Disclaimer: same as Chapter 1
Author's notes:
- To LienaGrace: Thank you! I have toyed with the idea that if Moriarty was Sherlock's evil twin, then it would be logical Moran was John's. And I am glad we are on the same wavelength about Martin Freeman ;-)
Chapter 8: The mighty has fallen
"Sherlock!"
Simultaneous cries from Doctor Watson and DI Lestrade didn't stop the detective from strangling Colonel Moran. The younger Holmes looked akin to a bird of prey with his eyes as hard as flint stones and his claw-like fingers wrapped around the man's neck. Moran let out a pitiful squeak and his struggles became less forceful, even Mycroft's men had a hard time maintaining their hold on the prisoner. The uniformed constables were looking at the scene with rounded eyes, undecided about what to do since Lestrade couldn't decide to give orders. John, fearing the DI would take another wrong decision, decided to take action; otherwise, his friend would be thrown in a prison cell and it wouldn't be a glorious return from the dead for the world's only consulting detective. Jumping forward, he seized Sherlock's arm with both hands and shouted:
"Sherlock, let go of him! He's not worth it!"
"No, but you are," replied Sherlock in an icy voice, tightening his grip on Moran's throat. The former Colonel had lost all his arrogance and was gurgling loudly, a pale image of the dangerous man he had been a minute ago.
In desperation, John begged his friend:
"Let him go, Sherlock. Don't throw your new life away; you've waited for three years to catch that Moriarty arse-licker, you are not going to leave London again over the tiny matter of his death!"
"Tiny matter?" repeated an astonished Lestrade, but John paid him no heed.
"Sherlock, this man is nothing. He's scum. Don't lower to his level by killing him. Let him rot with the cockroaches in prison, that's his place. Sherlock, please?"
The gentle plea made the detective suddenly drop Moran, who would have fallen on the dirty floor like a sack of potatoes if not for Mycroft's men. The Colonel coughed loudly as air entered his lungs again, his blood-shot eyes rolling in his sockets. He would have been comical if he had been a cartoon character, but inside this empty house, after a foiled hit and surrounded by police officers he was downright pitiful.
"You're right, John. Lestrade, could you ask your least irritable constables to seize Colonel Moran and take him down to the police station?"
The DI barked the needed orders and two heavily-built uniforms grabbed Moran before clasping the handcuffs on him. Mycroft's employees retreated in the darkest corners of the bedroom, unwilling to let their faces being exposed to the pocket-lamps' light for too long. Lestrade glanced at them and then asked a silent question to Sherlock.
"Just acquaintances of mine," answered the detective, obviously not wanting to elaborate on that matter. Lestrade raised an eyebrow, but John shook his head negatively: some questions were best left unanswered and it was better to let the Shadow People remain in the background, for the policeman's sake.
Moran regained enough breath and composure to glare hatefully at the younger Holmes, growling and snarling like a wild cat, a trickle of saliva running from the corner of his mouth. He sprang forward in rage but the constables dragged him back, in spite of being way too close to the gap in the floor. John noticed out of the corner of his eye that the electronic image of Sherlock behind the 221 B window was flickering, like on a broken television screen.
"How the mighty has fallen!" said Sherlock. "Truly, Colonel Moran, I wonder how you could have been deceived by such a simple stratagem. Did your thirst for revenge blinded you, or was it just a case of plain stupidity? Frankly, being fooled by a hunting trap as old as the hills, it is kind of disappointing coming from a veteran shikari like you. Tie a goat or a monkey at a tree, lie in wait above it with your rifle, and wait until the bait brings the tiger out of the forest's shadows. Well, this abandoned house is the tree I've been hiding in with my friend, and a 3-D image of my modest person made the perfect bait. Of course, a bit of reinforcement was also needed to cage the Tiger Man, which is where Detective Inspector Lestrade and his merry men came out on handy, including a few allies thrown in for good measure. I confess you surprised me about one point, Moran: I was certain you would fire your shot from Baker Street, instead of using Camden House's convenient front window. Guess I underestimated your cowardice: you were probably too worried a passer-by may spot your little game, so you opted for a better firing place. Ah, there is always something missing! But apart from this exception, the plan worked as I expected."
The fury on Moran's face was almost unbearable to look at but then, he suddenly straightened his back and said in a disdainful voice:
"I have nothing to say to this show-off, amateur detective. Just remember, gentlemen, I've defended our country and I expect to receive the honours due to my rank!"
John inwardly thought Moran was definitively as unhinged as his former master, since he could change from psychopath to snobbish would-be lord in a blink of an eye. His complete change of attitude disconcerted some of the constables but Lestrade never faltered, keeping his gun aimed right at Moran and looking ready to use it any moment.
