Hello dear readers! I suddenly realised it had been nearly a month since my last update, and I'm sorry for the delay. Real Life attacked and I've been fending it off, not too successfully... but enough of that. Huge thanks to Nonimouse, GarnetDark and my guest reviewers - and thank you to everyone for getting me past 400 reviews! We're in the home stretch now, and it's back to Team Mycroft. Will they survive the Owlman? You'll have to read it to find out, so without further ado...
Warnings: one further ado, actually - this chapter is quite violent, so use caution if you find this upsetting.
Elsewhere:
The Lorelei stood closest to the Owlman, Mycroft a few paces behind her, Lestrade and Molly further back still, near the top of the stairs. Perhaps sensing the Lorelei's strength and power, it was Mycroft the Owlman went for. His first spring carried him clear over the Lorelei's head as she ducked his onslaught, and he dropped down like a stone towards the tall magician, claws outstretched to rip out his throat.
Had those talons found their mark, Mycroft would have been killed instantly. But the instant the Owlman launched himself at them, at him, Mycroft had dodged backwards, nearly crashing into Greg and Molly, and flung up his umbrella as a makeshift shield. The Owlman's claws raked at the umbrella and, as luck would have it, snagged in the fabric. The Owlman let out an unearthly screech of rage and wrenched at the umbrella with frightening strength. Mycroft was yanked forward, nearly off his feet, but Greg sprang forward and grabbed the back of his coat.
For an instant, a terrible tug of war took place, the Owlman shrieking like a banshee and writhing like a fish on a line, Greg and Mycroft hauling themselves backwards with all their strength, instinctively struggling against the creature. Molly teetered on the edges of the battle, longing to hurl herself into the fray but unable to reach past Lestrade and uncertain as to what good she would be in such a ferocious fight.
Then, with a cry to rival that of the Owlman's, the Lorelei spun round and launched herself onto the monster's back, wrapping her strong, sinewy arms around his neck and biting down into his feathery neck. Her teeth and bite were sufficiently powerful to penetrate through the protective layers of feathers and his leathery skin, and she tore a lump of flesh and down from his throat and spat it away in disgust.
The Owlman screamed. It was every cliché in the book; glass-shattering, ear-splitting, bloodcurdling, skin-crawling and more. Everyone flinched away from it, even the Lorelei. Mycroft, taking advantage of their enemy's distraction, pulled on his umbrella again and managed to rip it away from the Owlman's claws. He then dealt the monster a heavy blow on the head, and was rewarded with another screech.
The Lorelei shouted something in German to Mycroft, before leaping off the Owlman's back and darting back through the door she had emerged from a few minutes previous, closing it with a loud bang.
'Retreat!' Mycroft yelled, and Greg and Molly needed no further urging. Molly opened the nearest door, dived in and was quickly followed by Greg and Mycroft. They slammed the door shut and all three threw their weight against it. Not a moment too soon either – just as the door settled into the frame, there was an almighty thud as the Owlman hurled himself against the heavy wood. All three of them could feel the vibration from the impact tingling throughout their whole bodies. Thankfully, their combined strength held it closed, and Mycroft placed a hand over the lock, muttering something faintly, and there was a collective sigh of relief as the lock audibly snapped shut.
There were howls of frustration from out in the hallway, but mercifully the Owlman did not make any further attempts to batter down the door – it probably would not have held long against his inhuman strength. There was some scratching at the door, before they heard the welcome click of his claws fading away down the passage as he sauntered off in search of easier prey.
'Well, fuck,' Lestrade said after a moment.
'My sentiments exactly, Gregory,' Mycroft said faintly.
'What was that thing?' Molly asked, with an edge of hysteria.
'The Owlman of Mawnan,' Mycroft answered distractedly, as he examined the damage done to his umbrella. 'Once he was just a man, a human man, a man who dabbled in the dark arts. He attracted the attention of Morgan Le Fay –'
'Holy shit, she existed?' Lestrade interrupted in illicit excitement. 'What about King Arthur and the Round Table? Merlin?'
'They all existed at one point, though they did not bear much resemblance to their popular culture counterparts,' Mycroft said, unable to restrain a smile. 'Merlin, for your information, was the greatest magician who ever lived and someday I will tell you his story. But to return to the Owlman, he became Morgan's lover for a brief period. Foolishly, he was unfaithful to her, and so in punishment she turned him into the Owlman – grotesque, unnatural and abhorrent. He will never know another moment of peace, joy or love so long as he exists. He knows only hatred and despair, and he lives only to hunt, to inflict death and pain. We magicians fear and despise him, because the curse upon him is Unbreakable and consequently there is no known way of defeating him.'
