Holmes remembered little of being carried up into the open air, or of Dr. Nichols's fussing over his disarranged dressings back at the cabin. Strange and macabre, the difference a few minutes could make... He seemed to have gone from fervently wishing he could remember Watson's face to wanting to grind it underfoot every time it popped up in his thoughts, which was constantly! God, why had he even come here?! He'd been so stupid... Flying straight into Moriarty's lair, alone, unarmed, injured, and with at least one priceless heirloom still missing from his brain attic – what hope had he ever had of saving anyone? He should have listened to Lestrade from the start, let Whitehall and Scotland Yard handle everything! Even if, by some miracle, the police did manage to get onto the right track... With all but one hostage insensible below, Holmes was merely going to be one more card for Moriarty to play...
"We're all going to die, aren't we?" he whispered wretchedly to the air, not caring whether the doctor heard him or not.
"Really, Holmes," Moriarty tutted from the doorway, "you wound me. Thank you, Doctor, you may go."
Holmes glanced up from his seat on edge of the bunk as Nichols hastened out of the room, and noted glumly that the Professor was carrying a tray of covered dishes, including a silver coffee urn... "It's... very kind of you, Moriarty, but..."
"I understand that you don't wish to be beholden any further to an enemy." Moriarty set the tray on a small table and pulled up a couple of chairs, one on either side. "If it helps, you could look on this as an opportunity to stall for time. I make it a rule never to discuss business over breakfast." He seated himself facing the door, and removed the covers. The aroma of eggs, sausages and freshly brewed coffee, which had already begun to waft in Holmes's direction, now burst full upon him. The detective's treacherous stomach also chose that moment to helpfully remind him that Hopkins's sandwiches had probably been lost while he was being resuscitated by Wats... by John. It did seem a very long time since those biscuits...
"More coffee, Holmes?"
"Thank you, no." Holmes leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He always seemed to forget what a difference a full stomach could make to one's outlook. Although he still didn't know whom he loathed more just now – James Moriarty or John Darling – he no longer felt the pressing need to murder either man. Well... not without taking time to consider how best to go about it, anyhow. "My compliments to your cook, Professor, breakfast was excellent."
"Most kind." Moriarty dabbed delicately at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. "And now that all possible distractions have at least been minimised, let us discuss the terms of your surrender."
Holmes inhaled sharply, and choked on a crumb. Coughing helplessly, eyes watering, he reached for his coffee cup and gulped down the last dregs. "You don't... waste any time... do you?" he croaked.
"No," Moriarty smiled, pouring the detective a fresh cup. "Dear me, Holmes, do take care! I don't expect an immediate decision, by any means."
"And what makes you think... I'll do as you ask?" Holmes took a careful sip of hot coffee, still trying to clear his throat.
"As I recall, you wished to know how helping me would be in anyone's best interests." Moriarty steepled his fingers. "Very well, then, I shall tell you. Bear in mind that your opinion of John Darling is wholly irrelevant at this moment, given that I also hold the rest of your family hostage. As I mentioned earlier, the original plan was for Moran to await our return from Neverland before releasing them. However, now that the Colonel has... deserted his post, the most logical alternative is to release all of the prisoners, immediately before the two of us depart for the island."
Holmes stared. "You... would do that? Why?"
"Why should I not? What kind of threat could any of them be to me, here? I don't intend to return for at least fifty years, by which time the police will believe me well and truly deceased. If I find that I have returned too soon, I shall simply vanish again until I am entirely forgotten."
The bemused detective wasn't about to argue that point. Moriarty's legacy would be forgotten, all right! The man's mental powers were certainly formidable, but his unwavering belief that they were any kind of a match for the magic of Neverland was laughable... only Holmes didn't feel at all like laughing. "Aren't you concerned about what kind of threat I might pose?"
"No," Moriarty said simply, "because in return for your family's safety, you will swear your most solemn oath never to pursue me or cause me harm of any kind, directly or otherwise. There are few things which I place utter reliance upon, Holmes, in this world or the next. Your word as a man of honour is one of them."
