Disclaimer: same as Chapter 1
Author's notes:
- To LienaGrace: I am glad you liked the previous chapter. Martin Freeman's picture should figure in the dictionary, next to the word "Adorable"!
- "The Booted Cat" or "Puss in Boots" is a fairy tale written in the seventieth century by French author by Charles Perrault (1628–1703).
Chapter 7: Behold the enemy
The long wait started at Camden House. As the hours flew by, Sherlock and John remained hidden in the shadows, peeking through the dirty window panes to look down at the street. Passer-bys came and went, hurrying home since the weather was turning cold and windy, and their number was thinning at each muffled strike of Big Ben. The full moon was out, gracing the sky with a glorious display of silvery light but, for once, John would have preferred the satellite to under a shroud of clouds. They were lying in wait for a dangerous predator and darkness was their best ally for this task. However, Nature wasn't to be commanded and the moon kept moving in the heavenly dome, shining with all its might and giving an elegant indication of the passing of time.
Sherlock had been pensive and sullen since their last conversation hours ago. His grey eyes had turned into the hardest steel as he watched like a hawk the 3-D image of himself and Baker Street with a refrained impatience that he rarely showed during stakeouts. He would either remain as still as a statue behind the window, either pacing up and down the bedroom at the risk of falling into the gap responsible for John's previous fall. The doctor hadn't tried to make small talk, though: he knew his friend resented this kind of things and exile certainly wouldn't have smoothed the asperities of his character. John felt his stomach tying into knots from the suspense, and yet he wasn't afraid; he knew who the enemy was, the trap was set and his gun was ready. It was just a matter of endurance and John, from his army days and his medical training, had enough patience for two. He could understand Sherlock's anxiousness, since Moran's capture was the home straight and a cruel twist of fate could annihilate three years of harsh labour. Moran could decide to come another day; his spies could have found something fishy about 221 B Baker Street; John could have been spotted entering Camden House earlier in the evening; Moran could have detected the deception behind the electronic image of Sherlock; police informers could have tipped off Lestrade about the younger Holmes' presence in London; Mrs. Hudson could come back from Manchester sooner than expected and been taken hostage; and what if... What if...
John shook his head, clearing those frightening thoughts out of his mind. It wasn't the moment to scare himself with "What ifs'', he had to concentrate on his watch! Crouching nearby the sash window's still, he turned his attention back to 221 B, he could see the image of Sherlock moving "out" of the armchair to "walk" through the living room back and forth and then "resuming" its place in the armchair. The realism of the actions was so marvellous, it made John reach out and brush the detective's hand to make sure he still had the real one sitting next to him – an action that would usually make Sherlock chuckle lightly in amusement. Their surveillance had lasted for hours and the doctor had witnessed the 3-D ghost standing up, walking, crossing its legs, waving its hands, all this giving the perfect illusion of life. Of course, it was necessary since Moran wouldn't have been fooled for very long by an image as still as a poster and yet, it unnerved John every time. He hoped their prey would show up soon so his friend's dummy would stop throwing him off-kilter.
Something else was also annoying John: the presence of two men he had spotted sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house in Baker Street. Nothing was remarkable about them – ordinary clothes, calm behaviour – but the former soldier's instincts had kicked in and he knew they were dangerous people. These two men barely talked to each other, avoided eating or smoking and were constantly glancing at 221 B; they had obviously other things in mind than hanging around a gradually clearing street in the wee hours of the night. John had notified Sherlock about their presence but the detective had just given a one-word answer ("Unimportant") about this fact before sitting down on the floor and pressing his fingers against one another, a sure sign of him thinking hard. John hadn't pressed the matter but he was convinced those men had to be watched closely.
Suddenly, Sherlock got on his feet with the violence of an unlatched spring. John, surprised, opened his mouth to ask what the problem was but one look on his friend's face made him silent. Sherlock's handsome features were as rigid as stone, his eyes shining in keen alert. He seized John's hand, hauled him on his feet and, an instant later, the two men had pulled out of the damaged bedroom to hide in the opposite one.
