A Cold Case
Chapter 18
The truth will set you free. But not until it has finished with you.
(David Foster Wallace)
The door of Examination Room Four opened with a crash, and Molly Hooper looked up from her work with a frown.
"Bit busy in here, Sherlock," she said calmly; used to the melodramatic entrances of Sherlock Holmes. Who gave a swift cursory glance at the body on the dissection table.
"Routine. Not important. This is."
Something in his voice made her look up sharply. Frown at him, hands stilled as she worked. Yes, he was right; routine post mortem, Mary Donaldson, aged 87, but with no health history narrative…..
"What is?" she asked automatically.
"I need your help."
"Hmn."
"Please, Molly. Stat."
He rarely said 'please' and he never said 'stat.' She looked at him more carefully as she pushed the overhead microphone away, nodded to her assistant, who had stepped aside, avoided looking at them both, not engaging. Used to Sherlock Holmes interruptions, knowing involvement was above his pay grade. Happy with that.
Sherlock Holmes looked as if he had slept in his clothes; shirt collar awry and dirty, Belstaff muddied, shoes scuffed. The tension behind the set features was tangible, there was blood and a bruise on his right cheek, and he needed a shave, to wash his hair.
He had not looked like that – so haggard and haunted - for weeks, not since he had started crawling away from the drugs that had eaten into everything but his soul, when he had gone down into their depths to rescue John Watson.
She saw all this, and quelled the fear that rose immediately to mind – that the drugs had finally won the battle for his psyche.
"Finish up here for me, Martin. Put Miss Donaldson back in her drawer." She drew off her gloves and flipped them into the bin. Gestured to Sherlock Holmes. "You: come with me."
She strode off to the ladies locker room, did not look back to see if he was following. She knew he would be. Some of their most profound conversations had taken place in that sanctuary. There he had admitted he trusted her and asked for her help to die; there he had returned from the dead and confided: "I'm back."
So once in the empty room, between the lockers and the cubicles and the sinks and the showers, she turned to him with her back to the door, blocking it to incomers, and demanded: "OK, what's so urgent? What's happened?"
Instead of answering directly, he put his hands out to stop her taking off her white lab coat.
"No! Keep that on! Please!"
The edge of panic in his voice stilled her hands at once, coat half on, half off.
"Why?"
"I need you. To be….to stay. Official. The doctor."
"Pathologist," she corrected automatically.
"Yes. That too."
"Sherlock…" She was worried now. She could hear it in her own voice, as well as his. "Just tell me. What you need."
He had his hands on the lapels of the lab coat, tugging it back onto her shoulders, smoothing it down and back into place, compulsively. It seemed very intimate, so very close. But he was avoiding looking into her eyes.
"I need….your help." He stepped back a little, fumbled in his coat, reaching into the poacher's pocket. Withdrew a new disposable hypodermic syringe and a small full vial.
"Oh. No." Her voice was tiny, and appalled. "No – I thought you had done with all this."
"I am. Have. This… is not what you think."
"Then tell me what it is. You are more than capable of injecting yourself. You've had plenty of practise."
"This is different. Necessity. Not indulgence. I need this to be clinical. Medical. I need it delivered with objectivity, Molly. And I need it to hurt."
"Tell me why. Because you are scaring me now."
"Oh, God. I don't have time!"
He spun away and immediately back to face her again, more emotional than she had ever seen him.
"My mother has been kidnapped. Stolen away from me. Deliberately. By Moriarty. I'm the only person who can save her. So I need this injection. To fire my brain, keep me going. Stop me needing to waste time sleeping. Not waste a minute in finding her…"
"Your mother? Kidnapped? Midge?" She looked shocked, eyes suddenly enormous.
"Who else?" He hadn't meant to snap, but normal brains – even Molly's – were just too slow…. "He's going to kill her, Molly. Unless I save her first; get one step ahead."
He pushed the syringe and the vial towards her.
"So I need you to do this for me. Don't you see? It's all my fault."
"I can see you think it is."
She took a deep breath. Stood still and looked at him. Cool, professional. Tiny and stalwart.
"What's in there?" She took the tiny bottle, held the vial up to the light, as if it would speak to her if she looked hard enough.
"Modafinil," he said shortly.
"Modafinil is usually taken in tablet form. Courage and capacity for troops in combat. So is this dose a Wiggins special? What else is in there? Coke? Meth?"
"Shut up, Molly. Just give me the bloody shot." He forced the syringe into her hands, and she looked down at it as if transfixed.
"Sherlock, you are dealing with psychostimulants – a dangerous cocktail. When any one alone would be enough."
"Normally, yes. But desperate situations call for desperate remedies."
"You will burn yourself out."
"Who cares? What does it matter?"
"I care. It matters."
"No, Molly. It really doesn't. Not now. My mother comes first. Always."
He shrugged off the Belstaff, putting the coat down on the bench beside them. Slipping out of his jacket, rolling up the shirt sleeve of his left arm.
"Don't want to risk swelling on my gun hand," he explained before she even asked.
"It will come to that?"
"Probably. "
She nodded at him. Went to the first aid box on the wall and took out a sterile wipe, ripped it open with her teeth and spat the empty pack into a bin; sloppy was not her style, but his urgency was infectious.
"Too many old track marks," she observed as she wiped and prepared the site on the inside of the pale skeletal arm.
"Life well lived," he said neutrally, and heard the bitter laugh that escaped her.
She drew the liquid from the vial into the syringe, took his arm by the elbow and positioned the needle.
"Sure about this?" she asked.
"Just do it. Make it hurt."
She glanced up at him and their eyes met. Those familiar seastorm eyes were burning with a cold fire that frightened her.
"Not my job to punish you. You do that to yourself."
"Yes. Thank you." His tone was arch, dismissive.
She positioned the needle, pushed the plunger down through flesh to vein. She heard his harsh intake of breath, saw his eyes widen at the rush. She withdrew the needle.
"That should do the job. Forty hours, roughly, plus whatever effect the extra ingredients add. After that…."
"I have more. And the pills."
"You will destroy yourself physically."
"If I don't find her; if she dies; that won't matter."
He was turned away from her as he spoke, putting his jacket back on, and then the Belstaff. But he deliberately turned back to her. Took her face between his large slim hands and kissed her on the cheek with unnerving gentleness.
