Archive of Our Own

Every night I look for you.

Oh, I know. It’s a pointless search. I’ll never find you.

You’re dead.

But sometimes, I spot you for a moment, in the long waves of dark hair curling over ears. Or the lithe, precariously tall frame. I trace you in the fluid movements of a spine and hips. The sharp curves of an upper lip. The tight, neat, buttoned shirt, open at the top to display a hint of collarbone.

(I never spot you in the eyes. It’s not just the color. It’s the way you looked everywhere at once, took everything in -- or blocked everything out, for hours sometimes, concentrating your gaze internally. Useless to look for that.)

But when I spot you, some piece of you, I take it.

It wasn’t always that way. I used to just watch. Stare at the faces, the bodies. Drink. Drink some more.

It wasn’t always that way, either. That happened after I started going out. Well after.

I didn’t, for a while. Didn’t leave the flat. Didn’t leave your bed.

Are you surprised? That I stayed?

I was, too.

I almost left. Did leave, for a week or so, after the funeral. Crashed at Harry’s. Then I went back for my things.

I got boxes. Packed up my room. Mrs. Hudson helped -- she had already packed the lab equipment before I arrived. (Mostly she just brought tea and biscuits, asked how I was, chattered sympathetically while I stared helplessly at everything that was yours. Ours. I don’t think I said anything back.)

Afterward, I sat in the living room for hours. Not on the sofa; that was ours. Not in my armchair; no desire to stare at the lonely indentation in your chair cushion. I sat on the floor, amidst the boxes, in a flat that was full of things but nothing important.

I felt so exhausted in every part of my body, except whatever part actually governed my ability to sleep. I was stuck staring into space, unable to shut my eyes, to rest. My brain was quiet, though -- nothing to say, nothing to distract me from the flat and the you that wasn’t in it.

I stood, walked into your room. I pulled back your covers and lay down on your bed. Wrapping my body in your sheet, I buried my head in your pillow, inhaled. I lay there all night and remembered you. You, thinking, observing, explaining. Amazing me -- always. You, making me laugh more, harder, than anyone. You, showing me all the most dangerous parts of London. Always leaving me wanting more. You. The best friend I ever had.

I might have stayed there forever, but Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t leave me alone. (I’d stopped packing. Mrs. Hudson didn’t mind. Mrs. Hudson was happy to have me, would be happy to have me at 221B always. But she thought I should get up, get out, eat something.) She came by to check on me, far too often. They all did. Molly, Harry, Lestrade, Molly, Stamford, Bill, Molly. Always Mrs. Hudson, and always Molly. (Why wouldn’t she leave me alone? And what did she have to look guilty about? She didn’t kill you.) I didn’t want to see any of them.

After a few days climbing in and out of your bed to answer the most persistent knocks, I started going out. Avoiding the sympathy and the questions.

* * *

The ending points are different, but the steps are always the same.

Walk. Walk anywhere. For hours.

Find a pub. One where nobody will try to learn my story.

Start drinking.

Don’t stop.

* * *

Eventually, I add a new step: look.

It starts with the hair. There is someone with your hair, exactly. I could swear. I do swear: “Fuuuck. Shuurluck.” All my vowels have extended, blended under the influence of the whisky.

Doesn’t matter. The hair doesn’t hear me, doesn’t turn around. And I realize the height is all wrong. Not much taller than me. Still, just the hair. That could be you.

I watch. I watch and I drink. The hair never notices. Finally, he takes off, and I stumble home.

* * *

Another bar. This time, it’s your cheekbones.

We had a conversation about your cheekbones once, remember? I’m still noticing them. Even if they’re not on you anymore.

Cheekbones’ friends notice my stares eventually. They start staring back, muttering. Guess I look like some sort of creeper in the corner. Guess I stare a little too much. Know it, don’t care, can’t stop. They leave.

* * *

Harry tries coming with me, a few times. But we drink ourselves to oblivion in different ways. Hers is loud and boisterous. My silent stares are bad companions. She gives up, eventually.

* * *

I’d deny there was any pattern to my walking, or to my selection of pubs tonight. But there might have been. I think I must have known.

