Chapter Notes: Here we are on the home stretch. I hope you guys are having as good a time reading as I am writing. I think this is a more fitting end to the career of Colonel Moran. I hope you agree.

Sorry for the earlier rant, I was probably being overly sensitive but thanks for the encouragement and support.

Bart


Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 5

One Last War

Chapter Six

One question that has haunted me all these years, if Colonel Moran was the second most dangerous man in England according to Holmes, and after the death of the most dangerous, Moriarty, inherited that title, how was it that Holmes captured him with the most inanely simplistic plan one can even fathom?

When Watson published his account, I was certain that there would be uproar about the ease in which Moran fell into the clutches of the Great Detective. However, in the great sigh of relief that Holmes was indeed back among the living I heard no expected protestation, except from Moran himself. He felt the entire account was insulting to his intelligence.

I asked Watson why among all the details he was constrained to keep silent about the events of that night, he portrayed Moran as such a mindless buffoon.

My friend just smiled.

---

Lestrade made his way through the crowd, he was bumped and jostled several times, Watson and his abductor kept in close proximity just behind.

However, when Lestrade went to hand their tickets to the porter, his hand came out empty. He checked all the pockets in his coat but no tickets.

The porter gave him an impatient look, so he dug out his badge and waved it under his nose. "I purchased three tickets; I must have dropped them, if you have umbrage, tell the railroad to bill the Yard, on behalf of Inspector Lestrade."

Hoping to expedite matters, the porter motioned them by.

They found a compartment and slid inside, without being told, Lestrade handed over his old Beau Adams revolver, accepted with a derisive smirk.

"I know, I have mentioned that the safest place for an assailant to stand is directly in front of the inspector's pistol, but the man loves the old piece," Watson lamented in a joking tone.

The man revealed his own pistol; it was a long, slender barrelled Colt Navy that Lestrade had only seen in illustration. "American made pistols are the most accurate," the man informed in a conversational manner.

"Now, hold on," Watson replied, "I take offense at that assertion!"

Lestrade watched as his friend good-naturedly debated with the mystery man on the way to what were most certainly their deaths. It appeared that Watson had no fear of what was about to transpire. Lestrade found that confidence was not infectious, his own palms were clammy and he felt a growing sense of dread with every passing clack of the wheels.

"You seem to be a nice fellow, I hate you are about to die," the other man murmured at one point. "Oh, I don't know," Watson replied, "I may pull this out yet." The other man's eyes grew serious and in spite of his earlier assertion, he pointedly nudged Watson's side with his pistol. "Anything you care to tell me, otherwise I will kill you right here and save the Colonel the trouble."

Watson's eyes never lost their sparkle as he replied, "Well let's just say that I have the power to resurrect the dead."

He exchanged a look with the incredulous man, and then they both broke into laughter. Lestrade did not join them, but he shot Watson an irritated look for joking at a time such as this.

They departed the train at Colchester, the dusk had already come and gone, and flickering gas lamps lighted the train platform. There was rubble piled up further down where the clean up from the earthquake was still underway. Those who disembarked with the three left quickly, maybe feeling that there was danger about in the night air.

They waited in silence. The ticket man, having no more trains to run, closed up his shop shortly thereafter, tipped his hat good night and left like a frightened rodent escaping lamp light.

There was the sound of a clicking cane on the slats, out into the light trailed by the ever present Pierson, was Colonel Moran.

"So glad you could finally make it, Doctor," he remarked with a genial smile. His yellow eyes glittered with feral glee.

"When you make such a generous request, how can I refuse," Watson replied with a chipper air totally unsuited for the moment.

Moran's expression faded into that of suspicion. "It is unfortunate that Inspector Lestrade was accompanying you, there was no reason for him to die."

"There still isn't," Watson returned.

"No," Moran replied in a impatient tone, "you fail to understand, you are going to die tonight, I cannot leave him alive as a witness."

Watson looked around. "There is only three of you, and two of us, I don't see that the situation is all that dire."

"Pierson?" Moran growled.

