Fic for love_bug_54: The End of a Journey

[methylviolet10b]

Title: The End of a Journey
Recipient: love_bug_54
Author: mainecoon76
Rating and warnings: PG for violence. Minor character death.
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson, established relationship; also two canon characters whose identity I will not reveal just yet.
Summary: An old enemy applies for Holmes’ help and possesses the means to ensure the unwilling detective’s cooperation. While Holmes follows the trail back to a murder that was never avenged, Watson finds himself doubting his own concepts of justice and retribution.
Word count: around 9700.
Thanks to mrs_sweetpeach for being the most wonderful beta an author could wish for, and thesmallhobbit for thorough and patient britpicking. Hugs to you both!

Private Diary of Dr. John H. Watson, October 1903

When I reflect upon the multitude of criminal conundrums I have experienced during my long association with Sherlock Holmes, I find that the majority have not left much of an impact upon either of us. I have kept careful notes on each case, and both Holmes and I are always inclined to direct all available energy and resources toward the problem at hand; yet, when it is finished, when the criminal is apprehended and justice is restored, then more often than not the matter is laid to rest altogether and only remembered as a colorful tale for the sensation-hungry public.

Very rarely, though, what appeared to be the end of the case was not the end at all. Such a thing happened with one of the more spectacular proceedings of our past, though for obvious reason I cannot bring this eventual conclusion before the public. Maybe it is better that I shall not, for in spite of myself I cannot prefer the new ending to the old one. One can argue that justice was restored in the end, but somehow I find myself unable to relish in the fact.

The events were set in motion by a very early morning call in late September, when the air outside our window was still crisp and the pale autumn sun had not yet vanquished the greyness of early dawn. Holmes, as is his habit, positively snapped into alertness with the first knock at the bedroom door, and reminded me of the spectacularly dangerous position we found ourselves in; for I must confess that, seeing that clients generally adhere to the rules of courtesy and refrain from calling in the middle of the night, we have become a tad careless in regard to our sleeping arrangements. As it was, our dear landlady informed my companion that the gentleman currently waiting in our sitting room was under no circumstances willing to return at a more civilized time, and insistent that the matter in which he wished to consult Holmes was of the utmost urgency. Eventually Holmes dressed hastily, cluttering about and causing the maximum amount of noise, while I crept up the stairs to my own quarters as silently as I could. I felt almost out of breath as I reached my room, and I hoped desperately that my passage had gone unnoticed. That, as I was forced to admit to myself, had been a dangerously narrow escape.

I felt reasonably composed for a gentleman who had just been awoken in such an abrupt manner when I entered the sitting room a few minutes later. The first thing I saw was my friend, leaning against the mantle with a cigarette in his hand and a stony expression on his face. I knew that look on him, and I felt my hackles rising. Then I turned around to look at the visitor, and my hand moved automatically to draw my revolver which was not there.

In the comfortable armchair beside the fireplace sat an elderly gentleman with a grizzled beard and icy blue eyes. He had aged since I had last seen him - not surprisingly, for a term in prison does not enhance one’s beauty; his skin was sallow and his hair untrimmed, he was very thin, and he wore plain clothes unbefitting his former status, but it was still unmistakably Colonel Sebastian Moran, late of the Indian Army and formerly second most dangerous man in London.

“Good morning, Doctor Watson,” he greeted me with a mocking impression of politeness. “As you can see, I am unarmed, so there is no reason at all to restrict your hospitality in such a manner.”

“That remains to be seen,” Holmes stated coldly, “as you have obviously escaped from custody this very night, which has resulted in at least one death amongst the prison personnel, and your presence here is unlikely to be based on sentimental feelings.”

“Not precisely,” the colonel acknowledged with a sneer. “You are, of course, aware that I have some reason to feel resentful towards you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Naturally. You are one of many.”

“You might want to give me a little more credit than that, Mr. Holmes. But I am inclined to put that aside for the moment. The fact is, gentlemen, that I require your help.”

Holmes crossed his arms, his eyebrow rising a fraction. It was the only indication of the same surprise that must have clearly shown on my own face.

“I am listening.”

“An attempt has been made on my life.” A dangerous glint appeared in the old man’s eyes. “Of course, the guard who carried it out was foolish enough to try and strangle me in my sleep, which has never been a wise idea. But I happen to know that the wretch did not act on his own accord, which made it advisable for me to try and break for freedom, as my life would be in substantial danger should I remain inside a prison cell. Besides, as yet I have no means to prove that I acted in self-defense, and I would be hanged for killing a prison guard.”

“You have been in unarmed combat, that much is obvious, and there are bruises on your throat,” Holmes observed matter-of-factly. “The fact that you are here and Scotland Yard is not yet alarmed enough to send for me makes it unlikely your combatant survived the battle. But how am I to be certain that you are telling me the truth in regard to his intent? And, even supposing I did believe you, why on earth do you surmise that my first action would not be to put you back into custody?”

“Ah, Mr. Holmes, you shall not do it, and I will come to that in due course… But I swear by my honour as a soldier that my story is true. Here,” and the colonel handed a crumpled piece of paper to my friend, who regarded it with a furrowed brow, “this note was delivered to me two days ago, on Monday evening.”

Holmes remained in silent concentration for a moment, then handed me the missive. It consisted of only two words written in an elegant hand:

~ For Jack ~

“Does the name mean anything to you?”