You can’t walk into a place like this and not know, right? Even if there are no obvious clues, you can't go in without noticing the way the men eye one another, how close they stand, can you?

I don’t think so.

I am still surprised, when he comes over.

“Like what you see?”

This time, it is the indentation of your upper lip. Also, the eyebrow, cocked as he smirks. He’s younger than you, though. So much younger. I wish I’d known you at that age.

I don’t say anything. Just stare at the valley of your upper lip. The smirk fades a little. Finally: “Oh. I, uh, right. Sorry.”

“Good thing you’re cute.” He smirks again. Leans across me, grabs my drink, downs it. (Is he old enough to buy his own? God, I should care about these things.) Then he leans into me. Presses his lips to mine.

I kiss back. It’s more like wrestling for a moment; we’re both aggressive. It’s not soft. Not tender. Not any of the things kisses usually are. It’s sloppy, hungry, overeager. (Revise age estimate, lower. That’s really not good, I’m pretty sure.) I pull back, grab his head, run my tongue gently back and forth over his upper lip. He looks confused for just a moment.

He pulls me up off my barstool, presses close against me, starts to kiss me again. I feel his fingers and lips against mine, but also his chest, and his hips, and his -- oh, God. I can feel that he’s hard. I’m hard, too, and we’re pressed together through our jeans. This is different. I haven’t. It’s too much. I groan, fall back against the bar stool.

“Come with me,” he whispers, voice teasing and flirty. Not your voice. I’m about to say no, but the upper lip gets to me again. I nod, and stagger outside after him, around, to the alley.

He’s kissing me once more, slamming me against the wall. It’s okay, but I can’t see anything, can’t see you. I push him away. He interprets it as a request. He slides down, fumbles with my zip, tugs my jeans out of the way. Then his breath is hot against my cock, through my pants.

I haven’t. This isn’t. I don’t.

I should stop.

And then he’s pulling my cock out, and it’s so hard and the head is already slick with moisture, and he’s rubbing it all over me.

Stop. I should.

I stare at the indentation of your upper lip. At the tongue running over it. Wetting it, preparing. And now a mouth is swallowing my cock, and all I can fixate on is that one point.

So young; so eager. There’s no need to gag on it. I should tell him.

Not something that’s come up before. Never had someone dive down on my cock until their nose presses into my pubic bone. The girls I was with, back at his age, they were more timid, and the women I've been with since have mostly been into slower pleasure and finesse.

I don’t know how long I last. Not too long, though the alcohol helps a little. Blurs everything, makes it harder to concentrate. Still, it’s brief. The mouth, sloppy, overeager, sucking so hard. Lips, surrounding my cock. Yours, if I narrow my focus just right.

I grunt as I come. (Should have warned him, feel guilty for a second, but he swallows without complaint.)

Immediately after, I feel a spike of shame. Not over the act. Over using him. He's not you. I zip up quietly.

He wipes his lips. Stands, brushes alley grime from his knees, smiles.

I say nothing.

His smile fades to an uncertain flicker. "You okay?"

"I, I." I stutter.

He watches my face. He probably thinks I'm a mostly straight man, maybe cheating on my girlfriend. Maybe for the first time. Well. He might be right, about some of it.

"I'm fine," I say, finally, realizing he's still waiting for an answer, not able to quite meet his eyes. He looks relieved. And so young. Christ, what am I doing.

After a few more awkward moments, he leaves. I realize slowly that I've been rude. He probably wanted to get off, too. I never used to have trouble remembering that. Used to get women off several times before I came. (I was a good boyfriend, in some ways.)

I would have reciprocated with you. He's not you.

I didn’t even say thank you.

Can’t bring myself to care that much. Somehow, I find my way home, to your bed.

* * *

The hair is the best, when I can find it. (It’s rare -- usually not quite right.)

Or maybe the cheekbones, emphasized so starkly when suction is applied.

No, it’s the hair.

I love wrapping my fingers in your hair and feeling the hot wetness of a mouth on my cock. I try not to be too rough, to fuck the throat of whoever he is, but sometimes I forget. A lot of them don’t seem to mind.

