"You mean Moriarty actually...?! That scummy maggot!" Lestrade exploded. "Of all the bloody cheek... You're certain, though, Holmes?" he asked suddenly, sternly. "We're only going to get one shot at an early search warrant from my superiors, and that's if we're lucky! If the Lady… If the ship isn't at least registered to a known associate of the Professor's, we're in trouble."
"...I know." Holmes's head was pounding, his right hand burning... Of course, the tooth. He hadn't realised how just hard he'd been gripping it, the edge had dug into his palm and drawn blood.
His colleague was still rattling on, oblivious. "Hell, it may not even be listed under that name! And without knowing exactly what type of ship it is, we'd be looking for a needle in a hay–"
"I know!" Holmes snapped, slipping the tooth into his coat pocket and clenching his hand around the stinging cut for want of a handkerchief. "And it makes no bloody sense at all, can't you see that?!"
Lestrade frowned, clearly making an effort to keep his own temper in check. "No, I'm afraid we can't, Holmes. If you'd care to enlighten us?"
Holmes had to smother a guilty pang at his colleague's admirable forbearance. "Doesn't it strike you as odd that, if Moriarty wished me to track him down, he would confuse the search with so many variables? Unless..." No... it wasn't Holmes the Professor was bogging down with details, was it? It was Scotland Yard! Lestrade and his colleagues couldn't board or search any registered ship without a warrant, which their superiors would only approve with hard evidence at this stage of the case, to prevent wasted time and manpower. Moriarty was carefully, deliberately turning the Yarders into a millstone around Holmes's neck, until at last the detective succumbed to temptation and threw that burden off, impulsively plunging ahead as he had done so often before. He didn't even have Watson with him this time...
"Unless... what?" Lestrade prompted impatiently. "Look, Holmes, if we're going to be of any help to you in this..."
Clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang!
Everyone on the landing started at the din, Gregson emerging from the parlour downstairs and heading to the front door. After a moment, Holmes realised that it couldn't be Mycroft's bell, as it seemed to be getting louder... Then he heard the rumble of wheels and the clatter of hooves, and knew what it was: a fire engine! It raced past and continued west along Pall Mall. Oh no... No, please, no...
Phweeeeeeet!
"Inspectors!" Another constable ran in from the street. "Summons from the Yard, sirs! All officers!"
"Oh, Christ..." Lestrade ran back down the stairs with the other three close behind. "Jones, isn't it?" he demanded as he reached the new arrival. "What the hell's going on? Where's the fire?"
"Baker Street, sir! Up by Regent's Park! Commissioner sends his apologies, but we need every man available."
Holmes didn't know who was paler in that moment: Lestrade, Wiggins, or himself. It didn't seem to matter, though... A strange calm was slowly creeping over the detective. It all made so much sense... First the bureaucracy, and now this... Of course the Yarders would drop everything else for such an immediate threat to the public, it went without saying... Though Lestrade seemed to be saying something to him just now, a pity he couldn't quite seem to make it out... There was an odd ringing in his ears...
"Ugghhh!" Holmes choked and gagged, nostrils burning. What was that stench?!
"Mr. 'Olmes!" Someone was pulling at his shoulder... "C'mon, guv'nor, look at me!"
"He'll be all right, Wiggins, give it a minute. Why don't you get him some water? Whew, that is strong! I think Watson might need to dilute this."
"Get that filthy stuff away from me!" Holmes croaked, rubbing his watering eyes. Smelling salts was a completely inadequate term for such a noxious odour.
"At least you're awake again." Lestrade smiled grimly as the detective blinked up at him. "Could have used some on you this morning, if I'd only thought of it."
"What happened?" How had he gotten to the parlour sofa? Why did his head and his hand hurt like the dickens?
"You fainted before anyone could catch you. No need to feel bad about it, either, you've had one hell of a day! You've cut your hand open, too. Did you forget that shark teeth are razor sharp?"