His underling's coal black eyes never wavered as he lifted a lighter into the air and flicked the flame twice.

Watson and Lestrade glanced about in the darkness beyond the other side of the tracks and one by one, four different flames twinkled in the night.

Moran's eyes found Watson's his expression expectant. "You are surrounded by riflemen, even if you had rescuers, their efforts would be short lived."

"You've thought of everything," Watson said with a curiously flat tone, "I assume you have one of your subordinates pulling the trigger with your quiet rifle at Baker Street?"

"Holmes will of course capture him, thinking he has triumphed, I will lose my air rifle, unfortunately, but when Holmes hears that I murdered his Boswell and that he may retrieve the body at his leisure, I will have my revenge for the death of Moriarty. Eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth, quite biblical I might add."

Watson chuckled. "I thought those thugs in the grave yard were a bit subpar for your standards, you just wanted to drive me out of the city and into your clutches."

Moran's smile was predatory.

Watson shrugged. "If I am to die, Colonel, I am going to take you with me."

The bodyguard tensed, but Moran held up a hand. "How are you going to accomplish this great feat? I am very curious to know."

"By the rule of the Queen's Regiment, and by the agreement of all gentlemen defending her name, I declare you Colonel Sebastian John Moran without honour, and demand satisfaction. Fifteen paces, by regimental rules on this ground, will you comply?" Watson declared loud enough to carry into the night and listening ears.

Moran's face went cold. Lestrade saw the other two men exchange a glance. There was a weight to Watson's words, a solemnity that even a non-military man like Lestrade could sense. Watson was laying this trap all along. A duel of equals, even surrounded by his men, Moran was suddenly vulnerable.

"Do you comply?" Watson restated.

A flicker of something passed behind Moran's eyes, the power in the moment changed hands, now Watson was the aggressor, Lestrade never admired Watson more, or feared for him less than in that moment. There was a silent battle of wills as Moran weighed his options and found what Lestrade knew already; to keep the respect of his very dangerous group of men he had no choice. He had failed to see Watson as anything but an extension of Holmes to his detriment.

"Pierson will be my second," Moran responded.

"Lestrade will count out the paces," Watson agreed.

Moran nodded to the man who had escorted Lestrade and Watson to this place. Watson received his revolver with all but one cartridge removed.

Moran removed his jacket showing broad muscular shoulders and accepted a pistol from Pierson's shoulder holster. "If Watson wins, shoot his friend first, if he loses, shoot his friend before he dies. Either way, he will watch Lestrade perish. He wins nothing from this.

Pierson nodded and his eager obsidian gaze found Lestrade, causing the inspector to feel a chill.

Watson walked up to Lestrade. "Don't worry old boy, you can count to fifteen? I failed to inquire."

Even in the face of certain death, the blackguard finds time to rankle me, I'll never understand him.

"Just aim true, you ignorant bastard," Lestrade growled.

Watson gave him that lopsided grin and winked.

He and Moran walked toward one another, stood back to back.

Lestrade had only been privy to one duel in his career, an affair between two fellow PC's over a woman, but he knew the procedure well enough.

"Moran, ready?" Colonel Moran nodded as he raised his gun.

"Watson, ready?" Watson nodded in the affirmative following suit.

Lestrade began to call out the pace, as the men stepped away, Pierson's dark gaze watching for any sign of deviation.

Lestrade glanced at both participants as he called the pace, his dread and excitement growing as the number grew higher. He noticed that Watson's pace was even and confident, but Moran wobbled as he walked, his hand holding the gun up in salute was playing across the trigger guard.

He was nearly to ten when it all happened.

---

I am an old man now, full of years and bad memory. Sometimes I fail to remember my badge, which is indeed awkward when you go to flash it and find air. However, there are moments etched into my mind. The first time my beautiful bride gave me the backside of her tongue and I vowed to marry her someday. My graduation into the force as a curly haired bright-eyed boy, and the birth of all my children, events that are particularly clear. That moment in Watson's parlour, when a weary man trusted me enough to reveal his true state is one that is as clear to me as what I ate for breakfast this morning. I think it was potato cakes but I might need to confirm.