"I trust you. I have always trusted you. I don't tell you enough. What you are…."
"Stop it."
"No. Need to say this. Might not get another chance." His eyes bored into hers, always the most fascinating yet complex eyes she had ever seen. "That time I kissed you. Properly, I mean – when I jumped off the roof, through your window, and lived – that was my thank you and goodbye – even though we knew I would be back. This time? Who knows? So a simple 'thank you' was not enough, not this time."
From the depth of his panic and despair he found her a gentle smile. But he did not linger, and was gone even as she gasped in surprise. She called "See you later!" to his back as he strode away.
It was a promise and a charm. But he did not pause, or show he had heard. And all she had left to show for ten intense moments was the empty syringe in her hand. It was no comfort.
o0o0o
That brief interaction was the calmest part of the longest day.
He had returned to consciousness crunched in the gutter in front of 221B. Cold. Wet. Hollow. Had never felt in such pain, or so alone.
Passers-by were crossing the road to avoid the upper class drunk collapsed in the street so early in the day, and he couldn't blame them. He did not know how long he had been unconscious, or what had happened. All he knew was that his mother was not there. Had been taken from him forcibly and against her will. Because otherwise she would have been there, by his side, talking reassuring nonsense, cradling him gently, waiting for an ambulance.
Instead; there was – nothing.
He climbed to his feet slowly, disorientated and head hurting, teeth and face aching from the impact of a cricket bat to his head. He had bitten his lip, and could see the copious blood flow from that lacing along the gutter. It made him want to be sick.
Back in 221B he hauled himself physically up the stairs by his arms and fell onto his knees on the hearthrug. Wrestled the phone from his pocket and called his brother.
"What do you want? I'm busy."
"Not too busy for this," His voice wavered, even to his own ears, and Mycroft heard it.
"What?" Still sharp, but different now.
"Listen. And don't shout." He paused, dragged in a deep breath and could feel the irritation vibrating down the line towards him. "Mother has been taken. Kidnapped. From here. 221B. By Moriarty. Disguised as a homeless person."
The British Government, perpetually stoic and impassive, did not remonstrate or react under pressure, as was his way. Did not ask his brother to repeat himself.
"Why did you not stop it? What use are you?"
"Nor much. Clearly. Taken by surprise. Knocked out with a cricket bat…Sorry."
"So you should be." Two seconds of hard controlled breathing. "What was mother wearing? So I can issue a description. Moriarty, you say? Well, perhaps. I'll get everyone available onto the case. MI5. Lestrade…"
"Yes. Good. Hmn. The old blue Burberry. Butcher boy tweed cap. That silly multicoloured scarf she knitted like some mad Dr Who fan. Black slacks, black boots. Carrying her satchel." The room swam. He could feel his mouth work, but nothing more come out for a moment. "Thank you" forced itself slowly past his teeth.
Head swimming, he put the telephone down very carefully. And tipped forward slowly onto his face, onto the floor.
A far from gentle toe in his ribs brought him back to himself. So he had collapsed and had wasted at least fifteen minutes hunting for her. Time he could not afford. Time enough for Mycroft to arrive from The Diogenes.
It was Mycroft who hauled him up by the collar, dragged and dumped his upper body onto the seat of John Watson's old armchair.
"Gently!" admonished a voice behind him. Mrs Hudson, looking pinched and worried, with a mug of tea in one hand, paracetamols in the other.
"I'm going down to Sussex to collect Pa," Mycroft said briskly. "Right now. He needs to be here. Not there alone. Can't trust anyone else to tell him, or to fetch him, not even Anthea. We can't risk him being in danger too. Will keep in touch by phone." He paused, peered. Saw the damage on his brother's face, chose not to comment. "Why was she here without him?"
"She told him… a forgotten dental appointment. But really because someone had sent her the same photos you had. Obviously to distress and alienate her. Her – because you had them and did nothing. So she came to tell me. Show me. Discuss it."
"Typical. And her solution?"
"Kill him."
He nodded. "Very wise. Practical."
Mrs Hudson pressed forward, administered paracetamol by force of will.
"This is awful. Just awful. Who hurt you?"
"Doesn't matter. " Then: "Moriarty. I swear it was Moriarty."
"But why steal your mum?"
"To punish me. Humiliate me. Taunt me. Make me suffer, make her suffer as a side order. Before he kills me. And perhaps her too. Rub it in." The mutter was low, angry, abject.
"Get a grip," his brother ordered icily. "Sentiment won't help."
"No. Too true."
He pushed himself to his feet. Blinked hard. Crossed to the table, rummaged beneath some papers and produced a message pad and cash, which he put into the pockets of the Belstaff.
Headed for the stairs.
"Where are you going?"
"Out to look. Mobilise my troops. My homeless network – my eyes and ears across London. Try and spot him. Because he will be holding our mother somewhere until…." He hesitated, forced back every negative thought, every fear. Fought to control his voice and his panic.
"Until he makes his threats, demands his ransom, while he makes me suffer in my ignorance of his plans. I can't sit still and wait. Need to try…."
The threat of tears overwhelming choked words down from his throat. He looked back. His brother, hands on hips, was looking at him as if he had just crawled from beneath a stone. Mrs Hudson was wringing her hands.
"Please be careful," she said.
He nodded once, briefly, and had to turn away before the storm broke.
o0o0o
Every drug den, every squat, every flop house he could think of. He blasted around the city like an avenging angel. Every drug dealer, pimp, burglar and brothel keeper he could think of. Every low life, homeless person, gang master and undercover policeman he came across.
He handed out money, the promise of more. Repeated his mother's description so many times he thought he was going mad. At some point he stood at the apex of Seven Dials, leant against a wall and drew breath.
He felt ill, and exhausted, and beyond pain. His mother's absence screamed continually in his head, (my fault! My fault!) and it took a huge effort to starve his imagination, the feeling that he was already too late…
Instinct took him to Wiggin's door, in a back alley behind Neal's Yard.
He only vaguely remembered shouting at Wiggins, Wiggins shouting back. Explaining the problem, the urgency, the need. He remembered Wiggins' sympathy then, the man's fond memories of a Christmas at the old farmhouse, of drugging and caring for the whole family while Sherlock Holmes went away and shot Charles Augustus Magnussen.
