VI. BRUSSELS.

The door opened, Holmes turned his head to it and startled, thought himself a dead man, took the gun that was anyways in the table right by his side and a tall Moriarty began speaking with as much serenity and regal ways there would ever be: - "'You crossed my path on the 4th of January, on the 23d you incommoded me; by the middle of February I was seriously inconvenienced by you; at the end of March I was absolutely hampered in my plans; and now, at the close of April, I find myself placed in such a position through your continual persecution that I am in positive danger of losing my liberty." Holmes was in his olive dressing gown sitting by the table where he had been enjoying breakfast, the hand with the elbow on the table now pointing the still gun to his visitor. - "I am quite sure that a man of your intelligence will see that there can be but one outcome to this affair. It is necessary that you should withdraw. You have worked things in such a fashion that we have only one resource left. It has been an intellectual treat to me to see the way in which you have grappled with this affair… You must stand clear, Mr. Holmes, or be trodden under foot." Holmes pretty much told him, sniffing and scratching his shoulder, actually pretending as much cold blood as he could, trying for his hand not to shake, that he didn't mind for his grand statements. - "It seems a pity, but I have done what I could."

Moriarty closed the door at his back and Holmes sighed in mortal fear; he saw him get away by the window, heard his own heart like an African drum checking around the house that no mortal trap had been set; sat down on the couch rubbing his palpitating temples, and he decided there was one last thing he wanted to do before he died.

"Come to the Continent with me Watson".

He lied to him, he said that at midday of the day before he went to transact a business in Oxford Street when a two-horse van tried to run over him, but the truth was that he wasn't going to Oxford Street, he was going to Watson's place and all had happened in a different location; he kept to the pavement after that and someone threw a brick on him, but he didn't call the police (as he said just so that Watson wouldn't be on him about it); but he did spend the night in Mycroft's rooms in Pall Mall, all scared and deciding he should warn him; and indeed that day he had finally arrived to Watson's he was attacked by a big guy with a bludgeon, which he dodged and in time could luckily knock the aggressor down.

Upon his entrance Holmes closed the blinds, stood away from the window and instructed Watson through gestures to imitate him. It was almost three months since Watson had last seen him, and in his agitation the signs from his cocaine thinning and lack of sleep were jumping to the sight, he looked positively crazed.

- "You are afraid of something?"

- "Well, I am."

- "Of what?"

- "Of air-guns."

He stood Watson's gaze as this one paced calmly, staring him up and down.

- "Is Mary in?"

- "No, she's out, but she'll be back by tomorrow."

After Holmes explained the situation to him Watson flopped down on his armchair there, dejected. - "You don't think they can kill you do you?" Holmes shrugged uncaringly in response and Watson gaped. - "What kind of way is that of taking your possible death? !" He welded his jaws; but then continued. – "I'm sorry… What are you going to do?"

- "Come to the Continent with me."

- "Where?, for how long?"

- "Oh, anywhere. It's all the same to me."

It wasn't necessary that he said for how long; with a royal countenance Watson gave a short nod.

Holmes gave him instructions in a long fast strain, and then Watson accompanied him to the back of the house, and he was seeing him climbing the brick wall above bushes in the backyard to leave, to the sound of crickets, without knowing it was much more to impress him with drama than for any actual use of the strategy.

In their first class carriage there was never an Italian old priest, or a Holmes disguised as an Italian old priest; Watson wasn't really a good writer (though he knew how to please the masses), and had written that he hadn't recognized Holmes in that disguise to have an spectacular excuse to talk about his anxiety when the train was about to depart and his friend hadn't yet showed up. In fact, it was until the train started movement that the dark wood varnished door opened and Holmes showed his dark gray hatted head.

- "Oh my god Holmes!" Watson exclaimed breathy, and after that he felt stress-free enough to light the cigar that he had been edgy holding in his hand during the wait; the flame lit up with the hard-hitting sound of friction against sandpaper accompanied with the clack of the door-knob turning and the wood of the door meeting that of its frame. – "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come; that I'd have to throw myself out the window, that small one there." He signaled the one. The window was divided in four crystals and the two lower ones were the largest but couldn't be opened.

Holmes smiled. – "You're so charming Watson." He complemented sincerely. He went close to that top glass and sized it with his sight. – "You're right; you would fit. You know Watson it is a sign of a strong will that you haven't become fat after getting married; oh I remember you gained a few pounds during the first months, but you did your best to get your lithe figure right back am I not right?" And then he leered. - "And to keep it."

Watson's face crooked into what could have been a smile if pulled a little bit upper, something like a single chuckle in his throat. – "Well to tell you the truth I've always fretted over what you may think of me; probably because in fact all you do is most impolitely rub my own thoughts in my face."

Holmes gave him a sidelong glance, still standing facing the long window. – "I do that?"

- "You know Holmes you should make an effort to hide better what you think… You think insults way too often."

Holmes laughed and Watson had to smile.

He finally sat down - though it was at an unremarkable first class bench - like a king on his throne; leg crossed, arms stretched along the top of the back. – "The Continent Watson, we're going to the Continent together, you and me only like in the old times; hasn't that been your dream for ages?"

Watson raised his left eyebrow, answered as if a bit disdainful. – "No."

- "Ha!... Bad liar."

You know the story (if you don't it's not that important), how they evaded Moriarty who was yet after them at the station, and what they had to do; then they were in Brussels. On the way to the hotel where they'd stay they passed by the Grand Place; Watson ogled at it in wonder but made no comment, it was when they were settling, or more like dropping, the few possessions they still had with them that Holmes decided to indulge him.

- "Hey Watson you know what's great over here?"

