![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holmesticemods posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmesticePart 1
I found the Virgin straight away. Seems he found himself an adoring doctor in this time as well who writes about him in magazines, and magazines are prized by those of us who spent time on the street for being slightly more impervious to rain than newspapers. I shouldn't have been shocked, though I was. I first laid eyes on him as they left for the opera or some other posh event. They looked beautiful, and their hair and clothes shone in the lamplight. The Joker always said the Virgin was on the side of the angels. Seems he had it backwards - the angels were on the Virgin's side. They sent him back to a time when he would be petted and praised as a miracle worker. I oughtn't to have been surprised to find the deck stacked against me. The angels and the Deuce had a falling out some time ago.
The first days were the hardest, but I made it through by clinging to the thought that if I could find some way to work through the hunger and the cold, I would rule this time. But I couldn't go about it rashly. I toyed with the idea of approaching the Virgin. After all, we were both of us in the same situation, but my pride held me back. I couldn't go to him in rags and demand to be treated as an equal. Besides, it wouldn't do to tip my hand so early on. If I wish to bring the city to its knees, sooner or later I must finish the job I started in the cemetery. Sooner, rather than later, I think, since it's only a matter of time until the Virgin hears about my work. I haven't been obvious. After the first few jobs, I didn't use my own rifle. Not that I could have-- I didn't have a way to get more ammunition for it, at least, not until today.
I'll make my move tonight. He's been lying low these past few weeks, but I have the element of surprise. I have my rifle. And at long last, I have the new cartridges from Von Herder.
<<<<<>>>>>
From the personal journal of Capt. (Ret.) John H. Watson, MD
After the passing of my beloved Mary, I engaged a nurse to care for my newborn daughter. I could not remain in the house for long. After I finished my rounds, I spent my afternoons and some evenings at my old rooms in Baker Street, which Mrs. Hudson had maintained exactly as they had been prior to my friend's abrupt departure. When given a choice of ghosts, I preferred the company of the one whose absence stirred hopes of his eventual return.
And so it was that I began to exorcise my grief with the creative exercise of writing down and editing my final adventures with Sherlock Holmes. They flowed out of me like water, until it came time to assemble Holmes's final adventure. Not finding enough compelling material in my own recollections, I consulted his index, and I came across the name of a man that I'd heard him describe as the most dangerous criminal of all time, though he was also marked as “deceased.” Who better to dog Holmes's final steps than the most notorious criminal that ever was or will be? And so I began to consider the character of James Moriarty. I eventually decided to base him on an old professor of mine from medical college, and the story began to write itself.
The night I finished the manuscript for “The Final Problem,” I toasted the successful conclusion of my writing career with a dram of whisky from the spirit case by the window. It was with a pang that I noticed Holmes's violin sitting on the window seat. I picked up the instrument from whose strings my friend had coaxed forth many an hour of sweet music, and tapped the bow against the strings. The musical jangle made me smile, and I lifted the violin to my chin and dragged the bow across the strings as I had so often seen him do. Such an unholy screech issued forth that I was immediately embarrassed by my fancy and would have returned the violin to its resting place, but the window shattered with an explosion of broken glass, tearing the shade to ribbons. I covered my head with my arms to protect myself from the shards.
I heard a howl of fury from outside the window, and I saw a strange green light from an upstairs window of Camden House, the empty property across the street. I instinctively pulled back from the broken window, and I heard the hurried footfalls of Mrs. Hudson running up the stairs.
“Doctor Watson! Are you hurt?”
“No,” I said, brushing a thin line of blood from the back of my hand from a shallow laceration. “Just a few scratches from the glass.”
I looked at the bookshelf across from the window and gasped when I saw something embedded in the wood. Upon closer look, I saw that it was a strange-looking bullet.
“I'll ring for the police,” said Mrs. Hudson.
As she left the room, there came a great banging on the downstairs door.
“What on earth?” muttered the admirable lady, and she uttered a cry of alarm when she opened the door.
“Watson!” shouted a familiar voice. “I shall require your assistance forthwith!”
I ran to the landing and was astonished to see Sherlock Holmes dragging an unconscious body, ineffectually aided by Mrs. Hudson. A third person, the tall, crane-like stranger who had taken my friend away all those months ago, carried what I supposed was the gun that had shattered our window - a rifle of some sort, as black as night and far more terrifying. I have never seen its equal for malevolent appearance.
After sending Mrs. Hudson for tea, I helped Holmes carry the body up the stairs, and I laid it on the sofa while Holmes stood apart with my service revolver in his hand.
“Examine him,” said Holmes. “But take every precaution for your safety.”
Even unconscious he looked like a coarse fellow, despite the elegance of his evening dress. His dark, tangled hair hung over the upper half of his face, and a full beard obscured his lower features. “His pulse is strong and his breathing is regular,” I said after a moment's examination. “Apart from the bump on his head, he's in perfect health. His heart - oh, I say!” I abruptly ceased speaking in utter shock at what I felt on the man's chest. I withdrew my hand as if it had touched fire.
“What is it?”
I gingerly pressed my fingers against my patient's abdomen, and my suspicions were confirmed. I untucked the shirt front and unfastened the shirt's lower buttons. I withdrew a sand-filled pad that had caused the body to appear and feel more massive than it truly was. I then reached up to the beard, which upon closer examination was revealed to be one of the finest false beards I have seen, with each hair tied painstakingly to a bit of translucent netting. Hoping my patient would remain unconscious, I gripped the edge of the beard nearest the hairline and pulled it free from my patient's face.
“This is no man,” I said.
There was a stunned silence, in which a look of utter surprise appeared on my friend's face. His time-travelling associate was similarly moved.
“Blimey,” he said, letting the rather wicked-looking firearm he carried fall to the floor. “Wasn't expecting that.”
I brushed the hair back from the woman's face. “She's so young,” I said, taken aback by the delicacy of the features that I had uncovered.
“Her age is irrelevant. Attempted murder is the least of her crimes,” said Holmes coldly. “Bind her hands before she wakes.”
