A/N: Sorry I kept you all waiting so long! I actually didn't mean to this
time, but some serious things came up, and I didn't really have much of a
choice...You must understand that I would have much rather been typing this
story, but I just wasn't able to get to it...my apologies for leaving you
all hanging...
***Recap!***
Moriarty turned his head towards his old student, "How stupid do you think I am. I know that! It is unfortunate, but he should have known better than to get in my way..." He turned back to Watson and Jon, "Now where was I? Oh yes..."
He pointed his gun and pulled the trigger
***Back to normal time***
Jon shuddered and gasped in pain as the bullet shot clean through his left shoulder. He stumbled for a moment and took a step backwards, but it turned out to be one step to far. He slipped off of the edge of the pier and plunged into the icy seawater, its murky gray depths dragging him down as he struggled desperately to stay afloat.
Watson gave a cry of alarm and rushed forward to the edge to try and catch him, but he wasn't fast enough, and had to watch helplessly as the boy disappeared beneath the waves. Holmes turned angrily to Moriarty whipped out his pistol, and aimed it at his nemesis before he had time to turn around, his voice raging, "How could you do such a thing?!"
Moriarty shrugged, "It was not very hard...put the gun down Holmes, or I will shoot Watson next, and please, do not make the mistake that I will not shoot for the second time tonight."
But Watson and Holmes, knowing each other to such a point that with a mere nod from Holmes and a plan would be put into action, had another idea. Watson dove out of Moriarty's range of fire, and Holmes quickly pulled the trigger of his own gun as Moriarty turned to make his next move. The man screamed and his gun fell from his hands as he grabbed his right forearm in pain from where the bullet had hit. Holmes scowled and aimed again, this time at his chest. But the criminal genius was also prepared and threw himself to the ground just as Holmes' bullet went shooting over his head, and scrabbled up onto his feet and around the corner.
Holmes gave a growl of frustration and snapped back to Watson, "Go capture Striecher! I will go after Moriarty, but do not wait for me! Take him to Scotland Yard immediately!"
Watson nodded and jogged off to do as he had been told and Holmes began to sprint after his enemy. He knew that he would be able to catch up with Moriarty, unless that is he found another form of transportation besides running on foot. He dashed around the factory and up onto the docks, and with his gun raised, he began to search the area, looking into all the alleyways and streets. The sun had begun to set, and the lowering light was casting long shadows everywhere that made it hard to see where someone might be hiding. Finally, Holmes slowed down and turned back to a dockworker that he had just past, "Did a man run past here a few minutes ago?!"
"Besides you?...I don't remember seeing nobody runnin'..."
Holmes muttered something under his breath and whipped off his hat in frustration, "Where the devil did he go?"
"Who you looking for?"
"A criminal and murder named Moriarty."
The man frowned and scratched his head, "Ain't that the guy who was in the papers a few years ago?"
Holmes shook his head, "I dunno, probably...Now, if you will excuse me, I have to get back to work." He quickly moved away, eager to be away from the worker, and having convinced himself that Moriarty had once again eluded capture, the detective began to search for any clues. He began to scower the area, but after a few hours, the only thing he was able to come up with were a few footprints in the mud that seemed to be made from his shoes, but they were all the way back by the front of the docks. Holmes sighed, rubbed his forehead, and made his way slowly back to his home on Baker Street to wait for Watson to return.
***Watson's Turn***
The doctor carefully made his way back towards the door of the factory, positive that Striecher was inside, for there was no other way out bedsides the door and the window, both of which were in plain sight. So as he listened to the receding pounding of Holmes' footsteps as he ran after Moriarty, Watson slipped into the factory with his pistol drawn out in front of him.
Luckily, Striecher wasn't waiting for him at the door and he was able to sneak behind one of the smaller machines before he heard the soft clicking of shoes on the factory floor. Someone was coming closer! Watson leveled his gun on a flat part of the machine and waited for Striecher to come around the corner. As soon as he saw part of the man's body coming around the corner, he shot a bullet that hit directly into Striecher's side. The man screamed ('rather dramatically' Watson thought...) and fell to the floor, clutching his side as a small trickle of blood leaked out.
