"A criminal strain runs in the blood." Mycroft faces his little brother with a grave demeanour.
Professor Moriarty is the older and surviving brother of James. He is the real deal. A criminal mind, so astute and unique; a ghost amongst the underworld and sub culture of law-breakers. Almost a legend – like Bigfoot or the Hounds of Baskerville. A psychopathic master of crime and user of terrorist techniques to gain his ends. Machiavellian to the end; arrogant; manipulative; calculating – utterly ruthless. A suave demeanour hides a sadistic and egotistic centre which has operated discreetly, beneath the recognition and understanding of the whole world. Until now. Until this day, on this roof. Mycroft breaks his cover to his own brother.
"One of the terrorist cell you exposed in Tibet became the weakest link in the invisible chain connecting Professor Moriarty to his brother`s dealings."
"Culverton Smith." Sherlock`s tone is smooth, but Mycroft sees how he has blanched beneath the glasses.
"Indeed. Through him, we discover that Professor Moriarty really does exist. Hereditary tendencies of the most diabolical kind, Sherlock. Yet, so many steps separate him from the pull upon the thread; we have very little firm grasp. He is ethereal – a will-o-the-wisp…"
And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair—
But it's useless to investigate—Macavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
It must have been Macavity!'—but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumb;
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.
T.S. Eliot
Professor Moriarty is a mathematical genius. One of his guises has been the Chair at Durham University where his Treatise upon the Binomial Theorem gained him respect and many published works. He is believed to be over sixty years old, but remains fit, agile and extremely observant. He has the mind and attention to detail of a genius and the moral compass of a psychopath. Just like his younger brother, the Professor likes to play. Mycroft has no photographs, even via Haystack. There are no living witnesses to his existence – merely reportage and heresay.
Sherlock has recovered some of his composure. He doesn't reach for a drink though – he doesn't trust his shaking hand.
"So, why are you telling me this now, brother of mine? Clearly, there has been a – whisper?"
"A murmuring," Mycroft acquiesces. "Incredibly, a locally placed informant has reported a twitch upon the thread. In England – to be precise - at its furthest possible tip…as if the man is ready for escape at the slightest tremor."
Cornwall.
"John Watson will soon be asking you to accompany him to a beautiful house in Tredannick Woollas, near the Lizard`s point. It will be the perfect spot for your…observations."
"How will I find him?"
"Oh, I expect him to come to you."
x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x
Back in the field, there is clearly some consternation on the part of John Watson.
"The house! Lt. James M. Dodd! It`s not his house is it?"
And it is little comfort to Sherlock that he doesn't even need his Empathy Mind Palace to feel for his friend.
"James M. Dodd died in an insurgence three months after you left Afghanistan, John. Colonel Sebastian Moran, the Professor`s link to the world, took on James` persona to lure you here. To lure me."
John has his head in his hands. He almost feels like rocking. He cannot believe this day. And, as a friend of Sherlock Holmes, he has had more than his fair share of `rocking-in-a-darkened-room` days.
"He used me – to get to you…Mary was right – Facebook is the work of the devil!"
He is thinking, and Sherlock gives him time. He can be patient. To a point.
"But why - ? Why, in God`s name, Sherlock, did you come with me? If you and Mycroft knew it was a trap, why have we walked right into it?"
The rocking man suddenly stops short and Sherlock knows the penny has dropped, at last.
"Bloody hell," whispers John Watson. "Bait. We are … bait."
x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x
Many hours and many, many words later, Mary Watson lies in bed, opposite her exhausted husband. She is holding his face in her hands and trying to calm his racing heart.
"A bear that sees a trap cannot be caught."
"That in the hit man`s handbook, is it?" His eyes are bleary and heart is heavy. He fears for the danger they could be in.
"Sherlock has put the fear of God into you about this man, hasn't he?"
"I saw Moriarty, version 1. I really don't need to be introduced to the mark 2 model, with increased insanity and evil bolt-ons."
Mary nestles her head on his chest and speaks in a low whisper.
"John, I was terrified when Sherlock showed us that devil`s breath powder stuff. More than anything in the world, I am afraid of losing my mind – my own free will. It`s my biggest fear. But I am not afraid of a sixty year old maths teacher with an ASBO…I think, between us, we can probably handle him."
Free will? Don`t ever let Sherlock Holmes hold your hand, then.
John watches his beautiful, unique and slightly insane ex-killer of a wife in the semi-darkness of the Cornish night, and doesn't think he`s ever loved her more.
In a bed across the landing…
Sherlock Holmes lies across the huge four poster bed in the very centre of his Mind Palace. Sifting through the events of the past few months; filing and collating; checking and cross-referencing…he has to be careful. One cannot twist facts to suit theories, or theories to suit facts. His mind is buzzing and jarring against the walls within the Palace…Moriarty, the older brother. He had known even before Mycroft had confirmed it. Culverton Smith had responded in the end, when Sherlock had found his pressure point… The Moriarty family tree. The Irish immigrants, who had left their home town under a cloud of suspicion over a hundred years ago. A criminal strain in the blood – indeed. Blood is thicker than water. Blood will out. Blood will have blood. Scars run deep and the Professor will be unable to resist finishing the man who finished his own brother, and almost his entire livelihood…
Sherlock feels something brush across his face and neck and his Palace doors slam shut. He opens his eyes and the marmoset-brown eyes of Molly Hooper are staring down into his; her silken hair drapes across his chest. He feels his yammering heart imperceptibly slow down. She is so close, he can feel her breath upon his skin and a strange and comforting calmness washes over him.
"Where were you?" She whispers, smoothing the hair from his eyes.
"Somewhere you don`t want to go to." He whispers back. His voice almost catches – how does she do this to him?
"I played my violin for you – in the water. I played my violin in the water for you, Molly. Am I insane?"
"A little, maybe," she reflects, resting her head on his chest and hearing his heart resume its regular beat.
"But maybe that`s just my type."