Disclaimer: same as Chapter 1
Author's notes:
- To LienaGrace: thank you very much for your review! I am pleased you think this story is evolving in the right direction.
- A dacha is a Russian second-home or cottage.
- Hyeronimus Bosch (1450 – 1516) was a Dutch painter, famous for his paintings using fantastic imagery.
- "Extrañero" means "stranger" in Spanish.
- Cicero (106 B.C. – 43 B.C.) was a Roman philosopher and orator.
Chapter 5: Tiger in the night
Sherlock's features hardened, making his face look as if it had been carved in alabaster; a flash of painful light shone in his eyes at the recollection of very bad souvenirs that had composed his life for three years. Had he had gotten his way the detective would have erased those events from his brains so they wouldn't have a chance to trouble him again. But his friendship for John prevented to keep him in the dark, as the doctor had a right to know what had happened. The man had grieved for Sherlock for three years, remained loyal in spite of terrible pressures and had even wrote a book to rehabilitate his memory. The least Sherlock could do was to present the whole truth to John as an apology present.
"It has been hard, John, much harder than I would have imagined. For years I had refused Mycroft's offers to work with him and yet there I was, being a spy and hating every second of it. But I detest predators even more and Moriarty's heirs had to be stopped; they had benefited from their master's lessons and they were resolute in keeping his web of crimes intact: it was such a beautiful network, a chef d'oeuvre; it would have been criminal to abandon it – no pun intended. I nicknamed these men Lieutenants One, Two and Three from their respective rank of importance, and started the hunt. Becoming a Straw Knight was the only way to endure my mission. I left all my personal belongings in London as I could keep nothing related to my former life, and started a new career as the British Secret Services' most efficient agent. I would track down Moriarty's lieutenants and then give my brother information on their whereabouts so Mycroft could send assassins and "wipe the place clean". I was the pilot fish preceding the sharks, John; I refuse to trouble you with gruesome details, just you know that Mycroft's men have been very thorough."
Sherlock laid his hand on John's forearm again but this time, his fingers curled around the blond man's wrist.
"I found Lieutenant Three about eight months after my demise; he was in Russia, enjoying a very lucrative business involving sex slaves and drugs trafficking, especially opium. He wasn't even in hiding, the arrogant pimp, wrongfully thinking the blackmailing of corrupted politicians would be enough to assure his safety. The fool! But he did have a good burglar alarm system and that was a challenge, since the man lived hermit-like in his deluxe dacha surrounded with pickets supporting barbed wire, surveillance cameras and motion detectors, plus a few bodyguards armed to the teeth for good measure and a bunch of underage prostitutes. Took me about a week to find the code key of his burglar system and then I remained in the background while Mycroft's Russian allies took care of business. We found five kidnapped teenage girls locked up in the basement; their virginity was to be sold in an auction within days. There were also large sums of money hidden in the house, and enough opium to poison the entire population of a medium-sized town. Considering my past, a cynic could imagine I would have seized the opportunity to relapse but frankly, it would have been an incredibly stupid thing to do. I went through lots of trouble to become a ghost, just to blow the whole thing wide open by doing a junkie number in an undercover operation? Talk about begging to be murdered and for good, this time!"
John had a small smile; he knew his friend was too much a professional to have adopted such a reckless attitude in the middle of a dangerous situation. The detective's drug habits had been linked in the past with boredom and chasing criminals across the globe must have been quite a powerful stimulant.
"What happened next?"
"While Mycroft was receiving praises and honours from his Russian counterpart for the destruction of a dangerous criminal and his organization, I hopped in a plane and left Moscow. Direction: Afghanistan."
"But do you know how dangerous this place is? I nearly got killed there!" cried John, his dark blue eyes widening in shock.
"I am quite aware of that, my dear fellow, but deceased Lieutenant Three had his fingers stuck deep in the opium trafficking, as I've just told you, and the country of Afghanistan is one of the main producers of the stuff. Funny thing is, I enjoyed my time roaming in Kabul's streets or trekking in the mountains: it felt like walking in your footsteps! I followed the trail left by Lieutenant Three's web, eliminated the local traffickers and torched down the poppy fields. It created quite a ruckus and I think one or two tribal wars erupted in my wake, but by the time the idiots had realized those destructions hadn't been done by rivals but by a single man, I've left the country with the name of Lieutenant Two. He was a bit keener than Three, as he suspected the death of his partner-in-crime hadn't been due to an overdue police operation, so he carefully left the Middle East to establish his business in Africa. Two was a gunrunner and a trusted provider of arms for all kind of clients there: rebels, dictators, corrupted governments, renegade soldiers, isolated farmers desperate to protect themselves... Lieutenant Two could sell guns to one group and the next day sell more powerful arms to a rival group. God knows, he never lacked clients in Africa. He was the trusted associate of local crooks, may they be living in the bush or in palaces, but he was cautious enough to be constantly on the road – unlike Three, he didn't buy a mansion to live the life of Riley. It took me a year but finally I found Two hiding in Nairobi, Kenya. He was providing guns to Somali pirates, who had used his merchandise to board a Spanish cargo ship: all the crewmembers were killed. So he decided to lay low, waiting for the international scandal to calm down, which gave me the perfect opportunity to strike. You should have seen the bonfire I've made after with a tower of confiscated smuggled weapons: when the ammunitions exploded, it made quite a bang. The local children thought it was celebration fireworks – which was close enough, when you think of it."
