Chapter Notes:I am sorry for the delay folks. I will blame it on the uncooperative Colonel Moran. I mean he is the supervillain and big baddie of the entire piece and he knows it, so after difficult negotiations I have finally reached a detente. Alister Eads was not this bad, James Watson was annoying and had a tendency to clean out my fridge and order stuff on my computer like Cognac bottle cozies but Moran has been worse. Ego? The desire to be in charge? I'm not sure what it is. I just have to accept that I might not get the epic quality from this story I desire, or at least I won't know it is until I see the reviews. Expectations can crush creativity sometimes, the weight of finishing off a work, it is far easier to write 15,000 words in five days on a new project (The Case of the Prodigal Father...hint...hint check it out please!) than just write 2,000 you are happy with on the well established one.
Thankyou for your patience, and I hope that this chapter and the ones to follow will feel like a fitting capper to this series. Now that this hurdle has been crossed I hope to use my Christmas vacation to put a dent in the rest of this installment.
enjoy!
Bart
Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 5
One Last War
Chapter Two
Those days seem strange to me now. It was a time without the epochal presence of Sherlock Holmes, who now looms over us all with his towering intellect and untarnished successes, but in that era of his supposed death, we were at the mercy of our own wits. It was fortunate for me that I had beside me the only man who has ever baffled the Great Detective, the only individual whose limits are unfathomable to even that man's penetrating logic.
I had no way of knowing that these were the last moments of the relationship that had proven so beneficial to us both. No indicator to let me know that soon that third presence would be forcing their way disruptively back into the unit we had formed to combat his absence.
I now look on that morning with a wistfulness that I have not lost in these long years since. I would not deprive the world of Holmes, but I found my own strength in those days without him, and I also found a friend that I had long thought solely his. Would I have allowed myself to rely on that closeness if I had known Holmes still lived? That question is one that has haunted me ever since.
---
Lestrade stretched his collar out from his neck once again. Clea promised him that she did not starch it but it sure felt as if she had.
She quirked an eyebrow at his grumbling, helped him get his tie straight and told him in her sauciest voice that she had always loved him in uniform, that ended most of his protestations for the moment.
He turned back to the beginning of the massive case file he had been swimming through for the last hour. Patterson was a meticulous note taker and his paperwork was usually very logical to follow, however he was seeing uncharacteristic gaps in the chain of evidence.
"What's with the zookeeper outfit?" said a voice at the door.
He glanced up and inwardly groaned when he saw it was Gregson. The big Swede had a mischievous glint in his eye.
"We have an open case concerning a member of nobility, hazard a guess," Lestrade explained closing the file in disgust.
Gregson winced. "Inquest?"
"Inquest," Lestrade confirmed.
Gregson thought for a few moments. "Hard-arse Hollow?"
Lestrade nodded with a weary sigh.
The two men stood silent, both reliving bad experiences with that particular judge.
"You stopping by for a reason, or just wanted to gloat?" Lestrade asked leaning back in his chair giving the other man his most irritated glare.
Gregson stepped into the office and pulled the door closed. "I heard a rumour that Watson is performing an autopsy on Mayweather in bay four."
Lestrade replied with a solemn nod.
Gregson sat heavily into a nearby chair. "What's going on with our city, Giles? Patterson, that bloke from Diogenes, some chap from the Lane, now all this about Mayweather getting blown up?"
Lestrade turned the case file around to Gregson. "Look through this and tell me if you see something amiss."
Gregson glanced at the cover page, then his eyes found Lestrade's with a start. "This is Patterson's master file on Moriarty's gang, you think we missed something?"
"Or someone. just look through it, please," Lestrade requested.
Gregson began to read with no further preamble.
Lestrade and Gregson were not friends; there was too much enmity in their background for that. However, they respected each other, all vestiges removed. Lestrade was the better delegator, but Gregson was the resident evidentiary genius. He was not in the class of a Sherlock Holmes, but more than one Inspector had brought files to his attention in the past to see if he could find a thread they missed. Gregson had an ordered mind that could recognize patterns in unrelated detail. He lacked the imagination to follow those threads without footwork, which was his real weakness, but when it came to determining weak points in a pending case there was no one better at hand.
"There is information missing," Gregson concluded.
Lestrade nodded. "What's missing?"
Gregson perused the document again. "I see gaps in the suspect file, known accomplices, and there seems to be gaps in suspected activities, in particular, murders attributed."
"I was hoping I was wrong," Lestrade concluded.
Gregson was quiet then he ventured, "We have a leak."
"Worse," Lestrade concluded, "we have a mole."