Not the least of these is Doctor John Watson's duel with Colonel Moran...one of the most amazing events I have ever witnessed, and I have never told a soul...

---

Moran spun and began to draw a line on Watson's back.

"John!" Lestrade yelled.

A shot came from nowhere and Moran's arm blossomed red as the man dropped his gun and collapsed, Pierson moved to fire, but his head snapped back at the sound of another gun shot from behind Lestrade and he crumpled to the ground with a permanent look of shock frozen into his features.

Lestrade turned to his friend and saw Watson standing with the smoke still trailing out of his revolver from Pierson's fatal shot. In his other hand was a derringer from James Watson's sleeve rig trained on the other guard to the man's shock and chagrin. His face showed shame that he had failed to notice such a contraption on the trip to Colchester.

Lestrade glanced down to see Moran reaching for the dropped gun with his left hand, and brought his heel down onto the older man's fingers with a snap of bone.

Moran bleated in pain, cradled his hand against his injured arm, and glared, impotent and furious.

Lestrade picked up that gun and began to scan the darkness for the rest of Moran's men.

"What are you doing, Giles?" Watson called as he relieved the guard of his weapons with a smile thick with irony.

"There were four more men out there! What do you think I am doing?" Lestrade snapped.

"Actually, they lied, there were seven," came a familiar voice from out of the darkness, one that Lestrade never thought he would hear again.

Out of the black, carrying a rifle over his shoulder on a strap, strolled Algon Mayweather, looking rather spry for a dead man.

"I miss the days when men once dead had the decency to stay that way!" Lestrade lamented.

Mayweather hopped up on the platform with all the grace of a cat.

"You did leave some of them alive for questioning?" Watson remarked in an impatient tone.

"Yes, I did as you asked, even though dead was safer," Mayweather replied rolling his eyes at Watson's density.

Watson turned his prisoner over to Mayweather and the short New Zealander pulled out some rope from his coat and began to truss the man up with complicated knots.

"Who was the man killed in Mayweather's stead?" Lestrade inquired as Watson made his way over sliding the derringer back into its sleeve holster.

"One of Moran's men, he was lying in wait for Algon at the firing sight."

"He was good I'll give him that much," Mayweather called, "took me nearly a minute and half to kill'em."

Watson sighed in derision, then continued, "We figured that with all these military style manoeuvrings that someone needed Mayweather dead, and me vulnerable so we put all his weapons on the corpse and he waited until we had enough witnesses to trigger an explosion."

Lestrade began piecing together the facts. "The graveyard, there were five sets of footprints, but you said there were only four attackers."

"Mayweather was the fifth set, he prevented me from being abducted before we were ready, then at my insistence he rented Geezer's Hack and has been disguised as the cabby taking us all over the city, and to the train station."

Lestrade felt like an idiot. "My missing tickets, he picked my pocket and was on the train with us, disembarking with the rest of the Colchester stop, and then waited until you got the guards to reveal themselves."

Watson smiled and nodded his eyes shining with pride at Lestrade's accurate summation.

"You cheated," Moran growled his voice rich with pain.

Watson glared down at the man. "I was not the one who turned to fire early."

Moran's eyes were glistening with fury. "You stationed a rifleman to interfere."

Watson squatted down, wincing at a sudden pain in his side. He was on level with Moran when he replied, "Regimental rules state, when one party is alleged to be without honourable intent, a sharpshooter is stationed to maintain order. If you had ever been in the regiment, you would have known that, and would have known that I had a rifleman stationed somewhere nearby. You failed to realize the implications which show that you have been a fraud all along as I suspected."

Moran appeared truly shocked by his words. Stunned to silence, then he ventured in a weak voice," How did you know?"

Watson's face was cold and impassive as he replied, "You will have the rest of your life to figure it out, one spent in solitary pursuits, I wager, the never ending life of a coward."

