After speaking to Molly; Sherlock called his brother. He gave him the name of their target and the coordinates of the hotel and bar. It was exactly what Mycroft was waiting for. Immediately terminating his call with Sherlock, he dialled a prescribed number and thirty seconds later he was through to the Pentagon. They, in turn, had been waiting for him. Within minutes the phones and email records of O'Neill and his men, hotel and bar staff, and all known associates and family members were lifted and analysed. Irish numbers were sent to Aoife's team in Dublin to follow up.
Later that afternoon, Michael collected Sherlock as arranged and they set off in his SUV. On the half hour journey to Woodlawn the two men strategized. Michael had scouted out the bar and had eaten dinner there enough times in the last week for the staff to become familiar with him. Familiar enough that they'd started to call him 'Fassbender' because the waitresses thought he looked like the Irish actor. "Google him!" he'd responded incredulously to Sherlock's enquiring expression. He parked the car and the two men sauntered in and sat up at the bar so they wouldn't be hemmed in if things 'kicked off'.
Two minutes later the barwoman was handing them menu's, and leaning coquettishly over towards Sherlock, she purred "howaya Fassbender," who's your friend?" Sherlock grinned flirtatiously back at her and leaning forward over the bar, he winked at her and said, "How's it goin? I'm Declan." Michael smirked as he observed the detective in action. 'Declan' told the barwoman that her boss was "an old friend of my Da's, from Dublin, and I'd love to surprise him." Within a few minutes she had confided that 'the boss' was in his office upstairs, which was exactly what he was fishing for. Sherlock wanted to get up to O'Neill's office for a 'little chat,' and that called for a diversion. He glanced around the room, spotted his opportunity, and then, winking surreptitiously at Michael, he picked up a newspaper from the counter and declared aloud, "nature calls!"
Ducking into a stock room, Sherlock used a favourite trick and lit the rolled up newspaper, fanned it to smoke, and waved it under the smoke sensors. Within a few seconds the fire alarm shrieked throughout the building. He ducked back out and watched the 'Staff Only' door. Two burly men ran out to investigate the commotion, as the customers looked confusedly at each other, and then, smelling smoke, started to file out of the building. As the two men ran into the stock room towards the source of the smoke, Sherlock locked the door behind them. Then he nipped through the door they'd exited from and ran up the steep stairs, pulling out his revolver. He opened the managers door and sauntered in. O'Neill spluttered an expletive and attempted to open a drawer on his desk until 'Declan' said calmly, "Oh I wouldn't do that, if I were you. Keep your hands where I can see them and stand up."
O'Neill jumped up from his chair, red faced and furious. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"
"I don't have time for introductions," he responded coldly. "I will ask you just the once. Where is your 'friend', James Moriarty?" O'Neill's head jerked in surprise.
"Who's asking?" he snarled. Sherlock strode over and punched him in hard the face, and as he recoiled, he punched him again for good measure. O'Neill groaned in pain.
"Last chance, answer the question."
"I haven't spoken to him in months!" Sherlock sighed heavily punched him hard in the nose, breaking it, and assumed a tone most would use to a toddler in a tantrum.
"Answer the question you're asked. Where is he?" O'Neill's hands flew to his nose.
"Jesus! I think it's broken." Sherlock lifted his fist again and O'Neill raised his two hands in supplication, "Wait.., wait, he retired out to Virginia Beach, bought a house out there." Sherlock read him and knew it was only half the truth.
"And where is he now?" O'Neill's eyes narrowed, surprised, and then looked shrewdly at him and Sherlock knew he was made. Accent dropped, he said coldly, "you know who I am so you know what I'm capable of. For the last time, answer the question." He raised his gun and pointed it at O'Neill's chest. O'Neill quickly weighed up his options. He had not survived this long by being stupid. He also knew that two of Moriarty's kids had been shot in Ireland recently, in questionable circumstances, with Sherlock Holmes present. There was also no sign of his own men. Heads', he determined, were going to roll, but he did not want to see Sherlock Holmes anywhere near him or his business, ever again, so he told him,
"He's in a nursing home now, I'll write it down." Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket and he knew it was Michael warning him to hurry. O'Neill scribbled an address hastily on the back of an envelope and thrust it towards Sherlock. He scanned it and slipping it into his jacket, he patted the side of his pocket smugly and then he moved towards the window, which housed the fire escape.
