Sherlock didn't know what to do first. Part of him wanted to hop straight on a plane to Dublin. Even though he knew Mycroft's goons would be on the case, he felt it was his job to do it. Part of him also wanted to see Molly but that was irrational sentiment and worst of all, he'd have to pretend he didn't know anything about the murdered woman, and be Martin. Bloody Martin! Martin who was sweet and kind and bumbling and nothing like Sherlock Holmes. The great Sherlock Holmes who could reduce sweet Molly Hooper to a mumbling mess with one smile. Martin Crieff had gotten more from her in 3 weeks than Sherlock Holmes had in 3 years. Sherlock was aghast at his own thoughts. He rang Mycroft.

"Mycroft. Get the plane."

"Where are we going?"

"Dublin of course. It's too delicate for minions."

"Just to be clear, you want me to come with you?"

"Apparently. And bring everything you've found already."

Mycroft cleared a sudden frog in his throat.

"Right, well, meet me at the usual airfield in an hour. We'll fly into Weston: fewer people to see us than the main airport."

But Sherlock had already hung up. Having reached "home", he quickly changed out of his pilot's uniform and removed his contact lenses to give his eyes a break. Donning new clothes and glasses, Sherlock hesitated before allowing himself a small affectation: his beloved blue scarf. It wasn't nearly cold enough but somehow it made him feel better. He paused to look at his wall of photos: the end was getting closer.

Mycroft was waiting at the airport when Sherlock arrived. He looked askance at his brother's appearance but said nothing.

"I presumed you didn't want to fly yourself."

"Correct."

Nothing more was said until they were buckled in and the plane was taxiing down the runway.

"What have you discovered?"

"Moriarty – our one that is – was born in 1978 in Dublin, only child of Helena Evans and Thomas Moriarty, both Irish, though she had a Welsh father. He grew up in Mount Merrion, a south Dublin suburb, attending a local primary school and a small private secondary school for boys called St. Mary's. School reports show he was unusually clever and often corrected teachers. He was expelled at 16 after an incident involving the headmaster's cat and did not complete secondary school. Our sources show no further trace of him in Ireland after this period. His name first became known about 5 years ago in London, and you know the rest."

"Are his parents still alive?"

"Unusually, no, they were both killed in a single vehicle accident 7 years ago. Gardaí reports suggest a genuine accident: the father's blood alcohol level was very high. However, it is most convenient for young master Moriarty that both his parents are no longer around."

"Indeed. They may well have been early victims. He doesn't like to get his hands dirty but he wouldn't be above arranging the murder of his parents," agreed Sherlock.

"And so what of this other James Moriarty? We start with finding out his vital statistics."

"Straight to the General Register Office then? Their records are not available online so it's the quickest way to get the birth cert."

The Holmes brothers lost no time on arrival at Weston Airport. A car met them and drove them directly to the births, deaths and marriages office, where an hour later, after some searching, Sherlock held a most surprising birth certificate in his hands.

"I can't believe it," he said.

"Well, when you've eliminated the impossible…"

"Oh don't quote me to me! James Moriarty, the son of Thomas and Helena, born 7 years prior to the birth of their second son. They were unmarried at this stage, and both teenagers."

"He may have been given up for adoption. There would still have been a fair amount of stigma for an unmarried mother in the early 1980s here."

"But how did the two brothers come to know of each other's existence? And why do they both have the same first name?" mused Sherlock.

"Also curious that the younger one seems to be in control of the elder," said Mycroft.

"Not so curious…."

Mycroft made a quick phone call and arranged for the adoption records to be checked. He was soon rewarded with details by email. There had been an adoption, arranged by the local parish priest, a Fr Liam O'Shea of St Therese's Church. Amazingly, he was still alive, though now living in a retirement home.

"Let's go and meet this priest."

Fr O'Shea was thankfully relatively hale for his octogenarian years and only too happy to discuss old times. After some pleasant small talk, Sherlock led the conversation around to the Moriartys. They were posing as distant English relatives in Dublin to trace their ancestors and any possible living relations.

"Ah, yes, Thomas and Helena. I never saw a young couple so in love. They couldn't wait to grow up, and of course, they didn't. That's how they ended up with young Jamesy, as they called him."

"So they didn't give up for adoption?"

"They did but they had him christened first. It broke their hearts to give him away but since they were just 17 and 16, it seemed the best thing for the child."

"Did they keep in touch with the adoptive parents?"

"No. It was your classic sealed adoption. Of course, when Jamesy turned 18, he could apply for his records. It would have been a challenge: the rules for getting access to these things are still quite cloak and dagger. What age would he be now? Early 40s I guess."

"But Thomas and Helena did end up married," prodded Mycroft.

"Yes, and they had another boy. Twas very curious that they called him James too, Jim for short. Of course, there's no law against it. In the 19th century, it was very common to call a child the name of a previously deceased infant – perhaps it was their way of honouring their first son."

