Author's Note:
At last. At laaaast, this chapter is COOOOMPLETEEED! Am I elated? Oh, yes. Was that hammy and unprofessional? But definitely! YOU WOULD BE HAMMY AND UNPROFESSIONAL TOO IF AN INCOMPLETE CHAPTER HAD BEEN TORTURING YOU FOR A MONTH.
…wow, that felt so good to say. Ahem. I'm not entirely sure about this chapter (awfully short, for one thing), but it feels so good to have something even resembling a completed chapter that I. Don't. Care. Really, I don't. So feel free to make suggestions on how to improve it and I'll probably accept them with a glad and grateful heart!
Btw, this tale has now surpassed the 75,000 word mark and can be officially labeled a novel! Yaaay!
To my wonderful, patient reviewers:
Riandra: Let's see—I might have replied to your feedback already, but I can't recall, so… ;D I think I did say that I was relieved that you thought I got Lestrade and Holmes right! :D Heh, yeah, I've had panic attacks myself… *shivers with you* No fun.
Historian1912: Heh, no, you weren't the only one. In all seriousness, torturing Holmes is only fun up to a point. Once you get past that point, it might still be necessary for reality's sake, but it's no longer fun. I passed that point months ago, so trust me, this was much harder for me to write than for you to read. Um, if I was talking about Chaotic Christmas (I think I was), then I was referring to the Christmas Eve entry—trust me, that one's easy to find. Yeeeah, writing something and then having to throw it out, multiple times no less, is never fun. Did it with this chapter and, well…
Ennui Enigma: I really liked the part when Lestrade is thinking about Jeremy and writing and Watson—that was fun to write, and it was another nice way to show Lestrade's respect for Watson (as well as reveal a little more background for Annie). Ha-ha, glad you liked that one line so much! That was one of my favorites, too. :-) And I'm also very glad that you liked how Moran held his own against Moriarty, and with some good lines to boot! Frankly, that's going down as one of my most favorite scenes in the entire book, I think, just because of how Moran handles himself. Anyhoo… Thank you so much for all the lovely praise!
Ranger-Nova: *giggles* I've gotten into Doctor Who full stop! You really ought to check it out if you can—it's just amazing! I really think you'd love it! Ah, I think you didn't filter those links thoroughly enough—FFN still cut most of both addresses out. : ( LOL about the Sherlock vids! Trouble finding Granada clips, eh? Hmm… well, there are about a million AMVs out there, so that probably doesn't help when you're rummaging around the 'Tube. *grins* Y'know, I think that Sherlock wouldn't even mind getting a hug right about now… I'm so glad you liked the scene with the Lestrade family—I'm the oldest of several kids, myself, so big families tend to crop up somewhere in my stories. ;D Oh, you can bet your top dollar that Jeremy was named after my favorite Sherlock Holmes actor! Jolly good observation there. xD And lol about Holmes and Lestrade arguing. It was lovely to finally get them in a scene together when they're actually interacting. Ha-ha, glad you loved the puppy line—I most often see Holmes as being catlike (it's canonical, after all, and Jeremy Brett's portrayal certainly helps), but Holmes strikes me as being very puppy-ish when he's being pitiful or whatnot. ^_^ So glad, too, that you liked the Moran/Moriarty scene so much! That end there, totally my favorite bit. :D Aww! *blushes* Hey, don't think for one minute that the story will be finished once we hit the epilogue! There'll be extra scenes coming soon afterward (hopefully, anyway), and it shouldn't be too long before I get started on The Road to Reichenbach (I think it would be a good thing to show my potential publishers that I have a sequel in the works when I present Mortality). And you might well be seeing more related art from me on dA, so it's all good! :-)
Rachel G: Hee, thank you so much! *beams*
j3ntheninja: Wow, you really registered on the site just to review me? *blushes* I'm very flattered! Thank you! Oh, I fully intend to do my Doctor Who/Sherlock Holmes crossover one of these days—it just might take some time. Oh yes, the line about giving Watson a better Christmas… for me, that was the best part. A Christmas Carol was totally unexpected, but it has made a surprisingly good motif—I'm so glad you like it! Oh, I love that "royalty" bit, too! And it's so perfectly Lestrade, you know? I mean, you can just hear the dryness. And, heh, I love writing Moriarty—I really do. If writing different people was like eating food, Moriarty would be a very rich, very exquisite dessert—that's just how much I enjoy writing him! Anyhoo… Aww, thank you so very much!
