A few minutes later...
"WATSON!"
The sudden lurch to starboard had sent Holmes and the two sailors holding him sliding down the canted deck. He was finally able to move... but could only watch in frozen horror as his brother plunged towards the water with a yell of alarm – and so far down, Watson would be lucky if he didn't break his neck! Wait... Was that...?! A dark and much larger shape was swooping in fast – Mycroft! The detective sagged weakly in relief as the two distant figures met in mid air, tumbling together for a moment, then began to rise, Watson apparently recovered enough from the shock of Moriarty's attack that he could fly again... and how in the world had either of his brothers obtained enough dust to do that?!
The harsh click of a revolver cocking to Holmes's right told him that now was not the time to be wool-gathering! Moriarty had apparently retrieved one of Watson's dropped pistols, and was kneeling on the angled gunwale, taking careful aim at the pair...
"Moriarty!" The yell of rage from Holmes made the Professor look up to see the detective scrambling up and plunging towards him along the V-shaped trench where the gunwale met the deck, heedless of the dangerous footing. "Touch that trigger, you coward, and I'll eat your black heart for breakfast! It's you and me now!"
"...Very well." Moriarty pocketed the revolver and coolly walked back up the sloping deck as if it were completely level, finally seating himself on the portside rail. "In your own time, dear boy," he called down to where Holmes stood helplessly fuming, and swept an inviting hand, head inclined. "I await your convenience."
"Don't let that devil bait you, Holmes!" came John's anxious voice from behind. "He's beaten already, and he knows it!"
Holmes managed to turn himself around in time to see John and Mycroft clearing the gunwale and landing on either side of him. Mycroft didn't say a word, merely opened his arms and enveloped his brother in a fierce embrace, which Holmes was immensely glad to return. Those dreadful few minutes when he hadn't even dared to imagine...
"I'm sorry, Mycroft, I'm so sorry!" he gasped, eyes stinging afresh as the tears welled up. "I thought you all were... I couldn't get to you!"
"It's all right, Sherlock," Mycroft rumbled, patting him firmly on the back. "I'm very sorry we had to let you worry like that, but there was no other option. And, brother mine," he added, letting Holmes go to look him sternly in the eye, "it was thanks to John that everyone else got clear in time, including myself. Without him, many more of us would be injured, or very likely dead."
"Well... it wasn't just me..." John mumbled, the doctor's bruised and scored face crimson with embarassment as Holmes slowly turned towards him, his own face equally red as he opened his mouth, though with absolutely no idea what he might say...
"Dear me! Such a touching family reunion, to be sure," Moriarty's purring sneer floated down, setting the detective's teeth on edge instantly. "But is it not time, Doctor Darling, that you returned to your dear younger brother what is rightfully his? Or did you intend to safeguard it for him a while longer?"
"Shut up!" Holmes yelled, before Watson could say a word. "I won't listen to your poisonous lies any longer! Watson doesn't even have the thimble any more, Moran took it!"
"Er, Holmes..." The detective stared at his brother, who was sheepishly reaching into his coat pocket. It couldn't be... "You probably won't believe this, but..."
"John..." Mycroft began, sounding concerned.
"No!" Watson snapped. His eyes met Holmes's at last, shame-filled yet determined. "Moriarty is right, Holmes. And so were you. I should never have interfered, all those years ago. I am... truly sorry." He withdrew his hand and held it out to Holmes, the silver watch chain dangling from his fingers. And gleaming at the very end... "I was so sure I was doing the right thing, protecting you from yourself... but the choice ought to have been yours from the very beginning. I-I don't expect you to forgive me..."
"How fortunate," Moriarty hissed suddenly, who had risen to his feet and was all but prowling back and forward along the rail, glaring down at the trio. "Well, now that you have your precious thimble again, Holmes, shall we commence?"
"Give it up, Moriarty!" Mycroft called in exasperation. "You've lost! The Navy is about to blast what remains of this cockeyed tub to matchwood! Your loyal crew are getting ready to abandon ship as we speak!" He pointed down to the main deck, where Anderson, Stevens and the rest were covering the longboat with the last of the fairy dust from the canvas bag, while working to release the boat's lashings without allowing her to slide uncontrollably overboard. "It's over!"