To himself he murmured, "That bastard James Watson was right."
"Who?" Gregson inquired.
Lestrade rolled his eyes at the memory at the memory. "You are better off not knowing."
---
Lestrade noticed there were some constables gathered around outside the dissection bays, when he went to check on Watson's progress, he saw the telltale sign of a bet in the air.
He came up behind the nearest gambler. "What's the bet?'
The oblivious young man called over his shoulder, "Wilkins is assisting the Doc in bay four, we're betting on how long it takes for him to come up for air."
"Oh really?" Lestrade replied in a conversational way.
Suddenly, the young man recognized his voice, he turned around to confirm with a sheepish grin. "Oh, hello sir...I mean...Chief Inspector."
The other constables immediately dispersed without a backward glance leaving their comrade to his fate.
Lestrade let the boy squirm for a few moments before growling, "Carry on!"
With a quick sigh of relief, he left.
Lestrade shook his head ruefully before giving the bay door a knock.
Wilkins came out looking a little green. "Go on in Chief Inspector," he said as he passed hurriedly making his way to the outside door amidst some muffled cheers from the man with the winning time.
Lestrade caught the scent of burned flesh, so he grabbed the menthol as he entered the room, his eyes watering immediately as he applied it under each nostril.
Watson was bent to his work, in a green apron, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his forearms showing his wiry muscle as he pulled on something in the blackened body with forceps.
"Give me a moment, please Giles," Watson informed through clenched teeth as he worried at the object, finally it came loose with a pop.
Watson held it up to the light. It was the end of a blade of some type.
"Is that was killed him?" Lestrade postulated.
Watson shook his head, "His neck was snapped by someone with very strong hands, this might be how he was subdued enough to allow it."
He dropped the object into a metal tray with a clink.
Lestrade began to walk over to the body, but Watson held up a hand. "You don't want to get too close, your uniform would absorb the odour, step outside, I'll be with you shortly."
Lestrade took his advice; he stepped back out into the hallway wiping the menthol off with his handkerchief. True to his word, Watson joined him shortly thereafter; he was settling his coat into place.
Lestrade knew that Watson needed to talk, but would not bring up the subject voluntarily so he remarked, "It seems only yesterday that bloke was slamming me to the ground and placing a knife to my neck.
Watson glanced at him with red-rimmed eyes. "Not now, Giles, we'll talk about it in a few days, we need to focus on what's immediately ahead, please."
"Alright," Lestrade replied, he did not comment further, to press the topic was a violation of their unspoken agreement against sentimentality, besides if Watson told you he would discuss something later, you could rely on his word. "We may have a larger problem."
"There's a mole in Scotland Yard," Watson remarked.
Lestrade stopped the man with a hand on his shoulder. "You knew?"
Watson shrugged. "I suspected."
Lestrade gritted his teeth against the sudden ire. "How long have you suspected and said nothing?"
Watson leaned against the wall, the weight of his words apparent in his posture. "You cannot function without faith in the men around you; I would never deign to take that away on mere allegation."
"How long, John," Lestrade reasserted in the calmest tone he could manage.
"Since James," Watson replied his tired eyes meeting Lestrade's own. "My brother takes his own safety very seriously, if he believed the Yard compromised, then there was a very good chance he was right. James has survived being a right bastard for all these years by shear instinct alone. I trust his sense of self preservation more than I have ever trusted him."
Lestrade knew Watson was correct, if he had not seen the proof with his own eyes, he would have debated the point. "What do you suggest?"
Watson was quiet for a few moments, carefully choosing his next words. "We keep it between us, knowing there is a traitor in our midst, but not revealing that knowledge may prove to be advantageous when we have to use misdirection."
"Ever the soldier, John?" Lestrade said in a manner meant to be joking. However, Watson's smile was bitter, as he replied, "Apparently."
A constable made his way to the duo. "Chief Inspector?"
"Yes?"
"There is a Colonel Moran here to see you, Hopkins is doing the preliminary interview, but he told me to come get you."
Watson indicated for Lestrade to go first, "Mayweather is not going anywhere, I'll complete the examination later.
"Very well," Lestrade added, "Let's go meet Colonel Moran."
---
I have often thought of this moment over the intervening years, the first meeting face to face of Watson and Moran. I would like to say that there was a feeling of two powers colliding, that there was a sense of impending battle in the air. I would love to give credence that the significance of this encounter was somehow supernaturally apparent, one that had been months, nay years in the making unbeknownst to us. However, the reality was much more benign...at first.
