The house was dark as pitch when Holmes opened the unlocked door with a gentle push. He sucked his breath in softly as his eyes began to adjust and his mind clicked. The floorboards creaked ominously as he began to move through the house. Once or twice, he stumbled, his balance being thrown by the shoulder injury. As he reached out to catch himself against the wall, he became aware of the fact that the wallpaper hung down in ribbons.
Irony is a funny thing.
Holmes steadily made his way through the house, finally stopping in a large, square room lit only by a gas lamp on a rickety old table. This was the only piece of furniture in the room; the rest of it appeared to be empty.
He exhaled again, allowing himself to feel the pain in his shoulder. It had only increased since he had received the note from Moran, suggesting that it was more a product of his mind than anything else.
Holmes leaned against one wall, reaching a hand up to stroke the faded pattern that had once accented the room. How many years had it been since the paper had seen the light of a gas lamp or the soft conversation of happy occupants? He couldn't remember this house ever being occupied. It was a shame really, what with it being in such a lovely part of town and all.
People told stories about a ghost haunting this particular building. They said that it was the spirit of a father driven insane by the loss of his two children. The cause of the children's death had never been reported because he had supposedly hidden their bodies in the cellar of the house before the police could investigate. He had been arrested and convicted for their murder but the police had never found the children. People liked to say that one could hear his ghost shrieking if they went near the house at night. And every year on the night of his hanging, someone who had been seen to walk by the house on that day would disappear, never to be seen again.
Fanciful tales intended to scare the children, most people agreed. And Holmes was inclined to agree. It had never stopped him from moving into the flat opposite the house.
Even now, his blood refused to stiffen as a creak in the back room informed him that he was not alone. Because he was far more concerned about a living man, rather than a dead one.
He glanced over at the door as the creaking began to move closer. It was almost funny to consider, but he wasn't actually concerned about this meeting. Perhaps he should be, but he simply wasn't. He was rather in agreement with the letter: a meeting like this was "long overdue."
"Nice touch, this," he said softly. The creaking paused. "Camden House. The very place that I had you arrested the last time we met."
The creaking resumed and Holmes raised one eyebrow expectantly at the door.
"I thought that you might appreciate the significance, even if that doctor friend of yours won't."
And the speaker finally appeared, taking pride in his grand entrance. He was an elderly man, with a thin, projecting nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled mustache. His face was horrifyingly gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. His ragged overcoat was tied tightly around a gaunt waist and his yellowing eyes peered out from under a shabby hat.
"Unemployment doesn't suit you, Colonel," Holmes remarked. "You've lost quite a bit of weight."
Colonel Moran gave a hollow laugh. "Well I can't say that your employment suits you any better. You look like a man brought back from the dead." His boots clacked against the floor, all caution abandoned in his step.
"I can't say that I was surprised to receive your letter." Holmes remarked.
"Weren't you? I would have thought that you had expected a letter from the professor himself." Moran chuckled at that. "Yes, he's alive. As well you know."
"Am I that obvious?"
"Come, come, Mr. Holmes. London's greatest detective didn't receive his title because of his talent with the violin. You must have known."
"I imagine that it is a particularly thrilling story," said Holmes dryly. "His dramatic escape and rescue."
"Quite," said Moran, shrugging. "But I would hate for the professor to be robbed of telling you that story himself. He does so love to be dramatic."
"Then he is quite different from the Professor Moriarty that I remember," said Holmes.
"He's changed quite a bit, yes." Moran allowed. "But then haven't we all. It's been a long time since the affair at Reichenbach Falls. The professor and I have had to remain underground for so long now just because everyone thinks that the both of us are dead."
"They think that Moriarty is dead," corrected Holmes. "Most people are still under the impression that you are languishing away in a Scotland Yard prison cell."
"Much to the shame of Scotland Yard."
"How did you manage to escape so neatly?" asked Holmes. "Even the inspectors at the Yard don't know that you are no longer an inmate."
"But you do," stated Moran. "Isn't it obvious?"
Holmes shook his head in amazement. "Won't you extend my greetings to Sergeant Billings the next time you deliver his payment?"