Mycroft paused and turned to look at them both piercingly. 'And because he hunts us magicians in preference to the rest of humanity, owing to his loathing of Morgan Le Fay and what she did to him. So basically, we're rather screwed.'
I wish, Lestrade thought absurdly, remembering how Mycroft had wielded that umbrella. Skilfully and with enthusiasm…
He suddenly became aware that Mycroft was doing a fair impression of a goldfish, mouth opening and shutting noiselessly, and that Molly was stifling giggles.
'Oh, hell, did I say that aloud?' he wondered.
'Yes!' Molly got out in-between guffaws. Lestrade turned pink and sneaked a glance at Mycroft, who suddenly found that the buttons on his cuffs were absolutely fascinating. For a minute they all stood there, their danger at the claws of the Owlman and their urgent quest to help Sherlock completely forgotten, as the sheer improbability and strangeness of whatever was happening between Greg and Mycroft got the better of them.
Finally, Mycroft pulled himself together with a visible effort and pressed an ear to the door, listening for any suspicious noises. Whatever he heard made him heave a sigh of relief, and he placed a hand over the lock, muttering something. It unlocked itself and an instant later the door popped open, revealing the Lorelei standing in the hallway. She was holding Irene Adler in her arms, looking anxiously over her shoulder for any sign of the Owlman. Irene had blood on her forehead and in her hair, and though she was conscious she looked dazed and uncertain.
'Come in quick!' Mycroft told them needlessly, as the Lorelei pushed past him, before depositing Irene gently on the bed none of them had observed until that point. Molly rushed over and began prodding gently at the wound on Irene's head. The other woman submitted quietly to Molly's attentions, as the Lorelei stood anxiously nearby.
'Pupils equal and reactive,' Molly said after taking a good look into Irene's eyes. 'No concussion, thank goodness. Mycroft, could I have one of those hankies? Thanks,' she added, taking it and dabbing some of the blood away. 'Well, I think it's just a nasty bang on the head,' Molly summed up. 'I wish John were here to take a look… I think you'll be okay, but we should probably take you to a hospital to make sure.'
'I've had far worse than this over the years,' Irene said, sitting up carefully, as some welcome colour returned to her face. She actually smiled a little at Molly's attentions, her earlier disdain forgotten. She took the handkerchief from Molly and pressed it against her battered skull. 'But I was distracted by a particularly nasty discovery and that damn mutant took me by surprise and got a blow in. I played dead and thankfully he left me alone.'
'We're going to have to deal with him before too much longer,' Lestrade reminded everyone. 'Do any of you know any magic for dealing with… owl creatures?'
The Lorelei and Mycroft shook their head simultaneously.
'The Owlman is immune to the majority of magicks, spells and charms,' Mycroft explained ruefully. 'It is one of the reasons the magical community fears and despises him so much. My illusory magic will not help us.'
'I can talk to birds, and I could understand him,' Molly volunteered courageously. 'Perhaps I could… reason with him?'
'He's beyond reason, my dear,' Irene said, though without her usual condescension. 'He lives for blood and carnage. He's tremendously powerful too – either Moriarty's found some way to harness him, or they've made a deal. The Owlman disposes of us, Moriarty's enemies, and in return he gets a feast, most likely. No, we must find a way to defeat him.'
Her eyes glittered, cat-like in the dim light.
'And I think I have discovered the means,' Irene said, the purr back in her voice.
Mycroft and Irene had a short but intense whispered conference in the corner of the room, after which he announced that Irene had found a way to thwart the Owlman. He declined to explain how exactly, saying there wasn't time. Lestrade and Molly suspected however that it would be in dramatic fashion and he didn't wish to spoil the surprise.
Their plotting and planning took only a few minutes. Irene, thanks to her career in what she termed acquisition, had an excellent memory for building layout and architecture, and she could pinpoint exactly where to send Lestrade and Mycroft, who were to act as bait. The two men and Molly all took some convincing – although Lestrade and Mycroft were quite willing to risk themselves, they did not wish to be parted from Molly, nor she from them. It wasn't until the Lorelei promised to defend her to the death that finally the men acquiesced, though Molly was obviously mutinous.
