Sherlock moved quickly after that. He used on an old client currently located in Sydney to obtain the use of a helicopter and pilot. He waited on the rooftop of a nearby hotel that had a helipad for a man named Albert Finney to pick him up. He solved a case for Albert almost ten years ago. The wind had picked in as a brooding storm threatened on the horizon. The clouds looked angry and full of rain. He drummed his fingers nervously as scanned the horizon. The direction they would be flying in still seemed clear enough. He hoped they could outrun the oncoming mess. If they could just get there, Albert could wait out the cloudburst on the ground and head back home when it cleared. Hard, wicked squalls were common in this area. They often arrived and spent themselves quickly. But, Sherlock simply didn't have time to wait around for better weather.
He didn't wait long. Fortunately, Albert was based in Sydney and had picked up his phone on the first ring. He'd dropped everything and come immediately to help the detective. Karma, it seemed, smiled on him this day.
"Sherlock!" he'd shouted grinning wide at him from the pilot's seat. "It's good to see you, but get in, mate. I'm not authorized to land here," Albert said in a thick Aussie dialect.
Sherlock scrambled into the passenger seat ducking his tall frame to avoid the whirling blades of the small chopper. Sherlock noted Albert brought his personal favorite, a 1971 Schweitzer, possibly a 269 B? No, a "C" model, Sherlock verified as he buckled his seatbelt. And avid collector, Albert had an extensive collection of helicopters and small planes he used for a thriving tourist business. Sherlock had helped him avoid an extensive prison sentence for being accused of smuggling drugs. His business had been targeted by a vicious cartel. They had come to him hoping to use his business to convey their products, but he'd turned them down. The leader of the smuggling ring had paid Albert back by implicating him to the police as an accomplice to get his sentence shortened once he'd inevitably been caught himself.
Sherlock not only got Albert off the charge but managed to bring down the entire smuggling ring in the process. He hadn't charged Albert a penny at the time, the case had been intriguing enough to act as its own payment, but Albert told him he'd owe him any favor in his power to grant in the future.
Sherlock smiled in genuine pleasure at the short, balding Albert who looked a little thinner and just a bit more wrinkled than the last time he'd seen him. "Thank you for picking me up," Sherlock shouted over the propeller.
"Where we going, mate?"
Sherlock pulled out an aerial map and pointed to the location he wanted to go. "Get me as close to that Marina as you can," he said.
Albert nodded curtly. He eyed the oncoming storm a moment and said, "It'll be a close call, but I got ya, mate. There's a small field nearby that'll work for a landing. I assume you don't want to be seen comin' in?"
"Precisely," Sherlock responded.
Albert nodded again, and they took off from the roof. They stayed just ahead of the thunderclouds. "It's a big storm," Albert told him on the trip. "It's gonna play havoc with any ships or boats going out today."
Sherlock's hopes rose. Maybe Moriarty wouldn't risk leaving the harbor yet. He hoped not. He pulled out his phone and texted John what he'd found out so far. He didn't want to worry his friend about Moriarty's escape, so he'd refrained from calling directly. He didn't want John to try to talk him out of this. He did, however, send the coordinates of the Marina to John. He thought about telling Mycroft of his plans but decided he'd just be pushed out again if he did so left it.
They arrived twenty-five minutes later, and Sherlock had thanked Albert. The man shut off his helicopter and planned to wait out the oncoming storm. Sherlock took his leave and crept his way to the Marina. There were two dozen yachts moored in the small bay all in various states of repair. One, in particular, caught Sherlock's eye. On the outside, it looked rusted, disused and even unseaworthy, but upon closer inspection, Sherlock could see this was an expensive boat meant to only look forlorn and neglected. He reckoned that underneath its "disguise" this little yacht was decked out luxuriously and well stocked for an extensive trip.
The storm clouds arrived just as the sun set and bright, fat drops pelted down on Sherlock's head as he crouched behind an unpleasant smelling, seafood restaurant near the pier. He absently reached up for the lapels of his Belstaff only to realize it wasn't there. Back at base, he'd shrugged into a utilitarian, military issue jacket. Thankfully, it had a plastic hood tucked into a zippered pocket in the collar. He pulled it out and placed it over his head just as the rain poured down in earnest. After a few minutes, the wind drove the rain almost sideways and a warning bell began tolling in the distance. The boats in the bay began rocking as the waves surged. A little overhang and a skip provided some shelter for him as he weathered the squall. He hoped that as long as the rain lasted, his quarry wouldn't untether from the safety of the marina. So far, the windows of the yacht remained dark. Sherlock decided he might use the cover of the storm to creep closer and made his way onto the pier. He shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled as purposefully as possible to where his chosen boat bobbed in the water. If he looked like he belonged, he shouldn't stand out too much to the casual observer. But, he wasn't stupid enough to believe Moriarty was a casual observer.
A quick blossom of light flared right over his head followed by darkly growling thunder. The two happened almost simultaneously producing a sense of urgency for him to get under cover. He could be struck by a bolt, and wouldn't that be an ironic ending to Sherlock Holmes, he thought with a small grunt of laughter. But, he couldn't let John Watson down again. Moriarty had to be eliminated once and for all or neither one of them would ever be safe again.
During the next loud thunderclap, he let himself lean over the railing and slip aboard. Moriarty's yacht, he thought as he slithered from shadow to shadow, seemed abandoned. He knew better. The door to below decks had been opened recently, possible within the past half-hour. If he couldn't take the spider down tonight, would John ever know what had become of him? Moriarty would surely torture him, kill him and then finish John. He crouched next to the door and tried the handle. Locked, of course. He'd been issued a standard handgun, but had slipped a few items into his pockets he thought might be useful. One of them had been a basic lock picking kit. He used it now and heard a sharp snap as the lock clicked open. No alarm. Or, no alarm he could hear. Sherlock opened the door and crept into a darkened stairwell that descended into a midnight black hallway. The whole boat looked dead and lifeless. Sherlock took a deep breath and entered.