He remembered resting a hip on Wiggins kitchen table and swallowing (disgusting) black instant coffee as Wiggins measured and mixed and finally handed him three vials of a clear, anonymous looking liquid and three disposable syringes in their sealed packs.
"With your drug tolerance you might get away with two back to back, but not three, or you'll be dead," was the advice. "Did you hear me?"
"Yes. Of course. Thank you. I owe you, Wiggsy."
"Just get 'er back, your lovely mum. Get her back."
o0o0o
He felt as if he had been ripping off layers of skin, layers of himself, demolishing his own walls of protection, exposing himself beyond redemption. To everyone he had seen and spoken to: flailing himself alive, and bleeding out. Most especially to Wiggins, and to Molly. Dear Molly. Who had helped even when every instinct and every professional judgement was compelling her not to.
And yet. The Wiggins Special had given him renewed strength, energy, even optimism. He felt it flood into his veins and his brain, and open out both.
So when he got back to 221B he took off his coat, raked his hands through his hair, lay flat on the old leather sofa and with a tremendous effort of will, closed off all his emotions, focussed himself to turn within, took everything he had learnt in the past few days - the facts, the details, the people and the places, the observations – shut his eyes and began to compute.
He was deep into the process and far away from the world, when he was wrenched back into it as two harsh hands grabbed him by the head and flung him onto the floor.
Mycroft. Mycroft angrier than he had ever seen him. Mycroft – no ice man now - reacting and acting. Oh! Unusual…..
"Mummy's gone. Tortured or dead or lying at the bottom of the Thames while you…..just lie there! Doing sod all!"
"My….." he began.
"Doing sod all! When this is all your fault!"
His brother's pale eyes were burning, spots of anger on his pale cheeks. Sherlock Holmes' self loathing found expression and honesty.
"No it's not! It's NOT! If you had ever believed me – trusted me – helped me…."
"Oh, so it's all my fault?"
"This could have been ended all those years ago. When I tried to prove Carl Powers had been murdered. If anyone had listened to me then, this could have all been avoided. All of it! All Moriarty's schemes and crimes and deaths. All that torment! And now this! This!"
They were facing each other, breathing hard, with burning eyes, both equally stressed, worried, clamouring for action. Threatening each other in ways they never had before. Mycroft opened his mouth to hurl insults. But another voice interrupted. Strong, calm, authoritative.
"Stop it, Mycroft. William. Boys! Hot heads and angry words solve nothing."
Siward Holmes stepped deliberately between his sons. One detaining hand to the chest of each of them to keep them apart. He was shorter than either of them. Not that that mattered now.
"If your mother ever finds out you were on the verge of punching each other's lights out, and I was there, she would never forgive me. Or let me forget it! Take pity on me, boys."
It defused the tension instantly; the truth of his words, his sense of proportion.
"Always has to be right….." Mycroft Holmes muttered under his breath as he turned away, not making clear who he was referring to..
"You alright?" Sherlock Holmes had eyes only for their father. Their eyes met in a moment of understanding, and his father both nodded and then shook his head. Overwhelmed, helpless. But hanging on. Words unnecessary.
"I shall sort this, Papa. Mobilise security services, call in favours….."
"No, Mycroft." The voice of authority was quiet, almost a whisper. "Do what you must through official channels. But this is Sherlock's show. This is the world Sherlock inhabits and understands. Not you. You do the big stuff; turn the world on it's axis and move mountains. But your brother deals in people. Their problems. Our problems. His world."
Their father turned away, removed his coat and hung it beside the Belstaff.
"And now he will explain all this to us." He gestured to both his sons to sit, and settled himself in his younger son's armchair. "Won't you, William?"
Sherlock Holmes sat back down on the sofa, blinked hard a few times. He had not seen his father so controlled and authoritative for more than twenty years; since before Sri Lanka. In other circumstances it would have thrilled and encouraged him. But for now he only heard the logical instruction. Took a breath and gathered his thoughts.
"Before I say anything else: my spies are at work to find….what is happening. Her. But believe this; Mother is just a pawn; a way to get to me, make me suffer. I am Moriarty's target. I always have been. So believe no news is good news, at the moment. I await contact. Instruction. Threat. A hoop to jump through. But he wants me to suffer through silence and ignorance first."
He deliberately lay back down on the sofa, hooking his feet under one arm. A uniquely Sherlock pose of command and control.
"It started with Lestrade. After Culverton Smith. I was too ill to work - but I was bored. Asked him for cold cases to work through – not for the first time. To distract, sharpen my wits. He didn't know the importance of what he brought me. Because one of those cold cases was Carl Powers. The boy swimmer who died in the pool, in the middle of a tournament.
"My first case, but never solved. His death was wrongly declared misadventure. But I knew it was murder; why else would his shoes disappear? Because they held the evidence; the poison that killed him. No-one believed me. But it brought me to the attention of Carl's brother Jim. Because I was the only person other than him who knew. What he had done. He never forgot me. Or forgave.
"Not that I knew that. Not then. That he saw me as his only intellectual equal. That he quietly became obsessed with me. Perhaps if we had stayed on our original career paths - maths professor and chemist – nothing would have happened; just two people leading rewarding, useful, but uneventful lives." He paused, blinked. "But life is never so predictable."
He paused. "We both burnt out under the pressure of being precocious.
"Moriarty broke out of academia to sup with the devil. While I went to bat for the angels. We were destined to clash." He sighed. Put his hands up to tug his hair in frustration.
"Unbeknown to me, Moriarty started to test me. The suicide murders were the first time he came openly into play. After that….he enjoyed it; worked hard to break me. All fun to him, intellectual chess; openings and gambits, pawns thrown from the board.
""We went from great game to endgame….and he cheated. I still won. Seems he has been planning – taking – his revenge ever since." He stirred, sat up. Pulled a cushion into his lap and proceeded to think, his eyes, unseeing, on the waxed floorboards before him.
"I have realised over the past few days there is more to it than that, this obsession to defeat me."
"Not this again…." Mycroft's reaction was quelled by a look from their father; while his brother ignored him.
