Phweeeeeeet! Phweeeeeeet!
The quiet of the evening was shattered by the sound of a police whistle, blasting long and loud. A few moments later, it was joined by the sound of running footsteps, as a lone constable dashed up Baker Street towards the source. The policeman halted in front of 221B, staring up at the open sitting room window, where a familiar face was sticking out, glaring around.
"Inspector?"
"That you, Phillips?"
"Yes, sir! What's the trouble?"
"Never mind that now! Go and round up as many of the lads as you can find, and a four-wheeler. I want you all at the back door of this place in fifteen minutes! Hop to it!"
"Lestrade?" Inspector Hopkins tapped softly on the office door. "Tea's up."
Lestrade opened the door and took the mugs. "Thanks, Stanley. Oh, and see if you can scrounge up something edible, will you? Just..." He hesitated, looking over his shoulder at the slumped figure in the other chair. "Maybe not biscuits."
"I'll see what I can do." Hopkins peered anxiously past Lestrade. "How is he?"
His colleague gave him a Look.
"Right, right, stupid... Look, Lestrade, isn't there something we can give him to do? I know he's not exactly... you know... but he still might find something on that notepaper the analysts didn't, or the knife. Or that footprint you found on the windowsill..." Hopkins frowned. "Was that really on the top floor?"
"Sorry, Stanley. I know you've got more faith in him than anyone here..." And God knew Holmes needed that level of confidence from his friends right now. "But, unfortunately, this case is a lot bigger than a few hostages – yes, even a government official! Especially since the commissioner agrees that none of them are in any real danger until Moriarty reveals what he actually wants from Holmes! If I let him handle any of the evidence in his current mental state, and it went wrong..."
Hopkins nodded morosely. "And you don't have any idea what the Professor does want, I suppose?"
"I wouldn't like to speculate at this point, no," Lestrade answered carefully. "Thanks for the tea, I'll see you later." The Inspector pushed the door closed with his foot, and took care to set his own mug on the desk before trying to get Holmes's attention. The detective had said nothing since finding the note, or even looked at Lestrade, sitting in a mute huddle under the coat draped around his shoulders all the way to the Yard. At least his shock seemed to have mostly given way to fury by now, Lestrade could work with that!
"If you don't tell me whether you want this tea in five seconds, Holmes, I'm going to pour it into your lap." He was fairly sure the man's dignity wouldn't suffer that, even now.
Holmes reached out and snatched the mug, some of the tea splashing onto his hand and the floor, but didn't drink.
Well, it was a start. "Hopkins stopped by to see how you were. He's going to bring some food back – yes, I know you're not hungry, you don't eat on cases, etcetera, etcetera. Tough. How are you going to be any good to Watson and the others, if you don't look after yourself first?"
No reply.
"I know you're angry with me for not telling you about Watson. Good God, man, what do you think bringing you to Baker Street was really all about? There was no point in telling you he'd been taken, until you could remember who he was!" Perfectly true, just not the whole truth! Holmes thought he was livid now... Wait until he finally learned that John Darling had been masquerading as an entirely different doctor for the last ten years, and most of it under the detective's own roof! Whatever explanation Watson had planned to give his brother about that, it had better be a bloody masterpiece.
"...still can't..." Poor Holmes's knuckles were white, Stanley had been wise not to bring him a proper tea cup.
Lestrade crouched in front of the detective and gripped his forearm. "It'll come back, Holmes. Give it time. Faces often take longer in cases of memory loss, I'm told." He'd never actually heard anything of the sort, but Holmes didn't need to know that. As to what he did need... The Inspector hesitated, then reached into his coat pocket. "Here."
"The Death Ship," Holmes whispered, staring at the worn volume, which Lestrade deftly exchanged for the untouched mug of tea in the detective's trembling hold.
"Something of Watson's, hm? Oh, and if you tell anyone I didn't hand in a potential piece of evidence, you're going down with me." Lestrade chuckled. "And I know how to fly now, remember!" Though it seemed the enemy could do that, too...
"...Thank you..."
Lestrade's knees were starting to ache, and he got up to fetch his own chair around the desk. "Tell me something, Holmes. Do you really need to remember your best friend's face, to know what he means to you? To want to see him safe?" To defeat Moriarty...
Holmes shook his head miserably. "It's not that... I shouldn't... should never have..."
"Oh, for the love of... Holmes, it wasn't your fault!" Lestrade scraped his chair across the floor and sat beside the detective. "You're only human, after all, not cast iron! Do you... remember what happened, yesterday morning? On the way to Mycroft's house?" He felt rather than saw his colleague shiver suddenly, the detective's hand going involuntarily up to the bandage on his neck. "All of it?"