* * *

It only happens when I’m too drunk to think, too drunk to carry on a conversation, too drunk to do anything but go along with it. (Or start it. Sometimes I start it.) But that’s every night, now, isn’t it?

I'm not gay. I think I'm not. But you're all I want. (Wish I’d realized before you were gone.) Drink enough and you don't have to think about these things.

* * *

Some of them don’t use their mouth on me -- just their hands. That’s good, too. But then there’s the danger they’ll talk. None of them have your voice.

The first one who talks -- “Unh, yeah, so hot, just like that” -- not your voice, things you would never say -- I bite his shoulder. Bite hard, until he cries out. He seems okay with that. Often I shove my hand in their mouth instead... many of them seem to think it’s hot to moan into my fist. Whatever gets them to stop talking.

* * *

Sometimes I see someone who looks so much like you, it catches at my chest, freezes me mid-breath. But it’s always just a glimpse, someone in the shadows. He’s already gone if I try to seek him out. Was never really there, probably. This looking for you, everywhere, is driving me a bit mad.

* * *

If they try to lift my shirt -- not usual, during frantic alley sex, but not unheard of -- I don't let them.

They'd see my scar and be startled, curious. You never would.

Not that you wouldn't observe, prod, ask detailed questions, if you were this close. I'm sure you would. But you'd never be surprised. You knew I'd been shot from the start, from long before I grew comfortable enough around you to wander the flat half-dressed. You know every inch of me, just about -- the way only a lover or a preternaturally observant flatmate could.

I shove their hands away from my shirt.

* * *

He is the first one I bend over, the first one I pull the trousers and pants off of, the first one I fuck as he braces himself against the bricks.

He’s tight, so tight, and I’m not as patient as I should be (though he brought lube -- good). He lets out a choked gasp as I push in, and it sounds like you might, just a little.

He has your spine.

* * *

Sometimes it doesn't work out like that. Sometimes my staring and my silence freak them out, and they threaten me. Sometimes we fight. That's almost as good. Another kind of physical, another way to get the blood pumping. And I remember punching you. At least I actually did that.

* * *

More and more often, these days, I’m not waking up in your bed.

I’m waking up on a bench; leaning against a tree; under a bridge. It’s almost summer, but it’s not warm enough for that in London.

Usually I seem to wake up beneath rags or newspapers. Can never remember how I got there, but it’s good to know I can take care of myself a bit, even in that state, I suppose. Though based on my medical knowledge, hypothermia is a nice way to go, near the end.

I always find my way back to 221B, eventually. I can’t stay away from your bed. I never bring anyone else back there, though.

* * *

It’s the first time I’m paying.

I figure it’s a bit more fair, if I’m going to tell him not to talk. If I’m going to use his body to be you. Fair isn’t something I think about much these days. But it seems right.

I’ve paid for a hotel room, too. As well as for his lean frame and dark hair -- too short, but a little curly. The walls are dingy, light is dim, blanket is scratchy. But it’s got a roof and heat, so that’s better than I’ve been doing lately, on average.

He’s getting ready to go down on me when I stop him. He looks at me questioningly. He knows not to speak.

I can’t stop looking at your slender torso. Your pale skin. Your collarbones. I flip us over, push him down on the scratchy blanket. I kiss my way slowly down your torso. Down to the dark patch of hair.

I inhale. Not your soap. It’s okay. (At least there was soap recently; that’s good.) I focus on your abdomen, and I take the head of your cock into my mouth.

I haven’t done this. Can you tell? I’m probably no good. (Though, is there ever a bad blowjob?) But I have to. I want to stare at your stomach and flick my tongue against the underside of your cock, just there, beneath the glans. I want to run my tongue along the slit. I want to feel your foreskin slide back and forth against your cock and the roof of my mouth as my eyes slide along your torso. I want to take you deep into my throat until I can’t breathe and stay there.

He’s a bit surprised. I can tell. Good lad, though, doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even make any noise.

I pull back for a moment. “I’m going to play something.” It isn’t even a decision. I can’t help it.