Holmes lifted the offending member gingerly and saw a large gauze pad bound to his palm with a clean, if untidy, bandage.
"Best I could do, sorry. You're lucky the gang didn't take the bag." Lestrade rose from the sofa and put the bottle of smelling salts back in the Gladstone.
"No... before that! The fire engine! All officers..." Holmes felt suddenly cold. "Baker Street..." His chest was tight... Beyond the bow window, the sky glowed a bloody orange...
"Steady, Holmes, stay with me. Ah, thank you, lad, perfect timing."
Holmes almost choked again as the water trickled past his lips, but managed to swallow, and Lestrade let him take the cup so that he could sip. By the time he'd drunk half, his breathing and pulse were slower, if not entirely steady.
"I've got to get over there!" Although this sofa was surprisingly comfortable, and didn't seem terribly inclined to let him up...
"And do what, exactly? Outshine the entire London Fire Brigade? It is a shame about your violin, though... and I'm very sorry Jones sprang it on you like that. He only transferred over last week, he didn't recognise you."
Holmes shook his head miserably. Even more regrettable than his violin were all of his case files! "He had a job to do..." Speaking of which... "Why are you still here?"
"You know what, I'm going to pretend you didn't ask such a damn fool question," Lestrade said brightly. "No offence to Wiggins, but I wasn't about to run off and leave you with a lone Irregular as a chaperone. It didn't take a genius to realise that Moriarty planned for all of us to abandon you while you worked out how to find him. Or should that rather be, he planned to give you an opportunity to give us the slip?"
"He's waiting for me..."
"Which means you have to go strolling blithely into a trap, I suppose? Or flying into one..."
"Is it true, then?" Wiggins burst out, apparently unable to contain himself a moment longer. "Did yer really 'ave t' fly t' get away from the gang?"
"Not so loud, please..." Holmes grimaced. "But yes, we did."
"...Can one of yer show me?! Please?"
Holmes bit his lip, then cast a pleading glance of his own at Lestrade. This really wasn't the time... but the Inspector did seem to have a knack for thinking pleasant thoughts in the midst of extremely dire circumstances!
Lestrade sighed deeply. "All right, all right! I don't know if it'll still work... And you might want to stand by the door, lad, Carson's on guard outside." Seated on the edge of the sofa, he closed his eyes and took a few calming breaths. Wiggins watched from his post, wide-eyed, as a faint smile appeared on the Inspector's face, then broadened. Next moment, he was drifting upwards – and much slower than last time, Holmes noted in concern.
The detective sat up with an effort and put a restraining hand on Lestrade's shoulder. "Not too high, Lestrade, I think it is wearing off. We don't want you falling from the ceiling."
The Inspector opened his eyes and grinned. "Well, I could use Wiggins's open mouth as a net!" He floated forward a couple of feet and landed lightly on the carpet. "That's a shame. I was just starting to enjoy it! How much longer do you think you've got?"
"I don't know..." He'd have to be capable of testing it first! "Wiggins, are you all right?"
The Irregular's mouth was still ajar, eyes glistening with tears. "...Blimey..."
"Come sit down, lad," Lestrade chuckled, leading Wiggins back to the sofa by the elbow. "And now that I think of it, when was the last time you had anything to eat? Watch him, Holmes, I'll be back in a minute."
The moment Lestrade left the room, however, Holmes was up and stumbling over to the window, raising the right-hand sash as quietly as he could. It was more difficult than he'd thought, his palm wound stabbed and his arms still felt like straws... and now he could smell the smoke filling the night air, acrid and sinister... Then Wiggins was beside him, shoving the sash all the way up with ease.
Holmes reddened as he realised what the assistance meant. Wiggins's faraway look had vanished, regarding the detective solemnly. The boy... young man understood, in a way that the Inspector could not. "Wiggins, I... I'm so sorry, lad." If only there had been enough dust... because, despite Lestrade's best efforts, Holmes was about to do exactly what Moriarty had hoped he would.