I obeyed my friend, despite my own misgivings. Surely there must be some mistake. Perhaps the poor girl had been forced to disguise herself as the criminal in order to be caught. I had scarcely finished my knots when her eyes fluttered open, revealing them to be a rich brown. Her eyes focused almost immediately, and I began to feel uneasy. There was a quick, analytical intelligence in those eyes, and I saw in her glances that she knew her disguise was gone, she was surrounded, and that there was no use in struggling.
“I suppose I ought to thank you,” she said to Holmes. Her voice was low and rich, with the melodic suggestion of an Irish accent. “I do despise mistakes.”
“You would have shot a man in cold blood,” said my friend.
“Naturally. As would any of you, under the proper circumstances,” she said, not bothering to conceal her contempt. “As our dear departed Joker would have said, 'Boring.' But the real point is that I would have shot the wrong man, and for preventing that eventuality, I thank you.” She gave a slight incline of her head, as though she were a great lady acknowledging someone beneath her standing. “Now, I know all of your faces, save one.” Her eyes settled on the tall, slender stranger. “What are you?”
The man smiled. “I'm the Doctor.”
She laughed, wincing when she remembered her head wound. “Dear me,” she said to Holmes, “You do collect doctors, don't you?”
“Since we're doing introductions, mind telling us who you are?” asked the Doctor.
“No one of consequence,” she said. “You can call me Viola, I suppose.”
I could see Holmes's eyes lose focus as he searched his memory for the information he sought. “Moran,” he said at last.
She smiled. “Very good, Mr. Holmes.”
“Watson, if you would be so good as to look up the name in my index?”
I pulled out the “M” volume, which was quite prodigious, and flipped past Mathews, Merridew, and finally, Moran. There was only one name. “Colonel Sebastian Moran,” I read. At Holmes's nod, I read aloud his list of accomplishments, which were many, and that he had disappeared from his tent on a wild game hunt in India, presumed dead. “He had a very distinguished military career,” I commented. “How sad to see such a life end in its prime.”
“Be so good as to read my notes on the following page,” said Holmes.
I turned the page and read. “Probable link between Moran's disappearance and a rise in assassinations under curious circumstances, the most notable being the death of the Honourable Ronald Adair of 427 Park Lane. Unique weapon.”
“He was cheating at cards,” said Miss Moran. “He always said he'd prefer death to dishonour.”
My disapproval must have shown on my face, because she smiled at me. “I was only doing what I was hired to do. It's no easy thing for a woman to make her own way here.”
Holmes's eyes were fixed on her. “You knew of Sebastian Moran, did you not?”
“Not really.”
“You took the name of one of the finest shots in London, no this didn't happen by chance. I warn you, attempting to deceive me will only make me cross.”
“What makes you think I'm not simply trying to make you cross?”
I hastily turned a chuckle into a cough when Holmes scowled at me.
“What I don't understand is why you're trying to kill Holmes at all,” I said.
“Of course you don't understand,” said Holmes. “She's not of this time. She's a contemporary of mine and a colleague of the late unlamented Moriarty. It was she who organized the syndicate and profited from Moriarty's ostentation. ss. It was she who pursued me the day I was attacked, and she who pursues me still out of revenge.”
“Revenge for what?” I asked.
“For killing the head of her organisation, for this Miss Viola Moran is no less than number two to the late James Moriarty!”
Clearly Holmes expected more of a reaction to this revelation than he received. Miss Moran looked bored, though I could tell she was watching my reaction closely.
I met her eyes. “There really is no need to kill my friend,” I said.
“That's a dense statement, even for you Watson. Of course she must destroy me in order to build her criminal enterprise without interference,” said Holmes.
“I thought you had returned to your own time.”
“He did,” said the Doctor, “but your death in this time threw a large and complicated instrument into the works.”
I stared at my friend. “You travelled back through time to save me?”
“You, your descendants, the thousands of innocent people who will die in international gang wars if this woman is allowed to run loose,” said Holmes, looking coldly at Miss Moran.
She looked distinctly unimpressed. “Very well. You've captured me. It was very well done. If only we all knew what the future would bring instead of having to rely of planning and deduction. Now, what are you going to do with me?”
The Doctor looked at her thoughtfully. “That's a bit of a poser. We could give her to Scotland Yard. Her weapon alone would secure a murder conviction. We could give her to MI6 in your time. She might be convinced to provide information on her terrorist clients. We might even summon the Teselecta to render judgement and punishment. We're old friends. I've got them on speed-dial.”
“You could let me go,” she suggested.
“Not bloody likely,” snapped Holmes.
I winced at my friend's use of profanity in front of a lady, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Your doctor friend is right. Had I known you'd left this time for good, I wouldn't have made an attempt on your life. I've no reason to wish your friend dead.”
“We've all seen your real face,” said Holmes. “I hope you'll pardon my scepticism of your motives.”
Miss Moran laughed merrily. “What possible difference could that make? You and the Skinny Doctor will be leaving this time, and the Moustache Doctor has no reason to interfere with me. Unless, of course, I invite him to.”
I self-consciously smoothed my moustache and cleared my throat.
“There is the matter of the Honourable Ronald Adair,” said the Doctor.
“I can provide whatever information the police require in order to see that the man responsible for his killing is brought to justice,” said Miss Moran.
“And you?” asked Holmes contemptuously.
“I was simply the murder weapon,” she demurred. “But despite the growth market in contract killing, I'd rather find a more appropriate use for my talents.”
“What talents are those?” I asked, ignoring the derisive noises my companion was making.
“Observation,” she said. “Disguise. Developing useful contacts. Hiding in plain sight.”
“Masterminding criminal enterprises,” said Holmes.
“I had no other choice. I didn't have the money to stand for Parliament and I look really dreadful in a business suit,” said Miss Moran.
This time, even my friend's lips twitched. Miss Moran may have lacked moral fibre, but she had charm in abundance. Her eyes sparkled attractively, and I confess I found her quite agreeable, despite my grave misgivings over her choice of profession.
“If we carry on listening to this woman, we'll have no scruples left,” said the Doctor, smiling.
“Am I the only one here who objects to murder and attempted murder?” asked Holmes in a voice that in any other man might have been characterized as petulant.