"No, Mycroft." Holmes reached out and carefully took the chain from Watson's trembling grasp, running his fingertips reverently over the thimble's rough, dimpled surface. "It isn't... not quite." People were never more dangerous than when they believed they had nothing left to lose... and Moriarty was surely no different!
"Sherlock..." Mycroft murmured faintly, watching aghast as Holmes levered out the rubber disc, the detective agreeably surprised to find that the thimble had been completely refilled. "Sherlock, no!" Mycroft suddenly put his hand on his brother's arm, gripping tightly. "Don't be a fool! You don't have to do this, just leave him to Scotland Yard!"
"I can't!" Holmes snapped, wrenching himself free so roughly that half the dust spilled out of the thimble onto his coat. "Mycroft, you know what he is as well as I! Look me in the eye and tell me, brother mine: is he ever going to stop? Even in prison, would any of us be safe from him?"
"No," Watson said gravely behind him, as the detective carefully tucked the thimble away in his waistcoat. "He's right, Mycroft. It has to end here. Can you fly, Holmes?"
How strange that, even under these circumstances, the doctor's voice sounded so... so assured, so confident... and all at once, Holmes was taken back to a thousand moments just like this... Watson at his side, at his back, revolver in hand or fists at the ready... then those same hands binding wounds and soothing pain, even their enemies' at times... He heard his brothers gasp together, and realised in that instant that his feet had just left the deck – he was flying again!
Holmes let out a long, joyous crow, then shot upwards in a tight spiral in sheer exhilaration, tucking and rolling into a steep dive back to the half deck, and pulling up just above the portside rail, where Moriarty had been watching his antics with apparent disdain.
"Well, Holmes?" The Professor's bored tone belied the predatory glint in his eye.
Holmes bowed, his own eyes gleaming as his pulse quickened. "As I recall, my dear Moriarty, you once graciously invited me to cross blades with you. Does that invitation still stand?"
"It does indeed, dear boy. If one of your... seconds would be so good as to fetch the long wooden box from the chest in my cabin, I shall be delighted to oblige you."
"Sherlock," Mycroft growled as Holmes hefted the cutlass he'd chosen, making a few experimental slashes and thrusts, "if you think I am simply going to stand idly by and watch you be cut to ribbons, think again! Moriarty's obviously planning something – why else would he choose his sword-cane over a cutlass, for God's sake?"
"I know," Holmes replied softly, recovering from a deep lunge with a barely-suppressed wince as his hip and back wounds complained in unison. Thank goodness Moriarty hadn't insisted that they stay on deck! It wouldn't have been feasible without moving to the Sharpshooter, anyhow – the Lady Godiva couldn't be righted now without jettisoning everything below, as any damaged cages or loose cargo would have tumbled to starboard when the anchor was dropped. "I will be careful, I promise."
"And that's another thing!" Mycroft hissed, looking pointedly down at Holmes's left leg. "How the hell do you expect to beat him after Moran carved you up like a Sunday roast?"
"I won't need any fancy footwork in the air! And I've been flying and fighting a lot longer than Moriarty has, remember."
"You only remembered you could fly yesterday! After thirty years!"
"Flying's like riding a horse, Mycroft!" Holmes laughed, patting the glaring man on the shoulder. "Some things never leave you. Now, do stop fussing, brother, you sound just like Mrs. Hudson!" Dear old mother hen... Oh Lord, had anyone dared to tell her about the flat yet?
"At least one of you does," Watson said sternly, returning from where he'd been conferring with Moriarty. Holmes having two seconds, while his opponent had none, had smugly been deemed unsporting by the Professor. Both brothers had flatly refused to be Moriarty's second, but Watson had reluctantly agreed to act solely as referee instead, inspecting every sword closely before allowing Moriarty first choice as the challenged party. "Are you ready, Holmes?"
"Quite ready." Holmes turned from Mycroft, and the grin of anticipation slid from his face as he saw Watson's expression. His brother had never been good at hiding what he truly felt... and there was so much in John's eyes just now that he couldn't... that he wasn't allowing himself to say. "...John..."