Watson shook his head as he emerged, knowing full well that such a minor wound, that had probably only penetrated through some fat, wouldn't kill the man, or even cause lasting damage, didn't feel any pity as he walked over. He spotted some nearby rope and used it to secure the man's hands and tie them to a nearby metal pipe. Satisfied that Striecher wouldn't get away, he walked quickly outside to go get the police.
In about half an hour, they police finally arrived, after Watson had to knock Striecher out so that he wouldn't escape, and they took the man into custody and took him to jail. Watson followed them in a cabby, just to make sure that nothing happened on the trip over, mostly so that if anything happened, he would be able to tell Holmes about it. He had a sneaking suspicion that Holmes hadn't been able to capture Moriarty, and that the man was still on the loose so he decided to be extra cautious.
After everything at Scotland Yard had been settled and Watson's mind was able to think back, a dark depression began to sink over him as he remembered Jon sailing into the murky depths of the estuary. Watson sighed sadly as he stepped back into the cabby to drive back to Bakers Street. That boy had been all right, in the end...he had actually become very attached to him; it was sort of like having a close nephew. If only he hadn't been so bold with Moriarty, he might have not shot him...
By the time the cabby pulled over and Watson stepped out, tears were pricking his eyes and when he walked in to 221B Baker Street, he immediately turned to Holmes, who was thinking in his armchair, "Oh Holmes! How could I have just left him there to die!? Why didn't I do something?"
Holmes sighed and opened his eyes, his chin resting on his hands, "There was nothing you could do for him even if we had prepared for such a thing; it was unavoidable. Now, I am assuming that you caught Striecher?" Watson nodded sadly, "Good...As you probably have guessed by now, I was once again unable to apprehend Moriarty, but this time was unable to track him down. However, the good news is that Moriarty will have to close down his factory and come up with a new plan." He pulled out the paper he had taken from his coat pocket and handed it to Watson, "It is their ship's cargo list...They had been shipping in illegal contraband for about six months now. It seems that Cullington, the murdered man, had been involved with their company for a short while but wanted to get out. Earlier he had swore to Moriarty, or to his alias, Jim Steward, that he would never tell anyone about what he was doing. Unfortunately for Sir Cullington, he told his business partner who happened to be another of Moriarty's informants, so Moriarty had him murdered."
Watson sighed and handed the paper back to Holmes, "Well, it sounds as if you have this case solved then..."
Holmes frowned at his friend, opened his mouth to say something, but then decided against it. After a few minutes of rather uncomfortable silence, Holmes picked up his violin that was leaning up against his chair as began to play.
***Meanwhile...***
Jon sputtered awake, choking on the water that had filled his lungs. He rolled over onto his stomach and coughed into the dirt, the slimy feeling off mud covering his face. He moaned and tried to move, but felt a sharp pain shoot through his arm and decided that it would be easier just to lay there. Memories came flooding back to him, and he lifted his head out of the muck to try and see where he was.
It was pitch black, and if it weren't for the full moon, he wouldn't have been able to see a meter ahead of him. It looked like he had washed up on the side of a shallow riverbank. He groaned and fell back onto the ground. Well, this was a little better than being sent out to the ocean...the current must have dragged him in and down the river instead.
He tried to move again, just with his legs, and suddenly realized how cold and wet he was as the nerves in his body began to wake up. He began to shiver, which made him cough some more, so he had to fall back to the ground so he could support himself. He tried to look around again, now that his eyes were getting used to the darkness of night, and peered through his wet hair. He could just make out a building hovering over the edge of the riverbank, and if he listened hard enough, he noticed the clip clopping of horse hooves on cobblestone.
He struggling wearily to his feet, but collapsed as he took a step and fell to his knees. He groaned and his body desperately wanted to just lie down and go to sleep, but he knew that if he spent the night out during the wintertime soaking wet, he would probably die of pneumonia. So he clenched his teeth, and forcing himself to forget anything about pride, began to crawl on his good hand and his knees up the small hill and into the alleyway that wrapped behind the building and that he hoped would lead to the street.
He shook his head to try and rid himself of the dizziness that was beginning to overtake him, but only managed to make it worse and made him have to sit up against the wall of the building to catch his breath. Finally, he gathered up some more energy, and crawled down the side alley and out to the edge of the street.