John had barely the time to comprehend what was happening before Sherlock pinned him against mouldy wallpaper and kept him there in an iron-like grip, one warning finger upon his lips. The detective flattened himself against his friend, cocooning John inside the folds of the long coat, and then he whispered in a barely-audible voice:
"He's coming."
John shivered in spite of the warmth of both the woollen garment and Sherlock's body. He hadn't heard a thing but he knew his friend's sense of hearing was as keen as his eyesight. One minute passed, then two, and yet Sherlock never moved an inch, sandwiching John between the wall and him. Then a low, stealthy sound was heard outside Camden House – to be precise, at the backyard of the house. John's hand closed upon the handle of his gun and then he unlocked the safety catch, his throat drying up like in the middle of the Sahara desert. A squeaky noise marked the opening and shutting of the back door; footsteps crept down the hallway: the intruder obviously wanted to be discreet but in this ancient, empty house even the littlest noise reverberated through the damaged walls with the harshness of a Larsen effect – especially for the two men on the alert, upstairs.
The steps of the damaged staircase groaned one after another, making John think: "The ogre climbs up the stairs of his castle", remembering "The Booted Cat" story from his childhood. Sherlock nearly crushing his friend alive against the wall as he promptly covered them both with his dark coat. John understood the detective wanted to shield them both from the intruder, though, and never made a noise of protest in spite of the fact that he couldn't see anything.
The younger Holmes, however, could peek through the folds of his coat and had no trouble seeing the vague outline of a man in the gloomy light, stepping out of the staircase. The intruder was carrying a flat, rectangular suitcase, obviously holding a dismantled shotgun. He was within three yards of the hiding detective and doctor; at any moment, he could have discerned the silhouettes hugging the wall in the opposite bedroom but, by a stroke of luck, he stood only for an instant before entering the damaged bedroom. He avoided the gap on the floor to crouch beneath the sash window, at the exact place where Sherlock and John had been on watch for hours, and deposited his suitcase on the floor. The intruder raised noiselessly the glass pane for half a foot, and then he smiled at the sight of the electronic ghost moving slightly behind the windows of Mrs. Hudson's house.
Sherlock very softly pulled his coat away from his and John's face; peering through the bedroom's entrance, two pairs of gray and dark blue eyes locked on the sinister figure huddled nearby the window. In spite of the dim light, it was easy to see the intruder seemed to be barely able to contain his excitement: his eyes were shining as if they were phosphorous; his lips were curled up in a demonic smile; his whole body had tensed in anticipation, like he was going to jump any moment. He was dressed in black from head to toes but the light coming from Baker Street fell upon his wild, light-coloured hair, the unkempt moustache under a projecting nose and his pointed teeth.
Behold the enemy. Sebastian Moran.
"Definitively a tiger," thought John, also noticing the intruder's gaunt face scored with deep, savage lines. "A predator which is irresistibly drawn by the bait; and yet, he can still bolt at the merest sign of alert and disappear, never to be seen again."
Sherlock's hand landed on the doctor's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze, indicating that he had the situation under control and his plan was working perfectly. John wasn't feeling the same kind of calm, though. The figure in front of them was radiating murder but also unpredictability, just like the infamous Jim Moriarty and the blond man remembered too well the terrible fear he had felt after he had been forced to wear a bomb vest by the psychopath before the confrontation at the pool; however, John refused to let himself being crippled by awful memories and he tightened his grip on the Browning, ready to defend his friend any time.
Moran snickered ever so slightly at the 3-D image "sitting" in an armchair, and then he knelt on the floor to open his suitcase. He worked quickly; in less than a minute, a sniper rifle was assembled to the perfection and former soldier John couldn't help but reluctantly admire the man's skilfulness in handling firearms in the dark. Moran loaded a cartridge in the chamber and, with a maniacal smile on his lips, he crouched down and rested the end of the barrel, equipped with a sound suppressor, upon the ledge of the open window. He cuddled the butt of the rifle into his shoulder and locked his shining gaze on Sherlock's electronic ghost; the expression on his face turned from demented to concentrated, every inch the sniper on a mission. Moran stayed rigid, almost motionless for a moment but John knew he was actually adjusting his aim through the telescopic sight.