Moran chuckled. "It wasn't easy to strike a bargain with him. But, since I'm assumed to be in prison with a life sentence, I get so few visitors. I can get away with long periods of time away with no questions asked. And Billings was most agreeable when I got him to see the light."
"Very few people in this world can negotiate as strongly as you can when you are in a tight spot."
"You haven't asked me why I called you here," said Moran. "Or must I really assume that you know already?"
"Unfinished business." Holmes shrugged. "I was only glad that I managed to attract your attention at all."
"Did you really shoot yourself in the shoulder or did you manage to get our man to do it for you? How much of a coward are you?"
"Your man was most uncooperative."
Moran laughed, baring his yellow teeth. "You really are incorrigible, Mr. Holmes. But you are persistent, I'll give you that. I assume that you also know why I decided to call you here tonight."
"I'm quite certain that I do. Although it is really quite a shame."
"As much as I'd like to say that there is nothing personal about my wanting your death that would be a lie." Moran sighed. "I think that you are aware of the fact that I want your death to come about very badly, Mr. Holmes."
"I'll admit that that is not surprising," said Holmes.
"Over these past few years, I have thought of a thousand ways to kill you, my good man. And I'd count off the reasons why you deserve each and every one of those deaths but I would run the risk of boring you. And we certainly can't have that." Moran fished around inside his overcoat, smiling all the while. "And I have made a decision."
"Oh?"
"The biggest question that I have had to ask myself is this: how badly do I want your death? Will I grant you a merciful death, therefore getting away with my crime? Or will I cause you unimaginable agony, therefore running the risk of being convicted with your murder. And would being convicted with your murder be cause for shame or celebration?" Moran shook his head. "So you see, I've had a great deal to consider."
Holmes shrugged. "What exactly did you have in mind?"
Moran licked his lips and turned away. "Well, I do suppose that I have come to a decision." His laughter began as a low chuckle, morphing and growing in volume until echoed throughout the empty house. He finally turned back to the detective, clutching a small vial in one hand. "I shudder to think what your friend the doctor will do when he finds an unfortunate victim of suicide lying in the very house he resumed his career in."
Suicide…Holmes could feel the pain in his injured shoulder increasing at the suggestion. He kept his face carefully blank as he waited for the colonel to continue.
"Do you know what this is, Mr. Holmes?" Moran held out the vial expectantly. "It is a substance that, if I am not gravely mistaken, you are quite familiar with. Cocaine?"
"What makes you so certain that I plan to go along with this scheme of yours?" asked Holmes.
"Because I know you. I know that you will not risk putting a friend in harms way if you have the ability to stop it."
"No more of that, Moran," said Holmes, his tone suddenly taking on a coldness that was unmistakable. "Your schemes have already killed at least one of my friends. I have no intention of letting you harm another."
Moran stared at his for a long moment before his lips peeled away from his teeth in a mocking leer. "You think that I am thinking of your friend Dr. Watson. Aren't you."
Holmes remained silent.
"No, Mr. Holmes. Killing the good doctor would only hurt you. You will mourn but you will get over it. No, I had something much more…dramatic in mind."
"And what might that be?" Holmes had difficulty keeping the pain out of his voice. Because he understood what Moran meant.
"You do realize that I'm aware of the fact that you understand who my target is. The good doctor would never forgive you. Isn't it better that you allow me to kill you now rather than allowing the rage and grief of your friend to do it later?"
Holmes swallowed hard. "This is madness, Moran. I planned to speak to you, not to arrange a murder."
"Your own murder," said Moran. "Isn't it ironic how things can turn out?"
Moran produced the syringe from his pocket, fingering the weapon with a certain amount of glee. "Make your choice, Mr. Holmes. It's you or her. At least if I kill you, you still have a chance at life."
He hesitated for a split second. There was no lie in Moran's eyes, no bluff in his tone. He meant everything he said. But the split second was more than enough time for Moran to lunge.
Holmes felt the needle prick his injured arm and the pain increased tenfold as he tried to twist away, allowing the needle to draw blood as it was dragged through is skin. He gave a gasp at the unexpected strength of the dose, falling to his knees in horror. He could feel his heartbeat increasing and his vision seemed to slur. Holmes knew all too well what was coming next. And then the muscle spasms began and he fell to the floor, unable to control the movement. The pain in his gut hit him like a fist and he could feel the bile rising up in his throat to make an appearance on the wood floor.
