Chapter 25

Sherlock threw his holdall onto the passenger seat of the car that he'd just collected from the concierge of the Scellig Hotel. He was seething at the audaciousness and the sheer recklessness of his quarry's plan to bomb Aoife's house from the sea. It had yet to be confirmed by the Irish Navy but he knew Mycroft was correct. He always was. He could understand the man's desire to kill his friends and brother, but Aoife had domestic and security staff who could also have been 'collateral damage' and Moriarty Snr obviously didn't care a jot about them.

He pulled out of the hotel and followed the road through the town and around Dingle Bay, taking the coast road. As soon as he cleared the small town, the road grew quiet and he made it to the small village nearest to the house in twenty minutes. He parked the car, at the back of the deserted village school carpark out of sight and set out on foot. He took a back road, a 'boreen' in local vernacular, a road so narrow it constituted more of a narrow lane in width, usual used to walk cattle and sheep from field to barn, and deserted at this time of night. The night sky was completely clear and resplendid with stars, glistening brilliantly in the inky blackness of a peninsula unobscured by the pollution of street lighting. It was dark though, with only a crescent moon, but that suited his purposes.

He reached the back of the house in a little over ten minutes, crossing through dewy, deserted fields to approach the rear wall. He smirked in gratitude to the planning authorities who'd disallowed boundary walls over four feet high in sympathy with the low natural hedgerows on most of the rugged peninsula. Sherlock leaned his elbows cheekily on the wall, knowing it was too dark for him to be seen from the house. Aoife was a very useful resource; she'd sent him the final architects' drawings for the property; submitted to Kerry County Council as part of the planning permission process.

From his position he could scan almost the full perimeter of the house. There were lights on in the utility room and the back bedroom. Somebody was definitely home, judging by the sleek new Mercedes in the driveway at the side of the house and the smoke coming from the chimney. In case he was left in any doubt, there was a light on in the living room too. Sherlock sighed in irritation. It was going to be a long night.

He climbed the back wall into the rear garden and hunkered down behind some shrubbery. Aoife was still monitoring the house's phone and internet activity, and so far Moriarty Snr, if that's who was in there, was unaware of their recent evacuation from her house. Sherlock pondered that, and began to wonder about the complete lack of sophistication of this man's plan. The whole thing felt crude; thrown together, and he now believed it to be entirely emotionally based.

This man's son had been cold, calculating, and technologically advanced to such a degree that he could hack MI6 communications. Not his daddy though. He had done very little to hide his internet or mobile usage, so erroneously confident was he about his anonymity. He seemed to have no idea of the level of data available to them on his business, courtesy of the Irish and international security agencies. The man was still smuggling arms on trawlers. He was like a throwback to the last century. Sherlock sighed irritably. It was becoming more obvious that this man had come out of retirement, and that he'd clearly been a long time retired.

His phone vibrated in his pocket with an incoming text. Sherlock smiled when he read it. Michael had arrived in New York. He was going to be very cross, Sherlock thought, because this case was going to be over in a few hours. There'd be no meeting tomorrow night. He knew the plan now, he was certain. Lure the group back to Ireland and to Aoife's highly secure house, draw Sherlock Holmes to America, and let him suffer when he blew the house up with all of his loved ones in it, then somehow, kill him too. The only question left to be answered was who Moriarty Snr hated the most; Aoife or himself.

Sherlock sucked in a breath as something occurred to him. He shot a text to Aoife. He couldn't risk a phone call, knowing his voice would carry in the silence of the night.

SH: Have the Navy boarded the trawler yet? She answered immediately.

AQ: Yes. 30 mins ago. 4 men on board. Two 'got wet' but we have them.

SH: Let me guess, no usage on their mobile phones in days?

AQ: How? Never mind. No.

SH: Get them to check the marine radio, I suspect he has a smaller boat here. That's how they communicate. Trace it.

AQ: Ok. Hang on and I'll text you back. It was a long fifteen minutes before she next replied.

AQ: 1KM west of you, genius. 'The Orla'

SH: You have your uses, Ms Quinn

AQ: Ditto. Take care. X

Sherlock set off on the short walk to the boat. The country road was eerily quiet, with the exception of a farm dog barking in the far distance. It was late March, and the air was crisp and cold. It reminded him of a different time, on a similar road in another country; another world, just after 'the fall' when he was dead. A world where he was alone and immersed on an arduous mission, without John's loyal and easy friendship, and without Molly. He set his mouth in grim determination. This case would be resolved this night, and he would finally begin his life with her, without any further interruptions from the residual fallout of the original Moriarty case.