---
Lestrade knocked on the door to the interrogation room, Hopkins stuck his head out. When he realized who it was, he came out the rest of the way after turning back to the room and saying goodbye in a manner that implied that he was getting along famously with the inhabitants before shutting the door behind him.
"I did the preliminary interview to save some time," Hopkins informed as he handed over his notes. Lestrade was happy to see the usual Hopkins attention to detail. "This will do, Inspector, thank you for your help." Hopkins looked a bit guilty then handed Lestrade a book he had been concealing under his arm. "The author's page," Hopkins supplied while his ears turning red.
Lestrade stared at the book curiously. "Three Months in the Jungle," Lestrade read, he glanced at the author's page and saw a lot of information that would help and a scrawled signature.
To Stanley Hopkins,
May all your hunts be successful,
Colonel Sebastian "Tiger Jack" Moran
Lestrade gave Hopkins an amused look. "In the midst of all your school boy fawning did you manage to glean anything useful?"
Hopkins looked bashful. "Everything I gathered is in those notes."
Watson clapped the younger man's shoulder. "Thank you Stanley, I'm sure it will help."
He nodded and began walking away, then paused, "if you don't mind, Chief Inspector, leave my book on my desk when you are through?"
"You have my word, Tiger," Lestrade called with a cheeky grin.
Hopkins sighed at the new nickname and walked on out.
Watson and Lestrade read the information comparing notes.
"Born to Sir Augustus Moran, one time ambassador to Persia, 1840," Lestrade mentioned with an eyebrow raised.
Watson sighed. "Noble birth I guess we should expect some sense of entitlement."
"You mean we should expect him to be an arrogant arse," Lestrade added with a grin.
Watson rolled his eyes. "Of course, that's what I said."
"Moving on," Lestrade replied, "very impressive military service record."
"Hence the Colonel in Colonel Moran," Watson said with a wry smile.
Lestrade gave him the glare he deserved, and then began reciting the specifics," He was educated at Eton College and the University of Oxford before embarking upon a military career. Formerly of the 1st Bangalore Pioneers, he served in the Jowaki Expedition of 1877-1878 and in the Second Anglo-Afghan War, seeing action at the Battle of Charasiab, 6 October 1879 (for which he was mentioned in dispatches); the Battle of Sherpur, 23 December 1879; and at Kabul."
Watson listened quietly. He stroked his chin deep in thought. "What has he been doing since?"
"He is a devoted sportsman and highly skilled shot," Lestrade continued, "he's the author of two books Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas in 1881 and Three Months in the Jungle in 1884." Lestrade whistled under his breath, "Tough bloke evidently, he reportedly once crawled down a drain after a wounded man-eating tiger according to this forward."
Watson appeared to be adding all the facts up in his head, his eyes distant. "I'll stay in the background, Giles, I'll let you draw him out, if he chooses to engage me then I'll step in, but only then."
Lestrade studied his friend for a few moments. "More strategy, John?"
Watson gave him that lopsided grin that could mean everything or nothing. "We are just having a friendly chat, Lestrade, no need for strategy."
"You never pull up your trousers in the morning without some sort of strategic intent," Lestrade grumbled.
Watson cocked an eyebrow. "Why Lestrade, my trousers are none of your concern."
Lestrade rolled his eyes and opened the door to the room.
There were two men in the room
The younger was dressed snappily with nary a button or hair out of place, his hands clasped behind his back his dark eyes missing nothing. An older man was seated at the interview table, broad shouldered, thick necked and imposing with graying hair that had receded from his head but with thick moustaches that led into his side burns in a stylish manner worn by many in the upper class. His eyes twinkled with benevolence but they were an eerie pale brown that glinted yellow in the overhead lamps.
"Chief Inspector Lestrade, I presume," he stated in a deep rumbling voice with a hint of a growl.
"Colonel Sebastian Moran, sorry to keep you waiting sir, this is my associate and Police Surgeon John Watson," Lestrade replied acknowledging Watson. Watson stepped forward and accepted a large paw handshake from Moran. "This is my associated Bensen Pierson," he added, the younger man tipped his hat but stayed near the wall his eyes showing no warmth.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice," Lestrade informed in his most placating manner, he situated the notes the Hopkins had given him. "I believe you already know the matter which this is concerning?"
Moran's face twisted into mourning. "Yes, young Ronald Adair, I cannot believe that he is no longer with us. Who would do such a horrible thing?"
"Such as," Watson interrupted. Lestrade shot him a glare that he changed the parameters of their plan.
Moran blinked in surprise. "Why murdering him, of course, what are you insinuating?"
Watson shrugged. "It is just that no one here has said anything about murder, neither has Hopkins according to his notes, and the papers for all of their fishing have postulated suicide."