I don’t know what he expects to come out of the tinny speakers on my phone -- some romantic ballad? -- but it probably isn’t a voicemail. Still, your voice would be good reading the phonebook, as they say. Hearing you tell me that we need milk and pipettes will certainly do the trick. (It’s from months ago; you almost never call, except when you’re peering into your microscope or otherwise unable to text -- but I never got around to deleting it. Thank God.)

He’s probably confused. I don’t care. I hit play three times, fixing your voice in my head, and go back to what I was doing.

I’m sucking my first cock and I’m crying. If I'd done this sooner, would you have left me? If we'd been what everyone thought, would you have stayed?

I don't think so. I think you cared about me as much as you were capable of. But I could have had this with you, maybe. Instead of pieces of you.

(Is pausing mid-blowjob to wipe your nose the least sexy thing ever? Probably. Would you tease me about it? I wish you could.)

He reaches out and clenches my shoulders. I think for a moment he’s being comforting. But no, he’s warning me he’s about to come. My mouth fills with strange, hot, salty liquid, slightly bitter. I swallow, salt still pouring down my cheeks as well.

He goes down on me, and though I’m desolate, I come quickly. I wrap my fingers through his hair. Too short.

* * *

Waking on cold ground with my head pounding has become an unfortunately familiar sensation. This time, I’m under the bridge.

Can you keep it down? I almost say. Someone is talking -- a couple someones? -- and every word is a ice pick in my skull.

In the time it takes to get my tongue unstuck from the roof of my mouth, I have realized two things. First, I am a probably just a pile of rags and papers, as far as anyone can tell. (Where do I find these things? How do I cover myself so thoroughly after I lose the ability to stand upright?) I can feel two of the columns that hold up the bridge pressing against me from either side, and I know that it’s hard to see anything in this shadowy spot. (Good place for a blowjob, as I can attest... I might have gotten one here last night, even, but I’m not sure.)

Second, these people sound like maybe they don’t want to be overheard.

“Tell the colonel it’s done.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“The documents?”

“Already at the drop.”

“Good. Good. You can tell him yourself, though.”

“What?”

“The colonel wants to see you.”

“Shit.”

“Don’t worry; if he wanted to punish you, you’d be dead already.”

A nervous laugh. “He wouldn’t turn me into shoes?”

“No, that was the old boss. The colonel is less creative, but more efficient.”

Sigh. Pause. “Okay.”

“I’m sure he wants to reward you. Well, pretty sure. Not like you have a choice, anyway.” Pause. “The passphrase is ‘albatross.’”

“Christ, he is paranoid, isn’t he?”

“Not without reason. Do you remember what to do?”

“I got it. Yeah.”

“Good. I’ll see you again soon.”

Two sets of footsteps crunching on gravel, heading in opposite directions.

What have I just heard? Someone dead? A passphrase? It’s just like when I used to spend time with you.

Cautiously, I poke my head out from under the rags (one of which is an almost-complete jacket, though the lining is missing... where do I find these things?) It’s early, I can see only two figures on the nearby streets, both receding. I need to find out more. Which one do I follow? If I were you, I would know. Instead, I choose arbitrarily to follow the one on my left.

I don’t want to be noticed. I pull on the tattered jacket as I leave, and I muss up my hair more. I’m too clean shaven and neat to really pass as a homeless person, but the jacket smells, and I’ve let my hair grow rather long; if I assume a shuffle and a hopeless look, I think I might become invisible to most people. I’ve learned that from you and your Homeless Network.

But first, I have to not lose him. I dash out from under the bridge and into the stabbingly bright light. Almost immediately, I turn and vomit. There, that feels a bit better. I got some on my shirt, but that’s okay, I suppose. Adds to the disguise.

I tail him for a few miles, maintaining my distance, hoping he won’t disappear into a car or a subway. He doesn’t. He doesn’t notice me, either. He disappears into a flat. I see which one. I set up shop on a nearby corner, holding out a paper cup (found on the pavement) toward passersby and rattling a few coins at them.

I sink into the tense monotony of waiting, and I finally have a moment to think.

What the fuck am I doing?

Using a disguise? Tracking down a possible murderer?

I don’t know why I’m here. I should call the police.

