there was little chance the inspector would have any more of an idea of what was truly happening than Mrs. Hudson.

"Then I shall begin making arrangements immediately. My contacts on the Continent will be the most benefit, I think. We shall start there."

Watson's entire posture relaxed in relief at these words. "Thank you, Holmes."

Holmes frowned in concern one more time. He still did not like this plan. His mind informed him time and again that it made sense, and had a greater chance of success. But the damage to his friend did not sit well. Even as Holmes considered these things, the man sitting across from him seemed to transform into something more of his usual self. His easy-going manner and relaxed attitude told Holmes much about how seriously this had weighed on Watson's mind. He found he could not deny his friend even this, as suicidal as the plans may have seemed.

Holmes could only pray that his instincts screaming warnings at him were wrong.