'Right, places everyone,' Mycroft muttered, one hand clutching his umbrella and the other holding onto Greg tightly. 'Lorelei, can you hear the Owlman outside?'
The Lorelei put her ear to the door, and nodded after a moment.
'Well, at least we know where he is,' Mycroft muttered. 'Ladies, you all know what to do. Make a noise, keep him occupied until we're in position. You'll hear us shouting, no doubt. Ready, Gregory?'
Greg offered a jerky nod, nervous about the role he was expected to play in their plan. Mycroft offered no further comment, merely leading him to the wall left of the door. Greg took a deep breath and placed a hand on the wall.
'Imagine the wall softening, becoming transparent, fading away,' Mycroft murmured to him. 'Your hand is sinking through it, and the rest of you is ready to follow.'
Perhaps he was imagining things, but Greg felt a tingling all over his skin, like a very mild electrical current. Mycroft continued to mutter instructions gently. 'Now move forward, hold tight to me –'
Lestrade shut his eyes and stepped forward.
He remained un-concussed, and his nose didn't get broken.
But Mycroft's hand remained in his own, reassuringly present and solid.
Lestrade opened his eyes, and found that they were no longer in the bedroom. They were in what looked like a library, all four walls lined with books. The Lorelei, Irene and Molly were nowhere to be seen.
'Well done, Gregory,' Mycroft whispered to him, almost inaudibly – but Greg fancied that he discerned a faint note of pride in the words. 'Now, remember what Irene told us. Two rooms forward, one to the right. Let's go.'
Twice more Lestrade made use of his newfound ability, and twice more they walked through solid walls and objects, each time coming out safely on the other side. In-between Lestrade's novice magic workings, they could hear a faint clamour coming from the bedroom they had all taken shelter in, and an occasional chilling screech from the Owlman. But finally, they were in the room they had seen the Lorelei and the Owlman emerge from, and there was the set of doors Irene had told them about. They were carved from ebony, covered with strange whirls and knobs that reminded Lestrade queasily of fungal growths, bulbous eyes and slithery, slimy things.
'Right, we are nearly ready,' Mycroft whispered, letting go of Greg's hand and holding it before him, as though he was trying to sense something from the doors. There was no 'try' about it, however, as a moment later he nodded and lowered his hand. 'Stand by the doors and make ready to open them, Gregory, it is safe for you to do so. Irene has already picked the lock and neutralised any defensive spells upon the thing, she told me she managed that much before the Owlman attacked her. But remember – no matter what happens do not cross the threshold.'
Lestrade nodded, uncertain about the precise nature of the threat lurking behind the doors but willing to concede to Mycroft's superior knowledge. Mycroft nodded in turn, and with a flourish gripped the handle of his umbrella, depressed a hidden button and withdrew it from the frame to reveal what Lestrade took to be a fencing sabre. It was not a long blade, perhaps a little under three feet, and was thin with it, but the edges and point were sharp and glittered wickedly in the lamplight streaming in at the window.
Lestrade must have looked impressed, judging by the slightest of smug smiles that graced Mycroft's countenance.
'Right, are you prepared?' Mycroft whispered, as a particularly loud screech of frustration from the Owlman sounded from the hall. Lestrade nodded again. 'Very well, let us proceed. We must get his attention somehow. Make a noise, make him aware of our presence – perhaps we could imitate a prey animal of his –'
'OI, IN HERE YOU FEATHERY FREAK!' Lestrade yelled at the top of his lungs.
'That will also suffice,' Mycroft said dryly, and there was just enough time for him to heave a long-suffering sigh before the Owlman kicked the door off its hinges and came storming into the room after it.
Had he attacked them immediately it probably would have gone very hard with Greg and Mycroft. Luckily, the Owlman was so enraged at being repeatedly cheated of his prey and having his desire for bloodletting thwarted that he simply had to scream in fury. Mycroft took advantage and thrust his rapier directly into the Owlman's stomach.
The Owlman shrieked.
No, not shrieked – it was far too weak a word. It was a long, drawn-out, high-pitched keening, an agonised crying, and it struck the two men like a physical blow. Lestrade's hands went futilely to his ears, his knees nearly giving way as wave upon wave of pain radiated through his head.
