By: fionanomonogatari (Team Blue Genius)
Set during the three years after Reichenbach, Sherlock travels to several countries in order to break the hold of Moriarty's crime syndicate in Europe, all in order to get back to John safely. (Inspired by The Proclaimers)
Hunting Moriarty’s web was never going to be easy. The strands that spider had spun for his crime syndicate had extended across over six countries in Europe, and in each of these the gossamer strings became more and more intricate and difficult to follow. He had created the perfect crime network, and even though he had died, it continued to run like clockwork and without interruption. The task set out for Sherlock was huge, gargantuan, and gathering all the information required would stretch the limits of every contact he had ever had, and that included his connection with Mycroft in the British government.
Sherlock had decided to come to Ireland to Moriarty’s home country. There was no advantageous reason to do so- his family had forced their son out of their lives when the high-standing, Foxrock reputation and luxurious lifestyle had first been threatened by Moriarty’s dealings. Because of this, Jim had been quick to leave the country, and as such held only a tenuous foothold in Ireland, one that fell quickly apart after his death in London. No, the reason Sherlock had come was not for strategic purposes; he was here for a more childish and selfish reason. It was petty, but it was something he needed to do for himself. His life had been torn to pieces by this man, and he needed this one win to keep him going until his arduous task was completed, and that could take months, or even years.
Travelling by sea was Sherlock’s only option, as it was the easiest way to avoid detection and he did not want to leave any traces of his time in Ireland. He had arrived by ferry to Cork harbour early in the morning, and was outside the Central Statistics and Records Office by nine o’ clock. Getting in was easy; all he needed was an official-looking badge and an authoritative air and soon he had been given the appropriate clearance. He was led to a computer and after a brief explanation about the operation of the system was left to his own devices.
It wasn’t hard to find. Not wanting to waste any time, Sherlock typed in the first name he needed, that of Richard Brook. Up came his records, a series of fake facts; there were his fake parents, fake pirthplace, fake driving licence and fake education, a whole new identity that had been masterfully created and sold as truth to the entire world. Even through his utter contempt and loathing for this man, he couldn’t help but admore the attention to detail.
Sherlock pulled up another window, one entitled ‘James Moriarty’. This time he read through the profile with much greater care, noting any alterations in his change of address or the universities he had attended for the possible contacts and leads which could come from them. The biggest surprise to him was Moriarty’s PhD in mathematics from Trinity College Dublin. It wasn’t so much a question of his qualification; he never doubted for a second that Jim had the mind to complete one, but it was the fact that he hadn’t become bored of academia halfway through the course. It had happened when he had been studying as an undergraduate student in college.
Sherlock looked at the clock and realised that he had lingered for far too long. He had to be going.
“Goodbye, James Moriarty,” he said softly, and with great satisfaction he deleted the records. It was if he had never existed at all.
Sherlock had no idea what interest Moriarty had in the quiet, though touristy, town of Trier, but his search had led him there, so there he went. It was quiet; the crisp January air seemed like it was holding its breath. Snow lay in a small dusting on the medieval buildings and cobblestone streets, and everyone who had any sense was staying inside from the slippery conditions and the bitter cold. Sherlock was not one of these people, and he moved carefully but deliberately down the streets to his current destination. He had had several days to get used to his new environment and now knew the streets well. Of course his map was not the same quality as the standard he had set with London, but it was good enough.
A hooded figure appeared in the distance. Though there were many lights lit all around him, he could not see the man’s face from far away. Sherlock made not attempts to disguise himself and walked right up to meet him. They shared a quick exchange in German, before the man walked away, beckoning for Sherlock to follow him. Sherlock did as he was told, and they walked down a maze of side streets before entering a shabby house, one that retained none of the quaint charm of the tourist village. Inside were two other men. He was quickly searched for weapons and then told to sit down.
Their conversation was conducted in German. Sherlock explained his situation to the men, leaving out some of the important details like who he actually was. It had taken a whole year to find these people, his first lead. They were three men who had fled from Moriarty’s underworld and had been on the run across Europe ever since, using old contacts and tricks of the trade in order to avoid detection.
“We thought we were safe when Mr Moriarty died,” one of the men told Sherlock. “But his grip is strong, even in death.”
“No,” agreed Sherlock. “Death will never conquer that man, but I intend to do so. Do you know who the person in charge is now? It must have been his second in command; did he come to power when Moriarty died?”
“No one knows his name,” he replied. “Apparently he was a former military commander based-”
A shot rang out, and the man speaking in front of him crumpled to the ground. The other, the man who had frisked him, stood with a revolver in his hand.
“Put your hands in the air,” he said, waving the gun at the two men left standing.
“Hmmm, I thought you’d be the mole of this group,” said Sherlock, sitting back in his chair. He didn’t raise his hands. “It’s a small tick you have. You see, whenever you’re lying you touch your left ear.”
