Hours passed. I made no further excursions from my cell, mostly because I doubted I would be able to stay away from the room holding the captive Jedi. I lay on my cot, staring at the ceiling, trying not to drive myself mad with endless rounds of 'what if.' At the end of eternity, I at last fell into uneasy slumber.
I once more stood on the devastation of a battlefield. As before, I saw in front of me a tall man holding a lightsaber, standing upon the fallen, back turned to me.
"The Dark is rising. The tide must be turned soon, or it will be too late for this world."
"Who are you?" I demanded.
"A messenger. The Dark rises over the galaxy. The battle for this world is here and now. The wall has been breached."
The shadowed figure raised his hand, and lightning leapt from it to split the skies. A howling wind rose up, buffeting me.
"The tide must be turned, or darkness will engulf this planet. You must fight."
The words echoed in my head as I sat up, gasping and shivering with cold sweat. I sat for a long moment, trying to gather my scattered thoughts, waiting for the disturbing vision to fade. When it became clear that it would not, I settled back to examine it. In my experience, dreams that cling to your mind more than a few moments after waking tend to have a real purpose. Holmes might sneer at the idea, but I'd been saved more than once in Afghanistan because of a warning dream.
It wasn't difficult to interpret. Moriarty and Mailen–and their mysterious friend Sardius–were a serious threat to the independence of my world, and the corpse-littered battlefield a good indication of what things would look like if they won. They had to be stopped, whatever the cost.
Really, though, I'm not sure I needed a dream to figure that one out.
I was stiff and sore; it felt as though I had slept for a long time. I reached for my watch, then remembered with severe annoyance that it had been taken from me. I had a sudden sympathy for prison inmates.
Voices and the sound of footsteps caught my attention, and I stiffened as they stopped outside my cell's door. Had they discovered my sabotage? If Moriarty chose, he could interpret that as an escape attempt...
The door opened, and Sebastian Moran entered. He was well over six feet, taller than Holmes, and one of the most physically imposing men I'd ever met. He reminded me uncomfortably of a tiger, lazy and somnolent at first glance, but able to turn vicious and deadly in the blink of an eye.
"Doctor Watson." Moran smiled thinly down at me.
I eyed him warily, and did not reply.
He made a curt gesture. "On your feet. Come with me."
Arguing with him about it was not really an option. He easily made two of me in weight, all of it muscle and bone and not a bit of fat. He was also unnaturally quick for a man his size. Any argument I might have with him would be over before it began. I got to my feet and followed him. A second guard fell in behind me as we left the cell, a blaster at the ready.
I desperately wanted to know the reason for this, but as we left the area where I'd been held prisoner, I could think of no way to bring it up without giving away too much. It was just possible that this was not about my sabotage, and I could not take the chance of giving it away if it wasn't. So I remained silent, nearly out of my mind with worry, and tried to pay attention to my surroundings. Everything around me confirmed my earlier suspicion that I was being held in a building on the riverbank, probably one of the many ramshackle warehouses near the docks.
Moran slowed, and opened a door, gesturing for me to precede him. I hesitated, eyeing him suspiciously, so he planted a hand between my shoulder blades and propelled me forward into a long, low room similar to the one that held the captive Jedi. I noticed little else about the room, for my attention was quickly riveted by the two figures in the room's center. One was Moriarty, standing at his ease, arms folded across his narrow chest, next to a chair. In the chair was a man, hands bound behind his back, head lolling in semi-consciousness. A bruise darkened one high cheekbone, swelling around an oozing cut. A tall man, lean and long-limbed, with narrow, ascetic features and black hair, usually neatly slicked back but now falling over his face in disarray.
Holmes.
Moriarty spoke. "As you see, Doctor Watson, Holmes has succumbed to his great weakness. Out of his...friendship...for you he has walked into my trap. Oh, he no doubt thought he was being very clever," he paused to stare down at his captive, lip curling, "but I have at last proven who is the greater mind."
Holmes stirred, lifting his head. His grey eyes were bleary, and I saw more bruises marring his forehead and jaw, and there were no doubt others on his body, if his torn and rumpled clothing was anything to judge by. "Watson! I'm glad to see you alive." He smiled painfully around a cut and swollen lip. "Though I could wish it under more auspicious circumstances."
"Surely you knew it was a trap, Holmes," I cried.
"Of course I did...but I fear I did not expect the ambush from the quarter it came." He hitched one shoulder upwards. "I fear I have...misjudged the situation."
"A painful admission, no doubt," Moriarty murmured. He looked extremely pleased with himself.
"I'm not dead yet, Moriarty," Holmes growled.
The professor smiled coldly. "A problem soon to be remedied, I assure you." He pulled a watch from his pocket–my watch, I noticed–and frowned slightly. "Though not immediately. We are a bit behind schedule." He looked up at his lieutenant. "Moran, take them to a secure room–not the one Watson was in, though. See to it they are locked up and well guarded, then meet me at the dock. We must get the 'shipment' loaded before our associate becomes too impatient."
Moran nodded curtly, and signaled for the other guard to take my arms while he moved toward Holmes.
"Oh, come now, Moriarty," Holmes drawled as Moran hauled him to his feet. "Surely you will do me the honor of at least telling me what you're up to before you have me killed."
Moriarty regarded him in mild bemusement. "Tell you? You haven't already figured it out? Really, Holmes, I'm almost disappointed in you."
Holmes shrugged again. "It's been a bad week."
I watched my friend in growing alarm. His eyes were half-lidded and dull, his movements lacking their usual control and grace, his words their customary sharpness. Some of it might be due to the beating he had clearly just endured, but not all. There was something terribly wrong with Holmes. He seemed depressed, uncaring.
Defeated.