Then, Moran pressed on the trigger. A soft coughing noise preceded the silvery tinkle of broken glass, a testimony that the window of 221 B Baker Street had been shattered. At that instant, Sherlock jumped on the hit man's back and hurled him flat against the floor. In the confusion, the sniper rifle fell down on the dirty wooden planks as well but the two fighting men paid it no attention. Moran roared like a giant cat and, kicking furiously, he managed to get on his feet. He couldn't make out who his attacker was in the gloom but this kind of detail didn't matter to the former Colonel. He punched the detective right on the face before wrapping both hands on Sherlock's throat, squeezing the life out of him as the younger man was wriggling desperately on the floor.
"No!" roared John as well. Shooting in the dim light was too dangerous so he swung his arm furiously and struck Moran on the head with the butt of his handgun. The enemy let out a shocked gasp, as if he were utterly surprised someone have dared to hit him, and then he dropped upon on the planks like a fallen tree.
"Sherlock!"
"I'm fine, John."
"Don't give me your tough guy act," grumbled the doctor, annoyed that his friend still hadn't learned to take care of himself during his absence. He held out his hand and Sherlock gratefully accepted it to get back on his feet. Then, the two friends looked down at the senseless man on the floor.
"Do you have any handcuffs?" asked John.
"No," answered Sherlock while arranging his shirt's collar.
"Damn it! How are we going to tie him up? I haven't seen any rope lying about in this house."
"It won't be necessary," said the detective while taking his phone out of his coat's pocket. He hit a number on the speed dialling and, a few seconds later, a muffled voice could be heard in the earphone.
"Yes?"
"It's done," was the laconic answer of the younger Holmes.
"Okay."
Sherlock shut down his Smartphone and put it back in his pocket, while John was looking at him with rounded eyes.
"Who have you been talking to? Is it Mycroft?"
"My dear John, after all these years you should know by now my brother is deeply allergic to any kind of legwork. He's not the kind to stay out in the streets all night, waiting for a murderer to show up – not even in the comfort of his beloved limousine. However, he's very good for delegating this kind of tasks. Would you be so kind to take a look at the street?"
John complied and the first thing he saw was the broken window pane of their living-room's window, and he absurdly thought about Mrs. Hudson and how she would be upset at them again for damaging her property. Then, he looked down and his heart skipped a beat as he saw the two men spotted earlier had left the doorway; they were quickly crossing Baker Street, in the direction of Camden House.
"Sherlock! The two men... The guys who were hanging around, they are coming right at us!"
"Why, of course. I just gave them the signal to come."
"What?"
"These two men that you mistook for Moran's spies are in fact employees of Mycroft. Brother Dear sent them here for back-up and to be ready for a forceful intervention in case my trap would fail. Good thing it hasn't, but still I wouldn't mind a little bit of help to truss the Colonel up like a chicken. Poor Moran, in a minute he will change from a tiger into a volatile!"
Barely-audible footsteps signaled the presence of other human beings in Camden House, and John almost jumped out of his skin after the two men noiselessly climbed the staircase and reached the upper floor. Sherlock gave no indication of being impressed by their stealth, though: he merely nodded his head in the direction of Moran, who was grunting on the floor, and the men wasted no time tying the shooter's hands with plastic cuffs. Then they hurled Moran on his feet, paying no attention to his groans of pain, and held him between them, supporting his weight.
"Thank you, gentlemen," said Sherlock. John couldn't bring himself to say something, though: Mycroft's creatures had indeed a sinister appearance at a closer look and there were no doubts in the doctor's mind that they had an encyclopedic knowledge about how to end a life – a far cry from cool-as-a-cucumber Anthea, Mycroft's personal assistant, a sharp-dressed woman constantly playing with her mobile phone.
"You have contacted the police as well, I hope?" asked Sherlock.
"They're on their way, Sir; we made it clear DI Lestrade was to come."
"Good!"
"Lestrade?" said John.
Sherlock glanced at his friend.
"Problem?"
"No," whispered the doctor. He did have a problem about meeting Lestrade after three years of estrangement but he didn't want to talk about it in front of Mycroft's men.