"It's time, gentlemen," Watson cut in, turning away abruptly. "Take your places."
Mycroft gripped Holmes's right shoulder in silent sympathy as the detective's heart plummeted within him. "Do try to stay in one piece, brother mine," his brother rumbled. "If you don't, John and I will have to decide which of us gets first go at feeding Moriarty to the sharks."
Holmes nodded mutely, placing his hand on Mycroft's and squeezing it, then flew slowly back up to the rail where his opponent stood, stripped down to waistcoat and shirtsleeves like himself. Watson might at least have waited a few moments more... Why hadn't he, when he knew that this was to be a fight to the death?
You know why.
But...
The referee of a duel must be neutral, showing no favour to either participant... If Watson breaks the rules, if he interferes in any way, what does that make his apology worth? All his efforts to make things right between you?
I wanted to tell him I'm sorry, too!
Well, then... you'd better stay alive long enough for him to hear it.
Er, yes...
Think you can win?
...I don't know.
As he'd said to Mycroft, Holmes had been Peter Pan, arch-enemy of Captain James Hook, for far longer than he had ever been a detective. Of course, his newest opponent must have been well-trained in the use of that sword stick, even if he'd never had to actually fight for his life with it... but perhaps that was the crucial difference here. Probably the only times Moriarty had ever fought like this were against an instructor, who would certainly do their best not to kill a promising student. The perfect scientific form, matching wits against a skilled adversary – that was what the Professor would value, not the pounding of blood in one's veins, the pure joy of letting go of conscious thought, allowing instinct and muscle to lead as blades and combatants danced...
A pointed clearing of the throat from Moriarty made the detective realise sheepishly that the Professor had been holding out his hand to his opponent for several seconds already. Nevertheless, Holmes took care to look down at the offered hand to ensure it was empty before grasping it. "May the best man win, sir."
"Indeed," Moriarty smiled thinly, letting go and stepping back to switch the swordstick to his right hand. "Doctor?"
"Gentlemen." Watson was now floating level with the two combatants. "Salute your opponent."
The pair raised swords and brought the hilts to their chins, blades pointing skywards, then swept them down and to the right.
"On guard."
Both men took their stances, Holmes noting that, like himself, Moriarty favoured keeping his left hand behind his back. He was also holding the cane's handle almost at the very end, fractionally extending the reach of that razor-sharp tip. Holmes wasn't about to be lured into any reckless engagements, though. Moriarty's defence would have to be far better than most, for the man to choose an unedged weapon with no hilt of any sort. Whatever he was planning, the detective could wait for his guard to slip.
"Ready."
Strange, really, how events seemed to have come full circle, even with the Professor helping them along! It was Holmes or Moriarty, this time... They had been a thorn in each other's sides long enough.
"Begin!"
Moriarty's blade flicked out towards Holmes's chest, but the detective had already leapt several feet into the air, ignoring the feint entirely. "Too slow, old man!" he called down with a grin. "Fighting on deck? So last century!" He beckoned invitingly with the tip of the cutlass. "Come now, Professor, show me what you can really do!"
"As you wish." Moriarty ascended towards Holmes without any unbecoming haste, sword held ready, then as his head drew level with the detective's knees, he suddenly slashed at Holmes's lower leg! Caught off guard, Holmes couldn't quite react in time, and the tip of the Professor's blade sliced through his trouser leg and nicked his calf.
"Ngh!" Holmes swung the cutlass to drive his enemy back, braced for further attack, but none came. Moriarty merely parried the slash calmly and continued to rise, stopping several feet above Holmes, head on one side, watching him in evident fascination, and not a little amusement.
"First blood to me, I think, Holmes. Now, would you care to show me what you can do? Or would you prefer to stop for a sticking plaster?"
Holmes managed a grin, saluting with his sword to acknowledge the hit. The fresh cut stung like the blazes, but at least it was a shallow one. He had simply given his enemy too much space for thinking, that was all! "On guard!"