He stood up and dismissed the formerly powerful man with a turn of his back, letting Moran silently contemplate his change in future status in silence.

"When are they getting here Mayweather, I assume you sent them word."

Mayweather shrugged. "They did have to travel overland, Doctor, I expect they'll be a few minutes yet."

Lestrade was getting a headache. "What now?"

"You'll see, be patient a little while yet," Watson encouraged.

"I have never seen you smug before, dear Doctor, it is not an extremely attractive look for you," Lestrade shot back.

Watson slipped a hand in his coat pocket, pulling out his silver cigarette case, offering one to Lestrade, He paused before sticking it back into his coat. "I suppose I'll have to give this back," he murmured.

They lit up and stood smoking in silence, Moran was breathing in pants quietly suffering, but Watson did not appear concerned at his plight.

They heard the neighing of horses and the sound of rushing carriages. Then out of the darkness came a group of well-dressed gentlemen with pistols drawn, they began securing the prisoners, taking directions from Mayweather as to the men he subdued in the scrub. A man carrying doctor's bag bent to see to Moran.

One walked forward. "If you blokes will come with me, we'll get you back to London."

They began to follow him when Algon reached out and rested a hand on Watson's arm. "I've fulfilled my vow, I have other matters which require my attention, and now that I am deceased I intend to use it to my advantage." He informed in a solemn tone.

Watson's voice broke up a bit as he replied, "if you are ever in London, I'll consider it deeply offensive if you do not at least break in uninvited and say hello."

Algon tipped his hat, and with a small smile on his face, he faded into the darkness.

"You've lost your shadow, Watson, are you going to miss him?" Lestrade inquired.

Watson stared after the scary little man and replied, "I have a feeling I will never be rid of him entirely."

They followed the impatient guide to one of the dark carriages, Lestrade realized from the unadorned facia that they were from the Diogenes Club.

The man opened the door and indicated for them to board.

As they obliged him, they were surprised to see the bulk of the elder Holmes cross from them taking up the other bench. He was impassive but Lestrade noticed he was eyeing Watson carefully.

"Did all go as planned?"

Watson's response was immediate and cold. "I could ask you the same thing, Mycroft."

Mycroft appeared to anticipating such a rejoinder. "I had my reasons, if you would reserve judgement, the next few hours should prove informative."

Watson and Mycroft's eyes met, neither giving quarter. "Very well," Watson responded, "however, if the explanation for your behaviour is not sufficient, I consider our earlier agreement still in effect."

Mycroft inclined his head in agreement.

Lestrade shook his head in disgust. The inner workings of the sophisticates would always be beyond him.

"Speaking of brothers," Mycroft continued, changing topics.

"James escaped," Watson finished.

Mycroft's eyes became suspicious. "You knew he would?"

Watson smiled. "James is the most infuriatingly buoyant man alive, I have my doubts that any prison on earth can hold him."

Mycroft nodded. "He was there for one week, complained about the lack of a concierge, and seemed cooperative for the most part, which should have seemed suspicious, then disappeared. We can reacquire him if that is your wish."

Watson shrugged. "You won't find him unless he wants to be found, he'll turn back up someday when it suits him."

"Feel free to drop me off at home, I'm sure these matters are beyond my kin," Lestrade interjected.

"On the contrary," Mycroft replied, turning to the inspector, "your presence was requested as well."

Lestrade and Watson exchanged a look. "By whom?" he ventured.

Mycroft's face was impassive as he replied. "That answer is not in my power to give, sufficient to say, most of your questions will be answered tonight, but you will never be able to repeat what you learn."


Story Notes: I'm sure there will be some complaints that having Mayweather show back up was cheesy, but I had this planned for the last few installments, and Mayweather has been one of my favorite characters to create. I think this shows that he earned his nickname "the Ghost" honestly.

I hope that the turn did not seem contrived or far-fetched, just know that there are two more chapters to go and the surprises are not in short supply. Questions to be answered, what is The Nameless Club, what was Holmes doing all those years for Mycroft, who is really behind all of this? Stay tuned!

Bart