Nine years, five months, and six days and they still haven't come out with a third installment of Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes. Good grief, how long does a girl have to wait?

Chapter 25

"All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages." ~ William Shakespeare

"Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!"

Having been let into 221B Baker Street by Mrs. Hudson, Tommy raced up the stairs, hollering for Holmes the whole way. He could hear Mrs. Hudson calling after him, chastising him for his poor manners, but he had not a moment to spare for the kind woman.

Holmes stepped out of the library just as the boy came barreling in. "Tommy? Is it Thursday already?"

Tommy shook his head. Their weekly chess match was the farthest thing from his mind at the moment. "I saw him," he said, still breathless from his run to Baker Street. "That man. Moran. He put something behind the brick on King and Bedford Street, Mr. Holmes!"

Holmes' countenance turned fierce. "When?"

"Just now, sir. I came straight here just like you said I should if I ever saw him."

"Good lad," Holmes nodded, finishing up the batch of medication he had previously been brewing for Watson when the man himself stepped out of his room.

"Holmes, what... Oh, it was you, Tommy," he said with a smile, clapping the young man's shoulder. "I was wondering who was making such a racket."

"Apologies, Doctor. I had urgent news for Mr. Holmes."

Watson's interest was piqued. "Indeed?"

"It seems Sebastian Moran has come out of the shadows at last," Holmes explained, donning his scarf and coat, being sure to flip up the collar against the lingering chill that awaited him on the streets below.

"Moran?" Watson echoed, the book he had been reading abandoned. "Give me a moment and I will come with you."

Holmes gave him a small, wistful smile. "Not this time I'm afraid, old friend. Our partnership is at an end."

Watson stopped and turned to look at his friend, an odd feeling in his chest that had nothing to do with his illness. "What are you on about?"

"You've only just gotten your health back, Watson, and Mary needs you. I'll not allow you to put all you've worked so hard to achieve in danger for my own selfish desires."

"Holmes..."

"Kiss Mary for me. I'll be home before dinner."

Neither of them believed it, something about it all felt far too final, but Watson nodded all the same as he watched Holmes and Tommy take their leave.

With Tommy keeping lookout, Holmes found the loose brick in the wall and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Quickly opening it, he read the elegant scroll.

"Mr. Holmes,
You have built yourself quite the fairytale life. Unfortunately, all stories come to an end, don't they? The clock is ticking, Mr. Holmes, and your wife is waiting.
Professor J. Moriarty"

"Are you ready to play, Mr. Holmes?" a familiar voice that made his hair stand on end asked from behind him. "The professor wishes to finish the game once and for all. He sent me to fetch you."

Holmes turned to find Sebastian Moran standing behind Tommy, a knife at the boy's throat. Holmes schooled his features, reasonably assured the boy was, thus far, unharmed, and admirably calm as the pace of his breathing remained as steady as the pulse jumping at regular intervals along the side of his neck. He gave the boy a subtle nod, then drew his gaze back up to Moran. "Professor?" he hummed as he clasped his hands behind his back with a frown. "An intriguing title, as I am most certain he has not stepped foot in a classroom for many a year. Doubtful he ever will again."

Moran's already beady eyes narrowed and he glared at Holmes as one would an insolent child. He gave him an impish grin before clapping his hands and rubbing them together. "Now, shall we be off? I believe my wife is waiting for me."

Moran didn't move. Holmes suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Let the lad go, he's of no use to you."

He seemed to consider that for a moment before releasing Tommy, who stumbled a bit before righting himself. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Nothing to trouble yourself with, Tommy. We all have our grand entrances and exits, and so here is mine. Go home to Nanny now, and stay out of trouble."

He watched the boy run off, then turned to his new companion. Moran continued to glare at him, and Holmes gave him a tight smile. "By your leave, Colonel."

A sickly smile crossed his scarred face. "As you wish, Mr. Holmes."

A blindfold dropped over his eyes from behind and was pulled tight. "How disappointingly unoriginal," he sighed as his hands were bound and he was lead into a carriage.

"Shut it, you," Moran snapped, shoving him onto the seat.

Holmes smirked, but complied nonetheless. The less talking, the easier he could concentrate on the hustle and bustle of the streets they passed to ascertain their exact location. Despite having a fairly good idea, one could never be too careful, after all. He followed the map in his mind toward their assumed destination. He counted the turns to distract himself from the abhorrent thought of Irene in the hands of his greatest adversary. Where there had once been a game, Holmes now only saw a war. One he was determined should end today with himself alone as the victor.

When the carriage came to a stop, he was escorted across cobblestones, up crumbling stone steps, over a threshold, and into a building that smelled of old wood, dust-ridden upholstery, and parchment. They went down through a large drafty room, and along a raised hollow platform that echoed with each step he took. In spite of the blindfold being ripped from his eyes without warning, and the candlelight spotlights momentarily blinding him, he was not surprised in the least to find himself standing on the center of the stage at the long forgotten Grand Street Theater.