Holmes's lip curled, not in the least bit flattered. "And then?"
"Well, once you have escorted me safely to Neverland, your options are twofold. The first: you can return immediately to the waking world, happy in the knowledge that I shall never threaten you or your family again."
"I see..." To an impartial observer, Moriarty's demands might have seemed the simplest possible solution to the problem: take the man to Neverland, just as he wanted, and leave him there to gradually lose his mind. Unfortunately, that solution could become a far greater problem in the long term. There was no guarantee that the Professor would remember his promise never to return in Holmes's lifetime! Not to mention that the very idea of James Moriarty spending any amount of time on the island which had been Holmes's childhood home for so long turned the detective's stomach. "And... the second?"
"You could remain."
"Remain... in Neverland?" A shudder of pure revulsion ran through the detective. "With you?"
"I fail to see why the idea should be so repellent," Moriarty protested mildly, brows raised. "I confess that it has been an intellectual treat to match wits with you over the last few months, Holmes. I should deeply regret losing so worthy an opponent."
"I don't believe what I'm hearing!" Holmes sputtered. "Are you seriously asking me to stay in Neverland, just so that you don't have to be bored?"
"Not merely for my sake, dear boy. Tell me..." Moriarty casually tapped the inside of his own forearm with a finger. "How often, before you knew of my existence, did you resort to that deplorable habit of yours, out of sheer ennui?" He paused as if inviting an answer, but none came. "Were you to return to London, and attempt to resume your old way of life, I cannot imagine that it would be at all long before the inevitable happened. After all... Dr. Darling would hardly be welcome to call upon you any more, would he?"
Or to publish any more stories about their shared adventures... or even to tell the public that he hadn't perished in the blaze, that he was still taking cases... Holmes hadn't been so averse to Watson's... to John's stories that he couldn't admit how much they had helped to bring him new and interesting work...
"I am glad to meet you, Doctor. I hear of Sherlock everywhere since you became his chronicler..."
Good God... Had Mycroft somehow recognised the barely-healed soldier at Holmes's side as the black-clothed and grieving youth beside their parents' grave, all those years ago? And Watson... what must he have felt, hearing Holmes so casually describe Mycroft as his only family... Well, John only had himself to blame for that! Holmes certainly couldn't be blamed for not knowing John when he'd entered the lab: twenty years older, brown as a nut, stooped and haggard from fever and deep, flesh-searing pain...
"I wanted to tell you..."
All these years... he'd thought that John had been staring at him purely in wonder at his deductions... Could it be...? Had the man both hoped and dreaded to be recognised by his estranged brother in that moment, just as he had in the brig? And then the moment had passed... and John had instead chosen to live with a man of whom he now knew nothing... yet had once known intimately. Just how much of the old Peter had he seen in Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective... or hoped to see?
Well... you could try asking him...
Don't be ridiculous.
You're being utterly childish, you know.
Shut up!
How exactly was John supposed to reveal his true identity, hm? Remind you of everything you'd very obviously put behind you? Well, tried to, anyhow... John didn't seem in the least surprised by you attacking him in the brig, did he? He'd probably been expecting that precise reaction from the moment he realised you'd buried every memory of Neverland and Wendy you ever had… Of course he couldn't give you the fairy dust after that, you'd have thought he was a lunatic!
He should have given it to me earlier, then!
Lestrade said it, remember? You were in no position to think of anything happy after Wendy died... Until Mycroft came along, and after that, you didn't need it.
...I remember...
"Peter, darl–uhn!"
He'd watched, wide-eyed, from the locker room floor, split lip stinging, as Mycroft's fist landed on Cavendish Major's jaw, the older boy's eyes gleaming with carefully controlled fury. No one had laid a finger on him again after that...
Mycroft always looked out for you, didn't he? He must have known exactly who was flatting with his little brother, well before you introduced him... but he never said a word.
