Title: Not in This Life - Part Four
Verse: Bookverse, first person Watson-POV
Rating: Teen
Genre: Angst/Drama/Adventure
Summary: Post-The Final Problem, alternate timeline. Holmes picks up the pen and sends that letter to Watson.

o0o0o

It was a terrible ride, that midnight sojourn over rough Bohemian roads. I'm ashamed to say I drove our poor horse to exhaustion until it refused to go further, trembling and covered with foam. I set the creature loose in a field which thankfully had a nearby brook in which I filled my canteen as it drank and rested, a full moon overhead.

From my vantage point, I could see a small village nestled between rolling hills. It was there I thought to secure myself and Holmes, in spite of his protests. He had encouraged me to leave him behind more than once during our ride, weak entreaties that I ignored. I hadn't come this far to serve him to Moriarty's wolves and I wasn't going to depart without him.

If they killed us both, so be it. But I swore as a soldier - and a friend - my comrade would not be left behind.

He must have deduced my decision as he spoke no more of separating. Instead, he nodded toward the tiny town with a grimace. "We might have luck in there. From the design of the buildings it appears to be a German alcove, one of the few remaining in this country. My German is rusty, but sufficient to secure us lodgings, at least until we gather our wits. They'll have to thoroughly investigate the villages we passed first. That should give us a day or two."

I nodded and helped him from the cart, which would have to be abandoned, as was the horse who'd probably be better off in a well-watered field than anywhere else. We limped into the town, with Holmes leaning on my arm. There were dark rivulets of blood drying on the back of his neck, courtesy of an air gun's destruction.

Upon a quick inspection I saw wounds were superficial, much to my relief. A basin of water would be enough to clean it up but I shuddered to think what would happen to a human body if hit by such a projectile.

There was an inn and the owner seemed surprised at having guests arrive at such an hour. Fortunately, a few notes of English sterling made us very welcome indeed and we found ourselves in a clean, well-appointed room. The owner, bless him, sent up a very late tea courtesy of his yawning wife and I apologized and thanked her profusely in my terrible German as Holmes busied himself with closing every shutter and curtain.

His nervous movements and trembling hands told me much about his habits during his absence. Gone was the cool, collected thinker I'd known for so many years, in his place was a frightened, broken man, weary from being hunted like an animal through nation after nation. I knew in my heart that the letter he sent was his true farewell note, I had no doubt that he'd been prepared to surrender if not for my speedy arrival.

I was suddenly filled with righteous rage at the departed Moriarty, who'd had scored a victory in death that no living man could have. I wonder what inducements he'd left to his cronies to chase Holmes so doggedly - perhaps an offer of his hidden fortune upon proof of his death? The throne of his organization?

Whatever it was, I was determined they would not reap their reward. Instead, they would find themselves imprisoned ... or worse.

With stern entreaties, I made Holmes eat most of the food and we shared the pot of tea. He started to look restless so I gave him a pinch of my chewing tobacco, which made him grin.

"Snuff, eh. How out of character, Watson. Was this part of your disguise? By the way, I must compliment you on the sacrifice of the mustache, although I am sad for its loss as it is such an integral part of my mental image of you. Promise me that it is just a temporary change or I may grow more confused than I already feel."

"I've sworn to grow it back once we have returned to England. Together," I said, adding the last word for emphasis. "Holmes, tell me. Why are these men stilling chasing you? I can't believe that Moriarty has inspired that kind of loyalty from beyond the grave. Is he offering them money? Can we not make a counter offer?"

Holmes ran a hand through his hair which was starting to show gray strands at the temples. "Alas, I'm afraid there has been a certain honor among thieves, as far as Moran is concerned. They were, if you can believe it, friends of a sort, somewhat like yourself and I, minus all goodness and care, of course. Moran was his student and one of the primary lessons taught was that you never leave a dangerous foe alive. Not to mention that Moran is a famous hunter. I'm afraid I present too enticing a challenge for him to leave alone. He can hardly resist the chance to hang Sherlock Holmes next to his parcel of tigers."