“Not to me, Mr. Holmes. Jack is a common enough name. But the meaning of it seems quite obvious in the light of later events.”

“Indeed,” my friend conceded with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “And now you wish us to find the sender of this note, so you can eliminate the threat.”

“In one way or the other.” Moran’s voice sounded grim. “I have quite an impressive collection of enemies, Sir, not unlike you yourself. A man has the right to protect his own life, has he not?”

“Doubtlessly.”

“If it eases your conscience, Mr. Holmes, I do not intend to remain in England for much longer. It has become far too dangerous for me. A quiet retirement in India is all I am aspiring these days. No more criminal ventures, no hunting for revenge. I am tired, gentlemen, and I wish to spend the rest of my days in peace.”

I could scarcely believe my ears. This, from the most renowned tiger-hunter the British Colonies have ever seen? From the man who was effectively the leader of the most powerful criminal syndicate known to England for three years, and lived to tell the tale? Yet the man before us was aged and weary, and although there was still a fiery glint in his eye and he was most certainly exceedingly dangerous and not to be trusted, I felt that there may be a grain of truth in his confessions.

“I see,” Holmes stated calmly. “If you would now return to the reason why I am unlikely to hand you over to Scotland Yard.”

“Ah, yes. That.” A thoroughly unpleasant smile was spreading on the colonel’s face. “I am not sure you wish to discuss the issue in Dr. Watson’s presence, Sir.”

I may have imagined it, but I thought I saw even more colour draining from Holmes’ usually pallid face. He waved his hand impatiently. “Proceed.”

“As you wish. Many years ago, when the late Professor Moriarty still dwelt among us, he once told me of a powerful weapon he held against you without your knowledge. He said he could ruin you within a week. And he passed the knowledge on to me, just in case.”

Holmes was silent. His face was an impassive mask, but I could tell that he knew what was coming.

“He said he possessed information about a former romantic… entanglement between your own person and someone with whom you should not have been entangled.” Moran leaned back in his chair, disgust obvious in his features. “A young man by the name of Victor Trevor.”

I did my best to produce an expression of disbelieve and outrage on my face. “How dare you…” I hissed, dangerously approaching the old soldier’s chair.

“You find this repelling, Dr. Watson?” he asked with a contemptuous look in my direction. “And well you should, for it incriminates you by association. Or maybe not just by association, come to think of it, what with the faint noises on the stairs when I called unexpectedly…”

I must have lost some colour, and the colonel smiled again. “I have a very good hearing, Doctor. As a fellow soldier, I am sure you understand.”

“This is an outrageous…” I begun, but Holmes cut me off with a wave of his hand.

“And the evidence?” he demanded coldly.

“The evidence resides in Northern India and owns a tea plantation.” The hideous smile widened. “Oh, I do not suggest that he will speak voluntarily, but he is just a tea farmer. I have a few useful contacts in the area, you see. People who are quite experienced with that sort of work.”

There was a long silence. Holmes’ face was now indeed white, and I could detect an unnatural tension in his features. His movements, however, were perfectly calm as he flicked his cigarette into the grate.

“If I do what you ask of me,” he said slowly, and his voice was remarkably even, “you will lay the matter to rest?”

“I will.”

“Do I have your word as a soldier,” and his wording struck me as strange, but he was probably right that even for what had become of Sebastian Moran, a soldier’s oath still held some value, “that you will not trouble him, or me, or Dr. Watson ever again?”

“My word.”

“Then let me give you my word as well.” Holmes’ piercing grey eyes met the Colonel’s blue ones. “I will do whatever I can to remove the threat to your life, and not give you away. In return I demand that you leave England as soon as the matter is settled, never to return. Should I hear of any crimes to be traced back to your person, or should you cause any harm to Mr. Trevor or Dr. Watson, you will have me on your trail for the rest of your life. Have I made myself clear?”

“Perfectly clear, Mr. Holmes.” The colonel rose from his seat. “The terms are acceptable. You will hear from me in due course.”

None of us offered a farewell as the man exited our sitting room. Holmes remained motionless until we heard the front door slamming behind him. Then my friend threw the note to the ground with a vicious curse the like of which I had never heard from him before, and disappeared into his room without a further word, locking the door behind him.

The following days found my friend in an appalling mood which made it almost intolerable to spend any time in his presence. I am quite used to the fact that he gets deeply absorbed by his cases and is not to be distracted by idle chat and frivolous ventures; yet usually this sharp, single minded concentration, the opportunity to let his powers rise to new heights is something that I cherish, for it does him a world of good and is my most useful associate in the struggle against his black moods and the infernal syringe. This time, however, the almost manic attention he bestowed on the case was accompanied by the darkest mood I have seen ever since I announced my engagement many years ago. He avoided my presence as much as humanly possible, ostentatiously locked his bedroom behind himself when he retired, spoke to me only in rash, dismissive tones, and generally exhibited a shocking amount of cruelty and unfriendliness that worried me immensely. Poor Inspector Hopkins, who paid us a visit to apply for Holmes’ help in the matter of Moran’s capture, positively fled our quarters after less than fifteen minutes. It was unsettling to watch, for only a few days prior Holmes had been as placid and close to content as I had ever known him.

When, on the second day after the colonel’s visit, I returned home from my club to find the accursed Moroccan case open on top of my writing desk, of all places, my patience had reached his limits.

