Tick... tick... tick... tick...
"Sherlock?"
"Mm?" Holmes blinked, tearing his gaze from the ornate mantle clock.
Mycroft sighed deeply, massaging his forehead. "Really, Sherlock... Do try to keep your thoughts in the present? Lord knows, Professor Moriarty's tolerance of your interference thus far has been practically avuncular, but you cannot hope for that to continue. And in your current state of distraction, I should be loath to allow you to cross the street unattended!"
Holmes shook his head, a wan smile tugging at his lips. "You know my history with clocks, Mycroft. I confess, my sleeping habits have not altered a great deal since that first night with Father's pocket watch." He would never have been lulled so easily just now, however, had he found time for sufficient rest over the last few gruelling weeks.
"You insisted on keeping it beside your bed after the funeral, as I recall," Mycroft nodded. "And wound it up at eight o'clock every evening, so you could fall asleep by the ticking." His brow furrowed. "Forgive me, brother... but for all of Father's... For all that he strove to be good to both of us, I had had no notion that you were so very fond of him."
"I should say rather that I... esteemed him," Holmes answered slowly. "We were never particularly close, that is true, but I could not help but be grateful to him for what he had done, all that he had sacrificed to give me... A home, a family... a name..." The last words emerged as a whisper.
"And I shall never understand," Mycroft answered lightly, pretending not to notice, "the appeal of 'Sherlock' as a Christian name, when there was a perfectly good 'Edward' to be had from Grandfather Holmes."
"Well, well, we all have our crosses to bear, do we not... Mycroft." Holmes couldn't conceal a smirk as his older brother grimaced.
"You used to call me Myke when we were younger, do you remember?"
"I did?" Holmes frowned. "When was that?"
"Oh, a very long time ago. It seemed to amuse you, and I must confess, it was pleasant to think sometimes that my name might have been Michael, but for a dreadful twist of fate."
Holmes laughed. "Michael Holmes... It just doesn't carry the same dignitas, does it?"
"I should have striven to bear it, I'm sure," came the dry response. "But talking of timepieces... Mine is informing me that the French ambassador is due in five minutes..." Mycroft's face lost all trace of levity; "and that you have an appointment of your own in Baker Street."
Holmes nodded gravely, hearing clearly all that the man sitting opposite might have wished to say. Rising from his chair, he walked around the desk and silently gripped Mycroft's shoulder. "Until tomorrow, then, brother mine."
"Tomorrow, indeed."
Tick... tick... tick... tick...
He had known a Michael, once... Learning that the man had eventually gone to work at London Zoo had struck Holmes as strangely fitting, although he couldn't quite think why. And the older brother... hadn't he become a doctor, or some such? Poor man... Making one's way through medical college with such an unfortunate surname must have been ten times worse than anything Holmes had experienced in public school...
"You have less frontal development than I should have imagined."
Holmes barely refrained from leaping out of his armchair, making a supreme effort to rise with becoming dignity. How had he not heard the sitting room door open?! "Professor Moriarty, what an unexpected pleasure. Pray be seated. It is most fortunate that you find me at home this evening."
His guest gave a dry chuckle as he came forward, taking Watson's usual fireside chair with a nod of thanks. "Fortunate, indeed." The words were pleasant enough, but their soft delivery somehow made Holmes infinitely thankful for the comforting weight in his dressing gown pocket. "But perhaps I was not entirely unexpected."
"I can spare you five minutes, Professor, if you have anything to say." Strange... A faint odour seemed to have entered with Moriarty... Salt? Yes, the tang of salt water, Holmes was certain. And more, even fainter... fish... seaweed... tar... What on earth had the man been doing at the docks before coming here?
"All that I have to say has already crossed your mind." Holmes realised with chagrin that Moriarty had been observing his moment of distraction in quiet amusement. "My dear sir, are you feeling quite well? For a man on the point of being trodden under foot, you seem dangerously preoccupied."
"Danger is part of my trade," Holmes replied icily, which only seemed to amuse the Professor further.
"Indeed. And it is quite clear that even you do not yet know how true that is." Moriarty rose abruptly, a moment before Holmes, and bowed. "I shall be most intrigued to see how this game of ours plays out, now that we have taken each other's measure. You can do nothing before Monday, in any case. Oh, and do stop fingering that revolver in your dressing gown pocket. It would be terribly bad form to shoot a defenceless man in your rooms, would it not?"
Holmes gave a bark of laughter. "You expect me to believe you came unarmed? The blade in your cane rattles with every step."
"Which, as you may have deduced by its absence, is currently residing in the umbrella stand in your front hall." Moriarty shook his head. "A pity you and I never had the chance to cross actual blades, but there it is. I understand you were quite the swordsman at school, if a little too inclined towards, er, swashbuckling."
"How did...?" Holmes closed his mouth hastily, swearing inwardly at having been so easily drawn. Of course Moriarty would have examined every facet of his opponent's past, including scholastic records! Much good it would have done him... "Who knows, my dear sir? Perhaps an opportunity will one day present itself."