Lestrade immediately backed away and let Watson have his reign.
Moran did not sputter or lose his temper; he was silent and impassive for a moment then said, "It only takes a simple deduction on my part that if this is a suicide there would have been no need to question me until days later while discovering a motive. The face that I was asked last night just hours after seeing him last, shows that I am a candidate for the expeditor of his demise."
"So tell us about that last time, did you part on good terms?" Watson pressed.
Moran looked at Lestrade curiously. "I thought you were the inspector here, Lestrade, and yet this pretentious sawbones has taken over our chat."
Lestrade leaned back in his chair. "He is asking good questions, I see no reason to interfere. So did you part with Ronald Adair on good terms?"
Moran's glare filled with some emotion that Lestrade could not fathom. It was gone as quickly as it touched his countenance and the pleasant man was back.
"The last time I saw Ronald was our card game last night. We had a very profitable whist partnership in which we have won two-hundred and forty pounds in less than two months, for me to wish him dead is preposterous. I am deeply offended that you would allege such a thing."
"You live on Conduit Street in Mayfair," Watson interjected, "two-hundred and forty pounds, while considerable by most standards might pay for your liquor cabinet."
Lestrade glanced at Watson in surprise; he had never seen his friend so openly adversarial like this. Watson's face was cold and impassive his hazel eyes twinkling with derision. He was being deliberately impertinent and Lestrade could not see why.
The man behind Moran took a step forward but stopped when Moran casually raised his hand. Lestrade saw that there was a hierarchy in place here. Undoubtedly, the Colonel still had troops to command.
"I give you my word as a soldier of the crown that I did not kill Ronald Adair," Moran replied in a controlled even tone.
Watson suddenly leaned on the table and met the other man's gaze. "Being a soldier of the crown does not mean you are an honorable man, you need to make your oath on an organization that has fewer killers in their ranks."
Moran's eyes flashed with amber fire. "I want you to be clear, are you defaming my word?"
Watson's smile was as cold as the winter water in the Thames. "I am in no way defaming your word, sir, I merely stating that referring to your status as a soldier to absolve you of a murder might not be your most advantageous path."
"You do not want me as an enemy, Doctor," Moran replied with a growl as the energy in the room changed, Lestrade's hand crept to where his revolver was concealed.
Watson's smile never wavered as he leaned closer. "Finally, something we have in common."
Moran's furious eyes turned on Lestrade. "If we are here to answer questions then we will continue, but without the Doctor's presence since he can do nothing but insult me it appears. However, if this is interrogation I insist my lawyer be present."
Lestrade kept his hand near his pistol as he replied. "It appears we should schedule an interrogation, you should not leave the city until we have discussed the matter further."
Moran nodded, his eyes and Watson's still locked in silent combat as he accepted his hat and cane from his associate, they both left with no glance back.
As the door shut behind them, Lestrade collapsed, and then spun on Watson. "Why did you antagonize the man, tell me now!" he bellowed. "So help me, John, if your explanation is not worthy I will throw you out the gates of Scotland Yard myself!"
Watson sat across from Lestrade in the recently vacated seat, his smile insouciant. "Stop being dramatic, Lestrade, besides your back would go out if you attempted such a course."
Lestrade did his best to calm down, he breathed slower and more evenly, closing his eyes a moment then after regaining his composure he restated his query, "Why did you deliberately antagonize Colonel Moran, John?"
Watson leaned back in the chair, his eyes unfocused. "We have three murders now committed by someone who can fire accurately from a distance, and suddenly a man directly connected with one of the victims happens to be a big game hunter and sport shooter. We think there might be a secret organization involved, and suddenly a man with command experience trailing a highly trained and dangerous soldier walks through our door." His eyes focused on Lestrade waiting for him to put it together, not assuming he lacked the ability.
I am so glad you are not Holmes.
He is either our killer or had it done," Lestrade confirmed.
Watson nodded. "He was not here to answer questions, he was here scouting us for reasons I cannot ascertain."
Lestrade checked his pocket watch them rolled his eyes. "We will have to hold our speculation until after the hearing, unfortunately.
Watson nodded, but he was obviously deep in the realms of thought as he followed Lestrade out.
---
We had met the enemy it had appeared, but we could do nothing about if for the time being. Scotland Yard is an organization with a bureaucracy that must be appeased. Watson and I spent the better part of two hours in its fickle grasp testifying as to the investigation at the inquest. In keeping with his meticulous style, Judge Hollow gave me an intense grilling, however, he kept Watson on the witness stand just long enough to state his findings, showing that Watson's reputation must have preceded him into the halls of justice. While we were involved in this tedium, there was another man in London making his own plans, someone who was about to set the entire city on its collective ear.
