He ducked into a shallow alcove, constantly checking that he was alone, that no one had followed him.

People passed on the sidewalk. A dog barked on the next block. Windows glinted in the early morning sunlight, casting their rays here and there among the swaying trees, but he could find no hint of a tail. He was safe.

For now.

Barely a fortnight had passed since that day at the falls, and he had spent every moment running, trying to turn predator into prey so he could go home. Watson's cries still rang in his nightmares, echoing through the days to remind him just what his apparent death had done to his dearest friend.

"Holmes! God, no. Please. Holmes, answer me! Where are you? Holmes!"

He had wanted to reply, had desperately wished he could end Watson's grief, but Moran had been leering from across the canyon. The tiger hunter had not known exactly where Holmes hid, and one noise would have resulted in two bullets: the first in Watson and the second through Holmes. He had stayed silent, grieving himself as Watson fell apart in front of him.

Local police had eventually caught up, aiding the search, and his friend had collapsed to the ground when they found nothing as well, sobbing Holmes' name to the uncaring falls. One of the officers had pleaded with him for nearly thirty minutes before he followed them down the path, and the Watson that had eventually stumbled back toward town was a broken shell of the man that had traveled with him from London. He needed to take care of Moran so he could return to England, so he could end the heavy grief that had bowed his friend's shoulders and aged him many years in a matter of minutes.

That was difficult to do when Moran was almost as bad as his master, however. Moran may resemble the tigers he hunted more than Moriarty's snake-like mannerisms, but he was just as difficult to pin down as the old professor had been. Holmes had no wish to spend another year tracking the lieutenant when he had already spent nearly two tracing the master.

The sidewalks cleared enough to confirm his surroundings, and he used the opportunity to join the next group of tourists that passed his alcove. He had gone south from the falls, taking mountain clearings instead of established paths as he skirted Rosenlaui toward Interlaken. The larger city would provide the cover he needed to escape his tail, and by the time Moran realized his location, he would be ready.

He needed to get there, first, however, and mountains on either side of this tiny hamlet had prevented him from going any way but directly down the middle of the valley. This would be the best place to find a meal, but he could not stop. The two-mile-wide town also posed more danger than the last fortnight of rugged terrain. Moran had far too many places to set up his air gun, and Holmes would have no idea he had been found until a bullet went through his head. He needed to get out of the valley.

The group turned at the second to last street, and he separated just around the corner, ignoring the way his stomach growled a greeting at a street vendor. When a scan revealed no one watching from other buildings, a loping jog cleared that street, and he allowed a faint sigh of relief when the town ended. He quickly moved deeper into the trees. He would have at least some warning if Moran found him here, but the hunter had shown no aptitude for tracking through the forest. Holmes should be safe until he reached the city.

"Should" being the key word. He did not drop his guard.

Hours passed as he slowly navigated the mountainside on paths more imaginary than true, adjusting the valise on his back every couple of miles. "Down" left very little room for directional error, especially when his target occasionally winked at him between the trees, and he saw no signs of pursuit before he reached the town limits. Where should he set his trap?

Mail first, he decided. Mycroft would have expected him to come to Interlaken next, and his brother might have sent money as well as more information on Moran. He turned his steps to the telegraph office, dodging carts, people, and possible tails simultaneously, and a short line meant only a few minutes passed before he stood at the counter.

"Hans Sigerson," he told the clerk with a faint Norwegian accent. An envelope landed on the tabletop a moment later, and he nodded his thanks. The clerk focused on the next customer as Holmes strode out the door.

The thin package could not have much in it, he decided. Possibly a newspaper clipping. Mycroft's last message had come encrypted in a detailed article about coal tar derivatives. Maybe his brother had found something about Moran's movements. Any information was better than none at all.

He walked two blocks, carefully watching both his surroundings and the people nearby for anything suspicious, then concealed himself in an alley to open the envelope. A train voucher and a full-size piece of paper slid into his waiting hand—not a newspaper cypher, then. A safe house, perhaps?—and he unfolded the sheet to read the top line.

"Medical Report," it said in bold, capital letters, followed by the date three days ago. "Sebastian Moran, Caucasian male aged fifty-one years."

He stared for a long moment, stunned. Sebastian…Moran? Moran was dead? But how?

"Accidental gunshot wound to the chest due to a weapon malfunction," according to the death report, but Mycroft knew as well as Holmes that Moran's air gun could not have malfunctioned any more than Watson's revolver could. The death was no accident, but that meant…No. Please no.

Mycroft had attached a note to the death report, and a faintly trembling hand gently pulled it free. Only Mycroft's government contacts could have accomplished something this quickly. What could make Mycroft skirt the law so brazenly?

"Go to Watson. Now."

A band of ice wrapped its cold grip around his chest, and the paper crumpled in his hand. Watson was—Moran had—No!

He abandoned his alley with the clatter of a falling refuse bin, heedless of the many looks as he held proof of his own wretched safety in one clenched fist. Mycroft never dropped Watson's title. Had Moran gone to London instead of following Holmes? The medical report omitted a location, and he had not seen Moran in nearly a week.

He sprinted for the train station. Providence was with him, and the next train out would stop in London. Fifteen minutes later found him pacing the floor of a first-class compartment as the train pulled away from the platform.

Had Watson been attacked? How badly was he injured? How badly would Watson have to be injured for Mycroft to drop his prefix? What could make Mycroft hire a man to eliminate Moran instead of waiting for Holmes to deliver him to the officials?

He did not have enough data, but questions still swirled in his mind, tormenting him on the slow journey north. Even the fastest train to London still took over fourteen hours, and that was fourteen hours his overactive brain could ruminate on what little data he had. Watson was not well, enough so that Mycroft had not only hired an assassin to eliminate Moran so that Holmes could return, but also dropped Watson's title in his message to Holmes. Anything could have happened in the days since he had last seen Moran, much less the weeks since he and Watson had separated at the falls. His entire reason for faking his death had been to protect Watson, and it would be a cruel kind of irony if this was all for naught. Would he return to find Watson fatally injured?

Would he return too late?

He quickly pushed the possibility out of his mind. It could happen, he acknowledged, but he had to act as if it would not. Watson would be alive when Holmes returned, overjoyed to see him and complaining about being stuck in bed. He and Mary would have to work together to make Watson stay abed until he healed, and Watson would probably refuse to let Holmes out of his sight as soon as he had a say in the matter. Mary likely cared for Watson in their Kensington house, but she might agree to move him to Baker Street. Mary and Watson could have his bed, and he could tolerate the settee or Watson's bed for however long it took Watson to recover. That would also allow Mrs. Hudson to help with whatever Mary might need.

Mrs. Hudson. She would be just as glad to see him as Mary would, probably scolding him even as she made all his favorite foods. His landlady cooked both when she was extremely upset and when she was pleased, and he could almost smell the line of desserts the Irregulars would track as she cooked away her excitement at Holmes' return.

The Irregulars. They had been difficult to leave as well. So many had slipped at least once, and only a handful of words started with "Fa—." Those rowdy, independent children considered him family just as much as he did them, though he would never dream of saying it—could barely show it. Had Mycroft set up the various jobs he had established yet? Had they found enough food this week? Had they been nearby when Watson had been—

He did not know for sure that Watson had been attacked, he reminded himself. It could be anything…

Except anything would not warrant Mycroft's actions or his message. His thoughts returned to their agonizing circles.


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And thanks to Guest and Corynutz for the comments on the last chapter