“Not at all, Holmes,” said the Doctor. “But I would like to point out that one of my best friends is a former assassin.”
“Is that so?” said Holmes tightly.
“Oh yes, and serving time in at least one timeline for having murdered me, though in another we're married. Funny thing, time. It can make the best and worst of us.”
At this juncture, Mrs. Hudson arrived with tea and poured it neatly into her best china. Miss Moran leaned forward, wafted the smell towards herself, and sighed appreciatively.
“I suppose it would be too much to ask for a cup,” she said regretfully.
“It would,” said Holmes tightly, handing the Doctor a cup and saucer with more vehemence than necessary.
“I say, Holmes -”
“No,” he said in a quelling voice. “I have only just saved you and countless others from a violent death. I will not take tea with your would-be murderer.”
I caught the Doctor's eye, and he shook his head, warning me not to press the issue, so I sat in the wing chair opposite Holmes's and waited for him to bring me my tea.
Holmes threw back his cup of tea savagely, gulping it down heedless of the temperature, glaring at Miss Moran all the while. The Doctor and I sipped ours as quickly as manners allowed.
“I have decided,” announced Holmes, “precisely what should be done with Miss Moran. She is to be left in the streets without her weapon or her beard. I shall put my Irregulars on the case of whispering to all and sundry that Colonel Sebastian Moran failed to deliver on a contract and cite this accident as proof. She is to be left with nothing, with worse than nothing: with nothing. With bugger all.”
I narrowed my eyes at Holmes. Either what he said made no sense, or it made no sense and was breathtakingly rude.
“Holmes -”
“No, Watson,” he said, belatedly holding up a hand to forestall my comments, “I have quite made up my mind. And what's more, I have made up my mind. I will not be moved.”
I assumed it was belated shock from my near-death experience that made the room swim, but then I realised that Holmes was swaying alarmingly. I nearly commented on this, but my own eyelids began to feel very heavy. I closed them for only a moment.
* * * * *
* * * * *
* * * * *
When I opened my eyes, I found myself face to face with a frantic Mrs. Hudson. “Doctor Watson, thank goodness!” she exclaimed. “What has happened?”
My mind was in a fog, but I found myself saying my friend's name.
“Mister Holmes is in a bad way,” she said, pointing to where my friend lay on the floor, his elbows akimbo and sticking up at odd angles. I could see a pool of saliva forming on the carpet next to his mouth. “And his friend...” her voice trailed off, and in my hazy vision, I saw the Doctor lying on the floor, arms and legs spread as far as they could reach. I was alarmed to see that blue pustules had appeared on his face, which served to wake me far better than a dram of brandy would have.
I examined Holmes and the Doctor, and found, to my great relief, that both were fast asleep. They were breathing regularly, if not deeply, and Mrs. Hudson helped me drag Holmes to the sofa and the Doctor to the chair by the fire where they would be more comfortable.
I shook my head to clear it from the lingering effects of the mysterious sedative. “Where is Miss Moran?”
Mrs. Hudson frowned. “Who?”
“Miss Moran, the woman, dash it all, the person we brought up with us. Where is she?”
Mrs. Hudson looked around the flat, as did I, though at a slower pace. “She didn't leave by the front door,” she said at last. “I'd have heard her.”
I glanced at the shattered window and looked out. On the pavement below, there lay the pad that Miss Moran had used to disguise her figure, but it had been smashed, and the contents strewn over the pavement. I admired her nerve and her cunning - not just anyone would have thought to use sand to break a long fall.
A look at the tea tray also revealed the means for her escape. There were tiny grains of powder, presumably a powerful soporific, strewn over the tray, and presumably into our cups when she pretended to waft the scent towards her.
I glanced around, noting that her strange weapon was still on the floor where the Doctor had dropped it, but she had taken the false beard. There were also three pieces of Holmes's stationery on the table nearest the window.
Virgin-
Go home. You'll never find me, and I'll never surrender to you. It doesn't matter if you believe me, because you've no choice in the matter. If your timeline isn't all you wish it to be, you have nobody to blame but yourself.
Sincerely yours,
Deuce
Mortified from the address and the letter's intended recipient, I placed the first paper exactly as it had been and picked up the second.
Skinny Doctor-
You'll be all right. Don't let the Virgin take it too hard. At least not until he’s got back to the Bachelor.
Yours respectfully,
Col. S. Moran
I hardly dared breathe as I examined the third paper.
Doctor Watson-
I shall be dining at St. James at six o'clock on Saturday. Sarah Bernhardt is performing Gismonda at eight, and I have two tickets. Don't be boring and summon the police.
Viola
PS The man responsible for the murder of Ronald Adair is Sir John Hardy. Motive: Adair cheated at cards and Hardy was unable to determine how. Evidence, including letter from Sir John engaging the services of an unnamed assassin, will be delivered tomorrow to 221B by noon.
For the first time since Mary’s passing, I felt like my old self again. I briefly wondered if I ought to bring Miss Moran flowers, but it would look distinctly awkward if she arrived at dinner as Sebastian Moran. The image of her with a pink rose in her beard was too much for me, and I threw back my head and laughed.
As Holmes and the Doctor slumbered on, I wondered what sort of detective someone who had bested Sherlock Holmes would make.
<<<<<>>>>>
The front door in Leadworth opened with hardly a pause. “It's about time!” exclaimed Amy. “Rory's been back for ages, and I've had to resist the smell of chocolate this whole time, which I believe makes me a saint. Good Lord, what happened to you?”
The Doctor sheepishly rubbed his face where the blue spots had not entirely faded. “A slight allergy,” he said. “Nothing for it, I'm afraid.”
River appeared at Amy's elbow and held forth a plastic bottle. “Tablets,” she said, giving the Doctor a crooked smile.
He swallowed two and sighed in relief. “Thank you.”
Rory stuck his head out of the kitchen. “Time for cake!”
River dimmed the lights, and Rory walked toward the table with two cakes: one chocolate and the other with vanilla buttercream and elaborate sugar fancies. Both had a dozen candles. Amy frowned at the spread, but managed to blow them all out with one breath.