"Comes from deep roots, all thanks to Naimh Mairead Moriarty. She had an illegitimate baby in Ireland when that was still a huge sin. Instead of being destroyed by it, Naimh fought back, buried her past. Moved to a more liberal part of Ireland, a tourist hot spot, became a hotel manager. Brought up her only child, Joanna Josephine Mary. Thus our story begins."
He drew a breath, settled his shoulders.
"What I tell you now may seem a fairy tale; something from Grimm. Well, Moriarty always liked Grimm's fairy tales. His inspiration. Babes in the wood and all that. So here is the story, as I see it.
"Between the world wars neutral countries united to stop history being repeated by forging business and personal links. Valiant, hopeless. Ireland was one, a country that had also seen widespread migration.
"From equally neutral Serbia, Baron Jean Louis Marenne Maupertuis Francuski, visited Ireland to find his own roots. After all, his ancestral castle is called Irski Zamat – Irish Castle. And he stayed at Naimh's hotel. Repeatedly, it seems. So they became friends? Lovers? Who knows? She is dead now, we can't ask her.
"Perhaps he was unhappily married, or widowed. Had always wanted a daughter when he only had a son. Took a shine to Naimh and Joanna, Intriguingly, the child showed a talent for mathematics, which of course was the legacy of the family at large, and the legendary Jean Louis Marenne Morpertuis in particular. So he sponsored her education. Sent her to boarding school in England to give her every chance to achieve her ambition – and his, for her - to become a modern mathematical genius. "
"Like….your mother?" His father's interruption was quiet and hollow.
"Yes, Pa. I'm sorry." He shrugged, looked away. "Remember what a poster girl she became for promoting women in science? Awards and interviews, The Royal Institution Christmas lectures and all that, books and photoshoots." He smiled wryly. "My mother. A lot to live up to."
Her husband and both sons smiled briefly in their shared pride, despite their anxiety.
"Joanna went to St Aldate's. But her natural arrogance and sense of entitlement caused her to fall foul of a true mathematical genius; M. E. Holmes. Did not have the sense to listen and learn, but argued and misread advice she thought she was beyond. So along came the Baron, to take her to Serbia; perhaps something he had always wanted. To educate and nourish her, his honorary daughter.
"Scroll forward a few years. She resurfaces in Brighton, Not a genius, but still talented. In college. Along with a boy called Dragan. Full name Dragan Marenne Maupertius Francuski. The Baron's only son. Did he come to England to learn? To accompany and protect? Or to be free of parental influence to conduct a love affair? We'll never know.
"Dragan died in a car crash; and within weeks Joanna married Daniel Powers, also Irish. She was pregnant with twin boys. Whose? What's your guess with such a hurried marriage? So history repeated itself. Nevertheless, Joanna married, had the children, got her degree.
"So. Twins James and Richard. Middle names courtesy of Maupertuis: Jean and Louis. But why? Why name them in direct tribute to the Maupertuis barons? Unless they were fathered by Dragan?"
"A marriage of convenience, then?" asked Siward.
"Why not? She had a chip on her shoulder about being illegitimate, considered herself a misunderstood genius. Marrying Dan, also Irish, meant respectability and security.
"When Carl came along, his middle name was Dragan. A bit un-British, don't you think?. Nostalgia, was it? A declaration? A challenge? A reminder of the Baron's obligation? Still, he was a half brother for the twins, Dan's favourite, obviously. But also a precocious sporting talent who got all the attention. Not good.
"James told me he hated Carl, how Carl laughed at him. Colostridium botulinism is a pretty extreme solution to jealousy, but that's Moriarty for you."
"Yes, yes, very interesting I am sure, but I don't see the point of all this."
Just the tilt of his head revealed Sherlock Holmes' opinion of his brother's judgement. "To set the scene, the mindset from mother to favourite son. Carl died. Tragic accident. Except the only person who realised he was murdered by his brother. Was me.
"That knowledge made me Moriarty's target. From then until now. I did not realise that for years. Why we are here, now." He threw a cushion from behind him across the room in frustration. Siward picked it up without remark.
"But there was more to it than that. Both generations of Moriarty grew up with a sense of entitlement frustrated by their illegitimacy. So he knew about the Maupertuis link; that should have been enough." He sighed, shook his head.
"I think, even back then, he was obsessed with me. Wanted a chunk of me to call his own. Saw the similarities between the Moriarty and Holmes family histories; tried to prove a link to lean on. A legitimate way to get close to me. Become legitimate by proxy.
"When he could not make that connection, or make it stick, he studied at the same university as me. From obsessed, he shifted to infatuated. I don't remember that time clearly; it was a dark time for me." He bit his lip, shook his head "As you both know. But others… knew what happened. They have told me.
"How he followed me around. Broke into my room, my bed, tried anything to seduce me. I wasn't interested. Even after he paid to use my body. Even after he filmed it, posted it on the dark web. I just took his money. Did not obsess back. Or fall in love."
He blinked up at his father and brother.
"Was that my fault?" Mycroft asked, voice hollow. "Withdrawing your trust fund money to stop you buying drugs? Turned you to….."
"Whatever." He flailed a dismissive hand. "Neither you nor him ever understood that."
"I'm sorry."
The quiet apology was ignored.
"After that Moriarty bided his time to come after me; waited until fame as a consulting detective was beckoning. Then he pursued me, challenged with mad impossible cases. Which I solved. His only answer to that was to kill himself so I had to kill myself. To protect others.
"But I always knew he wasn't dead. Any more than I was. Two sides of the same coin, you see. My attraction for him – that we are the same but different."
At that moment his mobile sounded a text. The Holmes family looked at each other. Sherlock Holmes opened the message, and showed the screen to his father and brother.
"You are invited to an execution. Midnight. Come alone."
"Couldn't be clearer," he said.
"How do we know she isn't already dead? Can't we reply?" their father asked.
"I believe he always uses a burn phone; uses only the once and then destroys it. No trace to be found. But you are welcome to try….."
So Siward Holmes did. But only got an empty line, a buzzing sound. Shook his head.
"I told you. It's not us calling the shots." Sherlock Holmes shrugged. "I have my teams out looking….so we wait."
Their father made tea. They had nothing to say to each other. So they sat, and paced, and sat again.
