Chapter 26

Moriarty had barely reached the top of the deck before his wheezing and coughing started again. The rasping sound carried far in the still of the night. He leaned heavily on the cabin door handle to catch his breath and then fumbled with the key in the lock. The key scratched and dragged painfully before engaging and finally, turning open. Sherlock continued to sit very still and wait him out. Eventually the door swung open. A dark silhouetted figure of a man in a long coat, stood centred in the doorframe. He took a long drag of his cigarette before switching on the light. Exhaling deeply, he coughed again and then trudged slowly forward into the cabin.

Incredibly, as he walked unsteadily to the Captain's seat, he failed to notice Sherlock Holmes sitting quietly on the bench behind the open door. He took another drag of his cigarette, followed by the inevitable hacking cough. He leaned heavily on the Captain's chair at the helm, before he dragged himself up into it and stretched his hand up to pick up the radio receiver. His hand froze mid-air as a deep baritone voice broke into the silence of the night.

"You'll find that there's nobody at the other end of that; well there is, but I doubt you wish to speak to the Captain of 'The Samuel Beckett', do you, Jim?"

The receiver dropped from the old man's hand and clattered off the dashboard, before swinging by its spiral cord like a dysfunctional pendulum. He spun around in shock and then spluttered out a long slew of expletives until, gradually, he ran out of steam. He glared in red-faced fury at Sherlock, sitting back so nonchalantly, legs askew and arms crossed on his chest.

"You, ya fucker, you're supposed to be in New York!" he spat out at him. Sherlock emitted a small, bored sigh.

"So are you Jim, as it happens, and yet, here we both are."

"Smart little shit, aren't you?" Sherlock laughed.

"You're only getting that now?"

He rolled his eyes as he watched the elderly man grapple under the seat of his chair to retrieve the revolver he had discovered taped underneath it earlier. He drew it lazily out of his coat pocket.

"Looking for this?"

The old man hissed in frustration.

"I suppose that bitch's house is still intact too?" Sherlock looked disparagingly at him; the question was not worth answering.

"You really should have stayed in retirement, Jim. I mean, what was the point of all this?"

The man looked contemptuously back at him.

"And they call you a genius? What the fuck to you think the point was?

Sherlock sat back in his seat and sighed loudly.

"I suppose you're going to tell me you were avenging your family? The same family you completely abandoned, and the brother you recently smothered?"

"That's none of your business. They were still my children; you and your brother killed them. Aoife Quinn helped you to do it, and then covered it up. I couldn't let that go; now could I?"

Sherlock tutted in irritation.

"Aoife and I did not start this Jim. Your son the psychopath did, decades ago, when he pushed Aoife's brother over that cliff just up the bloody road from here. You know that. She's only done exactly as you are claiming to be doing now; seek retribution for her brother's murder."

"That was just one life, Holmes. I've lost three children in as many years!"

Sherlock responded with cold contempt.

"How many lives have you taken Jim, hmm? Directly and indirectly? Do you even know? How many mothers and fathers have you left desolate? You chose a path of murder and mayhem over your 'family' decades ago. Just tonight you tried to blow up a house without a clue of how many people were in your line of fire; fourteen men and women, as it happens, including my family, so if you're looking for sympathy from me or, more importantly the Gardaí; they're on their way, by the way; you are really wasting your breath." He stopped then and looked at him knowingly.

"And we both know what a bad idea that is don't we? How long have you got?"

The old man shook his head, refusing to answer. He was quiet for a long while. Then in the distance, the sound of police sirens broke the peace of the night. Just for a minute, Jim Moriarty Snr panicked. He knew he couldn't take on Sherlock Holmes, because he was well aware of his legendary fighting skills, and he also knew that he was armed. Then, resignation of his fate settled over his features. Cold, watery blue eyes looked calmly at Sherlock.

"Shoot me. You owe me that at least." Sherlock shook his head.

"Not a chance. The killing stops tonight; right here, in the place where it all began."

Moriarty studied him and knew he meant it, and could not be persuaded to change his mind.

"Then empty that chamber and give me the gun." Sherlock tilted his head as he considered the request.

"Suicide by cop?"

The old man swallowed and nodded. The sirens were getting louder and closer. He was running out of time. Sherlock shook his head again.

"I'd like to help you, actually, and in different circumstances, I would have happily obliged, but not tonight, I'm afraid; not in Ireland."