There was laughing and clapping, and Rory handed her a large package from the sideboard.
“That's from both of us,” said River, sliding her arm around the Doctor's waist.
The Doctor raised his eyebrows, but her barely suppressed smile kept his inquiries in check.
Amy ripped open the paper and broke into a broad grin. “The Return of Sherlock Holmes!. Brilliant! The adventures after The Final Problem are my favourites!”
“It looks really old,” said Rory.
“First edition,” said River.
The Doctor peered over Amy's shoulder, mesmerised by the table of contents. “You know what this means, River?”
“I owe you ten quid?”
“No. And by 'no' I mean 'yes,'” said the Doctor, holding out his hand.
River ignored him and began to read over Amy's shoulder. “You'll have to wait,” said River. “I have a dozen new Holmes cases to read.”'
<<<<<>>>>>
From the estate of Capt.John H. Watson, MD, property of Baring Gould Klinger, LLP, to be delivered to 221B Baker Street, London on May 22nd, 2014
My Dear Holmes,
I write to thank you from the bottom of my heart for leaving things as they were when we last spoke, and I hope this letter finds you well.
I have several confessions to make. Firstly, I hope it will not annoy you greatly that I continued to scribble adventures with you as protagonist for a number of years now. I am fortunate to have been able to continue my close study of a brilliant mind, which leads me to my second confession. Viola Moran and I were married at Gretna Green, which would have caused a great scandal in London, had it been generally known. Fortunately, my beautiful, clever bride is as well-versed in the art of misdirection as she is with sleight of hand, which led to others drawing the most mundane conclusions about us. We have scarce left one another's sides since, together thwarting a notorious blackmailer, a conspiracy to poison Parliament with cyanide gas, and solved many other mysteries besides. You will be pleased to hear that I have had no complaints about your characterisation from editors or readers.
It is strange to think that when you read this, I will have lived out the rest of my life and, if I am very lucky, will have died peacefully in my sleep. You might think that eventuality unlikely, given my choice of wife, but at the time of writing this letter, we have sent our youngest son off to study medicine at Queen's College, London, and have taken a small home in Sussex where Viola keeps bees. As a drone fortunate enough to have caught the interest of the queen, I doubt I shall ever understand their ways, but I'm ever grateful for the sweetness they bring. I pray that you may be as happy as we are, dear friend, and I hope that you will find some diversion in the enclosed volumes of “your” adventures.
I remain yours faithfully,
John H. Watson, MD
<<<<<>>>>>
John’s powerful right jab isn’t a surprise, though the strength of his left hook is. Fortunately, all the other blows diminish in intensity until Sherlock can wrap his arms around him and the sobs subside.
“I hate you,” says John.
“You've every right to.”
“Just so we're clear on that.”
“Crystal.”
“Right,” he says awkwardly. “So.”
“So.”
“Have you got a flat-mate?”
“Did. Moved out last week.”
“Good. It never would have worked. She was too tall for you.”
“How--? Never mind. Wait, what do you mean, ‘too tall?” Oh my God, you’re still a complete dick.”
“You never changed the lock.”
“It’s expensive to change locks. It would have come out of my rent.”
“You never changed the lock because you knew I’d be back.”
“Maybe at first.”
“But then?”
“Well, you never came back, did you? And nothing bad had happened in a year, so changing the locks then would have looked stupid.”
“I’m here now.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s over.”
John sat on the sofa and looked at the floor for a moment before meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “You look awful,” he said. “And what did you do to your hair? Is that pomade?”
“You look exactly the same.”
There was a moment of silence, and John sighed. “I’m getting take-away.” He started toward the door and glanced back. ‘Want to come?”
The knuckles of John’s right hand are raw, but that doesn’t stop Sherlock from rubbing his thumb over them.
The sky is grey, but it's a healthy grey and filled with electric lines and helicopters.
He’s home.
<<<<<>>>>>
The End
<<<<<>>>>>
A/N: Fun trivia: the funeral scene in The Riechenbach Fall was filmed in St Woolos Cemetery in Newport, Wales, as was part of the Doctor Who episode Blink, which introduced us all to the Weeping Angels. I'm indebted to the Baring-Gould and Klinger Annotated and New Annotated Sherlock Holmes editions, from whose pages I have stolen innumerable facts and Sherlockian in-jokes, and warped quite a few of them. Much love and enormous thanks to [redacted] for bashing this story in to military form. My sincere thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
queenfanfiction, whose WhoLock request send my mind reeling in the best way, and lavvyan for running this fest and kindly granting me an extension when the story ran away with me.
I found the Virgin straight away. Seems he found himself an adoring doctor in this time as well who writes about him in magazines, and magazines are prized by those of us who spent time on the street for being slightly more impervious to rain than newspapers. I shouldn't have been shocked, though I was. I first laid eyes on him as they left for the opera or some other posh event. They looked beautiful, and their hair and clothes shone in the lamplight. The Joker always said the Virgin was on the side of the angels. Seems he had it backwards - the angels were on the Virgin's side. They sent him back to a time when he would be petted and praised as a miracle worker. I oughtn't to have been surprised to find the deck stacked against me. The angels and the Deuce had a falling out some time ago.
The first days were the hardest, but I made it through by clinging to the thought that if I could find some way to work through the hunger and the cold, I would rule this time. But I couldn't go about it rashly. I toyed with the idea of approaching the Virgin. After all, we were both of us in the same situation, but my pride held me back. I couldn't go to him in rags and demand to be treated as an equal. Besides, it wouldn't do to tip my hand so early on. If I wish to bring the city to its knees, sooner or later I must finish the job I started in the cemetery. Sooner, rather than later, I think, since it's only a matter of time until the Virgin hears about my work. I haven't been obvious. After the first few jobs, I didn't use my own rifle. Not that I could have-- I didn't have a way to get more ammunition for it, at least, not until today.
I'll make my move tonight. He's been lying low these past few weeks, but I have the element of surprise. I have my rifle. And at long last, I have the new cartridges from Von Herder.