MadameGiry25: *giggles about the crossover* I'm really glad you liked the one-shot, and, really, I can't wait to do more—I just have to work out plots and timelines. Can't wait to see more of Davy! :D And, d'ohhh… *blushes* Glad you liked the Lestrade family scene, and Lestrade/Annie, especially! *beams* Yeeeah, I wasn't sure about "anxiety attack" being an old enough term, but I figured I'd use it now and correct it later if I had to. Problem is, I've looked it up in several different places, and I can't get any real history on the term. : ( Oh, I know—watching Holmes struggle just to speak is heartbreaking. …and on the other hand, I'm going to miss being able to do it. *guilty smile* Glad you liked Lestrade w/Holmes and all! And I love the failure line—I'm thrilled you like it so much! :D Yes, I think that, as much of a punch to the gut as it was for Holmes to hear about the deaths, it was a punch to the gut that he needed. He needed to hear that (now why does that remind me of a certain, ahem, time-traveler…?). I won't intersect the Moran/Moriarty scene with Lestrade/Holmes—too distracting, yes? So glad you liked that scene, too! xD Anyway… aww, thank you so much for all the encouragement! You really played a big part in my coming this far!
© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.
All rights reserved.
==Chapter XXV==
Together
Making the necessary arrangements had taken him all day. At any other time of the year, things would have moved much more swiftly, but even the British Government slowed down on Christmas Day. So it was not until half past ten that Mycroft Holmes arrived at 221B Baker Street, and he thanked Providence for Lestrade's presence. One could never have too many allies in a dangerous situation.
"Mycroft," Sherlock murmured from his armchair.
"Sherlock, Inspector," Mycroft greeted. He cast a critical eye over his brother, who looked much the same as he had the night before. Weary, wasted, and wan… but bearing a flame of rediscovered determination. It was visible in the luminosity of his eyes, the set of his jaw, the minute tension of his posture. Robin Hood had indeed returned to his Merry Men.
And it was Little John's task to ensure that Robin stayed alive.
"You are leaving, mon petit frère," Mycroft said quickly and factually. "Tonight."
Sherlock accepted that with a sharp nod and said, "I trust you have already informed Watson?" No doubt about it: Sherlock Edward Holmes was back.
"He is upstairs packing even ask we speak."
"If you need a hand, sir," Lestrade offered.
"I believe we may," said Mycroft. "If you would be so kind as to pack a valise for my brother?"
Lestrade gave a little salute. "Gladly, sir."
The Inspector moved into the next room, leaving the two brothers alone with each other for the first time in two months. (Mycroft had not thought himself able to endure a vigil whilst Sherlock was still bedridden.) Predictably, the younger was the first to speak. "Where to, and why now?"
"To my flat. Dr. Watson would not allow you to be moved before—he said that you did not take well to the Mariah when you were brought here."
"Ah." The limpid grey eyes (Mother's eyes—all of Mother that Mycroft has left is in his brother) fluttered closed. "Shall I be any safer with you?"
Mycroft arched a very aristocratic eyebrow. "My dear boy, do you not suppose that the security of the British Government Personified would be second only to that of Her Majesty, the Queen Victoria herself?"
His little brother snorted ironically. "No… Forgive me if I supposed that any and all would-be assassins would flee in abject terror at the sight of you."
"You are decidedly not forgiven, sir!" Mycroft thundered, quite facetiously. Sherlock Holmes was most definitely himself when his sardonic wit was restored.
The feigned vehemence of Mycroft's reply elicited a chuckle, though the boy's eyes remained closed. "Oh, my dear Mycroft," he said, sighing. "You cannot think how I have missed you."
"I imagine it could not have been more than I have missed you."
"Perhaps." He was sounding tired again. "I dreamt of you, you know. Sometimes. Even called for you, if I remember aright." A bitter smile of triumph warped the pale features. "No matter what they did, they could never make me say any more than your name… or Watson's."
Mycroft was glad that his brother's eyes were closed, for they could not see the horror in his expression. "If I have given you… an anchor to cling to… I should indeed be glad." There was no masking the unsteadiness of his voice—Sherlock's admission had shaken him thoroughly.
Sherlock opened one eye, then the other, and smiled genuinely. "Oh, brother mine. You helped me to be strong."
It was only then that Mycroft was aware of his own tears.
"Oh, Mycroft," Sherlock murmured fondly. He could not recall when he had last seen his brother cry, but certainly he must have been a child. Watson labelled him as stoic on occasion—even "positively inhuman," during the Sholto Case—but Sherlock's reserve had always paled in comparison to Mycroft's. To see his elder brother shedding tears now… Sherlock was compelled to avert his gaze before he followed suit.