“Holmes,” I announced as I entered his bedroom – uninvited, I must confess to my shame, but there was no way I would have gathered permission if he did not wish to speak to me – “Holmes, will you kindly let me know what is biting you? God knows I am a patient man, and you have given me ample opportunity to prove it lately, but I will not tolerate this,” and I held up the case, “without a decent explanation.”

My friend was sprawled on his bed, surrounded by various stacks of books, newspaper cuttings and telegrams, and regarded me with a scathing look.

“I am working, Watson,” he informed me icily, “and, as far as I can tell, this,” and he indicated the small box that contained his drugs, “is none of your business. Close the door behind you as you go out, there’s a good fellow.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind,” I returned angrily, letting my temper get the better of me. “I am still your physician, Holmes, to say nothing of your intimate friend. I refuse to be treated like an errand boy, and I will most certainly not overlook your recent attempts to destroy your own magnificent mind. I had thought we had put that behind us for good.”

My friend closed his eyes briefly, and I prepared myself for a hurtful response, but instead he merely shook his head. Suddenly he looked very tired, and for the first time in days I noticed dark circles under his eyes which spoke of deep exhaustion.

“I do not require your help for this, Watson,” he said. “The case itself is child’s play. There are just a few loose ends to be tied up.”

I am afraid that when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, my resolve leaves something to be desired. My heart went out to him as I saw him under such strain, and my anger faded as quickly as it had risen. I sat on the bed beside him and, after a moment of uncertainty, placed a hand upon his thin arm.

“You have formed an idea?”

“I have identified the lady in question.”

“It is a lady, then? Based on the fact that the note was written in a female hand, no doubt?”

“Obviously. Then there was the very interesting fact that, as you have surely heard, the dead prison guard was not a prison guard at all, but the right-hand man of the prison director in disguise.”

To say that I had heard the fact was a gross understatement. The issue had been widely speculated upon in the news, but my attempt to discuss it with my friend had unceremoniously been brushed off.

“My inquiry into Mr. Livingston’s personal affairs revealed that he was a middle-aged bachelor of moderate means, who had been living on his own except for an old housekeeper. The kind lady confided to me that he had recently been showing an amorous intent towards a wealthy widow by the name of Catherine McMurdo. I took the liberty of investigating the unfortunate fellow’s room and found a letter of the lady in question, which confirmed my suspicion that she was indeed the author of Colonel Moran’s mysterious note. Yet it did not seem possible to establish her address, which led me to the assumption that the name she gave was not her own, for the wealthy in London know their kin. Adding to that the content of the note, her true identity practically suggested itself, and I was able to confirm my suspicions by a look into my case notes. I have already contacted her.”

I am well acquainted with his lectures, and generally take a pleasure in hearing him lay out his findings before me. Yet this time he presented them in a monotone voice that completely lacked any trace of his usual enthusiasm, and my heart sank when I realized that not even his investigations were able to lighten his mood.

“That is amazing, Holmes,” I ventured nevertheless. “Who is she?”

“Ah, Watson, do you even pay attention to your own writings?” he chided, but his voice lacked its usual severity. I offered him an encouraging smile which he did not return.

“I attempt to, but I’m afraid that I do not possess a fraction of your brilliance.”

He gave a short, humorless chuckle before swinging his long legs over the edge of the bed and shedding his dressing gown. I watched him wordlessly as he prepared to go out, wondering whether I should offer my company, but I was aware that he would most likely refuse it.

“I know you well enough to be able to tell that it is not the case which is troubling you,” I offered instead.

He proceeded to straighten his gloves without gracing me with a reply.

“Holmes, I have a fair idea what this is about. Pray, discuss it with me, so we can work out an amicable solution.”

“There is nothing to discuss, Watson.” He reached for his hat and stick, and when he looked at me it seemed with more sadness than I had ever seen him show. “There is nothing but discomfort in it for us both. Do not wait up for me, dear boy.”

I remained sitting on his bed while I heard his light steps on the stairs, and suddenly I experienced a shiver of fear at the thought that the ghosts of the past may already have broken something precious beyond repair.

It was in a sombre mood that I sat down to spend the evening at my desk writing up the Adventure of the Dancing Men. Still I became quite immersed in my work and so did not notice the lateness of the hour until I heard the clock on our mantelpiece strike eleven times and realized that I was in dire need of sleep. Holmes would not be coming home tonight, I mused as I gazed out of the window into the thick autumn fog that was even visible through the near darkness, and I hoped that he was safe, most likely in one of his hideouts throughout the city that he used during his investigations, and hardly ever in my company. It made me uneasy to wonder whether he had gone there for the sake of his investigation or to avoid my presence; but there was nothing for it but to wait for the new developments the morning would bring.

Holmes did not turn up for breakfast, nor during the long hours before noon which I spent reading my medical journals and waiting, in spite of myself, for his return. Around two o’clock in the afternoon I decided to flee our quarters and embarked on a lengthy walk, after which I found shelter and a warm meal, as well as moderately pleasant company and a game of billiards at my club. Darkness had already begun to fall when I bade my farewells and stepped into the drizzling autumn rain, only to be caught on my sleeve by a small hand before I could set out for a cab.

“Dr. Watson, Sir?”

Before me stood a boy of about twelve or thirteen, clothed in rags but with a keen pale face. I did not remember him, but concluded that he must be one of the street urchins Holmes occasionally employs as his additional eyes and ears in places where a gentleman cannot walk without attracting attention.