"Forget it!" shot the Detective Inspector back. "You are a murderer like the rest of Moriarty's lot and you will be treated like any other prisoner. Okay, that's enough! Turner and Jackson, take the prisoner downstairs, mind the gap and do not, under any circumstances, let go of him. I want this man locked up in a car in less than two minutes, got it?"
"Yes, Sir!" answered the two constables in chorus, and the group of uniforms moved towards the staircase. Moran let them lead him outside but he kept on grumbling threats under his breath, snarling like a wild bull in chains.
"By the way, Lestrade," said Sherlock with his trademark half-smile on his lips, while picking up from the floor the sniper gun Moran had used for his assassination attempt. "You may find the study of this gun to be most interesting. May I commend it to the undivided attention of your CID's? Of course such a case needs competence so, for Heaven's sake, don't ask an idiot to supervise the analysis!"
"All right, fine," said Lestrade while re-holstering his gun. "But, Sherlock, how is it that you can still be alive? I mean..."
"And, Lestrade?" interrupted the detective in a sharp voice. "Also make sure that Moran is officially charged for the murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair."
"What?" exclaimed John, genuinely shocked. "But Sherlock, Moran tried to kill you!"
"Yes, he must answer for this!" said Lestrade.
"Believe me, Detective Inspector, there are more pressing matters than this feeble attempt on my life, namely the solving of the Park Lane case. Crime rates have been growing steadily up during my absence, yes? Well, the analysis of this sniper gun will prove, without any doubts, that this weapon has been used to shoot down the young Adair and, with Moran's fingerprints all over it, proving his culpability will be a breeze. A high-profile case like this will shake the criminals' confidence and make them realise their golden age is over. I am back in town, I will solve cases – whether Scotland Yard likes it or not – and London will become a safer city again. Now, Lestrade, if my information are correct, your career has taken quite a nosedive after my disappearance, has it not?"
The Detective Inspector could hardly say otherwise; shortly after Sherlock had jumped, the Bruht girl had told her parents that she had made a mistake: the tall, dark-haired man she had seen at the hospital wasn't their kidnapper, since the real culprit had brown eyes. Her little brother had confirmed her statement when he had came out of his coma, confirming the man also had rotten teeth and a small scar on his left cheekbone. The testimonies of the Bruht children destroyed the accusations against Sherlock, and the Detective Inspector had to explain to his superiors where his clues leading to Sherlock's arrest had come from. Needless to say, they were less than pleased learning he had charged an innocent man without any tangible proofs and Lestrade had been very close to lose his job. The abandon of all charges had infuriated the public and the press; Lestrade would never forget seeing his picture on the tabloids' front pages, with the word "INCAPABLE" written in bold letters above it. For three years he had received tons of insulting e-mails from the "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" fans, his wife had divorced him and the most boring cases had been put on his desk. Receiving a phone call from Mycroft Holmes earlier in the evening had felt like a godsend!
"Yes, it did. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I do believe congratulations are in order! With your usual cunning and audacity, you have coordinated the remarkable arrest of Colonel Sebastian Moran, former First Lieutenant of criminal mastermind Moriarty and murderer of the Honourable Ronald Adair. Your slightly damaged reputation will be enormously enhanced in the Force!"
"You don't want your name to appear in the report?"
"What for? I've spent enough time running after Moriarty's creatures and it's high time to put a final end in this interminable chase. Besides, it's getting late and I wouldn't mind a few hours of peace and quiet at 221 B."
"You do look a bit tired, Sherlock," said John and this time, it was the doctor who was speaking. "How do a cup of tea in our flat sounds?"
"I would like that very much," said the detective, smiling at his friend.
Sherlock nodded to Lestrade to step out of the passage. Obviously, he wasn't in the mood to explain the conditions of his miraculous come-back and the Detective Inspector knew better than to insist. John excused himself for a minute to retrieve his walking stick he had left in a corner of the damaged bedroom and then, raising his head, he noticed that the 3-D image had disappeared from behind the window; but – and he jumped slightly at the sight – so had Mycroft's men. It made two persons and an image to vanish in less than a minute that the doctor wondered for a second if he hadn't been truly dealing with ghosts. Sherlock gently grabbed John's arm and squeezed, in a silent demand to not ask questions out loud about the Shadow People's whereabouts, and then the two men walked out of the bedroom to reach the staircase.
Once they have reached the lower level, Sherlock and John walked by the living room and something caught John's eye: the mattresses he had landed on during his first visit on Camden House were sporting new dust traces, obviously the mark of footprints. In fact, it looked like one or two persons had walked on the dirty mattresses but it wouldn't make a lot of sense since the items were piled up and standing on it would be pretty pointless. Unless...
The doctor raised upwards his dark blue eyes, in the direction of the gap in the ceiling. Could Mycroft's men have...?