"Good man. You'd best consider retirement yourself, and one last thing, If you even attempt to tip him off, I will know about it and I will be back to see you. You don't want that, do you?" O'Neill shook his head, glared at him. Sherlock cocked his head as he considered the veracity of his answer, and then nodded to himself. Then he pistol whipped O'Neill, knocking him out, and flew down the fire escape to where Michael was waiting in the car, engine running. As soon as Sherlock hopped in, Michael floored it, as O'Neill's men came scrambling out of the window and onto the fire escape.
"Jaysus Sherlock, what kept you? Did yez have a nice cup of tea or what?" Sherlock laughed heartily as a bullet ricocheted off the tarmac behind them.
"Just having a little chat. I do hope you filled the tank Michael." Michael steered the car up the main street, by-passing police cars and fire engines as they hurtled towards the bar. Twinkly eyed, he turned to Sherlock.
"Why? Where are we going?" Sherlock grinned at him.
"Virginia Beach. The game is on Michael!" As Michael turned in the direction of the New Jersey turnpike, he groaned aloud and said,
"That's great Sherlock, but it's a seven hour drive, so you, me laddie, are taking over after Philadelphia. Sherlock grinned and nodded in acquiescence. Leaning back into his seat, he exhaled in satisfaction and said determinedly, "We're onto him now Michael, Moran, I can feel it. If anyone knows how to find him, its Daddy Moriarty and his best buddy O'Neill, and if O'Neill is as angry as I hope, he'll get in touch with one of them."
Three hours later a furious O'Neill looked at his swollen face in the mirror of the gents toilets in his bar. The chaos in his bar and cops questions had left him seething, and he'd had to tell very sceptical cops that he'd tripped up and fallen on his face trying to get out of his office when the fire alarm went off. Storming outside, he went up to one of his bar staff and demanded the use of their phone. Tapping out a number, he waited for the intended recipient to respond. After six rings, just as he thought it would not be answered, Sebastian Moran answered with one word, "yes?"
"Sherlock Holmes is on his way to Virginia Beach." Moran terminated the call and hissed in anger. He'd deal with that fool, O'Neill. Taking his phone he smashed it on the granite surface of the kitchen unit in his apartment in Boston. Removing the chip, he cut it up into small pieces. He'd been forced to beat a hasty retreat due to that damn photo of him in Dublin. He'd also been frustrated trying to locate that bloody girlfriend of Holmes. He knew she was in America but the trail had gone very cold weeks ago and none of his usual sources had been useful.
He grinned then. He'd lost track of Sherlock Holmes a few days ago. It was very convenient of him to show up here, because If anyone could lead him to Dr Hooper, it was her love sick boyfriend. He pulled on his jacket, and picking up his holdall bag, he took a last look in the hall mirror at his new image as he left for the underground car park. He had a long drive ahead of him. Ten minutes later Mycroft called his brother and said, rather smugly, "he's in Boston. We lost the trace but not before O'Neill told him you where you are going." Sherlock exclaimed in delight.
"You mean to tell me he answered the phone! Oh Mycroft! He's rattled. He's off his game. This is better then we'd hoped, sooner then we thought."
"It is Sherlock, but be patient, he may be baited but we still have to reel him in. He will have altered his appearance again too, so expect the unexpected." Sherlock sighed in exasperation but realised that his brother was 'stating the obvious' in fear that he, Sherlock, would make a mistake out of concern for Molly.
"I do know that Mycroft, stop worrying, you'll trace all calls made in and out of his phone, now that you have the number?" Now it was Mycroft's turn to be irritated.
"Of course Sherlock, they're working on it now. We'll soon know who commissioned the hit on Molly, and they'll rue the day they were born." Sherlock paused then,
"I do appreciate it Mycroft, how you care for her." Mycroft gave a rueful laugh.
"Sherlock, I care for both of you." Sherlock chuckled down the phone.
"My God, brother mine, whatever happened to 'caring is not an advantage'?" and his brother laughed.