"Yer know 'ow to find 'im now, don' yer, guv'nor?"
"Yes... Yes, I rather think I do."
The Irregular nodded, flashing his chief a fierce grin. "Go get 'im, then." He hugged the detective hard for a moment, then hurried out of the room and closed the door behind him. Holmes knew without asking that Wiggins was going to lead Lestrade upstairs to 'prevent' his escape... which meant he only had a couple of minutes at most to find a good happy thought!
Holmes closed his eyes. Wiggins might work? The moment when he'd reappeared, safe and sound... no, no, that moment was too loaded with regret, for not protecting Charlie and the others... Mycroft, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, the same for them. And as for John... Blast it, why had his memories moved on from his seventeen-year-old self, Sherlock Holmes of Devonshire, second son to a country squire, so brash and arrogant and confident that a bright future lay ahead of him, that everything would be all right in the end?
Maybe that's where you're going wrong.
...What?
You're not seventeen any more, you grew up and chose solving crime for a living. If you try to find a completely happy thought, you'll be searching forever!
But...
Why haven't you tried Watson?
I can't... I can't remember his face!
So? Lestrade said it, didn't he? You don't need to see his face to remember what he means to you. Why did you give him the book? Just to get rid of an item you had no use for?
No... I gave it to him because I knew he would enjoy it.
Even with the sad ending?
Even then. He was a soldier... and a doctor. He understood that joy and sorrow often go hand in hand.
And you were the better for having him show you that, weren't you? When you were depressed or doubting yourself, you found comfort in knowing someone had your back. Even when you fought, you knew it was only a matter of time before you came back together. You had faith in him, no matter what.
Yes...
You still do.
Yes.
Good. Now look down, you idiot.
Holmes cried out joyfully as he saw he was at least a foot off the floor. Then the parlour door burst open and a red-faced Lestrade rushed in, Wiggins trying vainly to hold him back on his own.
"Holmes, no! Don't you dare!"
The detective dived through the window before his outraged colleague could reach him, and soared upwards. "Sorry, Lestrade, I've got to go!" he called down as the Inspector's head appeared. "Let me have your gun!"
"Holmes, you get back here this instant! Do you even know where you're going?!"
"No, but my guide does!" Moriarty was never short of a contingency plan, and this time Holmes meant to exploit that. "I need a weapon!"
" 'Ere, guv'nor!" Wiggins leaned out of the window and tossed a revolver upwards as hard as he could. He must have lifted that from Lestrade, given the way the man was now swearing and slapping his coat pockets.
Holmes swooped and picked the gun out of the air by the barrel, noting idly that quite a sizeable crowd was gathering in the street below, shouting and pointing upwards, including the constable. "Good lad!" he laughed, and called over the growing roar, "Watch our bearing, Lestrade! You'll probably need the Coastguard!"
"HOLMES!" Lestrade bellowed desperately. "Don't be a fool! You can't face him alone in your condition! Are you trying to get yourself killed?!"
"Of course not!" Holmes scoffed, and headed to the roof without another word. Then again, best laid plans, and all that... The stink of smoke grew stronger as he flew higher, and even from this distance, he could feel the heat from the leaping flames. His eyes were stinging... Dear old 221B had been home for so long... but it was all just stuff in the end, bricks and mortar and glass and wood and paper... Watson wasn't there now, none of his family were. Moriarty wouldn't play that kind of game, fire was too unpredictable to risk using it as a means of leverage.
Resolutely turning his back on the blaze, Holmes landed on a sturdy chimney stack, raised the stolen revolver and thumbed back the hammer. "All right, you murdering bastard," he muttered tensely, gaze darting about into the myriad quivering shadows. "I know you've been watching. Let's see how anxious your employer really is for me to show up!"
BANG!
The thunder of the gunshot seemed to echo strangely up here, ricocheting off slates and tiles and chimney pots. Holmes cocked the revolver again, preparing to fire another round into the air.