His eyes rolled up towards the ceiling, focusing just long enough to see the triumphant look on Moran's face.
"Good bye, Sherlock Holmes."
And he wanted nothing more in the world than to lash back out at the man, to strike at him with his failing arms. But there was nothing he could do as Moran walked out of the room, out of the house, and onto the street below them.
Watson was kneeling over the cliff at Reichenbach Falls, his head in his hands as he contemplated the death of his friend. Holmes tried to reach out to him from his position in the bushes but his feet seemed unable to move.
He tried to cry out but his voice failed him. All he could do was watch.
"Holmes."
And then his feet were moving, moving so quickly that he couldn't stop them. He was kneeling on the ground next to Watson, his hand on his friend's shoulder. He tried to speak comfortingly but somehow he knew that Watson couldn't hear him. He cast one glance down at the waterfall below. One glance too many.
The body on the rocks below was unmistakable. The angle of the bloodied face, the long, bony fingers that reached out to the gun that lay on the rocks.
Suicide.
"Holmes," Watson called, knocking repeatedly on the door of his friend. He paused for a moment, listening intently before glancing over his shoulder at Lestrade and shrugging.
"Do you suppose that he's all right?" asked Lestrade.
"He was fine when I left this morning," said Watson, trying the locked doorknob. "That was only a few hours ago. Surely he can't have gone that far downhill. Holmes!"
There was still no answer from inside. Lestrade and Watson exchanged a tentative look.
"Perhaps we should try to break the door down," suggested Lestrade. "That seems to be the only option if he doesn't answer. He could be in trouble."
"You're right," said Watson. "Will you help me?"
Together, the two men began to throw themselves against the door, once, twice, and on the third try, it opened. They staggered slightly inside, not quite having regained their balance before looking around at the room. Something was definitely off here.
The bed was empty, the closets thrown open with clothing tossed everywhere. Books were scattered on the floor and his desk was littered with so much clutter that they could no longer see the wood below. Granted, Holmes wasn't exactly the tidiest of fellows but this was appalling, even by his standards.
"Is this how you left the room this morning?" asked Lestrade.
"I didn't come in this morning. But this isn't how he keeps it on a regular basis. Not his desk."
"Watson, something must have happened. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?" Lestrade examined the clutter on the desk with an investigator's eye.
Watson bit his lip, trying desperately to remember. "He received a letter this morning that he didn't want me to see. He didn't open it at the breakfast table, just stuck it in his dressing gown pocket."
"Is it still there?"
"It's possible. It's a start, anyway," said Watson.
The muscle spasms were only growing increasingly worse. It was as though he was paralyzed with uncontrollable motion. His shoulder wound had reopened with the almost constant thrashing, leaking red onto the floor so that he was rolling around in a sickening pool of his own blood.
His jaw was clenched tightly against the pain but a soft moan of pain escaped. His mind was failing him as he tried to reason his way out. And this showed no sign of improvement.
Mary Watson's body racked with sobs as he approached the coffin. He could see her draped over her husband's body, tears of an immeasurable grief streaming down her beautiful features. The bullet in his temple was unmistakable and Holmes gave a cry of astonishment.
The cry alerted Mary of his presence and she whirled around to face him, her tear streaked face contorting in an expression of pure rage. "How could you?"
"Got it." Lestrade held up the letter that he had found on the desk.
"That's wonderful, Lestrade." Watson scanned the parchment for a moment, sucking in his breath as he realized where his friend was. "That's incredible."
"What is?"
"He is directly across the street from us in Camden House." Watson looked up at the inspector and shook his head in amazement.
"I can have my men there in a matter of minutes," said Lestrade. "Let me just use your phone."
"No, Lestrade," Watson stopped his friend from leaving the room. Lestrade stared. "I think that it would be better if you and I went alone."
"But Holmes is in there with a madman and a severe shoulder injury. Wouldn't it be better to at least have some backup?"
"I'd rather that we did this ourselves, Lestrade."
"You're right," said Lestrade after a moment. "Let's go."
Cookies for anyone who recognizes Camden House!