He found 'The Orla' easily. At forty feet, she was the largest of the six boats moored at the small jetty. She was sleek and shiny and only a couple of years old. The rest were much smaller and older leisure craft, belonging to local people. It was a rich man's toy and was incongruous in the remote setting. Sherlock boarded the craft from the portside, picked the lock to the cabin easily, and after a cursory but fruitful search, he sat down on the plush leather bench, texted Michael, and waited for this particular game to play out.

In Brooklyn, Michael's mobile pinged with an incoming text message and he grinned happily and showed it to the British agent who was doubling as 'Sherlock'. Sherlock was not prepared to wait until the next night for a few 'hired guns' to show up at the pub. Anyway, it appeared that they would not be making an appearance because they would not be receiving any 'go ahead' from Moriarty Snr. He twinkled at his English compatriot. "Come on then, let's go for a drink in 'Moriarty's'" The Englishman laughed as they hailed a taxi.

Mycroft, Aoife, Molly and their accompanying security detail arrived at the hotel and were greeted politely by the concierge and whisked up to the top floor. The concierge appeared unruffled but Aoife knew she had caused chaos for the poor woman, because they'd needed the entire top floor cleared, and some guests moved to accommodate them all, and with only twenty minutes' advance notice. She took her aside and apologised for the inconvenience.

Mycroft smiled kindly at Molly and taking her gently by the arm, he relieved her of her precious photo album, carrying it for her, and then escorted her and Aoife up to their suite. He explained to Molly that she would have to stay with them in their suite until Sherlock returned, "or he'll have my guts for garters, Molly." She smiled resignedly at him. "I'd prefer that anyway Mycroft, thank you."

They'd barely arrived into the suite when Aoife was informed by Reception that the Gardaí had arrived for her. They were going to escort her to the warehouse. She kissed Mycroft goodbye and headed back downstairs. The local Sergeant had accompanied the two uniformed Gardaí, and they didn't waste any time. Aoife was very well known and she didn't want word to get around that she was in the area before they'd rounded up Moriarty Snr. She strode quickly through the reception area, head down, and climbed into the Garda car. The warehouse was only five minutes away by car, and the small industrial estate containing the units was completely deserted.

The Gardaí pulled up outside the Unit and the Sergeant laughed drolly. "Well, would you look at that? Do you think he's trying to keep people out?" The Unit had three heavy bolts added to the standard locks of the other units. "Can you get through them?" she asked him. He grinned confidently at her. "We came prepared, Ms Quinn. Don't you worry." They got out of the car and he opened the boot. He pulled out a large bolt cutters and they got to work. They made short shrift of the locks and pulled open the wide 'garage style' doors. Aoife used her torch and scanned the inside of the unit. There were two luxury SUV's, with no licence plates, parked just behind the door. "Stolen, I'll warrant," the Sergeant muttered.

As they entered and explored further into the back of the unit, he gasped in dismay. The entire back wall was plastered with photos of Aoife, Michael, Sherlock and a few of Molly, but Aoife was the predominant subject. On one very large 12x16 inch shot of her leaving her company headquarters, Moriarty Snr had drawn a crosshair around her head. Aoife tutted dismissively and reassured the Sergeant. "These are all published photo's. He got them from the internet. He never even had me, or my friends under surveillance." She looked at him candidly. "It's all a bit pathetic, actually." The Sergeant shook his head seriously at her.

"No, Ms Quinn, it would be, except for the missiles he had aimed at your house."

He pointed over to two wooden caskets, and the uniformed men immediately followed his unspoken command and forced the lids open with a crowbar. They were filled with straw, but a careful and cursory root around produced several handguns and a two AK 47's. He stopped them from proceeding any further and called in forensics. Then he approached her soberly. "Right, Ms Quinn. I'm dropping you back to the hotel and going out west to bring this character in for questioning, and before you protest, you are absolutely not coming with me. You are a target and you need to be protected."

"That's grand," she agreed calmly, "but do not go near that house before calling for armed back up though, and you'll leave these men here to preserve the scene?" He looked at her suspiciously. She was taking it too well.

"Look, Ms Quinn, is there something you're not telling me?" She looked speculatively at him, thinking how shrewd he was. She didn't want to tell him about Sherlock, or the boat, just yet though, because she wanted to give Sherlock enough time to do what Sherlock did best. She decided to delay things just a little bit.

"There is Sergeant. May we go back to the hotel and discuss it there though?" she asked politely, gesturing pointedly at the two Garda officers. He sighed heavily and frowned at her.

"We can, I suppose, so long as you're not trying to delay me, Ms Quinn!"

"Not at all Sergeant," she replied, "it's just that this is a highly sensitive situation, with an international dimension, so discretion is paramount."