“The name’s Andrew, Sir. I was looking for you at home but the landlady said you had gone out, and she said you’d likely be here. They wouldn’t let me in, Sir, so I was waiting for you all the while.”

“What is it?” I asked in alarm, for it suddenly occurred to me that my friend might have met some trouble. “Do you have a message from Holmes?”

“No, Sir, it’s me mum. She’s having a baby, Doctor, and she’s having a hard time, and me dad thinks she needs a doctor, but he can’t afford one. Then I thought of you, Sir…”

The boy’s eyes were wide and pleading, and my first impulse was to agree to come at once, but I could practically hear the warning voice of my friend in my ear and realized that this may well be a trap. I did not know the boy, and Holmes and I have some reason to exercise caution with a certain portion of the London population.

“I shall come with you,” I decided eventually, “But we need to stop at Baker Street, for I must fetch my medical supplies.”

“No problem, Sir,” he chimed, and climbed into the cab I had called without paying attention to the disapproving look of the driver. I would have to be quite generous with my tip, I realized, especially since I was obliged to leave him there while I fetched not only my medical bag but also my revolver from our lodgings. Holmes, I found to my disappointment, was still absent, so my original plan to consult with him over the matter was not viable; still, I am and will always be bound by my Hippocratic oath, and danger has become a part of my trade many years ago.

The journey led us far into the less respectable territory of Whitechapel, where the houses are grimy and the streets dimly lit. We passed through a few backyards and a very narrow alley after I had dismissed the cab, and eventually reached a rough wooden door behind which I could hear the unmistakable sounds of a public house of questionable repute. Andrew slipped inside without further ado, and when I followed him I was engulfed by the stench of gin and the roaring of rough voices in the half-lit room. I was not caught unaware but nevertheless it took me a couple of seconds to adjust to it, and when I looked around, the boy was nowhere to be seen.

Instead I looked into the cold blue eyes of Colonel Sebastian Moran.

I had drawn my revolver in an instant without considering the possible consequences, and was met with several shouts of alarm and a few very big ruffians rising to their feet. Undoubtedly the situation might have become exceedingly dangerous for me, but the colonel raised a hand and the room fell almost frighteningly quiet. “Everybody go back to their drinks,” the old soldier ordered. “This man is my guest. You can put away your revolver, Doctor, you are not going to need it here.”

“Forgive me if I reserve my judgment about that for later,” I replied tightly while the crowd around me resumed their previous activities. The colonel grinned, though the expression of his eyes remained cold. I distantly wondered whether they were even capable of showing warmth.

“Join me for a drink, Doctor.” Moran suggested. “Have a pint? No? Ah, well, suit yourself.”

“May I enquire what it is that you want from me, Colonel?” I demanded. “If you are attempting to take me as a prisoner, I assure you that I will not come without a fight.”

“Not at all, Doctor. I merely wish to meet Mr. Holmes to ascertain how his investigations are proceeding. Unless you would be so kind as to tell me?”

“He has not been sharing his findings with me.”

“What a pity. Well, then, we will have to undertake a journey. It is really most innocuous, Doctor. You are aware that I am a wanted man, of course, so I cannot walk down Baker Street and past your esteemed landlady without attracting attention. In your company, though, it will be an entirely different matter.”

I had to admit the logic behind this idea, providing that he was actually being honest with me. What I did not see were the reasons for his bizarrely unvindictive behaviour towards me and my friend, to whom he had promised his vengeance in the strongest terms. No doubt Holmes entertained several theories on the subject already, but not only have I always been a man of action, but I also felt in a moment of instinctive understanding that this was true for Moran as well, and that a direct approach would yield the best possible results.

“Forgive me if I have some difficulty trusting you,” I ventured, “for you once made it quite plain that you wished to destroy both Mr. Holmes and myself in a slow, painful fashion before scattering our remains in the River Thames. May I asked what has, as it appears to be, changed your mind?”

His mouth twisted in a grim little smile, and his face, better readable now as he had shaved off his beard and trimmed his hair, clearly displayed an unpleasant sort of amusement.

“Do you know, Doctor Watson,” he told me pensively, “a man’s taste can vary over time. I have come to cherish the more refined amusements, such as there are inside a prison cell. The late Professor Moriarty always held the firm view that killing, though it can be developed to an art form, is a rather crude form of amusement and should only be exercised when identified as the most sensible option. I used to disagree in the strongest terms, but I have come to see some wisdom in it.”

He took a sip of his drink and raised his glass to me in a mocking salute.

“We both know, Doctor, that your friend is an arrogant little blighter as well as a filthy sodomite. He really is not worth the effort. It does, on the other hand, amuse me greatly to watch him squirm. He hates it, Doctor Watson. He loathes the fact that he has to do my bidding, and that he knows someone may come off worse for it, but he must comply because otherwise the world will know him for the abomination he is. Oh yes, Doctor, I am enjoying it immensely.”

I felt my anger building up with every word, and it was only with a considerable effort that I mastered the impulse to pummel the villain to within an inch of his life, but I knew that he was right. He was inflicting a great amount of damage on my friend, and he relished in it. Let him do it, then; such damage could be healed, and was clearly preferable to a cut throat or a shattered breastbone.

“Be that as it may,” I returned coldly, “He is and will always remain a great man.”

“You are bound to say that, of course. I must admit, Doctor, that I find myself discovering more admirable qualities in your own person. Perhaps that is because, aside from your peculiar taste in bedmates, we are more alike than either of us would care to admit,” he added with a thoughtful expression and took another sip of his drink.