The next time Sherlock's phone sounded out, it was a collection of photos. A dozen photos or more, of a variety of people in pairs, one always in a parka. He flicked through them, impatient. But on the eleventh photo…..two shapes he recognised, And moving through a dark alley he knew.
"The game is on," he said urgently to his family, throwing the Belstaff across his shoulders. "Contact Lestrade; show him this photo –" he sent the picture to his brother's phone, heard it ping on arrival. "Tell him to throw a cordon around Bedminster Street Baths; but to stay well back. Wait for my call."
"But Sherlock….."
"Just do it, for Christ's sake!"
o0o0o
His headlong plunge down the stairs halted when he bounced off someone coming up. John Watson grabbed his friend's elbows to stop them both falling. And held on.
"John! What…..?" The exclamation was startled out of him, focus and concentration elsewhere.
"What's happening, Sherlock? What's the panic?"
"I….I don't…." he gathered his wits. "Where's Watson?"
"With Faithful. That's why I'm here. Faithful turned up on my doorstep, said she had orders from Mycroft to collect Rosie and keep her safe until…..whatever happened, happened. She didn't know anything else. So I came to find out."
"I haven't time….." he wrenched himself free of the supportive hands, indicated upstairs with a tilt of his head. "Let me go. Please….."
"Stop a minute. Just a minute." A hand reached out again and restrained. "Something I have to say. Before you dash off." He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. Sorry I've messed you about. But you're right. Have been all along. I need to come home. Me and Rosie. So when Dan's done his work, and downstairs is shiny and new….we'll be there."
He was earnest and committed. Certain now. Had expected laughter, smiling agreement, enthusiasm.
"Oh. OK. Good. Very good." Sherlock Holmes nodded absently. Did not have time for concentration to catch the puzzled and disappointed look the doctor gave him then, lurched down another step, before he paused and turned back to look up at the doctor. "Sorry. Got to go. Bit of a rush." He waved a hand up the stairs smiled blankly, "Pa and Mycroft are up there. They'll explain." He paused, focussed properly.
"If I don't come back – from this little outing," he tried for casually dismissive. "Where I'm going…come home anyway, John. Talk to Mrs Hudson. She'll explain….Sorry. Got to go," he repeated. Grasped a hand and shook it, and was gone. Leaving a puzzled and newly worried John Watson in his wake.
o0o0o
Scaffolding poles, red and white plastic tape fluttering, warnings signs. The baths closed for renovation. He smiled grimly to himself, swung up onto the scaffolding, and climbed to the roof; through the trapdoor that led onto the inspection stairs.
A small window of toughened glass allowed him to look down into the main pool, and his heart lurched so hard for a second he thought he was going to go into seizure.
The pool was empty of water, boarded scaffolding in it's place, as the blue and white century old tiles were being cleaned and replaced. Instead of shimmering light reflected from the water, minimal security lights at eye level now seemed dull, deep within shadow where changing cubicles stood in ranks around the outside, bereft of their privacy curtains, the viewing gallery stark and dark above.
Sitting in the blue pool attendant's seat bolted to the floor by the diving boards at the deep end was his mother. Still wearing the coat and scarf, but the hat and satchel had disappeared. Long silvered ash blonde hair tumbled untidily around her shoulders, and he could see pain and fear and stoicism in the set of her shoulders. Standing beside her was a figure in jeans and oversized parka, hood up, concealing the face. What light there was glinted on a small handgun: a Ceska CZ75, he thought.
The two figures appeared to be waiting for something – for him? – and talking.
He crept silently and carefully down the stairs, through the control room, softly into the back of the main pool without slamming or fluttering the double doors. Slid behind a stand of polystyrene floats. He had stood there before, he thought with a strange pang of déjà vu, tempting Moriarty down to his level with the Bruce Partington Plans.
John Watson had appeared instead, wired up to a bomb. Wearing a parka. The irony seemed sharp and deliberate.
He had known the assignation would be the pool at midnight. How had he not got there sooner? Stopped this farce.
"Your little boy will be here soon. " The voice changer sounded tinny yet vibrant in the echoing space. "Bless him. Hell bent on saving his mummy."
Midge Holmes lifted her head as if in irritation, but did not speak.
"We should be ready for him. Up."
A gloved hand hauled her up by the coat collar, and his mother wobbled a few steps forward. Then was thrust down.
"At the edge of the pool, please. Then when I shoot, you will tip tidily forward to be disposed of."
"In your dreams." Curt, not cowed.
The gun barrel flashed out to strike. The victim rocked out of range, to have her knees kicked under her from behind. Staggered.
"Kneel."
"At my age? With my knees? You must be joking."
He bit his lip and forced himself to just watch, just stay still. Wait. He was proud of her and fearful for her. And uncertain about what to do. This was all too close to home for his usual ruthless objectivity.
Another kick. Sherlock Holmes' mother retaliated, kicked backwards herself. Her foot connected, and there was a smothered curse. The gun flashed out again and a line of blood welled on her left cheek and she sank to the ground..
Suddenly the captor seemed not to have enough hands, tore the orange voice changer toy from in front of the face to clatter down onto the side of the pool while pushing the hood back. And he could finally see.
Which was when Sherlock Holmes' heart stopped beating.
I always get something wrong! I should have known! Why did I not know? Not see what was in front of my face?
It wasn't all about me. It was an older grudge. Of course it was.
Dan Powers died in a car crash; just like Dragan Marenne Maupertuis Francuski.
The family with those special boys, moved to London, to a house beyond their means. How did they afford it? Without Serbian interest and influence and money. Blood money?
Joanna had always had a chip on her shoulder because of her illegitimacy; needed to be made special, entitled. Made waves at school, shouted down a professor of mathematics who had the temerity to know more than she did.
Taken to Serbia for a better life with the Maupertuis family. And twisted emotions, consciences, an old man's sense of obligation. Because she could. And knew how.
Joanna who had brought up three boys. Yet had seemed unmoved by the death of her youngest, uninterested in his cause of death. Because she already knew?
Had lost one twin to suicide on a hospital roof. While her younger twin disappeared and turned up dead in a river. So what? Knew about that too?
All that mattered was the other true Moriarty in the family. Jim. Jim from IT. Jim who fixed things. For his Mother. With his mother?