He gazed around happily, quite proud of himself for making it out that far and leaned up against the front of the business building for a break. The dizziness he had been fighting slowly returned and to his horror, he felt himself drifting off to unconsciousness again.
***Recap!***
Moriarty turned his head towards his old student, "How stupid do you think I am. I know that! It is unfortunate, but he should have known better than to get in my way..." He turned back to Watson and Jon, "Now where was I? Oh yes..."
He pointed his gun and pulled the trigger
***Back to normal time***
Jon shuddered and gasped in pain as the bullet shot clean through his left shoulder. He stumbled for a moment and took a step backwards, but it turned out to be one step to far. He slipped off of the edge of the pier and plunged into the icy seawater, its murky gray depths dragging him down as he struggled desperately to stay afloat.
Watson gave a cry of alarm and rushed forward to the edge to try and catch him, but he wasn't fast enough, and had to watch helplessly as the boy disappeared beneath the waves. Holmes turned angrily to Moriarty whipped out his pistol, and aimed it at his nemesis before he had time to turn around, his voice raging, "How could you do such a thing?!"
Moriarty shrugged, "It was not very hard...put the gun down Holmes, or I will shoot Watson next, and please, do not make the mistake that I will not shoot for the second time tonight."
But Watson and Holmes, knowing each other to such a point that with a mere nod from Holmes and a plan would be put into action, had another idea. Watson dove out of Moriarty's range of fire, and Holmes quickly pulled the trigger of his own gun as Moriarty turned to make his next move. The man screamed and his gun fell from his hands as he grabbed his right forearm in pain from where the bullet had hit. Holmes scowled and aimed again, this time at his chest. But the criminal genius was also prepared and threw himself to the ground just as Holmes' bullet went shooting over his head, and scrabbled up onto his feet and around the corner.
Holmes gave a growl of frustration and snapped back to Watson, "Go capture Striecher! I will go after Moriarty, but do not wait for me! Take him to Scotland Yard immediately!"
Watson nodded and jogged off to do as he had been told and Holmes began to sprint after his enemy. He knew that he would be able to catch up with Moriarty, unless that is he found another form of transportation besides running on foot. He dashed around the factory and up onto the docks, and with his gun raised, he began to search the area, looking into all the alleyways and streets. The sun had begun to set, and the lowering light was casting long shadows everywhere that made it hard to see where someone might be hiding. Finally, Holmes slowed down and turned back to a dockworker that he had just past, "Did a man run past here a few minutes ago?!"
"Besides you?...I don't remember seeing nobody runnin'..."
Holmes muttered something under his breath and whipped off his hat in frustration, "Where the devil did he go?"
"Who you looking for?"
"A criminal and murder named Moriarty."
The man frowned and scratched his head, "Ain't that the guy who was in the papers a few years ago?"
Holmes shook his head, "I dunno, probably...Now, if you will excuse me, I have to get back to work." He quickly moved away, eager to be away from the worker, and having convinced himself that Moriarty had once again eluded capture, the detective began to search for any clues. He began to scower the area, but after a few hours, the only thing he was able to come up with were a few footprints in the mud that seemed to be made from his shoes, but they were all the way back by the front of the docks. Holmes sighed, rubbed his forehead, and made his way slowly back to his home on Baker Street to wait for Watson to return.
***Watson's Turn***
The doctor carefully made his way back towards the door of the factory, positive that Striecher was inside, for there was no other way out bedsides the door and the window, both of which were in plain sight. So as he listened to the receding pounding of Holmes' footsteps as he ran after Moriarty, Watson slipped into the factory with his pistol drawn out in front of him.
Luckily, Striecher wasn't waiting for him at the door and he was able to sneak behind one of the smaller machines before he heard the soft clicking of shoes on the factory floor. Someone was coming closer! Watson leveled his gun on a flat part of the machine and waited for Striecher to come around the corner. As soon as he saw part of the man's body coming around the corner, he shot a bullet that hit directly into Striecher's side. The man screamed ('rather dramatically' Watson thought...) and fell to the floor, clutching his side as a small trickle of blood leaked out.
Watson shook his head as he emerged, knowing full well that such a minor wound, that had probably only penetrated through some fat, wouldn't kill the man, or even cause lasting damage, didn't feel any pity as he walked over. He spotted some nearby rope and used it to secure the man's hands and tie them to a nearby metal pipe. Satisfied that Striecher wouldn't get away, he walked quickly outside to go get the police.