From the personal journal of Capt. (Ret.) John H. Watson, MD
After the passing of my beloved Mary, I engaged a nurse to care for my newborn daughter. I could not remain in the house for long. After I finished my rounds, I spent my afternoons and some evenings at my old rooms in Baker Street, which Mrs. Hudson had maintained exactly as they had been prior to my friend's abrupt departure. When given a choice of ghosts, I preferred the company of the one whose absence stirred hopes of his eventual return.
And so it was that I began to exorcise my grief with the creative exercise of writing down and editing my final adventures with Sherlock Holmes. They flowed out of me like water, until it came time to assemble Holmes's final adventure. Not finding enough compelling material in my own recollections, I consulted his index, and I came across the name of a man that I'd heard him describe as the most dangerous criminal of all time, though he was also marked as “deceased.” Who better to dog Holmes's final steps than the most notorious criminal that ever was or will be? And so I began to consider the character of James Moriarty. I eventually decided to base him on an old professor of mine from medical college, and the story began to write itself.
The night I finished the manuscript for “The Final Problem,” I toasted the successful conclusion of my writing career with a dram of whisky from the spirit case by the window. It was with a pang that I noticed Holmes's violin sitting on the window seat. I picked up the instrument from whose strings my friend had coaxed forth many an hour of sweet music, and tapped the bow against the strings. The musical jangle made me smile, and I lifted the violin to my chin and dragged the bow across the strings as I had so often seen him do. Such an unholy screech issued forth that I was immediately embarrassed by my fancy and would have returned the violin to its resting place, but the window shattered with an explosion of broken glass, tearing the shade to ribbons. I covered my head with my arms to protect myself from the shards.
I heard a howl of fury from outside the window, and I saw a strange green light from an upstairs window of Camden House, the empty property across the street. I instinctively pulled back from the broken window, and I heard the hurried footfalls of Mrs. Hudson running up the stairs.
“Doctor Watson! Are you hurt?”
“No,” I said, brushing a thin line of blood from the back of my hand from a shallow laceration. “Just a few scratches from the glass.”
I looked at the bookshelf across from the window and gasped when I saw something embedded in the wood. Upon closer look, I saw that it was a strange-looking bullet.
“I'll ring for the police,” said Mrs. Hudson.
As she left the room, there came a great banging on the downstairs door.
“What on earth?” muttered the admirable lady, and she uttered a cry of alarm when she opened the door.
“Watson!” shouted a familiar voice. “I shall require your assistance forthwith!”
I ran to the landing and was astonished to see Sherlock Holmes dragging an unconscious body, ineffectually aided by Mrs. Hudson. A third person, the tall, crane-like stranger who had taken my friend away all those months ago, carried what I supposed was the gun that had shattered our window - a rifle of some sort, as black as night and far more terrifying. I have never seen its equal for malevolent appearance.
After sending Mrs. Hudson for tea, I helped Holmes carry the body up the stairs, and I laid it on the sofa while Holmes stood apart with my service revolver in his hand.
“Examine him,” said Holmes. “But take every precaution for your safety.”
Even unconscious he looked like a coarse fellow, despite the elegance of his evening dress. His dark, tangled hair hung over the upper half of his face, and a full beard obscured his lower features. “His pulse is strong and his breathing is regular,” I said after a moment's examination. “Apart from the bump on his head, he's in perfect health. His heart - oh, I say!” I abruptly ceased speaking in utter shock at what I felt on the man's chest. I withdrew my hand as if it had touched fire.
“What is it?”
I gingerly pressed my fingers against my patient's abdomen, and my suspicions were confirmed. I untucked the shirt front and unfastened the shirt's lower buttons. I withdrew a sand-filled pad that had caused the body to appear and feel more massive than it truly was. I then reached up to the beard, which upon closer examination was revealed to be one of the finest false beards I have seen, with each hair tied painstakingly to a bit of translucent netting. Hoping my patient would remain unconscious, I gripped the edge of the beard nearest the hairline and pulled it free from my patient's face.
“This is no man,” I said.
There was a stunned silence, in which a look of utter surprise appeared on my friend's face. His time-travelling associate was similarly moved.
“Blimey,” he said, letting the rather wicked-looking firearm he carried fall to the floor. “Wasn't expecting that.”
I brushed the hair back from the woman's face. “She's so young,” I said, taken aback by the delicacy of the features that I had uncovered.
“Her age is irrelevant. Attempted murder is the least of her crimes,” said Holmes coldly. “Bind her hands before she wakes.”
I obeyed my friend, despite my own misgivings. Surely there must be some mistake. Perhaps the poor girl had been forced to disguise herself as the criminal in order to be caught. I had scarcely finished my knots when her eyes fluttered open, revealing them to be a rich brown. Her eyes focused almost immediately, and I began to feel uneasy. There was a quick, analytical intelligence in those eyes, and I saw in her glances that she knew her disguise was gone, she was surrounded, and that there was no use in struggling.
“I suppose I ought to thank you,” she said to Holmes. Her voice was low and rich, with the melodic suggestion of an Irish accent. “I do despise mistakes.”
“You would have shot a man in cold blood,” said my friend.
“Naturally. As would any of you, under the proper circumstances,” she said, not bothering to conceal her contempt. “As our dear departed Joker would have said, 'Boring.' But the real point is that I would have shot the wrong man, and for preventing that eventuality, I thank you.” She gave a slight incline of her head, as though she were a great lady acknowledging someone beneath her standing. “Now, I know all of your faces, save one.” Her eyes settled on the tall, slender stranger. “What are you?”
The man smiled. “I'm the Doctor.”
She laughed, wincing when she remembered her head wound. “Dear me,” she said to Holmes, “You do collect doctors, don't you?”
“Since we're doing introductions, mind telling us who you are?” asked the Doctor.
“No one of consequence,” she said. “You can call me Viola, I suppose.”
I could see Holmes's eyes lose focus as he searched his memory for the information he sought. “Moran,” he said at last.
She smiled. “Very good, Mr. Holmes.”
“Watson, if you would be so good as to look up the name in my index?”