Another one who showed little reaction, emotion. Psychopathic profile; no empathy, no relativity to emotional trauma. But she was lovely, Andrew Lake had said. Excusing a traumatised tragic mother. Who wasn't at all. Not exactly.
Just the true mother of her truest son.
It was never always or only about me. It was also a plot to draw in my mother the genius, the other professor. A petty revenge from a petty spoilt child with a grudge.
I always get something wrong!
Shit. Shit. Now what? And how?
He seethed and watched Joanne Moriarty scythe the gun barrel down onto the top of his mother's head and force her to her knees. Both women grunted with effort.
"There. See? Easy with a bit of encouragement." She smiled revelling in her own triumph. "That's pretty. The perfect sight for him to see when he gets here."
"I am here."
He stepped from the shadows, tall and controlled, empty hands held away from his sides.
Both women whipped round to face him, faces gaunt in the half light.
"How did you get here so soon?" Joanna Moriarty's query was a petulant demand. He may not have the gun in his hand, but he had claimed the advantage of surprise.
But the bile rising in his throat was not good. The memory of Moriarty's insane laughter, the presence of snipers. John Watson in a parka packed with explosives. Facing an old woman with death on her mind, Vivien Norbury. Two out of three times he had lost. Third time lucky this time, then. No option. This one was personal.
"As soon as you called I knew where you would be. Utterly predictable."
He kept his shoulders loose, tone light. Walked forward steadily. The Browning in his waistband. Ready, if time and chance arose.
He stopped twenty feet away from them. The Ceska did not waver. But he looked only at his mother at that moment.
"You OK?"
She rolled violet eyes at him. Eyes that met his, level and calm.
"Not a day for a dip," she observed pleasantly.
So. She was not cowed. Ready for any action necessary, including diving ten feet or more onto the bottom of the empty pool. His beautiful mother.
"English upper class sangfroid. Makes me sick."
Joanna Moriarty had his mother's coat collar twisted in her hand. Tension. Anger. Palpable hatred. Her mouth also twisted, eyes hooded and dark. Knuckles white. It was not a good look.
" Are you really telling me that all this – all of this idiocy; taunting me, trying to kill me – was really all about getting to my mother? Some petty revenge from an imagined childhood slight? God. You're mad."
He had tried the arched, bored tone to another woman pointing a gun at him. This time – this time – if a bullet was to be discharged it would be in the right direction.
"Of course I'm not mad. But you – turning up at my house uninvited, all smug and entitled and patronising me, waving an old pair of trainers in my face – you with the despicable mother; you are the one who's mad."
She took half a step towards him, focussed.
"Refusing to respond to my boy. Be the twin spirit he only ever wanted you to be." She looked at him and the disgust registered on her face; but now he understood where to go and how to get there. "Drugs and sex and all that wasted brilliance of you. Just look at you! Sweaty and dirty and looking as if you are off your head on something." She looked him up and down and something inside him crawled away out of sight. "Are you off your head on something?"
"Yes," he agreed. Shrugging, wobbling where he stood. Raking a shaky hand through greasy hair. "That's what the sight of you drives me to. Hmn."
He smiled at her. She smiled back.
"No wonder my son could never resist tormenting you. You rise to the bait every time."
"Really? Do I? So pleased to do as expected. But that's a two way street Joanna Josephine Mary Moriarty. What do you know about that?"
"More than you!" she snapped back, visibly reined herself in.
"I arrived on your doorstep with Carl's old trainers. And only then did you realise I knew the truth. That your darling Jamie had killed the little brother he was so jealous of, and who laughed at him. Did you help him? Give him the idea, even? Get rid of the child that was not Dragan's? Yes? Am I right? Of course I am. Bit of an overreaction, don't you think?"
He watched fingers tighten on his mother's coat collar, the Ceska rise to level at his heart,
Keep talking.
"And in that moment you decided to pick me off for such transgression. You saw I was ill and weak, and in recovery. Weak enough to be picked off. First by convincing the world I was destroying myself with drugs and manic behaviour. So when I died, no-one would be surprised. And you could also get rid of my mother at the same time.
"I have always hated the bitch," she agreed, yanking and twisting the collar so Midge Holmes choked, and gulped, and almost overbalanced on the edge of the pool. "She was my idol. My role model. I was going to be brilliant – like her. Feted, winning awards. Famous." She shot Sherlock Holmes' mother a withering glance. Violet eyes looked back, unreadable.
"But in reality….this woman –" and the word spat out like an insult – "was too special. Too grand. Too bloody beautiful even, to encourage and support and help a worshipping schoolgirl.
"She said my theories would never stand up. That I needed to listen and learn. To show some humility. To not go at stuff half cocked. Who wouldn't fight back at that? I was removed from St Aldate's because of her. Her bloody fault, not mine."
"Your fau.."
"Shut up, Mother."
And for once she did, bowing her head in recognition that her son was in control of this, that she was out of her depth.
"But you ended up in Serbia; at Irski Zamat. Wasn't that better for you?"
"Stuck out in the countryside with useless private tutors who ignored my true potential? You must be joking."
"That wasn't my mother's fault."
"Yes it was! She started it!"
"Noooo." His voice was silkily superior, a tone he knew annoyed most people most of the time. "All down to you, Joanna. A more humble person, a proper genius, would understand about taking time, been willing to be challenged, to learn. Recognise how much kindness the Baron showed you, and learn from that, too.
"But no - you always felt the world, as well as the Baron, owed you. And you instilled that entitlement, that resentment, into your favourite son.
"You could have helped him into his career as a mathematician. Turned your failure into his success. Did you both find that ambition so very flat in the end, too boring once achieved? Was that why he turned to crime? Excitement? Anarchy? Control?
"Instead you both you got your kicks and your revenge on society. Moriarty the master criminal, then? Spider at the centre of a world wide crime web?
"How much did you help him, Mummy? How much did he help you with your own devious little plot for revenge on the both of us?"
"You are rambling. In your fevered, drug addled brain. My son is dead. You know that."
"I know…..a lot of things. I know, for example, Jim did not die on the roof of Bart's."
"Everyone knows that! He died, he did! You. Are the mad one. Mad!" Her head rose, wavered. She looked up into the gallery as if for inspiration. And he watched her, watching.