Mycroft nearly lost his grip on the sword as he staggered in distress, and only his iron will gave him sufficient strength to hold on and shove the Owlman towards the doors where Lestrade was waiting. His task was made more difficult by having to grip the sword one-handed and fend off the Owlman's claws with what was left of his umbrella. Only his skill as a fencer kept him from being terribly injured – the Owlman was horrifically strong and incredibly savage, and more than once his talons got through Mycroft's defence. Happily, his suit and coat had a strong protective charm on them and the Owlman's claws could not penetrate them, and Mycroft was careful to defend his head and face.
Lestrade, watching in terrified fascination, was in torment because of the Owlman's howls. His eardrums were about to burst and he was horribly close to being sick, but he managed to remain upright and prepared to throw open the crucial doors. Mycroft's struggles with the Owlman were growing weaker, and Lestrade longed to grab the foul thing by his plumage and drag him over to where they needed him. But he stayed steady, knowing Mycroft was relying on him to remain in position.
Happily, an instant later the Lorelei and Molly came charging through the doorway. Neither of them hesitated, but flung themselves at the Owlman and began shoving him towards the carved doors when Lestrade stood waiting. They pushed, Mycroft dragged, the Owlman screamed and Greg braced himself as they inched nearer.
Nearer –
'Now, Gregory!' Mycroft shouted.
Lestrade placed a hand on the wooden doorknob – it felt icy and slippery to touch – and twisted it. The doors popped open to reveal an Aladdin's cave of a room, small but with shelves crammed with books and treasures and jewellery and ornaments that glittered like a king's treasure horde. He stepped out of the way hastily –
And with a skilful twirl, Mycroft stepped aside, withdrawing his blade from the Owlman as he went. The Lorelei and Molly gave him one last gigantic push, and he fell forward, across the threshold and into the treasure vault.
And then he dissolved.
Lestrade could think of no other way to describe what happened. It was like watching a sugar cube dissolve in liquid, a sand sculpture being blown away by the wind or washed away by water. The Owlman's claws and feathers and beak and hawkish features flaked, broke apart and vanished. The room fell silent; the Owlman's last scream ringing in everyone's ears.
With a relieved sigh, the Lorelei slung an arm round Molly's shoulders in comradely approval. The younger woman looked pale and shaky, but she managed a smile as the Lorelei half-hugged her in reassurance. Mycroft motioned Lestrade away from the – cupboard? Storeroom? – before withdrawing yet another handkerchief from his pocket and cleaning the Owlman's reddish-black blood off the blade with marked distaste.
'Did it work?' came Irene's voice from the doorway. The Lorelei called out to her, and moments later Irene appeared, still looking a bit unsteady but her eyes were keen and focused. She saw Mycroft going about his gruesome task and nodded in approval.
'What was that?' Molly whispered into the quiet.
'Very powerful dark magic,' Irene told her. 'A spell, fatal to humans, that literally pulls you to pieces and scatters your atoms to the winds. A trap, designed to lure and then destroy anyone who is after Moriarty's collection or artefacts.' She eyed the treasure horde with what looked like horrified fascination. 'Those things in there are all fakes, I know that for certain. Moriarty was counting on us charging in there to destroy his treasures, assuming we got past the succubus and the Owlman, I bet.'
'I certainly wouldn't bet against you,' Lestrade muttered.
'I've never heard of such a spell,' Mycroft said, looking disturbed. Irene shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant and not entirely succeeding.
'I've encountered such a hex once before – only once, mind,' Irene explained, unusually subdued. 'I was… carrying out a private commission, and was saved by a little mouse that made the mistake of crossing the threshold before I did.' The normally icily composed Irene shuddered at the memory. 'The design of those doors you see before you – the doors of that cupboard, storeroom, whatever it is, are identical to the one I saw destroy that mouse. That's the only reason I knew what would happen.'
Everyone turned to eye the grotesquely carved wooden doors with fear and distaste.
'Just as a matter of interest, where did you first encounter this hex, Miss Adler?' Mycroft asked, voice gently compelling.
'At a large house in the countryside, called Appledore,' Irene informed him, nothing loath. 'Can't tell you the name of the occupant, sadly – my client only referred to them as Cam. But he was a nasty bit of work, I can tell you that much.'
Mycroft nodded, a predatory glimmer in his eye that suggested he was planning a raid on said large house in the countryside.