"Context Sherlock. Irene Adler is not worth an ounce of sentiment. Molly Hooper on the other hand..." he trailed off, not needing to continue.
"Speaking of Molly, prepare to get me in to see her Mycroft, and no, I'm not 'rushing in', I just said 'prepare.' Laters." and he hung up the phone. It was only then that he realised that his brother had used the present tense regarding Adler and he rolled his eyes and smirked. He should have known really. Nothing ever got by Mycroft. And as if to prove the point, Mycroft sent him a list of residents and their room numbers twenty minutes later, blaming the Americans for the delay, and Sherlock sighed when he read it. 'Daddy Moriarty' was in Stage 1 of Alzheimer's disease, which meant he suffered from memory loss and may not be of any use. Still, it needed to be checked and a DNA analysis performed.
The men drove through the night, sharing the drive between them, with Michael insisting that Sherlock talk to him to keep him focussed and awake. So they talked about cases they'd worked on and a bit about their backgrounds and education and Sherlock found it was easy to talk to Michael, just like it was to John, because he didn't make judgements or inane comments. They stopped for coffee and to freshen up, but never for long, and at 4:00am Sherlock pulled into the carpark of 'Our Lady's Manor Nursing Care' home. He drove into the staff parking area, at the back of the building and switched off the engine and interior lights. There were other cars, belonging to the night staff, so they didn't stand out.
"I suppose I'm look-out again then?" Michael said, a tad disgruntled.
"Well...yes?" and Michael laughed reluctantly.
"Oh go on then, seems its your case and, to be fair, your girl."
"Yes, there is that, and also, well, you're 'by the book' Michael," and he smirked, "for the most part, and that's good, you should be, you're a detective working for the Irish State."
Turning to look him in the eye then he said, "I don't have that book, I never did have, and I am prepared for the consequences of that, especially now with Molly." He inhaled sharply. "There is nothing I wouldn't do to keep her safe Michael, but I can not expect that from you. Do you understand?" Michael smiled warmly at him.
"Books can sometimes have many adaptations, my friend." Sherlock tilted his head curiously at him, but Michael didn't expand any further. Then Michael gestured behind him to the large grounds at the back. "I'll have a quick scout around while your inside, but, if you're not out in twenty minutes I'm coming in to find you, and that's final." He took off then moving quickly towards the large wooded area to the rear of the manicured lawn and gardens.
Three minutes later Sherlock slipped into Moriarty Senior's room, leaving the light off. Approaching the sleeping man's bed he reached over, plucked a few short hairs from his head and slipped them into a plastic bag and then sealed it up. The old man began to wake and Sherlock crouched down on his hunkers and adapted his Irish accent again.
"Hello Dad, It's me, Jim." The old man struggled to get up but Sherlock pressed his hand on his chest to keep him lying down.
"Jim, is it? Turn on the light there boy, I can't see you."
"Better not Dad, you know yourself, shouldn't be here." The old man laughed.
"Who's looking for you now?" Sherlock parodied Jim Moriarty and in a sing song voice answered,
"Everybody!" and his 'father' laughed.
"Dad, I'm looking for Seb, Sebastian Moran. Have you seen him?"
"Who?"
"Moran Dad, you remember?" Sherlock aped a shooting using his fingers. The old man glowered.
"That fella!, I warned you to stay away from him. Disgusting! He corrupted you son. You weren't into that shite before you took up with him!" With that Sherlock confirmed what he needed. The long held rumours were true. This man had not hired Moran. He was acting alone and out of revenge. Sinead Moriarty had held him off and when she failed to rip his heart out, dying for her trouble, he stepped forward to finish the job.
"Don't worry about that, I'm looking to kill him. Tell him if you see him, won't you?"
The old man cackled and then hacked in his chest. Sherlock took some cotton swabs from the old man's locker and prising his mouth open none too gently, he swiped the palate of his mouth and sealed the swab up in an evidence bag too. He left the room without a backward glance. The facility was practically deserted and he had no trouble avoiding the few staff that were on duty. He met up with Michael and they got back into the car and drove away. As they pulled out of the wide entrance, Sherlock received a text from Mycroft. O'Neill had been shot in the head in the driveway of his home, with a high calibre weapon, and from a distance. Sebastian Moran had taken a detour.