"Do you know," he said at last, "I have spent the evening contemplating the events of the past two months? Coupled with some remonstrance on Lestrade's part, I have come to some sobering conclusions."
"If they have taught you to take better care of yourself—" Mycroft began sternly.
"Mycroft, please." Sherlock sighed and settled further back in his chair. "What I experienced was horrific, a fate I should not wish upon even those who inflicted it, and Lestrade has given me some idea of the evil that has come of it all." He grimaced as his chest began to ache at the mere thought of it. "I deeply regret that I have not been the only one to suffer for my actions."
It did hurt. Terribly. "A benefactor of the race," Watson had called him just two months earlier, though it seemed a lifetime ago. But how could that be when his recklessness led to the injuries—even deaths—of others?
Mycroft sighed, as well. "Sherlock, in the end, who is to say that all this is truly your fault? You might have been kidnapped or even killed regardless of where you were—being caught out in the early hours of the morning might simply have hastened events that would have happened no matter what."
Sherlock clamped his hand over his mouth against the bile that rose in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut and forcing the acid back down. When he was able to speak again, it was only in a broken voice with which he was all too familiar. "Nevertheless, brother mine, I am well and truly sorry."
"I have already forgiven you, mon petit frère," the elder brother said gently. "I shall feel the better for hearing these conclusions you've drawn, but I should do so once you're safely ensconced on Pall Mall."
The younger nodded mutely, not trusting himself to speak.
"Now come, Sherlock." Mycroft rose to his feet, the action swifter than it would have been two months ago. "Time to put on your coat and go."
Sherlock glanced down at his state of dress—namely, his nightshirt and dressing gown—and looked back up at his brother with a raised eyebrow.
"It will have to do," Mycroft said in that brotherly tone that brooked no argument.
The brothers, the doctor, and the inspector were all piling into the cab when they heard the rattle and clip-clop of another cab approaching. Sherlock was struck with a sense of immediate danger and glanced at Watson—his friend's dark eyes were wide beneath drawn brows. "Mycroft, hurry!" Sherlock hissed.
Mycroft entered the cab and shut the door. "For heaven's sake, Sher—"
Watson rapped sharply against the roof of the cab, and Mycroft fell into his seat beside his brother. "What on earth?" he demanded.
"Shush!" Sherlock hissed. Beyond the noise of their own cab, he could still hear the other, gaining speed. "We're being followed."
Watson's eyes flashed in the light of a streetlamp as they passed. He rapped the ceiling and barked, "Drive as quick as you can, man!"
The horse bolted forward, jolting them all—Sherlock the hardest. He cried out in pain, then pushed Mycroft's hand away. "I'm all right," he gasped. Straining his ears, he could make out the sound of the other cab driving at a furious pace.
He caught a look shared between Lestrade and Watson. "Do you think it could be Moran?" Lestrade said carefully.
Watson's expression could have rivalled a thunderhead for storminess. "I certainly wouldn't rule out the possibility."
Sherlock clenched his fists weakly and found that they were slick with sweat.
"Shall we have another try at it, Mr. Holmes? I don't have to break you. I don't even have to kill you. You are already broken."
He huddled down into his too-large greatcoat and shivered. Moran had accomplished one thing: he had taught Sherlock Holmes what terror truly was. Terror was cold and chains and absolute darkness and emptiness; terror was not seeing his tormentor but knowing that he was there and being unable to do anything but waiting for him to strike. Terror was the pain dragging on and on and not stopping and his fear that it never would end. Terror was being trapped in blackness far away from everyone who ever meant anything to him. Terror was Moran's cruel bass and Moriarty's sibilant baritone.
Terror was the fear that the people dearest to him would share his fate.
Locked away in hole in the East End, his terror had only weakened him. But here in a cab, surrounded by his brother, his Boswell, and his (truth be told) favourite Yarder, he could gather up the scattered pieces of his will and make his terror a weapon. He refused to let it rule him any longer.
He would be angry. He would allow himself that. The kind of cold anger, quiet and utterly deadly that had so cowed criminals in the past… he would use that now.
His hand slipped into his pocket and settled around the comforting shape of his revolver. Across from him, he saw Watson's hand disappearing into his own coat. Sherlock caught his eye, and they shared a brief, grim smile. Moran or Moriarty, one or both of them had made a grave miscalculation. Divided, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were strong but only so strong.
Together, they were more than the sum of their parts. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with.