He was, however, rather surprised to find that he was alone. That is, until the voiced he loathed most in the world echoed across the empty auditorium. "And so, we begin our little play. The Final Bow of the World's Greatest Detective, Sherlock Holmes."

"A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing," Holmes finished, an enraged Moriarty appearing from the shadows to drive his fist into his jaw. Holmes staggered but did not fall. "Indeed," he said, working his bruised jaw around and using the back of his wrist to dab at the blood on his lip, "let us not waste time with theatrics. What is it you want?"

"You've always been a most worthy adversary, Mr. Holmes," Moriarty admitted, reigning in his emotions for the moment, smoothing his hair and straightening his coat. "It's a shame our game must come to an end at last."

Holmes had thus far considered, in great detail, six different ways of killing the man, but he dare not act until he knew what had befallen his wife. "A sentiment I no longer share. Now, where is Irene?"

A slow smile twisted across his face and Holmes felt his stomach drop. "I was beginning to fear you'd never ask. But are you sure she is the one whose fate you wish to know?"

For the better part of the past two hours, Watson had been attempting to read the same article in his latest medical journal. He felt there was much to catch up on, but could not settle his mind enough to focus on the words before him. Years of threatening Holmes that each case would be the last, he never truly imagined it would be. Now, with Holmes going after Moran, he was rather put out by the fact that he was not there to aid him and put to rest this final adventure of theirs.

A thunderous rapping at the door of the flat was a welcome distraction. He crossed through the parlor where Simza held Mary on her lap with open picture books spread out before them, one arm securely around his daughter and the other ready to grab for the knife she kept hidden in the folds of her skirts. He gave her a brief nod before opening the door, young Tommy stumbling in once again. "Tommy! What in God's name..."

"Doctor Watson! Mr. Holmes, he... and they took him!"

"Alright, calm down, lad," Watson said, leading Tommy to a chair. "Take a few deep breaths, then you can tell me what's happened. Come then. In through your nose, and back out through your mouth."

He nodded and took a few breaths following Watson's lead until he was finally able to relay his tale. "That man, Moran, he took Mr. Holmes. He said Professor Moriarty wanted to end their game. He has Mrs. Holmes, so Mr. Holmes went with him."

Watson felt positively ill. "Where did he take them? Did Holmes say anything to you? He must have done. Think!"

Simza's hand laid firmly over his arm made him suddenly aware that he had gripped Tommy's shoulders painfully tight in his panic.

He sighed and willed his heart to return to a normal pace. "Apologies," he said, patting the boy's upper arm before stepping back. "I need you to think carefully and tell me all that you can if I am to help Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, sir," Tommy nodded, eager to be of help. "Before they took him to the carriage, Mr. Holmes said, 'We all have our grand entrances and exits in life, and so, here is mine.' Then he told me to go home to Nanny. No one followed me, I made sure, Doctor Watson."

"Good lad. Clever lad. Now, I need you to take Mary to the kitchen for me, and Mrs. Hudson will get you both some tea and biscuits, alright?" Watson ruffled the boy's hair and kissed his daughter, making sure they were securely with Mrs. Hudson before turning to Simza. "It's a Shakespeare quote. But why?" He paced the length of the hearth, fiddling with his pocket watch. "A play, then, most likely, but my Shakespeare isn't nearly what it should be, so which one is it?"

He moved to the bookshelves that lined the far wall and pulled out volumes of Shakespeare, handing a stack to Simza. "Start looking, my darling. Perhaps we'll find our answers in here."

She frowned at the books, setting them down on a chair. "Perhaps it is not a play. What if they took him to a theater?"
"A theater... Grand entrances and exits..." Watson said to himself, turning it over in his mind just as he continued to turn over the pocket watch in his hand. Then, his eyes widened. "They're at the old Grand Street Theater. I must go at once!"

"I'll come."

"No! Sim, wait," he pleaded with her and caught her hand in his. She glanced up at him in surprise and no small amount of annoyance. He attempted to explain. "My darling, I... I've only just begun to feel like myself again. If something were to happen to you, I would be... I would be lost."

"And it would be easy for me? He has taken everything from me. All that I love! You, Mary, and Holmes are all that I have left."

"Which is why you must stay here and protect her for us. There is no one else I trust."

Simza said nothing, but stared down at their hands, his fingers interlaced with her darker ones. Watson caressed her cheek, running his thumb along her scar. "I will end this, once and for all. That is my vow to you. But I need to know you and Mary are safe."

She brought her gaze up to meet his and closed the distance between them. She placed her hands on either side of his face and kissed him soundly. "Return to me."

He kissed her again. "I will. Always." He then gathered up his hat, coat, and rifle, the weight of it all at once familiar and foreign. "Alert the Yard," he told her. "Inform Lestrade to come to Grand Street Theater at once."

Simza nodded, fear wrapping it's cold fingers around her heart as she watched him disappear down the stairs and into the night.