Moriarty analysed his words and hissed out bitterly.

"Because of Aoife Quinn. You're protecting her reputation!" Sherlock smirked at him.

"That's right Jim, you see, she's family now and there is nothing I wouldn't do to protect my family. Your son knew that much."

Outside, the Garda cars could be heard screeching to a halt on the narrow granite pier. Sherlock stood and gestured to the door.

"After you."

The old man sighed in resignation and pulled out his box of cigarettes.

"Do you mind?" he enquired.

"Not at all, but not in here, out on the deck, least we encounter a trigger happy young Garda." He smirked in appreciation at him. "Nice try though." The old man's lips curled in a wry smile.

"Sure it was worth a try."

He walked ahead of Sherlock out of the door and was immediately blinded by the Garda spotlights, but he didn't need to see to know that there were guns pointing at him. The Garda Sergeant shouted at them to both put their hands behind their heads and get down on their knees. Sherlock immediately complied, but Moriarty did not. He waved his cigarette in the air and backed slowly up to the far rail, ignoring all directions from the Gardaí not to move.

"Just finishing me smoke, lads," he shouted provocatively, while groping furtively behind himelf for the rail. Sherlock watched him and shouted a warning.

"Don't, Jim!"

His call was in vain. Moriarty back-flipped, rather elegantly, Sherlock thought, over the rail, splashing into the icy black sea. The Gardaí rushed the boat and peered over the side where Moriarty had vanished. They searched the water frantically with their torches, shouting for more light, but there was no sign of the man. He had completely disappeared into the dark water.

The Sergeant placed a firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "You can get up now, Mr Holmes." Sherlock stood and casually brushed off his jacket, before addressing him.

"You won't find him tonight. The tide is going out and the current is strong. I expect he'll wash up on the rocks in the morning." The Sergeant winced sympathetically.

"I reckon you're right, Mr Holmes. That water is freezing. He'll die of hypothermia if he doesn't drown first." He looked coolly at Sherlock. "Sure you can tell me all about it down at the station."

Sherlock groaned internally. That was the last thing he wanted to do. He was tired and hungry. He just wanted to go back to that hotel, have something to eat, and then cuddle up in a warm bed with Molly. He nodded at him though, resigned to his fate, and asked the Sergeant if they could drive the hotel's car back, rather than leave it behind the school. The Sergeant nodded amenably and they both disembarked from the boat.

Back in the hotel, Mycroft glanced over at his partner as she paced the room, phone stuck to her ear, deep in conversation with the Intelligence Unit in Dublin. She was trying to arrange an immediate coastguard search of the sea around the peninsula, but it did not appear to be going well. The emergency services were refusing to deploy lifeboats until first light, due to the notoriously treacherous Atlantic currents around the rocky headland. Privately, Mycroft happened to agree wholeheartedly with them. He twirled his finger in the air and she nodded at him in understanding, and then spoke rapidly back into her phone. They could send out helicopters to search the coast. It was a compromise, at least.

Sherlock rang him then and filled him in on the way back into the town.

"Is it over, Sherlock?" he enquired tiredly, when Sherlock had completed his report. Sherlock sighed and answered him as best he could.

"Probably, considering his death wish, but keep Molly with you there until I get back please, Mycroft. I won't be fully satisfied until they find his body."

"Of course. We will all be here. Michael has been rather successful in New York too. Very fruitful. The FBI is rather pleased with what they have found. They will be kept quite busy making arrests over the next few days. Well done." Sherlock smiled and replied,

"Ditto, Mycroft. How's Aoife?" Mycroft eyed her across the room, her fingers gripping her mobile so tightly her knuckles blanched.

"Yes, Sherlock. That should be fine by tomorrow,"

Sherlock laughed and agreed with him reassuringly.

"She'll be absolutely fine now, Mycroft. We all will." He considered Aoife's situation for a second and then told his brother his thoughts.

"She has never returned to this place since Oisín's death Mycroft; not even to buy that hotel; not until today. Let's stay on here for a couple of days with her, and Mykie, maybe you should engage the services of a Priest, and hold some type of memorial? Wait for Michael's return though; I know he would wish to attend." Mycroft sucked in a surprised breath. He was profoundly touched by his brother's thoughtfulness.

"Maybe you really are the smart one after-all, Sherlock," he said quietly, before terminating the call.