In about half an hour, they police finally arrived, after Watson had to knock Striecher out so that he wouldn't escape, and they took the man into custody and took him to jail. Watson followed them in a cabby, just to make sure that nothing happened on the trip over, mostly so that if anything happened, he would be able to tell Holmes about it. He had a sneaking suspicion that Holmes hadn't been able to capture Moriarty, and that the man was still on the loose so he decided to be extra cautious.
After everything at Scotland Yard had been settled and Watson's mind was able to think back, a dark depression began to sink over him as he remembered Jon sailing into the murky depths of the estuary. Watson sighed sadly as he stepped back into the cabby to drive back to Bakers Street. That boy had been all right, in the end...he had actually become very attached to him; it was sort of like having a close nephew. If only he hadn't been so bold with Moriarty, he might have not shot him...
By the time the cabby pulled over and Watson stepped out, tears were pricking his eyes and when he walked in to 221B Baker Street, he immediately turned to Holmes, who was thinking in his armchair, "Oh Holmes! How could I have just left him there to die!? Why didn't I do something?"
Holmes sighed and opened his eyes, his chin resting on his hands, "There was nothing you could do for him even if we had prepared for such a thing; it was unavoidable. Now, I am assuming that you caught Striecher?" Watson nodded sadly, "Good...As you probably have guessed by now, I was once again unable to apprehend Moriarty, but this time was unable to track him down. However, the good news is that Moriarty will have to close down his factory and come up with a new plan." He pulled out the paper he had taken from his coat pocket and handed it to Watson, "It is their ship's cargo list...They had been shipping in illegal contraband for about six months now. It seems that Cullington, the murdered man, had been involved with their company for a short while but wanted to get out. Earlier he had swore to Moriarty, or to his alias, Jim Steward, that he would never tell anyone about what he was doing. Unfortunately for Sir Cullington, he told his business partner who happened to be another of Moriarty's informants, so Moriarty had him murdered."
Watson sighed and handed the paper back to Holmes, "Well, it sounds as if you have this case solved then..."
Holmes frowned at his friend, opened his mouth to say something, but then decided against it. After a few minutes of rather uncomfortable silence, Holmes picked up his violin that was leaning up against his chair as began to play.
***Meanwhile...***
Jon sputtered awake, choking on the water that had filled his lungs. He rolled over onto his stomach and coughed into the dirt, the slimy feeling off mud covering his face. He moaned and tried to move, but felt a sharp pain shoot through his arm and decided that it would be easier just to lay there. Memories came flooding back to him, and he lifted his head out of the muck to try and see where he was.
It was pitch black, and if it weren't for the full moon, he wouldn't have been able to see a meter ahead of him. It looked like he had washed up on the side of a shallow riverbank. He groaned and fell back onto the ground. Well, this was a little better than being sent out to the ocean...the current must have dragged him in and down the river instead.
He tried to move again, just with his legs, and suddenly realized how cold and wet he was as the nerves in his body began to wake up. He began to shiver, which made him cough some more, so he had to fall back to the ground so he could support himself. He tried to look around again, now that his eyes were getting used to the darkness of night, and peered through his wet hair. He could just make out a building hovering over the edge of the riverbank, and if he listened hard enough, he noticed the clip clopping of horse hooves on cobblestone.
He struggling wearily to his feet, but collapsed as he took a step and fell to his knees. He groaned and his body desperately wanted to just lie down and go to sleep, but he knew that if he spent the night out during the wintertime soaking wet, he would probably die of pneumonia. So he clenched his teeth, and forcing himself to forget anything about pride, began to crawl on his good hand and his knees up the small hill and into the alleyway that wrapped behind the building and that he hoped would lead to the street.
He shook his head to try and rid himself of the dizziness that was beginning to overtake him, but only managed to make it worse and made him have to sit up against the wall of the building to catch his breath. Finally, he gathered up some more energy, and crawled down the side alley and out to the edge of the street.
He gazed around happily, quite proud of himself for making it out that far and leaned up against the front of the business building for a break. The dizziness he had been fighting slowly returned and to his horror, he felt himself drifting off to unconsciousness again.