'There'll be time for trips down memory lane later,' Lestrade reminded them both, getting exasperated with their lack of focus. 'So… the Owlman? Is he dead then? Blown to smithereens?'
'No such luck,' Mycroft sighed. 'His kind seldom die. He will appear again eventually. That evil… it always does come back.'
'But not tonight,' Irene reminded him. 'And now, we must continue our quest. The Lorelei and I found nothing up here of any interest or value. What about you and your helpers, Mr Holmes?'
Mycroft described their adventures downstairs briefly, and both Irene and the Lorelei listened intently, interrupting now and then to ask a question, both of them quirking smiles at Lestrade as his magical escape from Moriarty's study was described. But it wasn't until Mycroft mentioned the black door and the broom cupboard down in the kitchen that both women perked up and looked excited.
'Did you sense an aura about it, Mr Holmes?' Irene asked intently.
Mycroft hesitated for an instant. 'It's difficult to describe, Miss Adler,' he said haltingly. 'It's nothing I can depict with any clarity, there was nothing overtly magical about it… it is just that it gave me an uneasy feeling. But there was nothing inside save a few mops and some cleaning equipment.'
'The kitchen is quite a long way from this decoy,' Irene mused out loud. 'And Moriarty may be a show-off, but he's no fool. He's not going to advertise his treasure horde with a big flashing neon sign, or stick it in some fancy cupboard. Plus kitchens are powerful magical areas, because they incorporate all the elements. He might be using kitchen or henwife magic to subdue any magic vibrations from his collection.' She rolled her eyes at Mycroft's look of surprise. 'I'm no domestic, Mr Holmes, but that doesn't mean I have no respect for or knowledge about those who are. Let's go and take a look at this door.'
They all trooped downstairs with no further difficulties or encounters with strange beasts, and Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly and the Lorelei hung back as Irene inspected the crucial door, running hands over it and inspecting it minutely.
'This is the place,' she announced after a few minutes. 'I'd overestimated him – Moriarty isn't using kitchen magic to hide his collection of valuables. He's got some magical blocking spell in place instead. A nifty one, too, excellent work, but I can sense it. There's a powerful illusion spell on it too – if we just open the door, all we'll see is a broom cupboard.' She paused to smirk at Mycroft, who was looking very discomfited at being so easily hoodwinked. 'But if I pick the lock, remove the spells shielding it, then we'll see what's really inside here.'
Mycroft proffered his lock-picks, but Irene curled her lip in disdain and extracted what looked like a make-up case from her pocket. Opening it, she revealed a glorious array of lock-picks made from every metal imaginable; some rough and crudely shaped, others worked in gold and silver and etched with complex designs.
Even the normally condescending Mycroft looked a little impressed.
The next five minutes both Lestrade and Molly found fascinating – despite their law enforcement careers. It was akin to watching someone deduce the code for a safe simply by listening with a stethoscope. There were two locks on the door; one obvious, another hidden one Irene found after a bit of searching, down near the floor. She went to work with her picks then, gently coaxing, occasionally muttering some invective or pausing to substitute one tool for another.
The lock below the handle clicked open after a couple of minutes; the one near the floor took longer, but not for nothing was Irene one of the most skilled cat burglars in the country, magical or otherwise. It gave way too, and after Irene and Mycroft had one last check for any defensive spells, Mycroft opened the door.
Another room was revealed. It was small and basic; tiled floor, plain white walls and rough wooden shelves reaching up to the ceiling. And on those shelves and clustered in the middle of the floor were objects of every sort and shape and size; glittering, jewel encrusted ornaments, roughly hewn wooden statues, jewellery, iron chains, books, clocks and watches, paintings and even a few creepy-looking china dolls.
'Jackpot,' Irene murmured, a covetous gleam in her eyes.
The Lorelei uttered what sounded like a reprimand, judging by her tone. Irene pouted, glaring sullenly at the water spirit, but the Lorelei looked steadfastly in another direction, playing idly with a strand of Molly's hair.
'Jackpot indeed,' Mycroft said with cool approval. 'Excellently done, Miss Adler. Now, to business – how best to destroy those objects?'
'Smash 'em,' Lestrade suggested, only half-seriously.
'Commendable idea Gregory, but it would take too long and some of these things will have powerful protective spells on them,' Mycroft answered, though without superciliousness. The Lorelei looked thoughtful but made no suggestion. Irene was still looking sulky.