No...
And what does that tell you?
"Holmes?" The detective started as Moriarty tapped his knife sharply on the side of his coffee cup. "My apologies for interrupting, but you have been staring at nothing for a good five minutes. Have you, perhaps, reached any pertinent conclusions?"
"Yes..." Holmes said slowly, heavily. "I do believe I have."
"And what have you concluded, dear boy? Might you throw your lot in with mine, after all?"
Holmes drew himself up, folding his hands before him on the table, and looked the Professor straight in the eye. "I have concluded... that I would rather die choking on my own vomit than have you as a... companion, in Neverland or anywhere else."
"Good heavens, Holmes!" Perhaps fortunately, Moriarty seemed more amused than insulted. "There really is no occasion for such ungentlemanly language. I meant the proposal as a sincere compliment."
"Oh, you have paid me several compliments, Moriarty," Holmes replied acidly. "However, I am sure you can understand that I ceased to find these games of yours 'an intellectual treat' the very moment you decided to use my family as leverage against me. Terribly bad form, old man."
"Is that so?" Moriarty purred, though with a definite hint of claws extending. "And what of my first proposal? I would advise you to answer soon, Holmes, my patience is not infi–"
"SHIP AHOY!"
"Aaall haaands! Up anchor, ahooy!"
"Well, well..." Moriarty glanced over his shoulder at the aft cabin windows, where the English coast showed as a smudged grey line on the western horizon. "It would seem, Holmes, that your plodding colleagues at the Yard have managed to at least achieve a lumbering trot." The Professor rose, without any unseemly haste, and walked to the door, not bothering to look behind him again. "Coming?"
For a moment, Holmes wasn't certain whether to follow or not. His heart had leapt at the first urgent call from on deck, but the Professor looking so wholly unruffled made him feel decidedly uneasy. Then it dawned on him that if there was anything that would play right into Moriarty's hands, it was his own inaction. Besides, having an enemy to gloat to could only be a distraction, which might just prove fatal!
The detective squinted as he emerged stiffly from the relative dimness of the cabin. The crew were all in motion, readying the ship, a bewildering display of barely controlled pandemonium. Holmes was irresistibly reminded of the time in his youth when he had sprinkled sugar on an ant's nest, as the sailors hurried about the deck and up and down the rigging, loosening the sails and bracing the yards. Then he started at a hand on his shoulder, which turned out to be Moriarty's, the Professor indicating that Holmes should follow him to the half-deck above the cabin. Holmes set his teeth and slowly climbed the steep steps, keeping his weight on his right leg.
"Report, Mr. Anderson," he faintly heard above the din. Moriarty stood at the aft railing beside a man dressed slightly better than his fellows – the first mate, perhaps – who was looking through a spyglass towards a faint plume of smoke, somewhere between them and the coast.
"It's the Navy, all right, sir. Gunboat, we can't tell which one yet."
"Sailing to intercept?"
"Aye, sir. At her present head of steam, she'll be on us in quarter of an hour."
"Very good, keep me informed." Moriarty turned to Holmes, who had just reached the deck. "Ah, Holmes, kind of you to join me. I must confess, I've been rather looking forward to sharing this moment with you."
"You looked forward to being overtaken by the Royal Navy and forced to surrender?" Holmes responded in seeming astonishment, more uneasy than ever at the unmistakeable gleam in the Professor's eye.
"On the contrary – ah! It seems we are ready to depart. Weigh anchor, Mr. Stevens!" he called forward.
"Weigh anchor!" came the bo'sun's shout from amidships.
Several men heaved at the capstan as the Lady Gwendolen puffed out her pale canvas cheeks and tossed her head with the swell, as if she were as anxious to be off as any of her crew. Holmes could only look on in growing bewilderment. Did Moriarty seriously expect to outrun one of the Navy's steamships? A brigantine might reach eight knots, given a favourable wind, but a screw-driven gunboat could reach at least fifteen in all but the heaviest seas! As for her guns... but no one here seemed to be making the cannons ready, anyhow.