"Pieces. The man's face..."
Before it had ended up in the detective's... Lestrade shook his head to dislodge the gruesome thought. "We... weren't able to identify him. His clothing and personal effects suggested that he was a retired sailor, but no one down at the docks or the nearby pubs seemed to know his name. I don't suppose...?"
A jerky nod. "His name was Smee. He was Hook's bo'sun."
"Hold on... Are you telling me that was an actual pirate? From Neverland?" The Inspector scratched his head. "But how the devil did he get back here? Don't you need fairy dust for that?"
"Usually... Oh, good heavens..."
"What?"
"There... could have been another way. We all left Neverland on the Jolly Roger! Smee might have crept away during the fight, hidden himself on board!"
Lestrade nodded, relieved to see his colleague applying himself to a problem again, however small. "Makes sense. It was his home, after all. He could easily have concealed himself in some hidden compartment that you just never noticed!" And that was a chilling thought in itself... Given Smee's recent attempt on Holmes's life, it would have been so easy for a lone pirate to creep out while all the children were asleep, and start slitting throats... Thank God the bo'sun's desire to leave the island had overruled any thirst for vengeance at the time!
Holmes's expression told the Inspector that he was having much the same thoughts. "But what I don't understand is why he waited so long! Not to mention when he did finally catch up with me..."
Lestrade gripped the detective's shoulder in sympathy as he shuddered. "Well, if you think you can handle hearing what we found at the scene... All right, then, stop me if it gets too much for you."
"When I arrived at St. James's Square, your assailant was lying face down on the pavement. He was clutching a cargo hook, the kind used by longshoremen."
"So that was it," Holmes murmured so that his voice wouldn't quiver. "I assumed it was a knife." A hook would have sliced him open just as easily as any blade... Perhaps Smee had thought it poetic justice?
Lestrade brought out his notebook and showed Holmes a rough pencil sketch of the tableau. "His head had been mutilated by an expanded revolver bullet. It entered dead centre in the back of his skull, exiting through the forehead. I know it wasn't you," he added hastily. "Wiggins told me. He said he arrived while Smee still had you pinned against the railings, and that you said something in an odd voice which made the man lower his weapon and step backwards, just before... well, just before he was killed. Do you remember hearing a shot being fired at all, or seeing anyone else on the street?"
"I don't... think so..." Holmes was now very glad he hadn't eaten anything back at the flat.
"Well, that's interesting... because Wiggins was certain he didn't see or hear anything of the sort, either."
"Ah!" Of course there hadn't been! "Tell me, Inspector, have you ever heard of a man called Von Herder?"
"Von Herder... No, but something tells me I'm about to. German, is he?"
"Was. A blind mechanic, commissioned by Moriarty to construct an air-gun." Holmes jumped up and began to pace. "I knew it existed, but I never got the chance to handle it. A truly unique design: silent, deadly, and tremendously powerful!"
"And... don't tell me, let me guess," Lestrade sighed. "It fires revolver bullets, like the one we found."
"Exactly! And if you were to examine the chimney on the roof where we were hiding, you would no doubt find a similar projectile buried in the brickwork."
"So that's why we didn't hear a shot! It didn't even occur to me... Hold on, you say that gun was commissioned for the Professor? Then... were both those shots actually meant for you?"
Holmes shook his head. "I should say rather that Moriarty had the gun commissioned for the use of one of his agents: Colonel Moran."
Lestrade nodded grimly. "I remember that name. Isn't he Moriarty's chief of staff?"
"Indeed, and a crack shot with a rifle. I promise you, Inspector, if Moran had intended a bullet for either one of us, we wouldn't be here to discuss it now."
"So the Colonel saved you from Smee before he could gut you... Sorry. And then... bloody hell, he deliberately drove us off the roof!"
"In fairness, Moran must have been watching for some time while getting a clear shot. He would have seen there was a strong chance that neither of us would be plummeting to our deaths." Moriarty really didn't want any harm coming to his opponent, did he? At least for now...
"Kind of him, I'm sure!" Lestrade snorted.
And the second shot had likely been intended to drive the fugitives towards Baker Street... but why? If Moriarty was aware that Holmes had been... unwell of late, the Professor must have reasoned that returning to the flat would likely help rather than hinder, so what the devil was the man playing at?
"Damned if I know!" Holmes only realised he'd been thinking aloud when Lestrade answered, the Inspector wearily massaging his forehead as if fighting off a headache. "Who can fathom the mind of an evil genius?"