“I should seriously hope not.”

“I assure you that the feeling is mutual, but here we are.” The colonel shoved his empty glass toward the barman and rose to his feet. “Come. We have business to attend to, and darkness will shield us on our way to your lodgings.”

It was easier than I had thought to pass on the street undetected and get into a cab without attracting attention. The colonel was dressed in a plain, modest suit, the origin of which I cared not to know, and clean-shaven as he was he bore little resemblance to the picture that had been presented by the press. Darkness and the company of a respectable gentleman such as myself – though those who know me more intimately might scoff at the description – provided further cover, and we reached Baker Street without further incident. I remained keenly aware of the revolver in my pocket as I went up our seventeen steps before Moran, for I could not be absolutely certain that the colonel was not armed and planned to attack Holmes on sight. I was, in fact, so concentrated upon my undesired companion that I failed to recognize the signs that my friend might not be alone until I opened the door to our living room.

Holmes had risen to his feet, undoubtedly alerted by the sound on the stairs, while his visitor remained sitting in the armchair facing the door and paled at the sight of us.

In an instant I understood why Holmes had criticized my feeble powers of deduction, for I had indeed seen the lady before, and the route of Holmes’ investigations became all too clear to me in hindsight.

Catherine McMurdo.

For Jack.

A mission of revenge against one of Moriarty’s minions.

She was still beautiful, I noted absently, still carrying herself like a queen although she must be approaching her fiftieth year. Her large, dark eyes were turned towards us in shock, but her manner was as composed as it had been when I had first seen her fifteen years ago at the police questioning concerning her husband’s supposed murder. He had not been dead after all, not then; it had been a terrible blow to us all when Moriarty’s henchmen had returned to finish their job. At the time she had been introduced to me as Mrs. Ivy Douglas, loving wife of Jack Douglas, the brave American detective who had outwitted one of the most dangerous criminal organizations of his homeland only to be caught and destroyed in the wicked net of the Napoleon of Crime.

Now she rose to her feet, and the expression on her face altered from shock to anger.

“You!” she cried, her eyes flashing with fury.

“Have we been introduced, Mylady?” the colonel asked in obvious amusement.

“No,” she shot back. “No, indeed, we have not. You preferred to remain in the shadows when we last met.”

“I beg your pardon. My occupation requires it at times, though I regret to have missed making such a charming acquaintance.”

“Right after you killed my husband, I suppose?” she demanded, her voice dangerously low. “Do you not remember that night aboard the Sea Cloud, when you shot him with that infernal air gun of yours? I couldn’t tell at the time, of course. I was following him, and then I saw him going overboard as if pushed by in invisible hand. But then I read in the news about you and that gun, and I remembered that you had been one of our fellow travelers – I don’t easily forget a face – and I knew how it had happened. But it was too late to prove it, and they wouldn’t even hang you for what you had done to poor Ronald Adair!”

The colonel remained thoroughly unimpressed by the undisguised hatred in the lady’s voice. Instead he gave her a smile that seemed almost reminiscent.

“Ah yes, Jack Douglas. I remember him. He had to go, you see, not so much because the professor did not tolerate failure but for a critical error our dear friend here committed,” and he turned to Holmes, who had been watching the dispute silently. “You warned him. You told him too much about us. He was a very capable detective, and might have begun to move against us. We had no choice but to silence him.”

Holmes’ jaw clenched, although he must have known as well as I that this was most likely not true, as Douglas would not have posed any substantial danger to Moriarty’s organization. Moran was baiting him, and I could see that my friend was determined not to let himself be provoked by the man’s slander.

“Be that as it may,” said he, and his voice appeared perfectly calm, “It is just as well that we have all met here as it is, for it makes it far easier to resolve the situation. I should hope that, with some effort on both sides, we will be able to make an arrangement that does not involve one of you murdering the other.”

The two combatants stood facing each other in the middle of our living room like the participants of a duel, each fixing the other with a scathing look.

“Well,” Mrs. Douglas ventured coldly, “It seems that my options are limited now. My original plans have been thoroughly overthrown by poor Mr. Livingston’s ridiculous courtship, and now I very much doubt I shall be able to find this villain again – that is, if you, Mr. Holmes, do in fact intend to let him walk away, which you claim to have ample reason to.”

“You did not mean for Mr. Livingston to kill the colonel?” Holmes interjected, clearly wishing to get to the bottom of the case even if it might not be of practical importance any longer.

“Oh no, I would never have been so selfish as to ask him. There was a certain sympathy between us which might have progressed further, had he not… but be that as it may, I confided in him because I finally perceived a chance to get to Mr. Moran and achieve justice for my poor husband’s murder, justice which the law failed to establish. I only meant for him to let me inside the prison for a short while. There are less direct means than strangulation. But I wanted the villain to know why he was about to be killed; hence the note.”

I must confess that something about the lady’s cold determination found my respect. In the line of our work Holmes and I have been confronted with self-justice for the murder of a loved one several times, and not once have we turned the perpetrator over to the police. But at the same time I wondered how deeply a soul must be wounded and consumed by hatred to carry out such a deed so many years after the original crime had been committed.

Moran had listened to her words with a curious expression of interest on his face, and I understood that the courage and recklessness of Mrs. Douglas’ plans might appeal to him as well. As depraved as his morals might have become, these were values that he could understand. Still I was painfully aware of the substantial danger the lady found herself in. The colonel intended to cause Holmes distress; what better way than to make him find her, so it would be partly his doing if she was to be murdered?