"No, Ms Quinn," he replied sternly, "it's not. Taking that fella into custody immediately is paramount. The rest of that stuff is your area, and quite frankly, not my problem." She inhaled deeply, nodded placating at him and gestured to the car.

"Then let's go, Sergeant." They got into the Garda car and made the short journey back to the hotel in relative silence. The Sergeant realised something as they pulled up in front of the front door and hissed in irritation.

"Where is he, Ms Quinn?" She looked back innocently at him.

"Where is who?"

"You know who! That private detective, Sherlock Holmes. Is he upstairs with your partner, or has he gone out to that house?" The jig was up and she knew it.

"He's a consulting detective, Sergeant. He consults for Scotland Yard." The Sergeant's colour was raised now and his temper flared.

"Does this look like bleedin London to you Ms Quinn? We have a potentially lethal situation here that should have been left for the authorities to deal with, and not a British private detective with absolutely no jurisdiction here! You of all people? What the hell were you thinking? I don't give a shit who you are, I've a good mind to charge you with obstruction of justice!" Aoife blanched and stared at him in dismay.

"Sergeant Doyle, that's enough! I do understand your position but you do not have all the facts. I hired Sherlock Holmes to investigate the murder of my brother. You know that. 'Jurisdiction' is not an issue here because he is acting on my behest and in a completely private capacity. I'll also remind you that his picture is back there on that wall too, along with his girlfriends." She took a deep breath and softened her voice. "He's a very capable man, Sergeant, and yes, I agree; considering what we've just discovered in that warehouse unit, he will be needing backup imminently. If they're not at the house, you need to know that Sherlock's also looking particularly at a boat, 'The Orla,' moored out at Beal Bán jetty." The Sergeant watched her earnest expression as she spoke and was thoughtful for a long minute.

"Alright then," he relented, and spoke more gently to her. "I've seen the boat, and look, I do get it, Ms Quinn. I know about your loss and I also know about your friend's reputation, and therefore I assume he's not out there getting himself killed."

He laughed teasingly at her then. "I also know enough about your boyfriend too, so I'm guessing that he'll be covering his brother's back?" He looked at her in horror suddenly, and ran his hands through his hair in agitation.

"Jesus! Is my peninsula crawling with the British Secret Service?" Aoife chewed her upper lip and looked at her lap guiltily. Then she glanced up at him with a devilish twinkle in her eye.

"Well," she replied, "Moriarty Snr did just try to kill the head of the British Intelligence Services, Sergeant." The Sergeant dropped his head in his hands and then, to her surprise, he slowly began to laugh. She looked questioningly at him and he shook his head in mirth, before he replied,

"I'm beginning to think the level of intelligence in that Moriarty clan was seriously overrated!" Aoife's hand flew to her mouth and she burst out laughing. Her phone vibrated with a text from Mycroft.

'Would you like me to point a spotlight on the car there, dearest?'

Aoife spluttered a laugh again and showed the Sergeant, who smirked back at her. He got out of the car and walked around to open the door for her, escorting her back into the hotel and right up to her hotel room door. Aoife rolled her eyes but let him, because it was his job. Mycroft opened the door and thanked him, glaring at her as she entered, and the Sergeant raced off to organise the Armed Response Unit to storm the house on the peninsula.

Mycroft folded his arms across his chest and continued to glare at her. and she bit back a smile. Molly discreetly brought the room service menu up to her face, trying to hide her own smirk as Mycroft's head swung between the two of them incredulously.

"I fail to see what's so funny about you sitting out there in the open with an unarmed Garda Sergeant, Aoife Quinn!" She looked steadily at him.

"I'm armed Mycroft. You know that.," she walked over to him and stroked his arm placating, "I'm sorry I worried you, but I had to smooth his very ruffled feathers to prevent him from arresting Sherlock, and maybe even me…" He raised his eyes but the beginnings of a smile hovered on his lips.

"And God knows you do that so well, Aoife." He looked pointedly at her hand on his shoulder.

Molly and Aoife giggled loudly, and he finally relaxed and pulled her in for a long hug. Dropping a loving kiss on his cheek, she sat down and began to fill them both in on what they'd discovered and what the Sergeant was planning. Mycroft briefed Aoife too, on recent events in New York, where his agent and Michael had linked up with the FBI and were currently raiding the pub in Brooklyn and Moriartys' two homes in the city.

Out on the far western tip of the peninsula, an old man pulled on his coat and left his house to drive the short journey to the jetty. He parked his car, turning out the lights and engine, and the silence of the countryside descended again, broken only by the gentle lapping of the seawater off the side of the boats and pier wall. He stepped out of his car and lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag and then hacked and coughed, and muttering curses, he climbed on to his boat.