“How do you know this? It’s only the first time we’ve met you.” He gestured more insistently to his gun, warning Sherlock to comply with his orders. Sherlock had no intention of doing so.
“The thing is, Mr Hundt, oh yes, I know your name too, is that I’ve been watching you and your gang for days. Based on my suspicions, I decided to have a chat with your two friends earlier about you. They didn’t believe me at first but I think the penny started to drop when they realised that no one had caught up with you for months. Considering the contacts Moriarty has, he never would have allowed you to escape if he didn’t think there wouldn’t be anything to gain. In essence, this group, led by you, became the best double agents against the people resisting Moriarty. Now I don’t know about you, but I don’t think your friends in Trier would be too pleased to hear about that. Gentlemen, if you please.”
The door burst open, and several men wrestled the man with the gun to the floor. Sherlock turned to the hooded man, the one who had led him through the streets of Trier to this house. The man was kneeling beside his friend, and seeing that the man no longer had a pulse, closed the man’s eyes.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sherlock said. “But I really need your help. This man, did you know anything about him?”
“No, I’m sorry,” he replied. “We heard rumblings that this man had something to do with the Irish IRA, but beyond that…” He didn’t finish his sentence, instead turning back to his friend.
“Thank you,” he said. “That is more than enough information to go on. I really appreciate it.” Sherlock turned to leave, but the man called him back.
“There’s a man in France who you might want to find,” he said. “Moriarty… he had bank accounts in Zurich, lots of them. This man is not a friendly one, but his information could shut down the funding for all of Moriarty’s schemes. If you find him, he could give you the answers you need with a bit of… persuasion.”
“What’s his name?” Sherlock asked.
“Marcus Camus,: he replied. “The last time I heard, he was lying low in Strasbourg. But that was six months ago. He has probably moved on.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said again. He hesitated for a second, then fished in his pocket and took out a card.
“Call the number written here. Tell them you were speaking with a man named Odysseus. The person on the line will know what you’re talking about. He works with the British Government. He’ll keep you safe.”
The information Sherlock had been provided with was accurate, though out of date. Marcus Camus had indeed been in Strasbourg, but left two months previous when the authorities caught wind of his presence. Sherlock had spent almost six months trying to track his new location. He had asked, nudged and persuaded people for whatever information he needed, and roughed up a few more who hadn’t been as willing to part with what they knew. Some, not a lot but enough, had tipped off Marcus before he could get to him, and so the search began all over again. However, this was to be expected. Moriarty’s secret keepers had been chosen for a reason.
Sherlock was getting tired. He had been running around in circles for almost eighteen months now, and he seemed no closer to achieving his goal. His life in London seemed like a lifetime ago, and he hadn’t had any contact from England besides a short encrypted note from Mycroft in March, and that was only a small briefing about new intelligence he had obtained about Moriarty’s network in Budapest. He had no news or information about the lives of Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, or John. He often wondered how they were, but he didn’t even dare make any contact with them, be it by telephone or via the web. It was too dangerous. There would be time when he got back. For now, he would be left to wonder.
Six months of searching had led him to the city of Metz in France. Not having organised a place to stay, he wandered the streets, taking in the city for the first time. Sherlock at least now had a face to go with the name, though Marcus Camus was the kind who had no qualms about changing his appearance. Anecdotal evidence from the people he had question implied that Camus had at least four different hairstyles, and was not averse to changing his eye colour using contacts.
Camus was not the only one who had made drastic changes to his complexion. Sherlock had also done the same; gone was his dark, curly hair and instead it was now short and red. Since information had leaked to Camus about a man with dark hair looking for him, Sherlock had thought it best to change it for his own sake. His thoughts wandered back to John; he wondered how his friend would react to seeing Sherlock as a ginger, but he then admonished himself, forcing the indulgent idea from his mind.
A church could be seen over the roofs of the buildings in town and Sherlock, for no reason in particular, found himself walking towards it. He had never been a religious man; to him, comfort and satisfaction could only be found in hard facts, and the hypothesises based around them. He only liked puzzles that could lead to an answer by examining the clues, not by taking things on faith. Still, religion did have its uses; it was a powerful motivator and brought peace to the many who adopted its teachings. One of the beautiful things about religion which even he would agree to was the exquisite art and architecture which were made and created with the money the Catholic Church accrued during the Renaissance period. While he and so many of his classmates had been forced to endure the tedious torture of Shakespeare, France and Italy had a world of culture to gaze at in their everyday surroundings. That said, Sherlock would never concede that any city in the world was greater than his London.