"Well, it looks as if I haven't got much of a choice, have I?" Holmes retorted sharply. " 'Your presence is required...' I do hope you and the rest of the force have some idea of where that might be, because I haven't the least notion!"
"We'll find them," Lestrade stubbornly maintained. "We've got constables swarming all over Mycroft's rooms, and the property behind. I hate to say it, but Moriarty having his agents tunnel between the two was pretty bloody cunning."
"It was a piece of bloody effrontery!" Holmes snapped. "Remember the Red-Headed League? The gold robbery from the Coburg Bank? Moriarty used this tunnel as payback for the loss of the other! He's mocking me, damn him!"
Lestrade looked hard at Holmes. "You're certain? Why didn't you mention that before?"
"I didn't understand it until just now!" Holmes almost wailed. "I can barely even recall meeting the man, for God's sake – what do you want from me?"
"I want you to come back with me to Pall Mall, is what!" Lestrade was already halfway into his coat. "Come on, wrap up, we've a crime scene to visit!"
The detective didn't need telling twice, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair and wishing for the first time that he'd thought to bring a hat. "Not that I'm complaining, but what happened to not interfering with any new evidence?"
"You won't be," Lestrade said sternly, "but I can't see any harm in you casting a fresh eye over what we've got, at least. Hopkins was right, you just might see something everyone else missed. At least now we know Moriarty wants you to find him! And I wish to God that made me feel better," he muttered grimly, leading the way out of the office.
Holmes chose not to reply. He didn't feel especially hopeful about it, either.
Inspector Hopkins intercepted the pair on their way out of the Yard with a parcel of sandwiches, which Lestrade insisted on bringing along. He even bullied Holmes into eating his fair share of them in the hansom, threatening to bar the detective from the crime scene if he didn't. Holmes managed to force most of the food down, hoping that it would never occur to Watson to team up with Lestrade on this issue henceforth.
Arriving back at Mycroft's rooms in a cab was a most surreal moment for Holmes. It was almost as if he had time-travelled straight from St. James's Square this morning to tonight, despite his somewhat jumbled memories of being in Mycroft's rooms with everyone else. Perhaps he might have felt better if he could have flown here... but with everything on Holmes's mind just now, that really didn't seem feasible, and Lestrade had flatly refused to even try carrying an extra person himself, except perhaps in dire necessity.
"Lestrade." Gregson nodded as his colleague walked into the parlour, then frowned on seeing who was behind him. "And Mr. Holmes..."
"Is with me," Lestrade answered the unspoken question shortly. "If any of the top brass ask, he's at one of the safe houses."
"I see." Gregson's tone was eloquent; but then, Holmes mused, what house was safer than Mycroft's at the moment, with such a strong police presence? The parlour, however, was a shambles – it was clear that the bulk of the fighting had happened in here.
"Thank you for your indulgence, Inspector," he managed to respond meekly, coming forward and holding out his hand to Gregson; "and for all of your help. I am truly in your debt." If that didn't rattle the man enough to blurt out more than he meant to...
"...Don't mention it." Gregson's face was now an absolute study, although he managed to shake hands with commendable poise, rolling his eyes at Lestrade as if to say, 'Who is this person, and what's he done with Himself?'
"We'll start upstairs, then, shall we?" Lestrade said innocently, and hastily turned away. Back out in the hall, however, the Inspector took Holmes aside and said quietly, "All right, you've had your fun, now behave yourself. We need clear heads on shoulders tonight – yes, even Gregson's. The more you can conduct yourself like the Holmes everyone here knows, the easier this will go."
"What makes you think–" Holmes began with a scowl, when a sudden 'Oi!' from the front door made him look round, heart leaping at the sight of the constable on guard pursuing a very dirty, very familiar figure inside. "Wiggins?!"
"Leave him, Carson, he's one of ours!" Lestrade said, hurrying forward. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, lad, where've you been? We've been worried sick!"
Wiggins ignored him, plunging past and throwing his arms around Holmes with a yell of delight. "Guv'nor! Yer back!"
"Wiggins!" Holmes barely kept his feet, hugging the boy tightly with a shaky laugh. "Thank God, you're all right! I thought..."
Wiggins looked up and gave him a quavering smile, eyes suspiciously bright. "Yer remember me!"
"Of course! How could I forget my Lost... my Irregulars?" Holmes reddened, kicking himself for the slip.
The Irregular gave him an assessing look, although not appearing precisely offended. "So yer still ain' all there, then."