"And what a pleasure that would be," Moriarty smiled sincerely, turning at last towards the door. "Until we meet again, Mr... Holmes, was it?"
A sudden chill travelled the length of the detective's spine. "You know it is." Damn, his voice had sounded far too unsteady just then!
"Of course, do forgive me. My lamentable memory." And then, praise be to all things holy, the man was gone.
Sssssss...
His scalp prickles, melting swiftly into the shadows... but the deadly creature isn't after him, it never was, he only needs to let it pass... Sure enough, the beast continues on, its soft hiss becoming one with the waves, gliding out among them on its scaly belly. The yellow eyes never waver from the vessel across the bay, hulking black against the moon... The creak of her timbers is faint but clear over the water, the flap of canvas, the dismal peal of the ship's bell... which is rapidly becoming more dainty, delicate... What in the world is such a tiny bell doing on a pirate ship...
Ting-a-ling-a-ling!
"Uh?" Holmes blinked, struggling to lift weighted eyelids. His face was stuck to something hard... Peeling himself free, he noted blearily that his cheek had been resting on the surface of Watson's old writing desk, and his neck now twinged abominably. Had his chest been pressed against the wood as well? There was a dull ache around his sternum...
"Y'in, guv'nor?" Light, quick steps were ascending the stairs.
"Come..." Holmes cleared his throat and tried again. "Come in, Wiggins."
The Irregular strolled in, taking a detour by the fruit bowl on the sideboard. "Missus 'Udson said y'ad a message to sen'," he managed to articulate around a mouthful of apple.
"Ah, yes..." Holmes rummaged on the desk and found the scrap of paper, realising in annoyance that it still only contained half a message. He must have dozed off while grappling with the wording. "One moment." Given the circumstances, the blunt approach was probably best. Too many years lay between them now for niceties.
...FORESEE NO DANGER TO YOU OR J BUT BEWARE STRANGERS ASKING QUESTIONS
PD
"Yer should'n' be goin' out alone no more, guv'nor, t'ain't safe!"
Holmes arched an amused eyebrow as he donned hat and coat. "As if I didn't know that you boys have been shadowing me the last two months? Nevertheless, I shall take greater care," he added kindly as Wiggins flushed. "And you'd best be leaving by the back door, if you can dodge Mrs. Hudson. I'll see you at Pall Mall."
"Right-oh."
Holmes waited until the lad had dashed off down the hall, then swiftly exited the flat, heading towards Marylebone Road. An unoccupied hansom stood invitingly on the other side of the street, but Holmes strode on, resisting with difficulty the sudden impulse to tip his hat to the driver. Baiting the enemy like that, what could he be thinking?
A second empty hansom rattled past on his left. Making an instant decision, Holmes darted across the street after it, grabbing the side and swinging himself up onto the front platform.
"Hoi, steady on!" The cabby could do little more than shoot Holmes a ferocious scowl, hands full with the reins as his horse snorted and shied, startled by the sudden lurch. "What the divil d'you think you're doing?!"
Holmes didn't waste words, taking out his purse and tossing it up to the driver. "It's all yours if you get me to St. James's with a whole skin."
"Try hailing the next cab, for starters!" the man grumbled, but quickly whipped up the horse again.
Holmes peered around the side of the hansom. Was the first cab following? He couldn't see...
Half an hour and a maze of side streets later, Holmes peered cautiously around the corner of King Street into St James's Square, having ditched the cab two blocks back. Could he risk a dash for Mycroft's front door from here?
"Bang!"
The detective nearly had heart failure, instinctively sinking into a defensive stance as he whipped around, pulse thundering. Then relief washed over Holmes as he took in the person who had accosted him: a wizened, snowy-haired tramp, an ex-sailor by the look of him. He was ragged and unkempt, a broken pair of spectacles perched precariously on the end of his nose, breath reeking of rum from the gallon jug clutched under one arm. The other hand was pointed unsteadily at Holmes's head, index finger extended, for all the world as if he were pointing an imaginary pistol!
"Ban'!" the tramp half croaked, half slurred. "Ban'! Go' you a' last!"
"You certainly did," Holmes said warily, attempting an ingratiating smile as he lowered his fists. The old man seemed harmless enough himself, certainly in no fit state to do more than rave at passersby, but a scene was the last thing Holmes needed just now. "A good clean shot, well done. Now, hadn't you better move along, so the police don't arrest you for murder?"
"Murd'r?" The tramp's bloodshot eyes were suddenly wide with alarm, gaze darting around. "Oo di' tha'?"
Holmes sighed, patience rapidly wearing thin, but steeled himself to give the agitated man a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "No one, understand? No one is dead. No murderers here." Turning to leave, the detective felt his arm seized in a grip like a mangle, and the next moment, Holmes was up against the area railings of the nearest house, something wickedly sharp and metallic pressed to his jugular.
"Liar!" Fume-laden breath hissed into his face from between bared, rotten teeth, the old sailor's eyes gleaming with fury behind the red-veined nose. "Think 'd forge', eh? Wha' y' did t' 'im? All me crewmates? I ain' f'rgott'n nothin'! You an' those bloody runts, sh'da gutted 'em all! An' 'm gonna! 'E said y' owed me blood, an' 'm collectin'! Start'n w' you!"