"Marvellous entrance, old boy," a low, grating voice drawled behind him. "Very stylish."
The detective barely kept from whirling around, pointedly taking the time to pocket the revolver before he turned and bowed. "Good evening, Colonel. So kind of you to answer my summons on such short notice."
"Don't mention it." Moran stood leaning against the next chimney along, smoking a cigarette, and looking wholly at ease with such a precarious perch. "But then you also haven't yet mentioned my sterling work on your behalf this morning." He tutted. "For shame, Holmes – surely a little gratitude wouldn't kill you?"
Holmes tried not to grind his teeth. "I'd be more grateful if I didn't know you were itching to aim Von Herder's air-gun a little more to the left. Shall we dispense with the pleasantries, Moran? Whatever game your handler is playing, I can only imagine that you must be growing as weary of all this tomfoolery as I am. We both know that the sooner you direct me to wherever Moriarty is hiding, the sooner you can put a bullet through my brain once I've told him exactly where he can put whatever offer he plans to make."
"As satisfying as that would be, Holmes..." Moran admitted with a smirk, reaching into his waistcoat pocket with finger and thumb, "I rather think you underestimate my employer's powers of persuasion."
Holmes's breath caught in his throat, even though he'd already guessed what the Colonel was about to reveal. John's watch chain glinted wickedly in the lurid glare of the distant flames, the thimble spinning slowly around, a blood-stained corpse dangling from a silver noose...
Moran tucked the bauble away again, dropped his cigarette stub onto the tiles and slowly crushed it beneath his heel with evident relish. "Far be it from me to spoil a man's hard-earned amusement."
There was no amusement in Holmes's answering smile, the detective struggling to master the cold fury which threatened to banish every precious thought of Watson that he'd fought so hard to retrieve. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he lifted off and drifted back out over the street, drawing the revolver again as a fresh wave of gasps and screams drifted up from below.
"And no doubt you would be even more reluctant to explain to the Professor why I failed to make the rendezvous altogether." The detective's smile became a wicked grin as Moran shifted uneasily, knees bent as if preparing to spring. "I do hope you've practiced diving, old boy," he added in mock solicitude, thumbing the hammer and placing the muzzle against his temple. "Or carrying an extra person's dead weight."
If looks could kill, the Colonel's glare of pure hatred would have taken no prisoners. "You..."
"Come, come, Moran," Holmes tutted, "that's no way to get airborne. Just imagine your finger on the trigger, my head exploding like a rotten turnip... Ah, much better!" He chuckled mirthlessly as his reluctant pilot rose into the air, still glowering savagely. "After you, then, my dear sir. Oh no, I really must insist. I'd also advise you to choose your course very carefully, because if I think for a moment you're changing direction too early or too quickly, then you will – straight down."
Moran didn't deign to reply. Instead, he slowly, haughtily turned his back on Holmes, as if he hadn't noticed that the detective was even there. The Colonel fixed his gaze to the east and headed in that direction at top speed without a backward glance. Not daring to look down to see if Lestrade or Wiggins were watching from below, Holmes thrust the revolver back into his coat pocket and followed, taking care not to get too close. He didn't know if Moran had ever tried shooting at a moving target while flying, but Lestrade's experience while escaping had been a most enlightening demonstration of Newton's Third Law in action, and Holmes wasn't eager to try it for himself. Up here, it would have to be a case of who was the better flyer.
Holmes had to grudgingly admit that navigating was slightly easier with the Baker Street inferno casting its horrible amber glow onto the clouds piling up ahead. A heading of due east meant that the two men were mostly flying over the Thames, the water gleaming darkly below them as it writhed across the landscape towards the North Sea. Hopefully they were going too fast now for anyone to think that they were anything more than large sea birds. Heaven only knew how Lestrade and the rest were going to deal with tales of flying men over Pall Mall! With hindsight, it might have been wiser to exit the same way as before...