"You are right, my dear John," whispered Sherlock at his friend's ear. "Mycroft's employees have used your involuntary act of destruction as an emergency exit to avoid being asked embarrassing questions by the police. A little jump, a soft landing on these handy mattresses and the job is done. Discreet persons, are they not?"
"I'll say," chuckled John. "It's a pity we haven't thanked them for their help."
"Don't worry about that, a hefty check will compensate for their sleepless night. That's the good thing about spies, money arranges everything."
The doctor and the detective exited Camden House by the front door this time, and found themselves in a whirlwind of activity: police cars painted in blue, yellow and orange fluorescent colours were coming and going, rotating blue lights were flashing, messages were overheard in portable radios while men and women in uniform were trying to contain busybodies from interfering with the operation. The noise had woken up the inhabitants of Baker Street and more than a sleepy head was peeking through curtains at the commotion downstairs. Moran was still fuming and his face was twisted in rage as the constables were struggling to make him climb inside a response car, but to no avail.
"I'll kill you, Holmes!" roared the insane man. John instinctively drew closer to the detective in a protective gesture. "I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll..."
Suddenly, one of the constables got fed up with Moran's tirade and whacked him over the head with a swift movement of the hand. The movement made the Colonel's skull bump against the roof of the car and the shock made him speechless and motionless for a little while; the uniformed seized the occasion to grab him again and threw him on the car's back seat, before slamming the door loudly on their dangerous prisoner. Sherlock let out a small sigh of impatience.
"Well, it was about time to close the cage! What in the world were they waiting for?"
"Give them some credit, Sherlock. It's not every day the Force has to deal with a stark-raving mad tiger," said John.
The younger Holmes scoffed at those words, probably thinking of a thousand ways he could have done the job with more efficiency, but then the constable who had knocked Moran out approached the two men and, with a small smile, he said:
"I believe in Sherlock Holmes."
John's eyes widened but Sherlock merely nodded in the direction of the uniformed man – whose identification badge was reading "Turner". Apparently, the famous blog was still avidly read on the Internet, even though the doctor had stopped posting updates years ago and Sherlock-believers weren't limited to fans or people needing help on cases; there were also people within Scotland Yard who didn't look down at the amateur detective but actually appreciated his help and insight.
Turner walked away after his calm declaration, but all of a sudden a furious woman in a police uniform walked towards the duo and yelled:
"I can't believe it! You... You are here, Freak!"
John felt his blood boiling inside his veins in anger as he recognized the harpy: it was Sally Donovan, the DS who had thrown those wild accusations against Sherlock about the Bruht kidnapping. The woman had been mad of jealousy towards the younger Holmes, calling him a freak and a psychopath whenever they met but her attempts to ridicule his genius in solving crimes had always failed, revealing her complete lack of self-control and manners in the process. Her resentment had grown steadily over the years, especially after Sherlock had casually revealed in a conversation that Anderson was having an adulterous affair with Donovan, which had turned into the subject of endless slander and ridicule in the Yard's bathrooms. John had asked his friend once why she was so eager to denigrate him and Sherlock had confessed the woman had tried a seduction act on him, at the early beginnings of his cooperation with the police; Donovan's deal had been simple: clues about murders, in exchange of sex. His help would boost her career and she would put an end to his loneliness. But Sherlock had thrown her out in the street, stating he could recognize a disguised prostitute when he saw one; Donovan, furious and humiliated, had vowed eternal war against the consulting detective.
John was getting ready to give the woman a piece of his mind about her past, revolting accusations against Sherlock but then something puzzling caught his eye: why was Donovan wearing a uniform?
"Well, well!" said the younger Holmes. "Isn't it Sally Donovan "in poison"?"
"Freak!" screeched the woman, regardless of the scene she was making in front of her colleagues and the public gathered behind the police lines. "How can you be here? You died, Freak! You jumped from the hospital roof, like a coward!"
"And I have resurrected, like the legendary salamander. Does it displease you? I truly hope so!"
"Freak! Psychopath! You... You..."
"I have been cleared of all charges about the Bruht kidnapping, by the way. Oh, but you are certainly quite aware of this, since after my demise you have been suspended for six months – without pay – and demoted from Detective Sergeant to Police Constable; the high-ranking executives at Metro haven't taken lightly the fact you have charged an innocent man without any real proofs, thus raising a very grave scandal and ruining your already fiendish reputation in the Force. The colleagues you've had sex with in the past all turned their backs on you, and the Chief Superintendant wasn't willing to help you either since he approved my arrest against all kinds of intelligent reasoning. He had to resign shortly after being convoked by the Commissioner, hadn't he? And pathetic Sally had to watch her hopes to become the first female Commissioner of London being flushed down the toilet like smelly excrements. Sex is the frailest base to build on a career, Donovan. Why do you think I avoid it?"