I pulled out the “M” volume, which was quite prodigious, and flipped past Mathews, Merridew, and finally, Moran. There was only one name. “Colonel Sebastian Moran,” I read. At Holmes's nod, I read aloud his list of accomplishments, which were many, and that he had disappeared from his tent on a wild game hunt in India, presumed dead. “He had a very distinguished military career,” I commented. “How sad to see such a life end in its prime.”
“Be so good as to read my notes on the following page,” said Holmes.
I turned the page and read. “Probable link between Moran's disappearance and a rise in assassinations under curious circumstances, the most notable being the death of the Honourable Ronald Adair of 427 Park Lane. Unique weapon.”
“He was cheating at cards,” said Miss Moran. “He always said he'd prefer death to dishonour.”
My disapproval must have shown on my face, because she smiled at me. “I was only doing what I was hired to do. It's no easy thing for a woman to make her own way here.”
Holmes's eyes were fixed on her. “You knew of Sebastian Moran, did you not?”
“Not really.”
“You took the name of one of the finest shots in London, no this didn't happen by chance. I warn you, attempting to deceive me will only make me cross.”
“What makes you think I'm not simply trying to make you cross?”
I hastily turned a chuckle into a cough when Holmes scowled at me.
“What I don't understand is why you're trying to kill Holmes at all,” I said.
“Of course you don't understand,” said Holmes. “She's not of this time. She's a contemporary of mine and a colleague of the late unlamented Moriarty. It was she who organized the syndicate and profited from Moriarty's ostentation. ss. It was she who pursued me the day I was attacked, and she who pursues me still out of revenge.”
“Revenge for what?” I asked.
“For killing the head of her organisation, for this Miss Viola Moran is no less than number two to the late James Moriarty!”
Clearly Holmes expected more of a reaction to this revelation than he received. Miss Moran looked bored, though I could tell she was watching my reaction closely.
I met her eyes. “There really is no need to kill my friend,” I said.
“That's a dense statement, even for you Watson. Of course she must destroy me in order to build her criminal enterprise without interference,” said Holmes.
“I thought you had returned to your own time.”
“He did,” said the Doctor, “but your death in this time threw a large and complicated instrument into the works.”
I stared at my friend. “You travelled back through time to save me?”
“You, your descendants, the thousands of innocent people who will die in international gang wars if this woman is allowed to run loose,” said Holmes, looking coldly at Miss Moran.
She looked distinctly unimpressed. “Very well. You've captured me. It was very well done. If only we all knew what the future would bring instead of having to rely of planning and deduction. Now, what are you going to do with me?”
The Doctor looked at her thoughtfully. “That's a bit of a poser. We could give her to Scotland Yard. Her weapon alone would secure a murder conviction. We could give her to MI6 in your time. She might be convinced to provide information on her terrorist clients. We might even summon the Teselecta to render judgement and punishment. We're old friends. I've got them on speed-dial.”
“You could let me go,” she suggested.
“Not bloody likely,” snapped Holmes.
I winced at my friend's use of profanity in front of a lady, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Your doctor friend is right. Had I known you'd left this time for good, I wouldn't have made an attempt on your life. I've no reason to wish your friend dead.”
“We've all seen your real face,” said Holmes. “I hope you'll pardon my scepticism of your motives.”
Miss Moran laughed merrily. “What possible difference could that make? You and the Skinny Doctor will be leaving this time, and the Moustache Doctor has no reason to interfere with me. Unless, of course, I invite him to.”
I self-consciously smoothed my moustache and cleared my throat.
“There is the matter of the Honourable Ronald Adair,” said the Doctor.
“I can provide whatever information the police require in order to see that the man responsible for his killing is brought to justice,” said Miss Moran.
“And you?” asked Holmes contemptuously.
“I was simply the murder weapon,” she demurred. “But despite the growth market in contract killing, I'd rather find a more appropriate use for my talents.”
“What talents are those?” I asked, ignoring the derisive noises my companion was making.
“Observation,” she said. “Disguise. Developing useful contacts. Hiding in plain sight.”
“Masterminding criminal enterprises,” said Holmes.
“I had no other choice. I didn't have the money to stand for Parliament and I look really dreadful in a business suit,” said Miss Moran.
This time, even my friend's lips twitched. Miss Moran may have lacked moral fibre, but she had charm in abundance. Her eyes sparkled attractively, and I confess I found her quite agreeable, despite my grave misgivings over her choice of profession.
“If we carry on listening to this woman, we'll have no scruples left,” said the Doctor, smiling.
“Am I the only one here who objects to murder and attempted murder?” asked Holmes in a voice that in any other man might have been characterized as petulant.
“Not at all, Holmes,” said the Doctor. “But I would like to point out that one of my best friends is a former assassin.”
“Is that so?” said Holmes tightly.
“Oh yes, and serving time in at least one timeline for having murdered me, though in another we're married. Funny thing, time. It can make the best and worst of us.”
At this juncture, Mrs. Hudson arrived with tea and poured it neatly into her best china. Miss Moran leaned forward, wafted the smell towards herself, and sighed appreciatively.
“I suppose it would be too much to ask for a cup,” she said regretfully.
“It would,” said Holmes tightly, handing the Doctor a cup and saucer with more vehemence than necessary.
“I say, Holmes -”
“No,” he said in a quelling voice. “I have only just saved you and countless others from a violent death. I will not take tea with your would-be murderer.”
I caught the Doctor's eye, and he shook his head, warning me not to press the issue, so I sat in the wing chair opposite Holmes's and waited for him to bring me my tea.
Holmes threw back his cup of tea savagely, gulping it down heedless of the temperature, glaring at Miss Moran all the while. The Doctor and I sipped ours as quickly as manners allowed.
“I have decided,” announced Holmes, “precisely what should be done with Miss Moran. She is to be left in the streets without her weapon or her beard. I shall put my Irregulars on the case of whispering to all and sundry that Colonel Sebastian Moran failed to deliver on a contract and cite this accident as proof. She is to be left with nothing, with worse than nothing: with nothing. With bugger all.”
I narrowed my eyes at Holmes. Either what he said made no sense, or it made no sense and was breathtakingly rude.