He tucked his blade in close and somersaulted upwards, uncurling at the last moment to slash at Moriarty's head, but the Professor was no longer there, swiping a thin, fiery line across Holmes's ribs from behind. "Ah!" And again, as Holmes spun to redouble his attack, Moriarty merely retreated, deflecting the heavier blade with apparently little effort or concern for his unprotected sword hand. This time, however, Holmes dived forward instantly, whirling the cutlass in front of him in a figure of eight, and Moriarty was forced to retreat further and faster to find a new line of attack, bobbing down for a moment and back up to slash at Holmes from below. But Holmes had seen him coming this time and turned the blade aside, upending himself so that his feet were pointing at the sky, and reversed direction, drawing the Professor after him, higher and higher.
"You're doing well, old man," he called against the wind, then suddenly swung back around and sprang off the point of Moriarty's extended sword. He felt the tip of the blade clip his boot heel as he dived back down towards the ship, landing on the main mast's top yardarm to await his opponent, noting in satisfaction that Moriarty hadn't been prepared to follow at nearly the same breakneck speed. "But you might have at least dressed for the occasion! No cavalier coat, no lace cravat, no buckled shoes? I really am most disappointed!"
"Yes, your former nemesis cut quite the dashing figure, didn't he?" Moriarty answered lightly, drawing level with the detective while remaining in the air. "I shouldn't have dreamt of such an impertinent imitation of the great and terrible James Hook. Did you know, Holmes, that he only adopted that name after losing his hand to the crocodile?"
"I did not," Holmes replied, brow furrowing at the sudden change of subject, and taking care to keep his guard up. "Did Smee ever tell you what his real name was?"
"Oh yes. Imagine my surprise upon learning that Captain James Lynch was most likely a distant ancestor of mine – once or twice removed, of course."
Holmes stared. "You... You can't be serious!" Hook and Moriarty related by blood?! Although that would explain a few things... No! No, the idea was utterly absurd!
"Well, well! It makes no odds," Moriarty shrugged. "I did think it unlikely that the true identity of the man whom you so blithely murdered would have been of any interest to you..."
"Before dying at the hand of his descendant?" Holmes snorted. "Save your poison for someone else's ears!"
"Ah, Hamlet!" Moriarty smiled benevolently. "That play ended with a duel, as I recall..." And suddenly the Professor was diving towards Holmes, blade aimed straight at the detective's heart.
Holmes managed to block, but his foot slipped off the yard arm, which left him hovering awkwardly for a moment. In that unguarded split second, Moriarty's blade flashed yet again, and pinked the detective in the right forearm. Holmes cried out in surprise as much as pain, almost dropping his sword as he lurched in the air.
"Sherlock!" Holmes distantly heard Mycroft shout as he gripped the wound tightly with his other hand, blood welling up between his fingers. Then, to his astonishment, Moriarty was beside him, taking his elbow and propelling him back to the yard arm!
"Dear me, Holmes," his opponent tutted, helping him to sit down beside the mast for support, "you really are making a dreadful mess!" Thrusting the points of both swords into the wood, Moriarty produced a large linen handkerchief from an inside pocket, which he proceeded to bind tightly around Holmes's forearm. "There, that should hold for the moment. Are you fit to continue, or shall you forfeit?"
"Go to blazes!" Holmes growled through gritted teeth, trying not to seem grateful for the chance to catch his breath – and he was out of breath, curse it! His palms and brow were damp, too, while Moriarty didn't appear to have broken a sweat... and now Holmes would have to fight left-handed, made all the more distasteful by his own blood drying on his fingers, which felt horribly sticky. He spat into his hands and rubbed them together, wiped off the residue as best he could on his trousers, then rose to retrieve his sword, barely managing to pull it loose from the mast. His left arm felt almost as weak as his right...
"It isn't too late, you know, Holmes," he heard Moriarty murmur behind him. "It would be the greatest regret of my existence to be forced to finish you when, but for this stubborn foolishness of yours, we might so easily have reached an accord."
Holmes shook his head, moving aside to allow his enemy to retrieve his own sword. Think about Watson... "My dear sir, no one regrets this turn of events more than I. But Neverland is not for the likes of you, James Moriarty... and it never will be. On guard."