Holmes’ quick mind had obviously covered the thought before. I saw his eyes travel from the lady to the colonel and back again as though he was engaging in a strange form of mental arithmetic.

“Very well,” he stated at least. “Perhaps that is for the best, Mrs. Douglas, for I very much doubt that your husband, who appeared to have loved you dearly, would have wished you to stain your hands with blood for his sake. As to you, Colonel Moran, you can see that the threat to your life is eliminated in, as you put it, ‘one way or the other’, is it not?”

“It seems so,” Moran agreed, but I did not like the calculating look in his eyes. Neither, it appeared, did my friend.

“Then I may remind you of the word you have given me.”

The two men stared at each other in a silent battle of wills, each determined not to be the first to look away. How different they were, I thought: the lean, dark-haired detective with the razor-sharp mind, and the tough old soldier who could kill innocent men without blinking an eye. There could be no understanding between them.

“I think you need not worry about that, Holmes,” I broke the eerie silence that had fallen, “for the colonel will surely heed it, will he not? It was the word of a soldier.”

Both men turned to me as though they had not expected me to intervene.

“I have been thinking about what you told me at the inn, Colonel,” I continued. “And I have come to the conclusion that there is some truth in it. Whatever your priorities in life, you are still a soldier. You will not break your word. You will not turn on those who cannot defend themselves. You will not betray a comrade in arms.”

It was an appeal, not a statement of facts, and we were all aware of it. Mrs. Douglas’ lips twisted in a contemptuous smile for which, I am afraid to say, she had every conceivable justification. Holmes raised an eyebrow and watched Moran with an expression of interest. The colonel’s eyes met mine, and I could see that he was thinking, assessing, perhaps calculating. Al last he nodded and took a step back.

“Very well, Doctor,” he admitted. “You can rely upon my word. I shall take my leave, and you will never hear of me again.”

I took care not to let my relief show on my face, for I knew that he would take it as weakness, so I just offered him a curt nod, which he answered with a humorless smile.

“Farewell, Mylady, Gentlemen,” he addressed us all. “I must be on my way, for the next ship to India will be departing soon. I seriously hope that our paths will not cross again.”

The colonel turned and walked out of our living room without doing us the courtesy of closing the door behind him. We had just heard him take the first steps down the stairs when there was an unmistakable knock on the front door.

The steps on the stairs halted. Holmes moved swiftly to the landing, and I followed him while we heard the sound of the front door opening and Mrs. Hudson’s greetings, along with a male voice I recognized all too well. Holmes tensed beside me and squeezed my arm in warning.

It was Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.

Moran turned slowly and fixed my friend with a glare that was full of pure, undiluted hatred. “You fiend,” he hissed. “You cursed, abominable traitor!”

And with that he lunged up the stairs towards Holmes with a clear intent of murder written on his face.

Holmes shoved me aside to move me out of harm’s way while I reached for my revolver, but before either of us could take care of the situation a series of revolver shots rang through the hallway, and the soldier collapsed on the stairs.

There were a few seconds of silence that seemed to last an eternity, and the scene I beheld might have been a horrible painting inspired by the visions of a nightmare. Mrs. Douglas still had her right hand raised, clutching a small revolver, her face contorted by fear and revulsion. Holmes was very pale, staring at his bleeding enemy with an expression that almost resembled shock before he quickly schooled his features and his face became an impassive mask. At the foot of the stairs, Lestrade was the first to stir when he released Mrs. Hudson from his grip, for he had roughly shoved her against the wall to move her out of the bullets’ way.

The movement woke me from my momentary stupor, and I dropped to my knees beside the fallen man.

With a single glance I could see that there was nothing left for me to achieve. The wounds were horrible and inevitably fatal, and all I could do was to hold the dying man’s hand during his final struggle, and when his body stilled, to close his eyes and say a prayer for his lost soul. Then I got up to see Holmes holding Mrs. Douglas, who was shaking so badly that otherwise she would not have been able to stand. Silent tears were running down her cheeks, but she did not utter a word. The weapon she had dropped to the floor as though she could not bear to hold it any longer.

It was a while before Lestrade broke the silence, looking at each of us in turn. “It seems to me, Mr. Holmes,” he remarked matter-of-factly, “that you have found our fugitive.”

“You do have a talent for stating the obvious, Lestrade,” my friend replied, but his voice was without triumph. “You would do well to alert your constables.”

It was already late evening when Holmes and I found ourselves alone in our quarters once again. For several hours the flat had resembled a bee hive, with the eager coming and going of constables while Lestrade had hovered in the middle of them like an angry queen. In retrospect I must confess us to be very lucky that it was the good inspector who had chanced upon us and not one of his colleagues, for Lestrade invariably refrains from asking too many questions when it comes to Holmes and me, and he accepted the explanation that Moran had broken into our quarters with murderous intentions without further notice. On the other hand it could only have been him, for, as he informed us not without pride, he had been the only one willing to stick his head into the lion’s den after Hopkins’ unceremonious departure. Apparently he had attempted to call several times in the course of the afternoon but found us both absent, and thus had returned in the evening in the hopes of changing Holmes’ mind regarding the matter at hand.