Rage was first and foremost in Colonel Moran's mind. Had he arrived mere seconds sooner, he could have shot Sherlock Holmes as he left his own front door. Now the detective was obviously alerted to the colonel's presence, for the cab ahead was taking the streets of London at a furious clip. Still, Moran could not say that he was surprised at Holmes's flight—Baker Street was simply too hot to hold him any longer.
No matter. This was a delay, not a fai— He lifted his airgun just a fraction and fired as the cab ahead took a sharp turn. Something whizzed just past his head a mere second later. Cursing, he whipped around to see a bullet hole in the opposite side of his cab.
The next time the cab ahead was to take a turn, his driver—his private driver—warned him. He took aim…
Heard an exceptionally loud whizzing bullet.
Squeezed the trigger.
Fell back as his left shoulder exploded, and another bullet whizzed harmlessly past his ear.
Collided with the back of the cab, knocking the breath out of him.
His world smoked swiftly away to darkness.
Throwing himself to the floor knocked the wind out of him and made all his many injuries flare up in protest. Moran's bullet, however, planted itself harmlessly in the side of the cab, and he could hear the other cabbie shouting to his horses. He met Watson's concerned expression with a fierce grin. "I think that time did it, old man."
"Half a moment," was Watson's response as he pulled himself back up to peep out the window. "The cab is turning away… by George, Holmes, I think we did it!"
"Yes, well, you two can congratulate yourselves later once we actually have him behind bars and young Mr. Holmes safe," Lestrade said drily. There was no mistaking, however, the undercurrent of fondness in his voice.
"Quite right, Inspector," said Mycroft, nodding. "But well done all the same, Sherlock, Doctor. Well done."
Sherlock caught Watson's eye once more and found himself laughing. A moment later, and Watson was joining him. They were both alive, and they had just bested a formidable foe, just one or two hours past Christmas. It was a good day to be alive.
Professor Moriarty sighed as he prepared himself for the Pall Mall New Year's Eve Ball. Charity function, at which he was most certainly expected to appear. All the niceties, great and small, of social life that must be endured! He shook his head and returned his thoughts to more pertinent matters.
Moran was still out of commission. The bullet in his shoulder had been bad enough, but then for him to have lost so much blood on such a dreadful ride back to Moriarty's own private medical facilities… The Colonel was quite lucky to have survived.
Moriarty would not punish him for his failure. Moran had been punished quite enough, and would bear the shame of a failed assassination for a very long time to come. Moriarty need do nothing more.
Indeed, he contemplated the notion of letting Sherlock Holmes go for the time being. Morale in his empire was quite low, fearing rather than gloating over the Great Detective, who had risen to near-mythic proportions in their esteem. Ideas, as Moriarty well knew, are difficult to kill. He might well need to wait for the backlash of the entire debacle to fade away before he could take any further action against his exceptionally strong opponent.
At the ball itself, he was making the rounds, greeting those who must be greeted, when he came face to face with a younger man quite his own height and much larger. "Ah, Professor Moriarty," the younger man greeted with a smile. "What a pleasant surprise to see you here!"
"As it is to see you here, my good sir," Moriarty returned cordially. "You so seldom leave the comforts of your personal sphere."
The younger man chuckled. "Ah, well, I find myself obliged to be seen at these gatherings every other year or so."
The professor accepted that with a nod. "Quite so. And how is your younger brother, Mr. Holmes?"
Author's Note:
Muwahahahaha~! …ahem. :D Don't worry, we'll see the conclusion of this scene next time… whenever that time comes… ^_^
The entire Moran sequence was holding me up for the better part of the past month, and it was wall-bangingly frustrating. You may not have noticed, but I have extreme difficulty in writing action sequences. And the longer they last, the more trouble I have.
…really, I'd like to be able to gush about this or that being fantastic, but it's all given me far too much grief for me to really feel much of anything about this chapter, except for a profound sense of relief. The opening scene, though, I do still like, simply because, well, it was simple! I especially love this line: "Forgive me if I supposed that any and all would-be assassins would flee in abject terror at the sight of you." xDDD Typical cheeky little brother! Speaking of brothers, we'll also get to see a continuation of the conversation between Sherlock and Mycroft, because I think Sherlock has some thoughts to voice.
Next up, Mycroft and Moriarty finish their little tête-à-tête, Sherlock and Mycroft finish the aforementioned conversation, and Sherlock receives a certain offer of employment, much to the consternation of his brother and best friend. (And did I mention that it'll be the last chapter before the epilogue?) Stay tuned!
Please review!