"But they didn't try to retrieve the first son once they were old enough and settled?"

"Not that I ever heard. No, I've no idea what happened to Jamesy. I'm sure he was raised by loving parents. Perhaps it was for the better considering what happened."

"What did happen?"

"Well, Jim grew up very strange. He was expelled from school – a Protestant school, mind you, for torturing a cat. Nasty business. He went to England. You probably heard of him…he tried to steal the Crown Jewels."

"Yes. And the parents?"

"That was very sad. Car accident about 10 years ago. The roads were notorious then – every week a few people were killed. Thomas was fond of a drink and they said he was over the limit. But I never knew him to drive drunk. Helena was a teetotaller so I always thought it odd that she wasn't the driver that night. Anyway, God rest them. They never knew the tricks Jim got up to in England."

Sherlock and Mycroft made small talk for a little while longer but it was clear the priest had no idea what had happened to the first James or how he came to know his younger brother.

On the way out, they continued their own musings.

"Do you know Sherlock, the parallels continue. Moriarty has a brother 7 years older."

"Don't make me wish our parents had given you up…"

"So on to Galway then?"

"I think so. Let's check up on Miranda."

Miranda Favela had lived in the small seaside community of Salthill for a few years. Sherlock and Mycroft were driven there. The two hour drive was spent formulating a plan to pose as English police detectives investigating Miranda's death. Arrangements were made to get into her house and this was their first port of call, after stopping at the local Garda station to collect keys.

Miranda's house was a cheerful pink and white cottage not far from the beach in Salthill. The front door opened on a main room for all living functions. Doors to the right led to a bedroom and a bathroom.

"Look here," said Sherlock, pointing to a photo of Miranda and Jamesy Moriarty on the fridge. It was obviously taken in this house.

"So he came here. Looks as if he were a real presence in her life."

"What concerns me most is the extreme long term planning of this," said Mycroft.

"You mean that the Moriarty brothers managed to find and attract a woman who looked like Molly long before Jim began his antics in London with me? Yes. This must have been the contingency plan if Jim died unexpectedly. His death has kicked off this trail. I expect his brother will make it very easy for us to find him."

"True…but there is also the bigger picture: that Jim Moriarty always knew that Molly occupied a special position with you. He didn't go to the trouble of an assassin on her because he had a much bigger plan. I'm afraid she is in very grave danger."

Mycroft fired off an email to Anthea upgrading Molly's security. Sherlock chose not to discuss Molly at this time. Besides, Mycroft already knew it all. Saying it out loud would only satisfy his ego at having deduced his brother once again.

"Miranda's computer must have been taken in by local detectives. We can get those details remotely," he continued.

Sherlock leafed through an address book but saw no entries for anyone named James Moriarty, living or dead.

There was a knock on the door. The Holmes brothers glanced at each other and Mycroft moved to open it. A woman in her late 40s with wild brown curls, dressed in jeans and home-made cardigan stood before him.

"Ah hello, would you be the detectives from London come to investigate poor Miranda's death?"

"Er…" Mycroft was momentarily lost for words.

"Small village, word gets round. Maura in the post office saw you go in to get the keys. I'm Deirdre, Miranda's neighbour."

Sherlock took over.

"Come in, Deirdre. We're just following up on a few things. Tell me, have you heard from Miranda's boyfriend?"

"From Jamesy? No. I never had his number in London. Of course, I'd love to get in touch. I suppose her funeral will be back in Portugal but we were talking of having a memorial service down here."

"Had they been together long?"

"About two years, I guess. With the long distance thing, it was easy to forget she had a boyfriend."

"So you didn't see him here often?"

"Sometimes but mostly Miranda went to visit him. I think she would have preferred something more permanent but neither was willing to move. He'll be devastated, of course," she speculated.

"Indeed. When did she go to visit him last?"

"Well, the week before last, obviously, but she didn't come back after the weekend. I thought she must have decided to stay on a bit longer. With her painting, her time was her own so it was nothing to extend a trip like that."

"Did she make good money then?"

"Not that I know of, but she clearly had plenty of money in the background. I don't know if Jamesy was subsidising her?" Deirdre was clearly doing a little digging of her own.

"Well, we're looking into all aspects of her life. You've been really helpful. Thanks," said Sherlock, in a dismissive tone.

Mycroft held the door open to indicate she should leave…no doubt straight on to the grapevine. Neither minded, since they knew Moriarty would be watching.

After looking around fruitlessly for another 30 minutes, they came to the conclusion that there was nothing to find.

"So shall we head back home then?" suggested Sherlock.

"Yes, I took the liberty of having the plane moved to Shannon, so we don't have to drive back to Dublin."

"I think it has been worthwhile but clearly the trail leads straight back to London."

"I'll get my people working on tracing Jamesy. Shouldn't be too hard."