Eventually all of them had left, and my friend and I remained alone in the living room, neither of us speaking for a long while. I settled in my armchair near the fire which failed to banish the chill that had settled on my heart, while Holmes busied himself with some papers which I knew held no interest for him.

“What will become of her, I wonder?” I voiced my thoughts at last. It was only one of my many questions, but one to which I presumed Holmes might know the answer, while so many of the issues that weighed more heavily on my mind must remain forever unexplained.

Holmes gave me a dry chuckle and walked over to the mantlepiece to pour us both a glass of brandy.

“Good old Watson,” he remarked laconically. “Ever the gentleman. I can lay your mind at ease, dear fellow, for not much ill will befall her, unless I am gravely mistaken. She killed an escaped murderer in self-defense; I very much doubt that there will be serious repercussions.”

It was true. While Mrs. Douglas had openly, if tearfully, confessed the deed and her motive for committing it before the officials of Scotland Yard, no lawyer worthy of his name would have any trouble to achieve the mildest possible sentence.

“So justice was served, after all,” I said slowly.

“But you are not satisfied with the conclusion.”

Holmes observed me with a critical gaze as he leaned gracefully against the mantle. The firelight cast sharp, flickering shadows across his lean face. I sipped my drink and turned the glass in my hand.

“My dear fellow,” my companion ventured thoughtfully, “I do think you are troubled by Colonel Moran’s demise, are you not?”

“I am,” I admitted. “I wish this tragedy could have been averted. He was a bad man, for sure; but it is in my heart that it was not meant for a human soul carry out his sentence.”

My friend did not answer at once. For a while there was only the soft crackling in the grate and the faint sounds of nightly traffic on the street outside. Then Holmes shook his head and looked at me, and his grey eyes were very bright in the firelight.

“You are aware, Watson,” he said softly, “that I would have done the same if it had been me in her place?”

“Fifteen years after the fact?” I asked doubtfully.

“Hardly that. It would not have taken me fifteen years.”

I had no reason to doubt that, for I still recalled keenly the tragic tale of the Tregennis family and Holmes calm acceptance of Dr. Sterndale’s actions. I knew that, should I ever meet my death by a human hand, my murderer would follow me soon enough, and in that moment I hoped fervently that such would never be the case.

“Still, Holmes,” I said softly. “Fifteen years. Men can change in so long a time.”

“Well, my dear, when you look of it objectively, he did not meet his death as a payment for his crimes. It was not in cold revenge that she shot him in the end, but in defense of my life; you might even call it an unfortunate accident. So one might say it was higher judgment, after all.”

It was true, and there was nothing we could have done; still, the bitter taste in my mouth remained and would not fade away.

Silence fell again, and it was a while before Holmes broke it. “Sit, Watson. We have matters to discuss.”

I did not like the tone of his voice, but thought it best to comply. As little as I felt like it at present, it would do no good to stall him now. I understood that he wished to speak of the worries that had been weighing on him since Moran’s first visit, and although I felt an uncomfortable sense of foreboding, I knew that the matter would not look any better in the morning.

Thus I sat and watched him, as it is my wont, while he lit a cigarette and tossed the case into my lap. Holmes and I know each other very well, and in the many years of our close companionship I had learned to read his moods and habits almost as well as my own. I have not often seen him nervous or speechless, but on this occasion it was quite obvious to me that he did not know how to begin. Eventually he looked me in the eye, and his face was grave but very calm.

“Watson,” he stated evenly. “You are aware that I value your companionship above all other and the past years, however undeserved a blessing they may have been, were the most enjoyable of my entire life. I very much wish that we could continue our arrangement, my dear fellow, but I am afraid that we must not.”

I will not pretend that his assessment of the situation came entirely unexpected, for I had understood quite accurately what had been bothering him, and in the back of my mind I had known what his logical brain would deduce as the only viable course of action. Even so, his words filled me with a cold dread.

“You are out of your mind, Holmes,” I interrupted him heatedly, but he held up a hand to stop me.

“I am most certainly not,” he assured me. “I have been thinking it over again and again during the past few days. Let us look at the matter objectively, my dear. It may have been foolish of us to take this kind of risk as it were, but now the danger has multiplied a hundredfold. What Moran knew, others might also.”

“I thought we had agreed that the risk was worth taking,” I interjected angrily.

“But don’t you see, Watson,” he cried, and there was a note of frustration in his voice which he usually reserved for those instances when I was not able to follow his deductions. “It has all changed. I had thought my secret safe, but if my enemies have it, there is very little between us and the dock. No, Watson, there is nothing for it, and it will do no good to prolong the inevitable. We must give it up.”

I stared at him in bewilderment, while my mind was in a turmoil of thought and emotion. He remained very still, his slender frame leaning gracefully against the wall while smoke curled slowly from the cigarette in his fingers. He did not look at me.

“You cannot seriously expect me to accept that statement, Holmes,” I demanded eventually. “Not after all these years, after everything we have been through together. We have never been so much as suspected before…”

“Have we not?” he interrupted me. “Then we have been exceedingly lucky. You must see reason, my friend. As much as I have refused to acknowledge it before, this is going to be the ruin of both of us. You know that I love you dearly, Watson, but you will have to leave. You are an admirable surgeon and still highly attractive as a romantic partner. You will have no trouble to build up a practice and find a wife who is worthy of your affections.”

I did not want to trust my senses when I heard him lay the facts before me as sharply and concisely as he would put the conclusion of a case before a client. With growing horror I realized that his mind appeared to be made up about the matter, and I feared he would refuse to let me have a say in it. Everything we had build up over the course of two decades was about to fall in ruins.