John gently intertwined his fingers with Sherlock's, sensing the detective needed some silent support. The detective answered with a smile – a genuine one, addressed exclusively to his friend – and carried on with his story:
"Two down, one more to go before I would be free and devote my life again to examine hopefully interesting little problems in London. The straw in my chest was starting to suffocate me but Lieutenant One was the most dangerous of the lot: unlike Three and Two, he wasn't driven by sex or money so tracking him down had been very difficult."
"What was his motivation, then?"
"Revenge. His name is Sebastian Moran and he was Moriarty's bosom friend."
John and Sherlock's hands locked together like iron.
"His... friend?" whispered the doctor.
"Yes, my dear John. Moriarty wanted so much him and me to be alike in every aspect of our lives, akin to twins. I remember, while we were drinking tea he bragged about his new superstar status in the criminal world; he mocked the gangsters' delirious offers of money for the fake computer key code, and how those sycophants would tear each other apart for a chance to earn his good graces. Of course, they were such imbeciles they never knew Moriarty merely considered them as "ordinary", amusing him for a moment with their ridiculous rivalry. He snickered and asked me: "Aren't ordinary people adorable?""
Sherlock pressed his lips so tightly it formed a perfect horizontal line across his face: "And then he added: "Well, you should know. You've got John. I should get me a live-in one, someday.""
The doctor suddenly started to feel very afraid, without knowing the reason why. He had investigated Camden House on his own without batting an eyelid and he had endured the shock of Sherlock's resurrection like a soldier, but something in his friend's tone told him the worst was to come.
"Moriarty thus played "favourites" among his courtesans after his release. He chose Moran, his chief of staff, as he was the most obvious candidate: ex-military (just like you), crack shot (idem), nerves of steel (akin) and loyal to a fault (ditto); he would have made a perfect carbon copy of you but the similarities end here: you, my dear John, are a man of light while Moran's soul is so twisted it could easily feature in a Bosch painting."
Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hand, squeezing so hard the doctor was in danger of having a broken finger.
"Moran had a remarkable career in the British Army; he rose up to the rank of Colonel and he had quite a reputation as a gunner. According to Mycroft's contacts within the armed forces, there wasn't a gun Moran couldn't hit the bull's eye with. His favourite tactic was similar to the shikari, the big-game hunters in India: tie a young goat to a tree, lie in wait until the tigers show up and then bang, bang, bang, down they come. But Moran began to go wrong during a peacekeeping mission in ex-Yugoslavia in the 90s; maybe watching snipers firing at innocents in the streets gave him the idea to play God – meaning, to decide who was to live or to die among a crowd of starved civilians, without having to wait for the tigers to come. Nobody could prove anything without any open scandal, of course, but the Army discreetly repatriated him back in England before kicking him out. Moran was wallowing in bitterness when Moriarty showed up, supplying him liberally with money and guns to assuage his passion for evil. Moran turned into a love-struck fanatic, unquestioningly following his demigod in every of his schemes, uncaring about people suffering from their actions. In fact, I am ready to bet Moran was the sniper who had killed the blind old lady in York, after she tried to describe us Moriarty's voice over the phone."
"Holy God! The shot killed her and 11 other innocent persons!"
"Quite right. And Moran thought himself the big man on the campus after Moriarty officially chose him as his favourite. Maybe his master even granted him sexual favours to make sure his enraged pet would stay by his side, who knows? But Moran was shattered by the suicide of his lord and master; he couldn't avenge himself on me since I was officially out of the picture and killing you would have been difficult since you were under media and police scrutiny. Britain was too hot for him and he left like the proverbial rat fleeing the sinking ship, trying to keep Moriarty's crime web intact in South America as a shrine to his adored mentor. His shooting skills were also much appreciated by drug cartels in the subsequent elimination of witnesses, reluctant suppliers or nosy law enforcement officers. He stayed for two years there, but the shooting down of an undercover D.E.A. agent enraged the American government so he had to hide. That's probably during this time that he learned about the fates of Lieutenants Three and Two; at first, he put their deaths on account of incompetence but his cunning mind started to suspect something else was at stake."
"Sherlock? Please, you are crushing my hand."
The detective jumped as if he had been stung by a bee, and then he looked down at their joined hands: John's knuckles were indeed blanching from the lack of blood circulation, making the younger Holmes release his grip.
"Oh! I'm sorry."
"It is fine, Sherlock," said John with a gentle smile while absently rubbing his fingers against the green leather cushion of the couch. "Hands in good condition are required in my line of work. Please continue, did you find Moran?"