"Interesting words from the boy who willingly abandoned it," Moriarty replied, tight-lipped, saluting Holmes with his blade. Then his eyes narrowed. "Or perhaps... No, I quite see now: you had every intention of returning to Neverland, didn't you? But only with Wendy, once she had recovered from her illness... Coming so close to death, how could you bear to risk losing her a second time?"
"Be silent!" Holmes snarled, tightening his grip on the cutlass. "You aren't worthy even to speak her name!" "Wendy... Wendy, don't leave... please!"
"You don't deny it, I note." Moriarty smiled suddenly, slowly circling the detective so that he was forced to turn in the air to keep his enemy in sight. "Dear me! No wonder John's betrayal cut so deeply. You must have wondered if he'd had the thimble in his possession even earlier than he claimed..."
"No!" Holmes burst out, voice cracking. "Wendy was already dead when Tink came back, we couldn't have saved her!" John would never have kept the fairy dust secret then, not if there had been the slightest chance to save his sister... regardless of how he might have felt about Peter at the time...
"For a man who despises his brother's tales, Holmes," Moriarty sighed, "you seem curiously quick to believe them, without the least shred of evidence! Well, well!" he added in mild reproof as Holmes made a sudden involuntary movement with his sword. "No doubt it is just as you say! Perhaps John did simply forget to return the dust to you at the next funeral."
"This is all your fault, you heartless little freak, you killed her! You killed them all! You shouldn't have gone to school, they should've locked you up!"
No! Holmes's heart missed a beat as he felt himself starting to wobble in the air, and fought to contain the burning knot growing in his gut. John had been angry, in mourning for his parents, he hadn't meant a word of it! Even Lestrade had understood that! Why else would his brother have tried so hard to atone afterwards...
"I never touched a grain... I won't pretend I was never tempted..."
Oh, God... Could John have... Was it possible that John had hoped to use the dust on himself? Holmes could well remember how badly he had wanted to escape... Only his own grief had kept him from leaving with Tink after Wendy... And then he'd turned up at their parents' funeral, uninclined to shed a tear for either of them, with Mycroft at his shoulder for comfort... How infuriating that must have been for the only grieving son there... seeing that Peter was on the verge of being able to fly again... John had been jealous, of course he had! No wonder he couldn't bring himself to give the thimble back... and his guilt and disgust at his own weakness had flown out of his mouth in self-defence...
"Holmes!" John's frantic call seemed strangely far off... "Holmes, you're sinking! For God's sake, stop listening to that monster and fight him!"
"For shame, Doctor!" Moriarty called sternly, continuing to circle his opponent as they descended towards the deck, watching Holmes slowly but inevitably lose the battle to remain aloft with evident relish. "You are still acting as referee, remember! Although it is most diverting to see you showing such concern towards the very brother you stabbed in the back in your youth – do you not think, Holmes? Dear me, this story grows more like Hamlet every minute! Love triangles, traitorous kin, dead sisters... It's only a mercy no one brought poison to this duel!"
"Yes, you did!" Mycroft bellowed. "Sherlock, don't listen! He's trying to take the heart out of you before he cuts it out! Focus!"
"Yes, of course!" Moriarty sneered. "Everyone be quiet, the squire's true son and heir is speaking! That second adoption solved so many problems, didn't it, gentlemen? You, John Darling, had one less mouth to feed! You, Peter Pan, were never alone or hungry again in your gilded cage! And you, Mycroft Holmes, could adopt the pet you'd always wanted! How long did it take to tame the poor, lost little savage, I wonder?"
"HOW DARE YOU?!" Mycroft roared, sounding incandescent with fury.
Holmes risked a swift glance down at that, and gaped at the bizarre spectacle below: Watson was literally having to wrestle with Mycroft to keep him from flying straight at Moriarty, with no weapon but his bare hands! His brother's usually genial face was scarlet with rage, eyes glaring, hair askew and still holding a few stray pieces of straw...
Holmes simply couldn't help it: he had to giggle at the absurd sight, and it buoyed him up like a hot air balloon, new strength flowing through him. "On guard, old man!" he shouted, and threw all of his weight behind the next slash, carrying Moriarty backwards as he caught the stroke with his blade, and slammed him into the mast, knocking the breath out of him. Moriarty doubled over with a gasp, and Holmes drew back slightly for a disarming stroke... only for Moriarty to bring his knees up and land a solid kick with both feet to the detective's solar plexus, sending him tumbling backwards.