“Holmes,” I said slowly, attempting not to let the desperation become apparent in my voice. “I have no desire whatsoever to acquire a practice and a wife.”

He gave me a humorless laugh, but made no effort to reply.

It took me a few moments to collect myself and make up my mind. There was no way I was going to give in without a struggle; but there was one argument I would accept, I realized with a painful constriction of my chest, one single reason that would convince me to step back and give up everything I cared about.

I knew he loved me in his own peculiar fashion, but I also knew, as I had always known, that one day it might not be enough.

He did not step aside as I rose to approach him, but simply proceeded to watch me with his keen grey eyes that always appear to peel off layer after layer of appearances and perceive the truth beyond.

“Holmes,” I said softly, stepping so close to him that I could feel his breath on my cheek. “Let me ask you a question. For the sake of our friendship I expect you to answer truthfully, for if you send me away now, nothing will ever be the way it was before.”

“I am aware,” he returned tightly. “Proceed.”

“Is it your own reputation or mine that you are worried about?” I demanded. “For if it is yours, then I will step aside without further argument. But you must know, Holmes, that it will break my heart to do so.”

I paused to regain control over my voice which had suddenly assumed a strange roughness.

“I understand,” I proceeded with the calmness of a man who knows that it is too late to turn back, “that your brain dominates your heart, and your work must always come first, lest you must perish. I am willing to make that sacrifice, because I do, in fact, love you, in the truest sense of the word. But if it has got into your head that it is I who needs protection from the public wrath, then your logic is faulty. There is no happiness for me to find elsewhere, Holmes, and the dull routine of existence, as you term it, will be a daily endurance for the rest of my life if you choose to turn me away from all that is dear to my heart. I will not blame you for it, Holmes, but it is on these grounds you need to make the decision.”

There was a long silence in which I studied his expression intently in an almost detached fashion. His face would have appeared impassive to anyone but me, but while he is a master of logic, of self-restrain, and even of deception, I had, over the years, become an expert on Sherlock Holmes. It took me little effort to identify the haunted look in his eyes and the suppressed tension in his features as superficially concealed desperation.

“Watson,” he whispered, and his firm voice shook ever so slightly. “My God, Watson, what are we to do?”

I had never seen him so much at a loss, so utterly helpless before the circumstances that had somehow spiraled so dramatically out of his control. Yet, to the same degree that I realized his growing panic, my own mind became calmer and more composed. Sometimes it happens that inspiration strikes just in the moment of the worst despair, and for a second I experienced a flash of clarity that must rival those of my friend at the precise moment when the solution of a case becomes clear to him.

“I will write about it,” I declared.

He gave me a questioning look.

“The practice. The wife. I will include them in my stories. Should we ever feel that our position is becoming too dangerous, I will pretend that I have moved out and that our close friendship is growing into a more casual affair. Those readers who do not know us will take me at face value. If someone should ask me, I will explain to them that, if the domestic bliss and professional recognition I had hoped to acquire remains unattainable to me in real life, I can at least write about it as if it were the truth.”

My friend stared at me in one of those rare instances where he seemed completely deprived of his speech. Then he threw his head back in hearty laughter, and I felt myself smiling with him as the triumph of victory coursed through my veins.

“Watson,” Holmes gasped, and I could actually see tears of mirth in his eyes. “Watson, I have never given you credit for being a genius, but this idea is made of pure brilliance. I could never have seen it, but it may work; by the Lord, it may actually work.”

“It will,” I affirmed, fairly bursting with self- assurance. “You are aware that I am an accomplished writer, Holmes, and I know that I can achieve this. Generations to follow will marvel at the strange distance that fell between us during our later years…”

“Assuming that generations to follow will still be interested in our pedestrian little adventures,” he interjected. “Oh no, don’t look at me like that, my dear fellow, I don’t mean to belittle your skills. You have to admit that it is purely sensational literature instead of formidable scientific studies which you leave as our legacy.”

“And you have to admit that it is often the sensational literature which survives through the ages,” I argued. “Or do you see the Iliad as a splendid example of scientific enlightenment? Catullus? Grimm’s Fairy Tales?”

“You have a point there. Be it as it may, Watson, I feel you might have found the solution of the conundrum that has been plaguing me during these past days. We shall do as you say.”

He placed a light hand on my waist, and with great relief I saw his usual sardonic smile flitting over his features again. The fact that I had not seen it even once since this unpleasant business had started was a clear indication of the strain and worry that had been weighing him down, and that were now lifted from his shoulders.

“But now, my friend, I think we have seen enough excitement for today. Come to bed, Watson. Chances are that things will look considerably brighter in the morning.”

“Give me a minute, Holmes,” I requested, and I felt his lips brush against my cheek for an instant before he turned away and headed towards his room. I remained standing at the window for a moment, lost in thought. The excitement and drama the day had provided was not so easily put aside, least of all the fact that a man had died on the steps to our lodgings mere hours ago; a man, at that, who may have been slightly more human than we had ever given him credit for. But then, I mused, it was beyond our powers to prepare ourselves against such eventualities. Human failure and tragedy would always remain a part of our lives, for such was the nature of the work we had chosen; but at least our little refuge once again stood safe against the storms. I was deeply grateful for the fact.

“I’m coming, Holmes,” I announced, and followed him into his sanctum.