---
Moran and Pierson settled in the seat of their waiting carriage. Pierson was livid. "I will kill him for you sir, slowly and by inches, just give your leave."
Moran was in full temper himself, but and was tempted by the offer. He changed the subject. "Did Benjamin send word that Mayweather is dead? I know there was an explosion but I am not satisfied unless there is a body. "The Ghost" is far too dangerous to leave unaccounted for in this affair."
Pierson swallowed his anger long enough to give a report. "I received the telegram this morning, the wording was off, but the news was affirmative."
Moran nodded his eyes thoughtful. "Everything is proceeding apace, it is only a matter of time before Holmes makes himself known, then we can end this."
"And kill John Watson as well?" Pierson added his tone hopeful.
"I hate to disappoint you, Pierson," Moran replied, "but I intend to kill Major Watson myself."
Pierson did indeed look disappointed but he kept his face neutral. "Of course, that is your privilege, sir."
Moran sighed. "Pierson, you are sitting on an envelope that I believe is meant for my eyes."
Pierson looked confused but his hand searched under his back and pulled out the envelope in question, he handed it over to his superior. Moran opened the letter with a flick of a lethal looking knife he pulled out of his sleeve, he extracted the epistle and studied it in silence a slow smile growing on his face.
"We have scouted 221b?" he inquired after a moment.
"There is an empty house across that would make a perfect vantage point for firing, we have acquired a key," Pierson confirmed.
Moran settled back into the cushion as the carriage continued on its way.
"Finally," he said with one of the few genuine smiles that Pierson had ever seen on his face.
---
"How do you manage it?" Lestrade lamented as he and Watson departed the Bailey.
"Manage what?" Watson replied, but his lopsided grin showed he knew Lestrade's subject.
Lestrade glanced both ways as they decended. "How do you cow Hollow so completely that he is actually respectful towards your person?" He demanded impatiently.
Watson pursed his lips as if he was surprised at Lestrade's question. "Oh, that. Other than treating a certain unmanly rash once upon a time, I have no theories."
Lestrade stopped him with a hand to his chest. "You know something to back Hard-arse down and you never said a word?"
Watson looked properly appalled. "Patient/Doctor confidentiality is not a bartering tool."
Just as the conversation was about to get interesting, a wizened old bookseller with dark glasses slipped out from behind a pillar and collided with Watson.
The old dusty codger dropped his books all over the stairs and began to curse Watson all he was worth with a raspy growl.
"Look at tha mess ya made, canya not look were yer goin? Firs editions they is!" he grumbled.
Lestrade was about to step in and castigate the codger for being the instigator, but Watson waved him off as he helped the elder secure his books and slip the strap back around the stack. "I am sorry sir; my name is Doctor John Watson my practice is in Kensington. If there is any damage I'll pay for it, you have my word." He slipped the man his card. The old man stared at it eyeing Watson suspiciously, and then threw the books back over his shoulder and limped off grumbling invectives.
"Why did you let that crazy bully you?" Lestrade demanded while Watson retrieved his cane and checked it for nicks.
Watson shrugged. "I think he was taller than he appears, almost bent double, if he comes to me about the books I can help his back."
Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder. "You are a good man, John Watson, the best I have ever known."
Watson smiled. "I'm still not breaking confidentiality to tell you what Hollow's affliction is."
"You selfish bastard," Lestrade said in a joking tone as he flagged a cab.
They were so intent on their good-natured argument they did not see that the old bookseller had slipped behind a pillar within earshot. The man straightened out his back showing that he was indeed taller than he appeared. He removed his dark glasses revealing watery gray eyes, which he wiped angrily with the back of a gloved hand.
"So close, after so long...so close," he whispered.
He bent back double and limped off in the other direction.
Story Notes: I made a few choices that I need to address. Once again I am going my own way with this story. It is only going to have somethings in common with The Empty House, so please bare that in mind. Call it pastiche or what have you but that is the truth. All will be revealed as the differences in the this account and the "official" one. Having Holmes accost Watson outside of the Bailey comes from the Grenada Series and makes so much sense to me that I kept it. I like to think my Holmes is closer to the Livanov Holmes though, and my Watson shall always remain Ian Hart's portrayal I'll have to see if I can develop a screen cap to this effect sometime. In the past I have felt a little trapped into writing scenes based around the screen caps, since I don't want to restrict myself in any way shape or form for this installment I have forgone the screen caps this time but I might add them afterward if they fit.
Thanks for reading!
Bart