Soon he had arrived in the open plaza where Metz’s church stood, as magnificent as any in France to behold. It was night time, and a few couples were walking together, hand in hand, in the lazy, mid-summer heat, ignoring all others but themselves as they spoke in hushed whispers of love. Sherlock passed them without another thought, and made his way inside the church. The large, heavy main doors were closed for the evening but a side-door for those seeking night time prayers and respite remained open, and it was through this he entered. The church was dark, save for the lights of a few candles placed at the side altars on the left and right of the nave. He was alone, save for two other people who were praying.
Sherlock slid in to one of the pews at the back of the church and sat there in quiet contemplation. He thought about himself and how his life had changed so much in the last year and a half, he thought about what he still had left to do, and he thought about John. In fact, he mostly thought about John.
By the time he snapped out of his own thoughts, he was alone. He berated himself and not being more vigilant and wary of his surroundings. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on John; had there been one of Moriarty’s men in this church he would be dead right now. Sherlock stood up, stretched, and made his way to the side door.
He noticed it out of the corner of his eye, and just in time too; a tiny bit of metal glinted in the candlelight and he ducked to avoid a candlestick aimed at his head. It hit the wall with a deafening clang, and reverberated throughout the empty church.
“Bonsoir, mon ravisseur,” said a voice. The light did not reach where he was standing and so his form was obscured by the shadows, making his voice sound like it was coming from the darkness itself.
“I hate villains who talk,” Sherlock replied, looking for a way to get his back to the open space of the church. He didn’t like being cornered. “Well, unless they’re telling me things I want to know.”
“I never wanted to kill someone in the house of God, but I feel that on this occasion you have left me with no choice.” He stepped out of the shadows, brandishing a gun. Sherlock was surprised the man had answered in English.
“Hello, Marcus,” Sherlock said, exhaling a slow, contented breath. Finally. Finally.
“And goodbye to you, Sir,” he replied, pulling the trigger.
Sherlock lunged forward as the shot was fired, sending the bullet that was meant for his chest into his clavicle. The bone shattered, sending pain like an electric shock coursing through him. He tackled Marcus to the ground. The gun clattered away, just millimetres out of reach. The two men brawled on the church floor, throwing punch after punch, kicking whenever they could at weak, vulnerable points on each other’s bodies. Sherlock, knowing he would not win in a fair fight of strength in his condition, mustered all his strength and used both of his legs to kick Marcus hard in the stomach, throwing him off Sherlock and allowing precious seconds for the consulting detective to grab his gun. Both of them stood still.
“Tell me about Moriarty’s bank accounts,” Sherlock said.
Marcus laughed. “You must be joking,” he replied.
“Does it look like I’m joking?”
“What do you need with his bank accounts? A petty thief would know not to try and steal from Moriarty.”
“Well, I am no petty thief,” said Sherlock. “And besides, Moriarty can’t do anything to me. I killed him.”
This seemed to take Marcus by surprise, though he did his best to conceal his shock. “Dead or alive,” he said. “I am loyal to Moriarty.” Marcus ran towards Sherlock, and shouldered him hard on his shattered collarbone. Sherlock was caught off-guard and fell back. He tensed and fumbled for grip, but in doing so pulled the trigger without meaning to. The bullet shot straight into Marcus’s stomach.
It was like time slowed as he watched Camus fall to the ground. Every second, every action he made as he clung to life would stay with Sherlock till his own death, but he would never be able to remember the sounds. This was not the first time he had seen a man die before his eyes, but this was his first kill. He dropped the gun, then thought better of it and put it in his pocket. His rational brain was trying to guide him, but the emotions welling up in him were like nothing he had ever experienced and drowned that rationality out. Vaguely he remembered that he should check the pockets of the man before him, and rifling through them he found a key card to a hotel in the city, and his wallet. Sherlock stood up, holding onto a church pew to steady his shaking legs. His mind was screaming at him to get out of there, to run and never look back, but he remained, frozen as he looked at the body before him.
He had never wished John were with him more than that night.
Year 3 – Zurich, Switzerland.
It had taken Sherlock seven months to come to Zurich. After the events in Metz, he had sent out an emergency SOS to his brother in England who had arranged medical assistance for Sherlock and organised a discreet but effective team based in France to dispose of the body. Sherlock had required surgery, and it had taken aeons for the shattered bones in his shoulder to regrow. During his down time, he busied himself by making plans to access the bank in Zurich. Sherlock, even in the state he was in at the time, had the foresight to head to Marcus Camus’s hotel room to get what he could. He had found some things, namely a few bank account details, and almost a million euro in cash. However, when Sherlock had been allowed to leave the private hospital at which he was staying, he redoubled his efforts in tracking down the leads he had gained. It seemed that there was unrest in Moriarty’s underworld at the disappearance of Camus and the money, and taking his absence as desertion, plans were being made to secure the funds of the crime syndicate. A large amount of this was being done electronically, and Sherlock had people on Mycroft’s end working on that, but some other money, rumoured to be about three hundred million, was going to be transferred to Budapest if Camus didn’t surface by March.