"Disgusting," I murmured. "Then we'll have to fight him on his terms."

"If only we could ascertain what those terms could be. God knows I haven't been able to," Holmes sighed. He smiled weakly at me. "How exhausted you look. Lie down, my friend and sleep for now. We are safe here for a time. Perhaps your presence will inspire my tired mind to explore new routes of conjecture."

"You must sleep as well," I insisted, even as I found myself laying on the bed and nearly weeping with relief at the comfort. I had slept on the train, but it was that broken, stiff sleep one gets while traveling and oh, this ...

I was fast asleep before I realized it, even as the first rays of dawn were beginning to peek through the folds of the drawn curtains.

0o0o

I woke up much later than I intended, blinking in the light of lit candles, my nose wrinkling at the smell of tobacco smoke.

Holmes was wide awake, but he had more color in his cheeks as he puffed on a clay pipe, one he'd no doubt purchased during a foray outside. He was wearing my coat which probably hid him well enough and he was freshly shaved, his hair neatly slicked back making him appear almost like the Holmes of old, a sight which heartened me greatly.

Tentatively I sat up and reached out to feel his forehead. It was still warm, but nowhere near as burning as it had been when I found him which made me think that stress and exhaustion had much a hand in whatever illness had been plaguing him. He chuckled at my concern and dodged away from my doctor's touch, tossing me a fresh pack of cigarettes.

I lit one and inhaled gratefully, even happier to see another pot of hot tea along with supper on the nightstand.

"I have to say that with you here, I find my refreshed mind wandering toward practical matters, as in yourself being such a practical fellow," Holmes said, as I poured myself a cup and drank it deeply, as steaming as it was. "I now wonder how Moran is financing this little hunting trip of his. It must cost a tremendous amount, as I'm sure his minions aren't working for free. I'm being supplemented by my brother's wires, when I can get them, but him ..."

I took another drag of my cigarette and shrugged. "A bank account that was left to him for the purpose?"

"Accessible in Far East, where he started this little game, tracking me through Asia and beyond? No, Watson, he must have a constant, flexible source of ready cash, in all currencies, without the benefit of a brother in a top seat of government."

"Theft?"

Holmes puffed on his pipe thoughtfully. I could see the great gears of his mind beginning to turn. "Yes, but not outright theft, as it would be too risky. A type of theft that doesn't immediately attract attention ..."

"Maybe he induces people to give it to him," I suggested. "Somehow."

Holmes' eyes widened. "My god, Watson. Of course. He wins it! By cheating at games of chance. Cards and dice and ... my god, isn't he a famous club player, rooking half the young men who have the misfortune to sit at the table with him?"

"He never belonged to my club," I replied somewhat indignantly. "But I do see what you're saying. How does this help us?"

Holmes grinned around his pipe. "There are places in this world where a man who cheats at cards is in greater danger of reprisal than a murderer. Not everyone is as polite as the English, my dear Watson." He leaned back, suddenly looking satisfied. "I had not the resources to do this alone, but with you here ... how are your gambling skills, Watson?"

"Terrible," I laughed. "You know that full well."

"And how much money do you still have left?"

"Near a thousand pounds."

Holmes' grin was positively shark-like. "What do you say to us making a trap for our intrepid hunter?"

My free hand involuntarily clenched into a fist. "I'd like nothing better."

"Then we will head to Prague in the morning," Holmes said. He stood up and winced painfully as he did so. I rose as well and led him to the bed, where I bade him to remove his shirt and lie down so I could better treat those shrapnel wounds I'd not yet tended to. Amused, he agreed and put his hands under his chin, lost in thought as I bathed the dried-over cuts and scrapes with clean water. "We have to make sure we are followed and then, we will change into our new personas."

"Which are?"

Holmes suddenly looked more alive than ever and I silently thanked God for the chance to see it. "The worst - and best - card players who have ever lived."

0o0o

to be continued ...