As they left the mouth of the river and headed out to sea, Holmes realised with growing unease that the Colonel wasn't looking down at the water at all, but keeping his eyes fixed on the horizon. The wind was considerably stronger now, plucking at their clothes and hair with a cruel and chilly hand. As if sensing the detective's hesitation, Moran slowed and turned around, though still drifting eastward. "Last chance to turn back, Holmes!" he called, sounding much more cheerful than when they'd first set out. "Got enough dust, have you? Oh, don't look so dismayed, I'm told drowning's one of the easiest ways to go!"
Holmes clenched his teeth as he came to a halt several feet away. He couldn't fault the man for needling his opponent at such a crucial juncture, it was exactly what Holmes would have done! At least he had been right about Lestrade getting useful information out of the Coastguard, they kept careful records of all seagoing vessels. But how much further out was the ship? He had told Lestrade the truth about not knowing precisely how long the fairy dust would last... If he began to fall now, the Colonel would have little choice but to intervene, and Holmes wasn't sure which of them would be more revolted at being forced to cooperate, even in such perilous circumstances.
"Fine!" he growled at last, willing to let the man have a small victory in exchange for his earlier one. "We'll share what's left. You first."
"Most kind," Moran smirked, reaching into his waistcoat pocket and pulling out the chain... then swore as the end emerged, minus the thimble! He clutched at his pocket and swore again, plunging his hand in and fishing frantically, then did the same with all his other pockets. "It's gone!" he snarled.
"How? How could you have lost it?" Holmes demanded, still keeping his distance.
"I don't know, but we'll have to go back! I'm not risking death at sea when we can hire a boat! Margate's close enough."
"Oh no, you don't!" Holmes dived after Moran as the man took off around him towards the coast, and grabbed him by the ankle, hauling him higher.
Moran yelled in alarm, kicking and flailing. "Let go, you bloody fool! I've got to land, for God's sake, it's wearing off!"
"D'you think I'm stupid?" Holmes shouted back. With Moran so far out in front, it would have been easy to break the thimble off and claim he'd dropped it!
"Oh, yes..." And suddenly the Colonel's hands weren't empty any more.
Holmes dropped Moran's leg and twisted aside, only a fraction of a second before silver flashed through the dark between them. The detective cried out as the throwing knife that Moran had probably intended to bury in his gut sliced a line of fire across his left hip... and then the Colonel's arm was around his neck from behind, a second blade digging between his ribs.
"Do you know," Moran murmured in his ear in a disturbingly conversational tone, "I don't believe this is the way to the ship, after all."
"Wh-What are you doing?!" Holmes croaked, not daring to struggle. His body was hanging heavy, pain and surprise had shattered his concentration. If Moran let him drop, he had perhaps all of five seconds to refocus before he hit the water, hard. "Moriarty..."
"Oh, I think the Professor can afford to wait for us a little longer... Well, I say 'us'..." Moran's voice became contrite. "I'm so sorry, sir – I showed Holmes the watch chain, like you said, but he just went berserk!"
Holmes suddenly felt very cold. So this was why Moran hadn't shot him earlier... He'd been waiting for a chance to claim self-defence, without any inconvenient witnesses, and a watery landing if it all went wrong! "You don't approve of his plans, then," he managed to respond lightly. "Can't say I blame you!"
The Colonel's chuckle travelled through his arm. "Good try, Holmes. Now, before I continue, you can take out that revolver you're thinking of reaching for by the barrel, very slowly, and give it a nice burial at sea."
Swearing inwardly, Holmes fumbled one-handed in his coat pocket, the bandage and gauze pad catching on the flap now that he had to operate blind. As his fingers touched the gun, something chinked softly against the grip. Praying that Moran hadn't heard, the detective delicately scooped up the shark tooth with his last two fingers, then grasped the gun barrel with the other three. The sight of the gun dangling harmlessly should make an excellent distraction. Watson would have approved, he'd always liked conjuring tricks that involved misdirection...