Holmes somehow managed to keep hold of the cutlass, expecting a fresh onslaught as he struggled first to right himself and then to inhale. But Moriarty only seemed interested in getting his own second wind, having found a convenient perch in a tattered remnant of rigging dangling from the mast. He also appeared to have gotten his leg tangled in it, and was having some trouble in extracting himself without letting go of his sword.
"How... he croaked, staring back over his shoulder at Holmes as he kicked free, "are you... still flying?"
"You really... don't know... do you?" Holmes wheezed back, slowly straightening as he recovered. "Because, unlike you, Moriarty... I am not alone. With my family at my back... and all of them out for your blood... even if I die today at your hands, old man," he grinned shakily, "I'll still defeat you!"
"Very well!" Moriarty snarled, and spun around, planting his feet on the mast, Watson's revolver back in his left hand. "Die, then!"
"HOLMES!" "SHERLOCK!"
Out of options, with no time to dodge or even think, Holmes dived straight at Moriarty, bracing himself for the shot... but only a sharp click came from the gun as it failed to go off... Then the detective's sword was deflecting Moriarty's, his paling enemy parrying an instant too late, and buried itself in the Professor's throat.
Moriarty's eyes bulged, his mouth falling open, and a strangled gargling noise issued forth, blood slowly seeping from the wound and trickling over the blade. Holmes could only stare back, equally dumbfounded, still numbly gripping the handle... That strange, ghastly spell was broken by Moriarty dropping both sword and revolver and reaching for the metal bar embedded in his neck, heedless of the razor edge.
"Stop!" Holmes blurted, letting go of the hilt to fend him off. "You'll bleed out!"
Moriarty's lips twitched – in a smile or a sneer, Holmes couldn't tell – and gestured imperiously at the cutlass: either Holmes took it out, or he would! The Professor was also starting to sink towards the deck at last, whatever was left of the fairy dust clearly no match for the grim reality of impending death.
"All right!" Holmes said hastily. "I'll do it!" Just... not up here. Unwilling even now to let his enemy fall to the deck, the detective took Moriarty under the arms and lowered him gently. The Professor folded up and collapsed onto his back the moment his feet touched the boards, and Holmes dropped to his hands and knees as his own legs gave out, gravity reasserting itself over the two tattered prodigals with a vengeance. Then Mycroft was there, helping Holmes to Moriarty's side, while Watson knelt by the Professor's head to examine the detective's handiwork, shaking his head gravely.
"If I were you, Moriarty, I'd make peace with whatever god I believed in without delay," he said sternly, though not unkindly.
The gurgling sound Moriarty made was probably meant to be a snort, his gaze fixed on Holmes, raising a trembling hand with the last of his strength. Holmes gripped it in both of his and nodded, then let go and took hold of the cutlass, while Watson pressed a wadded rag around the entrance of the wound.
Holmes set his teeth, and slowly drew the blade out, Watson's improvised pad doing little to stem the crimson flood that followed it. The detective threw the bloody sword over his shoulder and took Moriarty's hand again. " 'Twas a splendid battle, Professor," he murmured. "You did him proud." He didn't even care any more that Moriarty had tried to cheat, he'd known from the beginning that the man couldn't be trusted to play by anyone else's rules!
Moriarty gave him a faint smile, his lips glistening scarlet, then gestured jerkily with his left hand, staring up into what remained of the shrouds. "B'rn..." he choked.
"Yes, I understand," Holmes replied, his voice strangely hoarse. What might have been... if Moriarty had heard the siren call of the sea years earlier... "She'll never fly for anyone else."
"G'd..." And the hand in the detective's went limp, the lines of pain in the Professor's face melting away.
Numbly, Holmes passed a shaking hand over Moriarty's eyes, closing them. It was over... He felt Mycroft's arm wrap around his shoulders, and gratefully leant against his brother's solid bulk.
It's over. The thought should have been more comforting.