But there’s a spark of excitement, and danger, in the chase. And you wouldn’t call the police. You would investigate on your own. Anyway, I don’t want to talk to Lestrade, not after the pity in his eyes, the last time. No. I want to stay here and pretend you’re here with me, on a case.

Besides, there’s something about the conversation from earlier that’s bothering me. Aside from the murder, I mean. I keep trying to figure it out, but I can’t quite capture it. It’s like a faint star that I see from the corner of my eye, and when I turn to look at it directly, it’s gone. So I wait, and I hope it will come to me. And I hope for something dangerous to happen. And I shake my cup at the people passing on the pavement.

As I suspected they would, everyone avoids looking at me. Almost everyone. I’ve gained £1.16 and a religious tract by the time the man finally reappears several hours later.

This time, I'm not so lucky as I tail him. It’s the middle of the afternoon now, and after following him for half a mile, I get stuck behind a big crowd. And then he’s gone. I search down five different streets, but there’s no sign of him. I swear. I swear some more.

Then I find a bar that will let me in despite my clothing, despite the early hour, and I start getting drunk.

* * *

Shoes.

I belch. I am smelly and disgusting and will not be picking up anyone who looks like you tonight, even if I should spot someone. That’s okay. Right now I just want to sulk into my drink, here in the corner of this dingy pub.

For a few hours, just a few hours, I felt... different. But then I lost him.

Shoes.

The word is stuck in my head, and I don’t know why. But I think it might be the star that’s been flickering in the corner of my vision.

You wouldn’t have lost him. You know London perfectly, all the streets and all the transit schedules. You would know exactly where he had gone.

I can’t do this without you.

Chasing people. Dangerous people. Investigating. It was distracting, for a moment. But I’m not that good at it, on my own.

I order another drink.

Turn me into shoes.

I’ve heard that somewhere before, I think. Have I? Was it just this morning?

I don’t know. You would know.

My brain’s like a sponge. No, that’s not right. It’s full of holes, like a sponge, is what I mean -- but not absorbent. A sieve. That’s what I mean.

Turn me into shoes.

Why is it familiar?

A quote, maybe? From a movie?

I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I should forget all this.

There was so much strangeness in the conversation, though. Passphrases and murders. It must be important. I wish I knew more.

Too bad I lost him.

Who would do that? Turn someone into shoes?

Moriarty.

It was Moriarty who said that.

At the pool.

I thought that whole night was burned into my memory.

I guess my brain is a sponge, these days. Or a sieve, rather.

The old boss.

No.

Was I really listening to two of Moriarty’s minions? No. Couldn’t be.

But how many people threaten to turn other people into shoes?

The old boss.

What happened to Moriarty? Where is he? Do they know?

If I could find him... if I could find him, I could ask how he got you to jump. To lie to me, declare yourself a fraud. There’s something he did, in the days leading up to that final moment, to make you say those things, to make you leave me. Some secret I don’t know. What did he do to push you off that edge? I could find out. And then I could kill him.

It seems absurd that I would have stumbled across someone in his network. Such a long shot. And yet, murder. Codes. Could be? Maybe.

And any chance. Any chance to avenge you. Even a long shot. It’s not like I have anything else worth living for.

But I lost him.

I am halfway through another drink when I realize.

Oh.

I still know where his flat is.

Brain like a sponge.

I think maybe I need to stop drinking.

* * *

I wake from a dream of you. You curled around me, in your bed, your breath in my ear. You naked. I wish I’d had that, but I never did. A hundred little pieces on a hundred drunken nights, but never the real thing. Never you. Still, I wake in your bed, and for a moment, I can pretend.

I managed to make myself come home before I got any more drunk. I even showered, took some vitamins, and drank a bunch of water before getting into bed for more hours than I’ve slept in a long time. As a result, I feel almost human. As human as I ever feel.

Good. Now I can plan.

I find a map of London, and I spread it out on the desk. I locate the flat where I stood watch yesterday. I mark it with a red X. Then I stare at the map and wonder what good it does me. Finally, I mark the bridge, as well. Two points in a sea of lines. Still not useful.

