It was the second Thursday in December, and while most of London was joyfully preparing for Christmas, Sebastian Moran was at work, fuming. That leprechaun Watson was smarter than he'd expected. He thought that he'd sent a message with Hamilton, who car had "stalled" in front of a train a few days before, but evidently it wasn't enough to stop half of Britain from blabbing to the little blond doctor. Frustrated, Moran had tried talking to Stamper; Stamper's position at the Gazette had made him a powerful assistant in turning the media against Sherlock. To say that the meeting didn't end well was an understatement.
Moran said, "You better remember who employs you, Chris. I wouldn't want your recreation in Southeast Asia to come to light."
"Funny thing about that, Sebastian," the older man said, folding his hands. "I called our friends in Ho Chi Minh City the other day, or at least I tried to. It seems they're a little, shall we say, buried in their work."
Moran's eyes went wide briefly, but he resumed his defiant mask. "So what? I still have proof that you –"
Chris cut him off. "No. You had proof. Your men in Ho Chi Minh, your men in Beijing, and your men in Moscow are all gone. And without them, you don't have me. Now get out of my office."
Moran drummed his fingers on Jim's old desk and scowled. God, he wished Jim was here! The press conference was a mere 18 hours away and if he didn't do something about it soon, everything he and Jim had built would collapse. If only there was some way to stop Watson! Moran supposed he could murder him, but that was too obvious; even Scotland Yard could figure out that he had a grudge against the interfering shrimp. No, he needed to be a little more subtle – a distraction of some sort…
Oh. Of course. Why hadn't he thought of this sooner? Moran started cleaning his favourite toy.
On the morning of the press conference, John stood backstage with Mary, Chris, Violet, Henry, and two of the Geek Interpreter boys. Before they went onstage, he thanked each participant profusely, giving encouraging words to the very shy Geek boys and a kiss to Mary. The seven of them walked into the auditorium expecting to hear a din of reporters and see a thousand cameras flashing. Instead, they were greeted with silence.
"What the hell?" John said to the lone reporter. "Where is everybody?"
The reporter, clearly an intern on his first assignment, said, "Didn't you hear? Ron Adair was murdered last night. They've called everyone off this story to cover him."
Mary gasped. "Ron? From Rise and Shine? But he's so nice! Are they sure it's him?"
"I'm afraid so, ma'am. Strange business too; looks like he was home alone, all the doors locked. No idea who did it. Terribly sorry, but I've got to get going."
John hugged Mary and said softly, "Was he a friend of your dad's?"
Through tears, she replied, "He was a friend of everybody's. God, who would do such a thing?"
"I don't know," John lied. Moran.
Later that morning, Mycroft's pre-paid phone buzzed with a text. His face remained an impassive mask as he typed out the last conversation he would ever have on this phone.
Bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover. – S
Lovely. But I'm afraid there isn't peace ever after. – M
Did you tie up traffic again? – S
No. Murder. Police completely confounded. – M
As always. Interesting case? – S
Very. Will fill you in tonight. – M
It's so kind of the Yard to have a present for me upon my return. – S
Indeed. Welcome home. – M
Moran leaned back in his chair with his feet on the desk and a smug expression on his face. The press conference had been thwarted and Scotland Yard was flummoxed. There was only one obstacle left, and he knew just how to get rid of it. Time to make a phone call.
"It's Moran. I need you to find out if he's helping with the Adair case. Go to his house and go through everything, and I mean everything. Papers, mobile, computer, underwear drawer, whatever, just find out. Then when you're finished, bring him to me."
Moran hung up the phone looking much like a piranha on its way to a feeding frenzy.