"Only a bit. More like annoyed." He tilted his head, scrunched his eyes in a parody of apology. Grinned at her. A manic, disorientated grin. He wriggled in his coat, as if embarrassed, humiliated. Put his arms slowly behind his back, underneath his open coat. Inching hands back towards the Browning at his waistband.
"Then there was the other problem - Richard. A dreamer, creative. Unlike the rest of you. He was starting to find fame and acclaim as an actor. You could not stand that idea of him eclipsing you both. Legally. Legitimately.
"So there was a plan. Cinema verite, it's called. Real life filming of real life stuff. Acting improvisation, but acted to a scenario. Richard had always wanted a go at that, prove his ability. So dear Jamie came up with this plan. A lethal face off between hero Sherlock Holmes and master criminal Moriarty.
"The real Holmes, but the false Moriarty. He schooled poor Richard in what to do, what to say, how to behave – from playing 'Stayin' Alive' on his phone to banter and shooting himself in a surprise trick ending. But it wasn't a trick ending, was it? The cameras he thought were shooting the scene weren't real. But Sherlock Holmes was real. The set up and the exchange was real. The gun was real. Only Richard didn't know that.
"So when Richard played Jamie and shot himself in the mouth he…really shot himself in the mouth. There was blood and brains on the ground. I saw them. Smelt them. No-one laughed and stopped the scene with a clapperboard. Death closed the scene. Ricky did not jump to his feet and start again, alive again, like some demented video game.
"Am I supposed to believe you disposed of the body on your own? Dumped him in the Thames? I think we both know how that was done." He breathed.
"Sherlock Holmes jumped off the roof and he died too. Apparently. Both disappeared into their own particular voids. Except Sherlock Holmes was out hunting. While James Moriarty disappeared to Serbia to reinvent himself as someone else. Didn't he, Joanna?"
"I have no idea what you are talking about, you mad loser."
But her eyes were wild now, panic showing.
"Really? So you did all this yourself, too? The mobile phone and the texts, the voice messages?"
"I knew his mind. Had tapes he had left; edited them. Used the voice changer." Head and voice high. Strong, defensive.
"And the attempt to run me down? You did that alone? The release of the sex tapes? How did you know about those? Have the skills to retrieve them? How to use them to try and kickstart my brother? To disgust my mother?"
"I…" she began. The Ceska dipped, rose again. "That was all your fault! You know it was! You had so much, was born to so much. But never seemed to appreciate…." Her hand tightened on the gun, her eyes blazed with deep seated envy. But of what? He shook his head, baffled. She saw that.
"You never understood him, never tried. He only wanted a piece of you; are you too privileged to see that? See all those things about you other people envy? Your high birth. Your looks. Your family connections. He only craved a share in your entitlement. He loved you. From afar, and from close up. He needed to show you. He even made love to you…."
"Sex. It was nothing but sex." The flat reply was ignored. "Bought and paid for. A business transaction."
"He loved you! He always said – always – how you were made for each other. How he loved his games with you. Following you about at university, catching your eye…."
"I threw him out of a window!"
"But you didn't mean it! You knew every time you rejected him he would only want you more. So I had to make him see…."
"See what?"
"That your were a distraction. From his mission. To become – something! The world's greatest, most successful and most famous criminal. Famous. Immortal. A legend."
She laughed, as if triumph was already hers. "So we had to get rid of you." She said the words so reasonably, as if anyone would understand her reasoning. "I had to get rid of you. To free him….."
"But you say he's dead, So why?"
It was as if she never heard. Just continued….
"From the distraction and the trap that is you."
"Enough, Joanna." Two words of quiet authority.
"Starting with getting rid of your mother…"
"Enough, Joanna. " He took a step forward, broadening his stance, bearing down on his intent. "You will not kill her. To kill her you have to kill me first."
The Browning appeared from inside the Belstaff, suddenly in front of her, unwavering in his hand, and her own gun hand began to tremble.
"Pistols for two. Coffee for one," Midge Holmes remarked quietly. "Unstable."
Neither of the duellists gave any sign of hearing her.
"I can kill her. I've done it before. I can do anything." She said, utterly convinced. "And I can certainly shoot you. You first, to stop your noise. Then her. Be rid of both of you."
"And what makes you so sure Jamie would want that? Think. Jamie wants me, Joanna. Not you. He wants me in his head, in his plans, in his body. He wants me alive, so he can tempt me and fuck me and kill me every day. Over and over…. In so many ways."
She pulled a face at him. Not liking what he was saying, his inferences, yet still visualising his thoughts in her mind's eye.
"He doesn't want his mummy involved in this. He is an adult now. While you stay stuck in your own daydreams. The embarrassing high school mom, wanting to live out her own ambitions through her child. Pathetic. And you are probably the reason your adored Jamie is some spectacular kind of psychopath. Like mother, like child. Down to you, dear lady."
Look at me. Concentrate on me, Joanna. Forget about Mignonette Holmes. Think about Sherlock Holmes. The man unsettling you. Upsetting you. I am rude, outspoken, arrogant. And I've done this before. But this time there is no-one to jump in front of my bullet. So look at me. And I will destroy you. I will face you down.
Think of shooting and killing no-one but me, Joanna. Listen to me, you bitch. Look at me. Shoot. Me. Go on. I dare you,,,,
"Shut up! You know nothing about me! Or Jamie!"
"Will…."
His mother's whisper of warning penetrated the ferocity of his concentration. "Range is hot."
He saw Joanna Moriarty tilt her head slightly backwards, not understand the words.
But he did: back to childhood, back to the formal shooting ranges of Harrow and of Bisley, of George Bradshaw's training. Those words; the formal shooting range permission to fire. Telling him Joanna Moriarty was teetering on the edge of sanity and action.
Bite down on the bullet…..
"I'm not interested in you." The disdain burned in his voice, in his stance, that steady relentless arm. "Why in hell should I be? Not even interested in Jamie, actually. He's yesterday's sexy villain. Yesterday's robber baron. And how ironic is that?"
He laughed, risked turning away. Turning to lure her towards him: away from his mother. There was the click of a trigger engaging; he was listening for it and heard it, reacted super fast.
She's right handed, will naturally favour the right side; and the Ceska naturally pulls right.