Sherlock decided to not press the matter on; in less than a minute, police sirens could be heard in the background while a few loiterers, alarmed by the sound of the broken glass, had begun to collect in Baker Street. Tires screeched, car doors slammed and the clatter of running feet upon the macadam signaled the arrival of the armed forces. Mycroft's men tightened their grip on Moran, who was starting to come around, as the sound of a herd of panicked elephants entering Camden House could be heard all over the neighborhood. The staircase was climbed on once again – one of the steps cracked neatly under the pressure, making a man curse loudly – and finally a half-dozen PCs in uniform, carrying pocket lamps, invaded the bedroom, following the lead of a man with salt-and-pepper hair and dressed with a dark blue jacket.
"Holy God!" exclaimed the man. "Is it really you, Sherlock?"
"It is me indeed, Lestrade," replied the younger Holmes, his hard eyes locked on the Detective Inspector. "I figured you would want a little unofficial help again, since London's crime rate had increased quite a lot during my absence. Five unsolved murders in one year is unacceptable, Lestrade; they are so simple even a three-year-old could have done the job! But I've got to admit the Molesey Mystery had been handled without your usual... Oh, let's just say you did better than usual and be done with it."
John tried very hard not to smile at the backhanded compliment, but another groan from Moran promptly reminded everyone present about the dangerous man in cuffs. The constables raised their lamps and the light beams fell upon the Colonel, illuminating his features – the doctor noticed Mycroft's men, while holding Moran, were also hiding their faces by remaining behind the prisoner. A trickle of blood was running down Moran's face, a testimony of having being recently struck on the head, and yet it didn't stop him from struggling against his bounds in a futile attempt to break free. John took out his handgun and aimed it at Moran, followed by Lestrade but the murderer paid them no heed. His cruel blue eyes remained fixed upon Sherlock's face with a mixed expression of hate, anger and desperation.
"Bastard!" roared Moran. "Clever bastard!"
"Ah, Colonel, fancy meeting you at long last," said Sherlock in a calm tone, as if he was meeting a good acquaintance in a pub. "You can't imagine my disappointment after missing you in Columbia and Ireland, but this reunion in certainly makes up for it. What better than a dilapidated house to find a rat?"
"Smart-aleck bastard!" screamed Moran at the top of his lungs, like a man possessed.
"Enough!" interfered Lestrade.
"Oh, where are my manners? I have not introduced you to our guest, Detective Inspector. This gentleman is Colonel Sebastian Moran, formerly of the Royal Armoured Corps and the best sniper of Her Majesty's Army before being dishonourable discharged on suspicion of murdering innocent civilians in the ex-Yugoslavia war of the 1990s. He has since embraced a hit man career, offering his services to any petty criminal willing to pay his fees."
John, still aiming at Moran, couldn't repress a shudder: the Colonel bore a striking resemblance to him. They had about the same height and they both had light-coloured hair (blond for John, dirty white for Moran) and blue eyes (deep ocean against hard sapphires). Also, like John, Moran was lean but muscular, judging by the efforts of Mycroft's men to keep him still. The doctor remembered the conversation he had earlier with Sherlock in 221 B; his friend had told him about Moriarty electing one of his goons as his "sidekick" just to imitate the detective out of spite, and how he had picked up Moran for the qualities he shared with John. But the comparison didn't end there: Moriarty had probably chosen Moran also because he made a horrible caricature of John Watson.
"Foxy, damned bastard!" screamed the Colonel. "I'll kill you if it's the last thing I do! Your luck won't last forever!"
Sherlock snorted at that threat, but then the prisoner added: "And I'll off that little doctor of yours as well! I'll send you his head as a souvenir!"
The younger Holmes moved as fast as lightning; before anyone could react, he had grabbed Moran by the collar and lifted him a few inches above the floor, in spite of Mycroft's men trying to pull him off.
"Sherlock!" exclaimed John.
"Let him go, Holmes! We have him covered, he can't escape!" added Lestrade.
But Sherlock paid no attention to the Detective Inspector's orders. Moran's face was quickly turning red from the lack of air but his bulging eyes made contact with the younger Holmes' incandescent gaze, shining from a frightening inner rage.
"One hair... Touch one hair on John's head and I will skin you alive!"
TBC...