“Holmes -”
“No, Watson,” he said, belatedly holding up a hand to forestall my comments, “I have quite made up my mind. And what's more, I have made up my mind. I will not be moved.”
I assumed it was belated shock from my near-death experience that made the room swim, but then I realised that Holmes was swaying alarmingly. I nearly commented on this, but my own eyelids began to feel very heavy. I closed them for only a moment.
* * * * *
* * * * *
When I opened my eyes, I found myself face to face with a frantic Mrs. Hudson. “Doctor Watson, thank goodness!” she exclaimed. “What has happened?”
My mind was in a fog, but I found myself saying my friend's name.
“Mister Holmes is in a bad way,” she said, pointing to where my friend lay on the floor, his elbows akimbo and sticking up at odd angles. I could see a pool of saliva forming on the carpet next to his mouth. “And his friend...” her voice trailed off, and in my hazy vision, I saw the Doctor lying on the floor, arms and legs spread as far as they could reach. I was alarmed to see that blue pustules had appeared on his face, which served to wake me far better than a dram of brandy would have.
I examined Holmes and the Doctor, and found, to my great relief, that both were fast asleep. They were breathing regularly, if not deeply, and Mrs. Hudson helped me drag Holmes to the sofa and the Doctor to the chair by the fire where they would be more comfortable.
I shook my head to clear it from the lingering effects of the mysterious sedative. “Where is Miss Moran?”
Mrs. Hudson frowned. “Who?”
“Miss Moran, the woman, dash it all, the person we brought up with us. Where is she?”
Mrs. Hudson looked around the flat, as did I, though at a slower pace. “She didn't leave by the front door,” she said at last. “I'd have heard her.”
I glanced at the shattered window and looked out. On the pavement below, there lay the pad that Miss Moran had used to disguise her figure, but it had been smashed, and the contents strewn over the pavement. I admired her nerve and her cunning - not just anyone would have thought to use sand to break a long fall.
A look at the tea tray also revealed the means for her escape. There were tiny grains of powder, presumably a powerful soporific, strewn over the tray, and presumably into our cups when she pretended to waft the scent towards her.
I glanced around, noting that her strange weapon was still on the floor where the Doctor had dropped it, but she had taken the false beard. There were also three pieces of Holmes's stationery on the table nearest the window.
Virgin-
Go home. You'll never find me, and I'll never surrender to you. It doesn't matter if you believe me, because you've no choice in the matter. If your timeline isn't all you wish it to be, you have nobody to blame but yourself.
Sincerely yours,
Deuce
Mortified from the address and the letter's intended recipient, I placed the first paper exactly as it had been and picked up the second.
Skinny Doctor-
You'll be all right. Don't let the Virgin take it too hard. At least not until he’s got back to the Bachelor.
Yours respectfully,
Col. S. Moran
I hardly dared breathe as I examined the third paper.
Doctor Watson-
I shall be dining at St. James at six o'clock on Saturday. Sarah Bernhardt is performing Gismonda at eight, and I have two tickets. Don't be boring and summon the police.
Viola
PS The man responsible for the murder of Ronald Adair is Sir John Hardy. Motive: Adair cheated at cards and Hardy was unable to determine how. Evidence, including letter from Sir John engaging the services of an unnamed assassin, will be delivered tomorrow to 221B by noon.
For the first time since Mary’s passing, I felt like my old self again. I briefly wondered if I ought to bring Miss Moran flowers, but it would look distinctly awkward if she arrived at dinner as Sebastian Moran. The image of her with a pink rose in her beard was too much for me, and I threw back my head and laughed.
As Holmes and the Doctor slumbered on, I wondered what sort of detective someone who had bested Sherlock Holmes would make.
The front door in Leadworth opened with hardly a pause. “It's about time!” exclaimed Amy. “Rory's been back for ages, and I've had to resist the smell of chocolate this whole time, which I believe makes me a saint. Good Lord, what happened to you?”
The Doctor sheepishly rubbed his face where the blue spots had not entirely faded. “A slight allergy,” he said. “Nothing for it, I'm afraid.”
River appeared at Amy's elbow and held forth a plastic bottle. “Tablets,” she said, giving the Doctor a crooked smile.
He swallowed two and sighed in relief. “Thank you.”
Rory stuck his head out of the kitchen. “Time for cake!”
River dimmed the lights, and Rory walked toward the table with two cakes: one chocolate and the other with vanilla buttercream and elaborate sugar fancies. Both had a dozen candles. Amy frowned at the spread, but managed to blow them all out with one breath.
There was laughing and clapping, and Rory handed her a large package from the sideboard.
“That's from both of us,” said River, sliding her arm around the Doctor's waist.
The Doctor raised his eyebrows, but her barely suppressed smile kept his inquiries in check.
Amy ripped open the paper and broke into a broad grin. “The Return of Sherlock Holmes!. Brilliant! The adventures after The Final Problem are my favourites!”
“It looks really old,” said Rory.
“First edition,” said River.
The Doctor peered over Amy's shoulder, mesmerised by the table of contents. “You know what this means, River?”
“I owe you ten quid?”
“No. And by 'no' I mean 'yes,'” said the Doctor, holding out his hand.
River ignored him and began to read over Amy's shoulder. “You'll have to wait,” said River. “I have a dozen new Holmes cases to read.”'
From the estate of Capt.John H. Watson, MD, property of Baring Gould Klinger, LLP, to be delivered to 221B Baker Street, London on May 22nd, 2014
My Dear Holmes,
I write to thank you from the bottom of my heart for leaving things as they were when we last spoke, and I hope this letter finds you well.
I have several confessions to make. Firstly, I hope it will not annoy you greatly that I continued to scribble adventures with you as protagonist for a number of years now. I am fortunate to have been able to continue my close study of a brilliant mind, which leads me to my second confession. Viola Moran and I were married at Gretna Green, which would have caused a great scandal in London, had it been generally known. Fortunately, my beautiful, clever bride is as well-versed in the art of misdirection as she is with sleight of hand, which led to others drawing the most mundane conclusions about us. We have scarce left one another's sides since, together thwarting a notorious blackmailer, a conspiracy to poison Parliament with cyanide gas, and solved many other mysteries besides. You will be pleased to hear that I have had no complaints about your characterisation from editors or readers.