"I see there is much you do not understand," Moriarty remarked behind him. "Tell me, Holmes... have you never wondered why Moran and I had the power to fly before your thimble was lost?"
Holmes felt the blood drain from his face. God, he was such an idiot... Why had he never questioned what had been flaunted in front of him all this time?! "Well, if you're so very eager to tell me," he managed to respond, in a ghastly attempt at nonchalance.
"As you are to hear it, I see. What happened to the Jolly Roger after you sailed her from Neverland?"
"We... We landed her in the Azores... It was quicker to fly to London on our own from there."
"Yes," Moriarty said in mild reproof. "It really was most unwise of you not to have dropped anchor, or stowed the sails before you abandoned her. According to the venerable Mr. Smee, a storm came up shortly afterwards, and the ship ran aground on some shoals and was broken apart. The poor man nearly drowned."
"So he was on board," Holmes said quietly, with a shiver. "We didn't know."
"Would you have spared his life if you had, I wonder?" Without waiting for a reply, Moriarty went on, "But your carelessness did prove remarkably useful in one respect. Mr. Stevens! Has all been made secure? Very well, you may proceed."
Stevens saluted, and took a small canvas bag out of his coat pocket.
"There were some most remarkable sailors' tales from those parts, you know." Moriarty watched the bo'sun intently as he hurried to the bow. "Fish that swam in the air for as long as they did in the water, for example."
"...dear God..." The horrified detective suddenly knew exactly what was in that bag. "Tell me you didn't..."
"It was quite the undertaking," Moriarty murmured in audible satisfaction. "Weeks spent in search of her, and even longer in raising the poor, shattered lady from her watery grave, piece by piece."
Holmes could only watch, speechless, as Stevens dipped his left hand into the bag for a moment and withdrew fingers covered in sparkling golden dust. The bo'sun strode along the deck towards the cabin, running his hand along the starboard gunwale and leaving a broad stripe of fairy dust behind him.
"Excellent, Mr. Stevens," Moriarty nodded, smiling. "Carry on!" To Holmes, "Every scrap of timber was harvested, dried, burnt to ash in a special furnace... and finally sifted for every last grain. I was really quite astonished at how much we were able to salvage."
"So I see," Holmes responded dourly as Stevens finished his circuit of the main deck at the port bow. Was it his imagination, or was the ship already moving slightly out of rhythm with the waves? If Moriarty had already tested this ploy successfully, jaws were going to hit the deck on the other ship very shortly...
"Captain," the first mate exclaimed suddenly, "her fore gun is swivelling, they're preparing to fire!"
"The traditional shot across the bow," Moriarty smirked. "It does seem a pity to decline the invitation... but needs must."
BOOM!
The noise made Holmes flinch, even though he was expecting it, the shot passing a few yards to port and landing a mere ship's length ahead, sending up a plume of water as it exploded. Then the detective's heart beat faster still as it became clear, moment by moment, that the Lady Gwendolen seemed extremely reluctant to leave the water.
"In your own time, Mr. Stevens," Moriarty frowned, sounding faintly peevish for the first time. "Or were you hoping to experience her Majesty's hospitality?"
"It's the extra weight, sir," the bo'sun answered with impressive composure. "Begging your pardon, but we didn't have so much cargo last time."
BOOM!
The second shot landed right alongside to starboard, showering everyone with spray.
"They're getting their eye in, sir!" Anderson called. "I doubt they'll miss with the next! Oh, Lord... Captain, it's the Sharpshooter! She's a torpedo gunboat!"
"Odd that they haven't used them, then..." Moriarty's eyes narrowed for a long second, then he sighed. "Very well, get rid of the cannons."
"Cannons overboard!" Stevens shouted at once. "Cut the lines!"