- "What?"

- "The gueuze".

- "What on earth is that?"

- "Beer, fruit beer, this is a beer city Watson, we cannot skip it."

- "Even when you are in mortal danger you want to get drunk…" It was somewhat a reproach and somewhat a statement that he was amused by Holmes's incorrigibility; not that Holmes got drunk that often, in fact, Watson was more of a drunk than him, but debauchery in general was good with them both.

- "I am not in mortal danger, we've lost them at least for today, and tomorrow I'd guess. Watson this could be my last gueuze." And he smirked.

Watson raised a warning index finger. – "I swear Holmes, that's not funny." Holmes had been lying across the bed with his feet on the floor; at that he reincorporated again and dismissed his partner in non-crime with a wave of his hand. Watson pitied him, because despite they were in dishonorable terrified fugue it was supposed to be fun, and he wasn't helping; he gave in: – "Besides I doubt you've ever had a "gueuze" in your whole life."

- "You're still mad about the loss of your luggage?"

- "You know I'm not talking about that. Besides I'm not mad, I just… don't laugh, I don't know what to wear, I need to take a bath."

But Holmes did laugh, he went to sit on the contrary edge of the bed on which Watson was sitting too, and they were facing each other by both turning their heads right. – "You're soon not going to be able to take a bath… ever, this isn't a comfort travel… listen, no matter what you wear you'll always look the same you know, my handsome friend."

Watson stood up purposefully ignoring him. –"Whatever, I'm taking a bath."

- "And then gueuze and a quiet stroll by the Grand-Place, that one with the beautiful buildings we passed on the way here."

Watson didn't smile but agreed. – "Perfect."

They were both holding big jars of gueuze as they slowly promenaded themselves arm in arm by the plate (I don't know if in those times at Belgium public drunkenness was forbidden but I'm gonna guess it wasn't). Holmes signaled the buildings, - "Gothic. Neo-gothic.", he said. – "You know they rebuilt this after 1840, because it was bombed in the war."

- "How do you know that? You usually know nothing."

Holmes shrugged, took five big gulps from his giant cup of gueuze. – "The moment I knew I'd ask you to come with me, I asked Mycroft for useful facts on the possible sites we would station; that's all around Europe and even Asia, but I remember quite a few. Although in my defense I did know this. But maybe later I'll be too knowledgeable; see I knew you'd enjoy it best if I told you something interesting."

- "I see… I actually do."

- "You are too high maintenance."

- "Look! Statues!" He jog trotted nearer to them and made some of Holmes's own beer splutter over his face and vest when detaching. Holmes cleaned that on his face with light pads of his sleeve and reached up to him. – "Let's see, what does it say? Dukes and Duchesses of Brabant, 203 of them! Impressive, very impressive wouldn't you say Holmes?"

Actually Holmes wasn't pretending aloof anymore, he observed the building in innocent awe. - "Yes, very beautiful." Watson smiled looking at his staggered profile and felt like kissing his cheek.

Holmes finally turned, looked around. - "This whole space used to be a market."

- "Let's go sit."

- "Oh, alright then."

It was cold but it wasn't colder than London, to them it was comfortably warm; people paraded by while they sat at the edge of the sidewalk, all going to their homes or some place in specific, scanting as time went by. They entangled arms from time to time, even put their head on each other's shoulder; it was late and they looked like two drunks and no one cared about them.

- "What do you think of Brussels so far?" Holmes asked.

- "Small."

- "Indeed."

- "Economically lower than London."

- "Certainly."

- "I would get bored in a few days."

- "Really?" Holmes reacted with obvious unease.

And Watson repaired: - "I am certainly not bored now."

- "Oh."

- "What do you want to do later?"

- "Well it's very late, we should probably go back to the hotel."

Watson smirked. – "At the hotel I meant."

- "Oh." Holmes ducked his head looking at his beer, smiled. He straightened his neck, still smiling: - "Well you certainly know the answer to that."

Watson's smirk widened. – "Well how about specifics…"

Holmes smiled to him for a while, his eyes scintillating; then no one was looking and in a flash Holmes kissed his lips. – "It's been so long I could come right now." With that they both went into companionable giggles.

Watson was a little bit insane. He was double-timing without regret, if Holmes burnt their rooms it gave him a rush instead of annoying him; if an intelligent killer was caught he felt sorry for him, but let it happen with joy because it was Holmes who had trapped him; when Holmes brought a whore home to make him jealous it instead made him laugh; nobody alive knew that he had been a coward during war, 'every man for himself' he thought in each mishap; he had taken a bullet for Holmes but as he fell down to the floor thought in shock: 'what did I just do?'; when Holmes had let his strings loose he hadn't thought twice about beating the hoods to a pulp; he had become a doctor in a fixation to treat wounds; Mary reminded him of a bird, and so then of a nest, and it made sense making a home with her; he had made an awful sketch of Holmes's naked body, awful because he couldn't draw, and he looked at it all the time; when he was a kid one of his favorite games were paper birds and one of the happiest moments of his life was when throwing one at Holmes' face, this one took it, improved the model, made another, and took him to the street so that they watched them fly. If he liked comparing Holmes with a machine was because he liked machines, he found few things more inspiring. – "Don't you think a thing like this, but bigger, could one day function and us fly in it?"

- "Of course Watson. In fact I don't doubt that it will exist."

- "Any eggs in the nest Watson?"

- "No. What an ordeal!, my wife is infertile!"

- "Hahahahaha! Well that should teach you…"


There you go. What Moriarty said is in the 'the final problem' so it is a bit of the dialog when Holmes goes to Watson's; but it must be so, because I'm changing it but not really, you know...