'What about Irene's opal necklace?' Molly suggested unexpectedly.
'What do you mean, my dear?' Mycroft asked, obviously a little bewildered.
'Well,' Molly said, flushing pink as everyone turned to look at her. 'Irene said the necklace is… unstable, around other magical things. Perhaps if we throw the necklace in there with all the other things, it will… damage them, somehow?'
Mycroft's answering smile was composed of pure pride, and Lestrade could feel its echo stretching across his own features. The Lorelei's eyes glowed like gems, and Irene lost her sullen expression and actually looked a little admiring. Molly turned even pinker as it became evident her idea was considered a winner.
'Very well,' Irene said, though not without a last regretful glance at the treasure horde. 'Mr Holmes, is there a way for us to escape this house quickly?'
Mycroft gestured with his rapier towards what Lestrade presumed was the back door. 'It leads into the garden and is unlocked, I've checked,' Mycroft assured Irene. 'What traps are out there I do not know, so it might be best if the Lorelei goes on point.'
The Lorelei nodded her agreement to this, and she, Mycroft, Greg and Molly huddled near the back door. The Lorelei opened it, and they all made ready to flee as soon as Moriarty's treasure stash was destroyed. Irene took a deep breath, and without hesitation, withdrew the necklace from her pocket and flung it into the room.
Then she dodged back just in time.
The fire was instantaneous, white-hot and ferocious. The flames leapt from the necklace, up the walls and out of the door. The Lorelei paused just long enough for Irene to join them at the door and then led everyone down a short flight of stairs into the garden, her eyes scanning the darkness and her claws at the ready to counter any threats. Behind them, the kitchen was going up in flames, and they could feel the heat scorching their backs.
'Round the side of the house!' Mycroft shouted, and together they all ran for the street. They encountered one obstacle – an ugly little squat thing with wings that looked remarkably like a stone gargoyle. The Lorelei batted it aside with a single contemptuous swipe of her arm, and they made their way to the main road.
Once they were all standing in the street, they ceased running and stood there in a wild surmise. They were all safe and well, barring a few cuts and bruises. But the House was going up in smoke and fire, the glass in the windows exploding and the wood and stone groaning as it overheated.
They had done it.
Lestrade glanced over at Mycroft just as the other man looked over at him.
As one, they reached for each other and took one another's hands.
The Lorelei stood, grinning in fierce satisfaction, one arm around Irene's shoulders and the other around Molly's. Irene looked a bit pensive, probably about all the valuable things that were burning, but Molly appeared quietly proud of what they had accomplished.
'What now?' Lestrade asked after a pause, conscious that lights were going on in the neighbouring buildings and that people were beginning to gather in the street to gawk and gossip at the fire.
'We leave,' Mycroft answered at once. 'We have done all we can to aid Sherlock and Doctor Watson. I'll have my people come and clear up the mess here, it wouldn't do for the fire brigade to come blundering in.' He heaved a sigh as he turned away, leading Greg and their allies down the road, to somewhere quieter and darker, more secluded and safer.
'And for now, my friends, we wait,' he said, very quietly, his mind clearly far away, in the depths of a mysterious forest, in a mansion where his younger brother was facing the fight of his life, for his and many other lives. 'We wait for some signal or sign that Moriarty is vanquished or triumphant. There is nothing else to do.'
Greg squeezed Mycroft's hand tightly, offering what small comfort he could. Mycroft did not look at him, but he tightened his grip around Lestrade's hand in acknowledgement. They strode off into the night, the Lorelei and Molly and Irene walking after them, leaving the inferno and the fierce fight and the succubus and the Owlman behind.
Their part in the game was over. But game well played, Lestrade thought in cool satisfaction. Then his thoughts turned to his absent friend. John, we've done all we can for you, he said silently, hoping the words would somehow reach the other man. Don't let us down – make sure you knock seven bells out of this Moriarty bastard. For Mycroft. For me.
For you and Sherlock.
Author's Notes: the Owlman of Mawnan has no connection whatsoever to Arthurian legend, I made that bit up.
Well, it's the big showdown between Sherlock and Moriarty next chapter, and I'll try to get it up before Christmas as a special present to all my lovely readers. It's hopefully going to be very dramatic and emotional, and scores will be settled and not everyone is going to come through unscathed... And on that ominous note, till next time, dear readers!