"Good," Moran grunted as Holmes gingerly extracted his hand. "Now drop i– aargh!"
Holmes had slammed the tooth into his captor's forearm the moment he'd let go of the gun; at the same time, he'd launched himself forward as hard as he could, away from Moran's knife. Even so, the tip gouged into his lower back, and he barely managed to stay airborne as fresh pain coursed through him, fighting for breath. Then he lurched sickeningly as an arm wrapped around his ankles – Moran! The Colonel appeared to be weaponless and flightless now, left arm dangling and streaming blood, but his grim expression said it all: if he was going down, then so was Holmes!
"Colonel, listen!" Holmes snapped, straining with all of his might against the dead weight on his legs, but it wasn't nearly enough. Another minute, and they would be swimming in ice-cold water with the sharks, and both of them were wounded! "It doesn't have to go like this! We can both reach the shore, just think of someone you care about!"
Moran's face twisted into a snarl of fury. "He's leaving! The bastard's double-crossing me! Me!"
"Who... Moriarty?" Holmes spluttered, forgetting everything else for the moment in his astonishment. "Wh-Where's he going?"
"Where do you think?!" Moran spat viciously. "He said you'd have to take him there and back before I could follow him! He lied to me!"
Dear God... "How do you know?!" Holmes yelled, as the crash of the waves below grew ever louder. "Why wouldn't he come back for you?"
Moran began to laugh helplessly, though his one-armed grip never relaxed. "You haven't seen him fly yet, have you, Holmes?" he gasped. "He's like a kid with a new toy! He spends his whole life in pursuit of cold, hard logic, and suddenly he finds out from that pickled sot of a pirate that magic is real, he actually can do anything he wants! What do you think that does to a man like him?"
"...Ah." Yes, Holmes could well imagine... "Well... help me to stop him, then! I don't want him getting to Neverland, either, believe me! You can come for me after that, I promise." Another devil, another deal... but at least this was one he could live with. "I'll be waiting!"
Moran's sudden grin was practically comradely. "You know what, Holmes? I almost do believe you." He dragged his wounded arm up in a shaky salute. "See you in Hell!"
"No!" But Moran had already released him, plunging into the inky waves with an almighty splash that almost touched the detective's boot soles. "Colonel!" Wincing from his injuries, Holmes descended further and scanned the heaving surface.
"Pffft!" Moran bobbed up, sputtering, and shook the water out of his eyes. He grinned again when he saw Holmes above him and gave a jaunty little wave, before striking out towards the twinkling lights of Margate with his good arm.
Holmes could only watch in disbelief, mostly at how quickly things had changed. It was only a mile or two to shore from here, the Colonel had a reasonable chance of survival... and he was wasting precious seconds, with no idea of where the ship was really anchored! Calmly now, no need to panic – Moran must have thought Holmes was capable of getting there by himself, even in his battered state, but he was going to need a lot more height to see any ships on the water. Think about Watson... He dived upwards against the growing pull of gravity; the fairy dust was finally giving out, and Moran still had the thimble, damn him...
Dong dong! Dong dong!
Good heavens, ten o'clock already? No wonder he felt so tired… Wait… that was a ship's bell! Holmes strained his eyes in what he hoped was the right direction, but he could barely even focus now, the sea was one giant blur. No telling whether the ship was the one he sought, either... but he had no choice now, he was already starting to sink again. Think about Watson...
He shot forward, trying very hard not to think about how rapidly he seemed to be losing height, how horribly loud the waves sounded, he could feel the spray on his face... Desperately, he kicked upwards again for a few seconds, straining every sinew to stay in the air, and then... was it... Yes! He wasn't imagining it, the lights of a ship, gleaming off the water... Now he just needed to reach it before he drowned... It seemed so far... His feet were cold and wet...
Holmes drew a deep breath and crowed as loud as he could manage... which didn't seem all that loud, really... Perhaps it was time to take a rest, catch his breath... The bed was horribly cold, but at least someone was rocking him...