"FREAK!" yelled Donovan at the top of her lungs, her eyes bulging out of their sockets and spraying saliva everywhere. She was making a remarkable imitation of Moran and the Colonel stopped his struggles inside the police car to look at the scene, surprised by this witch in uniform who was visibly holding a grudge against his archenemy.
"Shut up, Donovan!" barked Lestrade, but his order fell on deaf ears. The woman had clearly lost her mind at the sight of her nemesis back from the dead. For three years she had endured humiliations, a public disgrace, the ruin of her lifelong dreams and her sole consolation had been Sherlock's suicide, the only thing that had prevented her from resigning. Whenever the snickering had been too dreadful to endure, she had paid a visit to the Freak's tomb and insulted his memory with the foulest words of her vocabulary – the graveyard keeper had kicked her out of the cemetery the third time he caught her, stating her disrespect for the dead was inadmissible.
"NATURE'S FREAK! YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A MONSTER, DO YOU HEAR ME? A MONSTER!"
"Donovan! If you don't shut up, I'll forget you're a woman!" shouted John, who was beginning to see red. "I've chinned a Chief Superintendant before and I won't have any scruples doing the same to a police constable!"
Sherlock calmly put his hand on the outraged doctor's shoulder.
"It won't be necessary, John. C'mon, let's have our tea."
"I'm sick and tired of this woman's insults towards you, Sherlock! If Lestrade don't make her shut her mouth, I will!"
"Now, now, my dear fellow! Let us have a bit of compassion towards Donovan. After all, she is entitled to be a bit unstable since she has managed to make such a spectacular fool of herself, eighteen months ago."
John's anger evaporated like mist under the sun at those words.
"Hunh? What do you mean?"
"You haven't kept a thorough account of the news during my absence, have you, John?" asked the detective in a mock scorning tone.
"Sorry, Sherlock, but considering the way the police and the press had slandered you for the Bruht kidnapping, I truly wasn't in the mood to watch the news after your... demise. I was so disgusted by the actions of these backstabbers," said the doctor with a meaningful glance at Lestrade, who had the good grace to blush in embarrassment, "I simply refused to turn on the telly, surf on the Internet or even take a glance at newspapers; I lived like a hermit and London could have fall, I wouldn't have given a damn. But it was better for everyone; otherwise, I don't think I would have been able to stop myself from punching a certain DI on the nose!"
"That's too bad, because an article published in the tabloids eighteen months ago would have made you smile, even just for a little bit."
"Which article?"
Muffled laughter ran among the crew of constables, much to John's amazement, and the soft sound was enough to cut Donovan's rambles short. Turner dug inside a pocket of his uniform's vest and took out a folded piece of paper, which he held out to the doctor:
"I think he means this article, Doctor Watson."
John unfolded the paper, barely aware of Donovan's sharp intake of breath, and then he gasped in surprise: it was indeed an article cut from the front page of a tabloid newspaper, with a huge colour photo showing Donovan and Anderson in an open doorway, under a street light. Anderson's pants had pooled on his feet and, even if his posterior was partly hidden by his shirt-tails, it didn't take much imagination to understand what he had been doing. Donovan had her bare legs wrapped around Anderson's waist, her panties hanging from her left ankle. Anderson was looking in horror at the photographer while Donovan was veiling her face under her long dark tresses. The article's main title was: "HARD AT WORK!" and the subtitle added: "CID and PC have strange ways to relax during investigating crime scenes". A caption under the photo read: "And you wonder why crime rates are up?"
The doctor turned astonished eyes towards Sherlock, who merely shrugged: "Not my doing, John. Paparazzi are everywhere and ghastly photos of murder victims are a sure way to earn a good pay check, so these vultures are always prowling around crime scenes. Anderson should have been more careful, sex in the open is always perilous and he has never been the soul of discretion. He lost his job but his partner has gotten out scot-free, hasn't she, Sally? Anderson gave her name in a desperate attempt to save his own skin, but she fought back tooth and nail, stating the woman in the photograph couldn't be identified; Anderson got the boot in the end but everyone in the Force damn well knows who he was having a tryst with."
John coughed loudly to hide his laughter, and then he handed back the article to Turner but the constable stopped him:
"No need, Doctor Watson, we have hundreds of colour photocopies at the office."
"We are definitively overdue for a cup of tea!" said Sherlock. "Considering the way you are coughing, John, you must have caught a cold while waiting for Moran. Or maybe you are suffering from a bout of allergy? It wouldn't be surprising, considering the amount of dust we had to inhale in this empty house but I am ready to bet you are developing an allergy to stupidity. If it's the case, it is better to keep you away from Donovan. C'mon, Doctor, it's time for your medicine!"
Sherlock grabbed the doctor by the arm and led him towards 221 B Baker Street, supporting John's weight the whole time since his friend was doubled over, coughing so hard his sides were aching.
TBC...