Holmes had to resist the urge to swallow hard, pulse throbbing against whatever was digging into his flesh. "I do appear to owe you a considerable debt, sir," he said softly, belying his racing thoughts. Who the hell was this man?! Had they ever met before? 'Those bloody runts'... He could only assume the man meant the Irregulars, but when had the boys ever openly worked with him on a case involving a sailing vessel? "But your quarrel is with me, not those in my employ. Take your vengeance here, and let honour be satisfied."
"Hon'r?" The old sailor gave a nasty, wheezing laugh, his ghastly breath making Holmes feel queasy. Or was it the strange, growing conviction, deep in his gut, that yes, this man most certainly knew him... and vice versa. A blood debt was owed, he somehow had no doubt of that... He could almost have laughed himself at the thought, that this ancient sot had fared so much better against the Great Detective than any of Moriarty's agents. To die would be an awfully big adventure...
Holmes opened his mouth, though with what intent he couldn't have said, when the strangest words suddenly burst forth, in a dark, menacing voice quite unlike his own: "Brimstone and gall! What cozening is going on here?" Good God, where the devil had that come from?! "Release me, by thunder, or I'll cast anchor in you!"
The detective's surprise was nothing to the sailor's reaction, the old man recoiling, eyes round with shock, jaw slack; Holmes had never seen anyone turn so pale so quickly. And just as the tip of his weapon dropped away from Holmes's neck, the world became scarlet.
Clang clang clang clang clang!
Mycroft looked up from the Times with a frown. It wasn't like Sherlock to announce himself like a campanologist, or the Irregulars.
Thump thump thump thump thump!
Good heavens... "Show them in, Maggie, at once."
"Yes, sir." Footsteps in the hall, an opened front door, then a shriek of alarm from the maid sent Mycroft struggling up out his fireside chair.
"S'all right, miss, calm down, it ain't 'is! Yer boss in?"
"Wiggins, what on earth...?! Dear God, Sherlock!" Few things could overset Mycroft's composure, but the sight of his little brother, bloody, white-faced and empty-eyed, supported by two of the oldest Irregulars, both looking almost as shaken as their charge, was most assuredly one of them. "Bring him in here, you two." Mercifully, none of the three appeared to be injured, that blood and... other matter on Sherlock's face and clothes clearly belonged to someone else entirely. "Maggie, you will calm yourself this instant – no one here is hurt – and fetch a basin of clean, warm water and cloths. Get Mrs. Dalton to help you. And we will likely be needing tea."
"Y-Yessir."
Mycroft forced himself to wait until Wiggins and Charlie had eased Sherlock down to lie on the settee, then bent over his brother and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Sherlock's whole frame was tense, trembling, gaze fixed on some distant horror visible only to himself. "Sherlock? Sherlock, it's Mycroft. Can you hear me, petit frère? You are safe here, I promise."
No reply, nor the least flicker of change in the haunted eyes.
Mycroft took a deep, steadying breath, which didn't help in the least, then took the boys aside and asked quietly, "Did either of you see what happened?"
Wiggins nodded reluctantly. "Me, guv, sorter. It was..." The boy gulped, hands beginning to shake now that he had nowhere to put them. "Gawd, it was 'orrible! The guv'nor..."
"Steady, lad." Mycroft took Wiggins firmly by the elbow and steered him to a chair, Charlie on his other side. "You need tell me nothing, for the moment. Mr. Banks, are you able to run a message for me to Kensington?"
Charlie brightened. "The doctor?"
"Indeed. His wife, too, if possible." Sherlock would of course disapprove – were he sufficiently alert to express an opinion – but Mycroft had never agreed with his brother's decision to keep the Watsons entirely in the dark over this latest case. Ignorance would not prevent any of Sherlock's nearest and dearest from becoming collateral damage!
The maid returned as Charlie departed, visibly flinching when the boy hurried by, but managing not to drop anything. Mycroft took the tray at the door, sending Maggie back to the kitchen to fetch the tea. "Now, then, Mr. Wiggins," he said bracingly, "if I might have your assistance with these? Your 'guv'nor' ought to look at least a little more presentable for the doctor's arrival, don't you think?"
Wiggins nodded again, rising slowly, doubtless relieved to be given any kind of task, however unpleasant. "I-I c'n do 'is 'ands."
"Very well."
Much to Mycroft's disappointment, the warm, damp cloths on Sherlock's brow and cheeks seemed to have no effect whatever on his catatonic state, either. Cleaning his neck, however, uncovered a small, circular puncture wound that made Wiggins shudder as he looked up.
"The man, Mister 'Olmes," he mumbled, unprompted, " 'e 'ad an 'ook."
"A nook?"
"No, a hook." Wiggins made an effort to sound the 'h'. "A bloody great cargo 'ook, like the dockers 'ave. 'Cept this feller din't look like no docker..." Another shudder. "Well, wot I could see of 'im..."
"What do you mean, lad?"
"...'is 'ead exploded."