"Yes, but he escaped capture twice – the first time in Bogota, where a corrupted cop tipped him off about a tall, dark-haired extrañero with a strange accent asking questions. Moran thanked his informant with a bullet in the head and ran off to Europe, wrongly thinking I was a D.E.A. agent looking for clues about the death of his colleague. He made it to Ireland, Moriarty's homeland, and stayed put for a couple of months, trying to make out what was going on: his former partners-in-crime eliminated, a mysterious man at his heels and his South American network being destroyed shortly after his departure. Moran soon decided to re-create Moriarty's organization in England but he went penny-broke – courtesy of yours truly. "Money is the sinews of war", to quote Cicero, and Moran's future war against humanity was severely compromised! I missed him by two days in Ireland, as he had already taken the ferry to go back to Great Britain. Moran had to refinance his goal quickly and for a criminal, the best way to discreetly earn large sums of money is by means of gambling."
John slowly got up on his feet as an idea slowly came to his mind. He walked up and down the living room but at a much quieter pace. Sherlock remained silent, knowing his friend would need some extra time to link various events in order to reach an intelligent conclusion. After a while, John turned about and asked:
"Gambling... like in casinos?"
"Yes."
"But casinos in England are under high surveillance and permanently monitored by CCTV cameras. I am assuming you sent information to Mycroft about Moran, and your brother probably sent his picture and description to all police and security forces; so it wouldn't be wise for a criminal on the run to show up his face in one of those places."
"That's correct."
"Then Moran could place bets on horse races, for example, but it would be too risky; he had no way to know if he would actually earn anything from his bets and shooting down bookmakers wouldn't improve his finances whatsoever."
"Brilliant, John!"
"So there is a third option left: playing card games, like poker, but here again it would take Moran too long to enter the illegal card clubs. You said he is in dire straits and he can't wait for too long, meaning the one way left for him to play quickly is the network of on-line poker games..."
The doctor suddenly slapped his forehead in a gesture of hard realization.
"Oh my gosh! The Park Lane murder!"
"My goodness, John, you are scintillating tonight! You ought to fall through floors more often. Yes, my dear blogger, Moran is the culprit responsible for the death of the Honourable Ronald Adair, who recently had his head exploded by a gunshot while being quietly sitting in his bedroom. It has been quite a mysterious case, hasn't it? Considering the mutilations done to Adair's head, one would think the shot had been done with a gun loud enough to wake up the house and the whole neighbourhood, considering Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare. But nobody heard a thing; the garden below Adair's bedroom window has not been disturbed; there are no buildings at a close enough distance of the mansion to be useful to a shooter. And yet, Adair met a gruesome death in the comfort of his own house. As soon as I've read about this case in an Irish newspaper, I knew this murder bore Moran's signature. So I came back to London under a disguise, and then I called Mycroft to tell him the worldwide hunt was over since the last of Moriarty's lieutenants was roaming the streets of our old city. Very sporting of him!"
"And you have a plan to flush this rat out?"
"Indeed I do, John. This is why I have been prowling around our old rooms after having spread a rumour among the homeless network that a man, bearing a striking resemblance to the late Sherlock Holmes, had been spotted nearby 221 B Baker Street. I knew Moran wouldn't be able to resist sending spies to get a confirmation of my haunting. It didn't fail, by the way: Baker Street is under surveillance for about a week. A good thing Mrs. Hudson has left for Manchester for a few days, otherwise she would have chased after the spies with her broom and I didn't need this kind of indiscreet intervention!"
The doctor couldn't repress a chuckle at the image of Mrs. Hudson charging at ruffians while armed only with a cleaning item. She wouldn't have hesitated a second to do it in loving memory of Sherlock, the dear woman!
"I was making the last preparations for my trap in Camden House when you showed up on 221 B's doorstep today. I cursed my stupidity as I remembered too late the third anniversary of my death was close, and it was obvious you and Mrs. Hudson would visit my grave at the cemetery. Since she was out of town, I figured you would take the hint and leave, allowing me to neutralize Moran and then reveal myself without the worry of having any enemies behind me. But... as you were leaving, I couldn't resist to take a look at you... I had to know if you were faring well."
Moved beyond words, John sat back on the couch next to Sherlock. The detective's simple confession was worth a thousand poetic declarations of friendship; the younger Holmes had missed his friend very much, to the point of risking the ruin of a three-year hunt just for a chance to look at him for a few seconds. There were no doubts in the doctor's mind that Sherlock would trade the Crown Jewels without batting an eyelid in exchange of John's safety.
"Did I wreck your plans with my impromptu visit at Camden House?"
"Not at all, John! You took me by surprise, for sure, but apart from a collapsed floor I have erased all traces of our passage. Moran won't pay any attention to a destroyed structure since he will be way more focused on the surprise I have in reserve for him."
"What is it?" asked the doctor, his eyes shining from curiosity.
"Do you want to participate in the capture of Moran? It will be hard and dangerous."
"Try and stop me from helping you!"
"You'll come with me tonight?"
"When you like and where you like."
The two men exchanged a knowing look and then busted out laughing, Sherlock's deep baritone voice making a nice contrast with John's blithe giggles. The detective gave the doctor a one-armed hug and asked:
"This is indeed like the old days, isn't it?"
"Oh God, yes," answered John, his face glowing like the sun in summer.
TBC...