February had rolled around once again, and Sherlock had made it Zurich. He was disguised as a homeless person and had been so for over three weeks. If there was one thing he had learned from the homeless network he had employed over the years in London, being homeless meant you had the best ears in the city. In Zurich, money talked, and he was listening oh so very intently.
Sherlock found out that there were four people who were the ringleaders of this money transfer, and they were all the top brass in Moriarty’s crime syndicate, saving for the military commander who, despite both Mycroft and Sherlock’s best efforts, remained unknown and elusive. It seemed that due to the large amount of money involved, no one wanted to risk trusting another member, especially since Camus had dropped off the map with a lot of money in his possession. The time of the grunts was finally over, and now the big boys were in play.
One woman by the name of Sarah Asper was leading the transfer of money by courier. Sherlock had arranged for low-key surveillance of he whereabouts, as well as trucks to intercept the money as it was in transit. However, his conditions were simple; only he would have access to Asper, and all authorities would turn a blind eye to the means he used to get the information they, and he, wanted. They reluctantly accepted. Sherlock was satisfied that he could break her easily enough.
The operation on the day was a huge success. The media reported that the Swiss authorities had apprehended three of the four leaders of a major criminal organisation along with a substantial amount of money that could not be disclosed for legal reasons. They assured the audiences at home that they would apprehend the fourth without delay.
Sherlock had forced Asper out of the vehicle she had been driving and dragged her by the hair into a side alley in a dubious part of town. Screams wouldn’t be headed in this place. He took a gun out of his coat, Camus’s gun, and pointed it in her face.
“Tell me the name of Moriarty’s second in command,” he said. His voice was dripping with malice.
“Why should I?” she said, and Sherlock responded by breaking one of her fingers. She screamed in agony, and to Sherlock she became smaller in front of him. He broke another, and another, and soon her face was streaked with tears and mascara.
“I’m not kidding,” he said calmly. “The pain will stop when you tell me who you’re working for.” Asper hesitated, and Sherlock made to reach for another one of her fingers.
“Please don’t hurt me!” she screamed. “Please!”
“H-his name is M-Moran,” she said, stuttering over her words. “Sebastian Moran.”
“Where is he now?” he pressed. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s in London,” she said quickly, looking to avoid more pain. She looked up at Sherlock, and as if seeing him for the first time, realisation dawned on her face. She smiled, a smile that was disturbingly similar to the smile of James Moriarty.
“You’re Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?” she said. “Everyone thinks you’re dead.”
“Oh I am very much alive, and I plan to stay that way.”
“If you can call this a life.” The smile wouldn’t leave her face. A nervous shudder crawled up Sherlock’s back, one he tried his hardest to suppress. “Tell me,” she continued. “Have you read John Watson’s blog recently? Apparently he’s finally moving on.”
Anger blazed through Sherlock’s blood, and he thrust her back against the wall. He didn’t think; pure fury had taken hold of him and he let it control his actions without any hesitation. He put the gun to Sarah Asper’s head. Her eyes opened wide in terror, but he didn’t see it. He just pulled the trigger.
It was with hesitant steps that Sherlock walked up Baker Street. It had been three years since he had been in London, and though much had changed most of it was still the same. He was glad for that, though his mind map of the city would take some time to amend.
So Sebastian Moran was conducting business in London. Now that he was cut off from any funds and his crime ring disbanded, he was stuck here for now at least. Sherlock was sure that a man as clever as Moriarty’s right-hand man had some contingency plans if ever something like that occurred, but Sherlock wanted to get this business done as soon as he could. Considering Moran’s extensive military experience however, Sherlock wanted to make sure that he was as prepared as he could be. To do that required a visit to 221B Baker Street.
Sherlock stepped lightly up the two steps to his base, his home, and stopped before the door. Everything had remained the same; the green door, fraying slightly, and the gold lettering were comforting beacons of familiarity and safety for him after three years running from everything that had made up his identity.
John was inside. He knew, because Mycroft had told him so, and Mycroft was never to be doubted about these things. Mrs Hudson had gone shopping, so he would answer the door if he knocked. If he could gather the courage to knock.
Asper’s words had unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. Sherlock was afraid that him breezing back into John’s life, after being dead for so many years, was the last thing his friend ever needed. Sherlock was scared, so scared, but he had been alone for so long, and he didn’t want to be alone anymore.
He had done so many things in the past three years; he had lived rough, been wounded, had even killed two people. He had changed from his experience; he was harder now, a tougher and braver Sherlock. And yet, the bravest thing he could ever possibly do, the toughest thing he could possibly do, even after all he had been through, was knock on that door.
It was time to be brave. It was time to be tough. Sherlock lifted his hand and knocked.