It is strange to think that when you read this, I will have lived out the rest of my life and, if I am very lucky, will have died peacefully in my sleep. You might think that eventuality unlikely, given my choice of wife, but at the time of writing this letter, we have sent our youngest son off to study medicine at Queen's College, London, and have taken a small home in Sussex where Viola keeps bees. As a drone fortunate enough to have caught the interest of the queen, I doubt I shall ever understand their ways, but I'm ever grateful for the sweetness they bring. I pray that you may be as happy as we are, dear friend, and I hope that you will find some diversion in the enclosed volumes of “your” adventures.
I remain yours faithfully,
John H. Watson, MD
John’s powerful right jab isn’t a surprise, though the strength of his left hook is. Fortunately, all the other blows diminish in intensity until Sherlock can wrap his arms around him and the sobs subside.
“I hate you,” says John.
“You've every right to.”
“Just so we're clear on that.”
“Crystal.”
“Right,” he says awkwardly. “So.”
“So.”
“Have you got a flat-mate?”
“Did. Moved out last week.”
“Good. It never would have worked. She was too tall for you.”
“How--? Never mind. Wait, what do you mean, ‘too tall?” Oh my God, you’re still a complete dick.”
“You never changed the lock.”
“It’s expensive to change locks. It would have come out of my rent.”
“You never changed the lock because you knew I’d be back.”
“Maybe at first.”
“But then?”
“Well, you never came back, did you? And nothing bad had happened in a year, so changing the locks then would have looked stupid.”
“I’m here now.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s over.”
John sat on the sofa and looked at the floor for a moment before meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “You look awful,” he said. “And what did you do to your hair? Is that pomade?”
“You look exactly the same.”
There was a moment of silence, and John sighed. “I’m getting take-away.” He started toward the door and glanced back. ‘Want to come?”
The knuckles of John’s right hand are raw, but that doesn’t stop Sherlock from rubbing his thumb over them.
The sky is grey, but it's a healthy grey and filled with electric lines and helicopters.
He’s home.
The End
<<<<<>>>>>
A/N: Fun trivia: the funeral scene in The Riechenbach Fall was filmed in St Woolos Cemetery in Newport, Wales, as was part of the Doctor Who episode Blink, which introduced us all to the Weeping Angels. I'm indebted to the Baring-Gould and Klinger Annotated and New Annotated Sherlock Holmes editions, from whose pages I have stolen innumerable facts and Sherlockian in-jokes, and warped quite a few of them. Much love and enormous thanks to [redacted] for bashing this story in to military form. My sincere thanks to
queenfanfiction, whose WhoLock request send my mind reeling in the best way, and lavvyan for running this fest and kindly granting me an extension when the story ran away with me.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-07-17 06:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-02 07:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-17 06:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-02 09:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-17 07:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-02 09:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-17 07:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-03 04:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-17 07:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-03 10:23 am (UTC)(And of course Sherlock would be thrilled by the prospect of being back in an era where all his knowledge would be mistaken for genius discoveries... :-P)
no subject
Date: 2012-07-17 07:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-03 11:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-17 07:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-05 03:20 am (UTC)Did I mention this was awesome? What a fantastic blend of the three universes, all knotted and twisted together. GAH. Loved it! SQUEEE!
no subject
Date: 2012-07-17 07:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-07 04:22 am (UTC)The wibbly! The wobbly! The timey-wimey! I will be honest here: I totally expected you to deal with ACD!Sherlock as if he were a real, separate character, but this twist where BBC!Sherlock *is* ACD!Sherlock (and replaced by a kickass crossdressing!female!Moriarty-second once Sherlock goes back to BBC!John) just totally blew my mind. I WANT THIS TO BE ACTUAL CANON DAMMIT. *fistshake at Moffat*
And your snark, OH YOUR SNARK. “I had no other choice. I didn't have the money to stand for Parliament and I look really dreadful in a business suit,” said Miss Moran. I DIED. THIS IS TOTALLY A GOOD THING. *regenerates* And River, oh River, oh Amy the ACD!fangirl, oh Doctor, OH EVERYONE. <3333
Basically, thank you thank you THANK YOU for such an awesome gift. You've made my
lifeday! And as soon as anons are revealed I SHALL FANSTALK YOU WITH ALL THE POWER OF MY FANNISH ADORATION. \o/no subject
Date: 2012-07-17 07:33 pm (UTC)Oh my gosh, me too! I was sort of cackling at the idea of having a female Moran in BBCverse, but then when I realized that she had to follow Sherlock to the Victorian era AND ALSO BE _THAT_ MORAN, I started jumping up and down with excitement (I startled my dogs).
Part of me wishes I had more time to flesh out the scenes at Amy's house, especially in the dystopian ACD-Watson-is-dead timeline, so I'm especially excited taht they worked for you (and I now I also want to write the Mycrof-River scenes...). It was kind of a fun challenge to write Amy (I've never done it before) because she speaks ungrammatically, but writing her that way would make her look like an oik, which she isn't. Yay for contractions!
I'm so happy you enjoyed this- I had a couple of possible projects outlined when this one exploded with all the force of twenty years of ACD-fangirliness. Finding out the graveyard from Reichenbach and Blink were the same was just the icing on the cake. Do you think Moffatt and Gatiss do this sort of thing in their heads? They must, don't you think?
Thank you so much for your wonderful, wonderful comments! I'm thrilled, relieved, and delighted that you enjoyed this! Thank you so much for being such an amazing and generous recipient!
*smooches*
no subject
Date: 2012-07-09 11:20 pm (UTC)Wow.
You're so very, very clever, and witty, and I don't even know Dr. Who anything, really, but I was cackling with delight, and just GUH!!! Perfect, perfect. I loved all the worlds-colliding. Lovely. Bless you.
no subject
Date: 2012-07-17 07:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-11 08:48 pm (UTC)It's the same cemetery in Reichenbach and Blink? Makes perfect sense.
no subject
Date: 2012-07-17 07:45 pm (UTC)