Holmes had to grin, albeit sheepishly. "Perhaps not entirely."
"It'll do, lad," Lestrade said firmly. "Report, please. The doctor sent you with a message for Mrs. Hudson, did you manage to deliver it?"
Wiggins shook his head, and his dejected expression reported ahead of him to the dismayed detective. "They were jus' takin' 'er away when I got there... 'm sorry, guv'nor."
"Wait... This afternoon?" Lestrade took out his notebook. "But the house looked as if no one had been there all day!"
"What exactly did you see, Wiggins?" Holmes had to sternly remind himself that Mrs. Hudson was likely in no more danger of immediate harm than the rest... It didn't help.
"There were two of 'em, walkin with 'er out the front door to a growler. Big fellers, they were, an' both dressed like you, Inspector! I thought maybe they were plainclothes t' start, I couldn' see no weapons, but Mrs. 'Udson... Well, she was lookin' at 'em funny. Keyed up, y' know? Like she din't know what they were gonna do nex'. She locked the door be'ind 'er, one of 'em took the keys, an' then the other bloke offered 'er 'is arm an' 'anded her into the cab."
"She didn't seem hurt at all?"
"Don' think so, jus'... edgy. I tried t' tail 'em, but there was another bunch o' roughs at the nex' corner, an' they wen' straight after me!" Wiggins shook his head in disgust. "Only jus' saw 'em comin' in time."
"You were chased by the gang?" Holmes frowned. "Do you mean to say they recognised you?"
"Musta done," the boy nodded, looking worried. "Took me donkey's ears t' shake 'em, I 'ad t' go down the sewers in the end! An' I've bin watchin' for the other boys most o' the day, an' I ain' seen none of 'em since me an' Charlie 'eaded out this mornin'! I gotta tell 'im... What?"
"Wiggins, lad," Lestrade said gently. "You need to be brave about this–"
"Where's Charlie?"
"Kidnapped by the gang," Holmes interjected hurriedly. Even that revelation was preferable to whatever the boy was imagining, with all the police around the place. "They tunnelled into Mycroft's cellar from the house behind, took everyone by surprise. The two of us only just got away, thanks to the Inspector." He could almost hear Lestrade's eyebrows rising at the unaccustomed compliment. "And we do not think for a moment that any of them will have been harmed. Moriarty might not have meant for me to escape, but he doesn't seem inclined to take any drastic action just yet. Oh, and speaking of escapes, Lestrade... the watch chain?"
"Right, I'd forgotten! I'll talk to Gregson, you two head on up."
Upstairs, Wiggins stared at the splintered bedroom door and overturned bureau. " 'Ow'd yer get outta there?" he whispered, one eye on the constable barring their entry.
Holmes hesitated, but then decided that it wouldn't hurt for Wiggins to know, at least. "Out the window," he murmured, then chuckled as the boy gave him a look of deep suspicion. "It was quite a... unique means of escape, if you take my meaning."
"Go on!" Wiggins gasped as the proverbial penny dropped. "Yer don' mean... but 'ow?!"
"Something of a long story," Holmes said hastily. He had no desire to discuss John's deception with anyone at the moment. "But the rest was lost during our escape, and the gang could well have found it once the gas cleared."
"So... Moriarty..."
"I'm afraid so." Lestrade had come up behind them, looking grave. "Gregson says they only found one unusual item in that room, under the bed. And yes, you're allowed to handle it." He opened his hand to reveal a small whitish object, shaped like an arrow head – a shark tooth. "Someone probably lost it out of a pocket while going after the watch chain."
Holmes picked the tooth up, mindful of the edges, and examined it closely. "Etched with a picture of a sailing vessel, two-masted, square-rigged... and the initials 'L. G.'." The carving was crude, but this most certainly belonged to a sailor.
"Gregson's already sent someone down to the shipping registry. If it is the initials of a vessel, that could help a lot!"
"Begging your pardon, Inspector, but I reckon the 'L' stands for 'Lady'," the constable at the door piped up. "They do like naming ships after the womenfolk, don't they? Lady this, Empress that..."
"Yes..." Dear God, he'd been blind! The old copy of The Death Ship, left so conveniently by Watson's bedside... the scrimshaw carving found right where the fairy dust had fallen...
"You're probably right, McPherson, good thinking! So what does the 'G' stand for, I wonder?"
"Gwendolen." Holmes's voice sounded very far away to his own ears. Moriarty must be the owner of some kind of ship, there was no other plausible explanation... and his enemy had had the temerity, the unspeakable gall... "They're all on the Wendy Lady."