Holmes sagged in relief as the crew leaped to obey, heaving the guns off their wooden carriages and through the ports, each making a thunderous sploosh as they hit the water. For one terrible minute, he'd thought... But why wasn't the Sharpshooter using torpedoes? Unless... Of course, her commander must know about the prisoners in the hold! Was Lestrade on that ship, too?
"Both sides at once, boys, keep her trimmed!"
A few nerve-wracking moments more as the last cannons went to Davy Jones, and... yes! Holmes almost shouted aloud, quite forgetting in his exhilaration that he ought to be rooting for their pursuers. The ship was rising, he could feel it! They were actually fly...
BOOM!
"Take cover!" Anderson yelled, diving away from the rail. Distracted by his elation, Holmes was a second behind the others in throwing himself to the deck, just as the shell struck the ship.
Holmes had once tried to help his father's groundskeeper remove a stubborn tree stump by lighting a long fuse inserted into a live rifle cartridge. With hindsight, the three extra cartridges he'd added to the cavity had been somewhat excessive, and the shelter he'd chosen completely inadequate. The explosion had been heard for miles, and Holmes had combed tiny splinters out of his hair for days afterwards. He'd never known such a swift and brutal assault on his senses before, or since... until now. A wave of hot wind snatched at his clothes and hair, the ship's timbers shuddered and lurched beneath him, and the noise... It was as if someone had just driven an iron bar through his skull! And then, as Holmes clapped his hands over his ringing ears in a vain attempt to ease the pain, the pattering began... Splinters... of course there would be splinters... some of the tinier ones might take over a minute to come down... but where had they come from?!
The detective raised his head with difficulty and stared dazedly around the half deck. Besides the wooden hail, no damage was immediately obvious. Nor did any of the others up here seem to be injured, Moriarty waving a solicitous crewman away as he scrambled up, pointing the sailor towards Holmes instead.
"Holmes?" the Professor mouthed, then something the detective couldn't quite read, but was probably along the lines of "Are you hurt?"
"I'm all right!" Holmes thought he called back, though his own voice was little more than a faint hum in his ears. Anderson and the other seaman hauled him to his feet, Moriarty coming forward, probably intending to carry him back down to the relative safety of the main deck. "Where did they hit us?" If there was no damage visible up here, then... Oh God, no! NO! "Mycroft!"
Holmes shoved the sailors aside and lurched over to the rail as splinters continued to rain down. Some of them looked strange... scorched... he could smell smoke on the wind as well as gunpowder... He draped himself over the rail and craned his neck, but couldn't see anything but wisps of smoke from his vantage point, not even the rudder... It must have been blown to pieces when the shell exploded on the hull... and the cages holding his family had all been in the sternmost compartment!
"MYCROFT!" His shouts sounded as weak as his legs felt. "MRS. HUDSON! CHARLIE!" Rough hands pulled him back from the rail, and he fought with desperate strength to stay, to strain his battered ears for any answering calls, or even screams... "Let me go! Let...!" Someone landed a hard blow on his jaw, and he slumped to the deck, now tilting crazily beneath him. No, he would not go under, he must... stay... awake! "I have to... get down there!" he croaked, struggling feebly against his captors' hold. "For God's sake, Moriarty... help them!"
He never heard the next shot from the gunboat, but he did hear the BOOM! as it exploded, somewhere above his head.
CRRRACK!
"It's coming down!" "Look out!" Holmes could now hear the yells of alarm from the crew, then a thunderous CRASH, the deck shuddering under him once again.
"That, Holmes," Moriarty's voice sounded by his ear, albeit faintly, "you may be interested to know, was the one of the mainmast yards. Get that thing off the deck, Mr. Stevens!" he called. "And lay on more dust! We must climb higher to escape their guns! Now, I know what you must be wondering, dear boy," the Professor went on, in the same eerily conversational tone as before, "how much more damage can this ship take before she simply drops out of the sky? In all honesty, I really couldn't say. And your colleagues across the way – well, they do seem so very enthusiastic, don't they? Shall we have ourselves a sporting little wager as to which part they'll hit next? Thus far, we've had the aft hull, the rudder, the mainmast... Do you know, I believe the next shot might be the bow! What say you?"