Instinct flung him left, down and spinning, putting pressure on the trigger of the Browning, when his foot met the hollow dip of a drain, unseen in the dark. His ankle turned, foot slipped, and he went down flailing, the Browning flinging upwards and shooting the sky and flying out of his grasp.
Cursing, he threw himself forward into a fast roll, coming up for air with effort, and heard her pull the trigger for a second time. Blue ceramic tile in front of him exploded into sharp white shards.
"You know nothing! I'll tell you all about Jamie! He's…"
He was moving faster than thought, too quickly to thank Branko Ilic for his help. But as he twisted his hand flew to the ankle holster on his left leg, the tiny Beretta held there; and was drawing and firing in one smooth instinctive motion.
He heard the bullet fly, smelt the exhaust. Heard the fat wet and unmistakable sound of a bullet hitting flesh. Saw Joanna Moriarty react, flinch forward with a gasp, flinch again. Fall toward to the edge of the pool, fall onto Midge Holmes, who threw herself backwards, heaving the sudden weight off her shoulder to tip the parka clad body into the mess of scaffolding and boards deep in the pool.
He rushed forward, crouching still, long limbs ungainly in their haste, to catch his mother bodily. Somehow reached her in time to stop her falling too, folding fast onto the ground and gathering her up into his lap with urgent hands.
Cradled her into him, felt her uncontrollable shaking, reaction consuming her body. Stilled her with gentle fingers to her face in a way he would never dream of doing normally.
And she clutched at him.
"Shush," he said. "All over now. You were brilliant."
"Shit scared," she whispered hoarsely into his neck. "You…I thought…she had….killed you."
"No chance. You were so brave, Midge. Thanks for the input."
He fumbled blindly with one hand for his phone. Pressed speed dial for Lestrade.
"Come," he said simply. Pocketed the phone and tightened his arms around his mother again.
"The cavalry is on the way. And you don't want them to see you crying. Buck up."
He hugged her. An indulgence. Just for a moment.
He had made a choice; his mother. Before all else. Just this once. He would regret it later; when he had time to consider the chance he had missed….the pursuit that if taken quickly enough might have succeeded.
Peered over her shoulder at the lifeless form of Joanna Moriarty slumped on a boarded walkway in the deep end. Saw the red crescent spreading across the green of the parka. Felt nothing at the sight.
Somewhere in the distance, over the faint rising two tone of a police siren approaching, he heard the swing door at the back of the gallery above softly open and close. Distant footsteps. Receding, not arriving. A sniper, then; just as before.
So. He had not imagined the red laser light he had seen shine so briefly on Joanna Moriarty's chest, nor the double crack sound of two guns firing almost simultaneously: of brief, breathy laughter from nowhere yet somewhere above them. He was certain he had not killed the killer; but the post mortem would tell.
I am a specialist, you see. No-one gets to me. And no-one ever will.
It's not the fall that kills you. It's the landing. I have loved this; this little game of ours.
Byeee!
"Moriarty!" he shouted into the darkness, lifting his head. "James Bloody Moriarty!"
Quelled the hot anger, the frustration and sense of defeat, the irony of both winning and losing.
But in the heat of the moment he had made his choice. The choice everyone would reassure him had been the right choice.
Clutched his mother close in his arms. Breathed deep for them both. Tried to quell her fears and racing heartbeat. And his own.
END
Author's Notes:
Stat: medical term used in emergencies as a command. From the Latin, statim, which means instantly or immediately.
Royal Institution Christmas Lectures; A televised public event, the world's leading science lectures for young people. Initiated by Michael Faraday in 1825. First broadcast in 1936, they are the world's oldest television science series.
Modafinil is a real drug, and as well as tackling such conditions as narcolepsy and sleep apnoea, is used to enhance the performance and endurance of troops in combat. Thanks as ever to Kate 221B for her medical knowledge and input and endless support.
The pool: the perfect setting for any Sherlock cliffhanger, the real pool is not in London, but Bristol. Bristol South Swimming Baths at Dean Lane, Bedminster, were built in the 1930's, and still in public use. It is where Mark Gatiss learnt to swim.
This story was an attempt to open out the Carl Powers case - from past into present, the repercussions over the years and also show it's relevance and background to the whole story of Moriarty's obsession with Sherlock on every level; by using and developing many of the throw away lines from the series that links the two men together to form into a story
This story also works within the events of my Sherlock universe thus far, giving further credence to the development of his unique character as we see it, and also that of his parents – not as fluffy, obvious or two dimensional as is usual within the fandom, but based on the real life Tim and Wanda, as they appeared on screen as Sherlock's parents (as well as Cumberbatch's) but also as psychologically sound, and as the fictional, natural and intellectual equals of their brilliant sons.
The story started simply as a one-shot, what-if, chapter; readers asked me to develop it. And for some reason, my first thought shot forward to the very end at the pool; of Mrs Holmes being forced to kneel at gunpoint and complaining, uncowed, "At my age? With my knees? You must be joking!" Everything in between found itself, by picking up and knitting together other aspects of Sherlock and Moriarty from those tiny, teasing one-liners and quips from the tv series, ignored or undeveloped there and elsewhere.
Open aspects of the ending were always intentional, exactly as in the series: sorry. But life is never tidy, and Moriarty is and always has been – and should remain - elusive. It is not for me to destroy theories, plots and expectations that are a core of the modern Sherlock stories. Moffat and Gatiss' Sherlock has always been about the man, the puzzles, the mysteries and yes, even the cliffhangers. Thus the greatest cliffhangers happen at the pool. That is tribute as well as canon.
During the writing or creation of this story, several people important to me have died. So this is dedicated to them all: to Terry Hands (former artistic director of The Royal Shakespeare Company and Theatr Clwyd), Burt Bacharach (composer), Paul O'Grady (gay icon, animal advocate and national treasure) and Russell Dixon (actor, friend and famous for three very different major character roles in Coronation Street!) Not forgetting Laurence, and Roger Townsend.
Sherlock will return: after a pause to research and plot the next story. This will be A Man From All Sides, from the Russian proverb "Fear the goat from the front, the horse from the rear, a man from all sides." With thanks to Nicholas Galitzine for the inspiration, which has been sitting in the back of my brain for far too long to be ignored any longer.