"Stop it!" the detective choked, nearly blinded by tears of rage. "If any of them die because of you, you murdering bastard, I swear to God...!"
"I, Holmes? You have had the power to set them free any time you wished." Another faraway BOOM was followed by a ghastly tearing noise. "Dear me! How many spare sails do we have, Mr. Anderson?"
Before the first mate could respond, there was a sudden roar from the main deck: "What the devil are you doing, Simpson?! Back to your station, on the double!"
"I'll be damned!" Anderson exclaimed. "The bloody fool's covered himself in dust! He's going to jump!"
"Simpson!"
A yell became a long scream, the luckless Simpson quickly discovering that fairy dust was not as easy to use as it looked. Stunned silence reigned for a moment, then Stevens hollered, "Right! Anyone else want to try that? Back to work, then!"
"You have something to say, Mr. Anderson?" Moriarty said coldly. "I do not tolerate treachery, as you well know."
"Simpson wasn't a turncoat, sir – he lost his head for a minute, that's all!"
"And if he'd survived, he'd have lost it just the same," Moriarty snapped.
BOOM! RRRRIPPPP! SPLASSSHHH!
"Another sail, Holmes. Oh, and more of the rigging, I see..."
"I can't!" Holmes gasped out. "I can't take you to Neverland! I don't know how to get there!"
"You... don't... know?!" Moriarty's face was a study, disbelief warring with growing fury. "You seriously expect me to believe...!" He bent over Holmes and seized the front of the detective's coat in white-knuckled handfuls. "After the lengths I have gone to unearth every scrap of buried memory from your miserable, drug-riddled 'brain attic'?!"
"It's not about remembering!" the detective stammered. "I... I don't think I ever knew the way, not like that! Tink took me there the first time... and after that..." Something about Neverland itself... it was so close... "The island... The island, it..."
"Help!" Holmes's blood froze at the sudden shout. "Someone help me!"
"Who...?" Moriarty hissed, whirling around.
"It's Dr. Nichols, sir!" Stevens called. "He just climbed out the forward hatch, and he's bleeding!"
"They've gone mad, captain!" Nichols wailed. "They nearly killed me!"
"Sounds like the prisoners have broken loose, sir! That blast must have damaged the cages!"
"Well, don't follow after them, fools!" Moriarty snarled. "Secure the hatches! Where are they going to go – out the hole in the stern?"
"Now that you mention it..." came a voice from the starboard rail – weary, coldly furious, and blessedly familiar.
Holmes and Moriarty stared as one towards the speaker. John stood on the half deck before the rail, a revolver in each hand and aimed at the Professor's head, a bandage on his right upper arm gleaming against the soot that adorned the rest of him, his shirt and waistcoat only fit for rags, spotted here and there with crimson... "Let. Him. Go."
"Doctor Darling," Moriarty managed to smile, releasing Holmes and straightening. "Put the guns down, or I shall order the crew to land the ship – and I don't think the other hostages would thank you for that, with the hull damaged below the waterline!"
"Hostages?" John frowned as if in confusion, although his eyes read murder. "What hostages? Last time I checked, the hold was empty! Dear me," he tutted, "I suppose you'll just have to find someone else to blackmail!"
Holmes hardly dared to believe his ears. All the prisoners were gone?! How...? But it didn't matter, they were safe, he could see it in his brother's face, he'd never been that good at lying! And what he could see of Moriarty's expression from down here told him that the Professor believed John, too...
"I see. Drop anchor, Mr. Stevens!"
"Drop anchor!"
And before Holmes or John could react, or even realise what was going on, there was a long, harsh rattle of heavy chain and the Lady Godiva suddenly listed hard over to starboard. John was thrown off balance as the deck tilted steeply, arms flailing... and in that moment, Moriarty lunged off the sloping deck and flew straight at John, knocking him over the side!
"WATSON!"