You would know what to mark, what patterns to look for. You would have seen 23 things about both the men. Things I couldn’t observe. Things that would have told you what parts of London they frequented, where to look next. But all I have to go on is the location of the flat.

This isn’t where my skills lie.

I fold the map back up. And I go and fetch my gun and a few supplies.

* * *

I’m in his kitchen when he comes home. I came prepared to shoot the handle off (never could be arsed to learn lockpicking; that was more your bailiwick), but he left his window open a bit. It’s good; this way he doesn’t know to expect me.

I’ve been having a staring contest with one of his bottles of whisky for the past hour. I know I need to stay on my toes, but I’m glad he’s finally here, because the whisky was going to win eventually.

He walks in, and I step out from behind the refrigerator (it’s a cramped, odd little flat with the entry adjacent to the kitchen table) and clock him over the head with my gun. Not too hard; just enough. I don’t have a lot of practice with that, from the Army, but I do have practice doing it too hard. That plus some medical knowledge leads to a pretty good guess about what will temporarily incapacitate someone.

When he wakes, he’s still in the kitchen, but tied to a chair.

“Fuck” is the first actual word he says. Until he spoke, I wasn’t sure which one he was. He’s the one who is higher up in the organization -- the one passing on orders from the colonel. Excellent. I reach for a kitchen knife -- a big one, good for cutting meat -- and begin examining it conspicuously.

“I used to be an army doctor,” I say, conversationally. “I once had to remove an appendix from someone in the field, without any anaesthetic.” I used to be bad at lying, but since you left, it's gotten easier. I just don't care about anything anymore; I guess that helps -- removes hesitation. I reach out with the knife tip, lift up his shirt, study his abdomen. “You haven’t had your appendix removed yet, have you?”

He’s younger than I thought yesterday, and looks much younger when he’s scared but trying not to show it. “Who are you?”

I laugh. “Tea?”

He doesn’t say anything. I set down the knife, put the kettle on, then sit down in the second chair and fold my hands. “Tell me about the colonel.” He doesn’t respond, though I don’t really expect him to. “Tell me about Moriarty.” He blinks with what looks like surprise. He recognizes the name -- good, I’m on the right track. “Tell me about yourself.”

I sit, and we stare at each other for several minutes. He is frightened, but not speaking.

The kettle begins to whistle. I walk to the stove, grab it, return. I hold the kettle right next to his face, the heat rolling across his cheek and his wide, terror-filled eye. He strains to move away, but the rope holds. He jerks and tries to tip the chair over, but I’ve got a leg blocking it, blocking him from even a temporary escape. His breath is fast and shallow now, tiny gasps.

“Interesting thing -- do you know what a kettle fresh off the stove does to an eyeball?” I ask.

He sobs. “Okay, okay.” Oh good. I have no desire to follow through on any of my threats. “What do you want to know?”

“What’s your name?”

“Jack.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Jack.” I smile and set the kettle on the counter, next to his head. He relaxes fractionally.

“Who is the colonel?”

“I don’t know. His name’s Moran.”

“And he’s military?”

“N-no... not now, anyway.”

“Used to be?”

“I don’t know.” Jack hasn’t served, then. If he’d served, he’d be able to tell.

“You’ve met him?”

Nod.

“You take orders from him?”

“Yes.”

“What about Moriarty?”

“I... I met him once. When he recruited me.”

“Recruited you? From where?”

“The lab. I was a graduate student. Chemistry.”

“What did he want you for?”

“Poisons, mostly.”

“And you obliged?”

“There’s a lot more money in poisoning than most chemistry gigs.” He shrugs and gives a wry smile. As if to say, You understand. I am a man of violence and dubious ethics. He probably assumes I also kill for money.

“Where is Moriarty now?”

“Um. I think he’s dead? That’s what I heard.”

“When?”

“Well, Moran’s been running things for half a year.”

Half a year. Not long after you fell. Can he really be dead? I feel robbed. But maybe it’s just rumor.

“So Moran gives all the orders now?”

“Yeah. Not usually directly, though. He usually passes them on via one of his trusted lieutenants.”

I sigh. I don’t want to have to fight my way through a network of skilled assassins. “Who are they?”

Jack’s chest puffs up a little. “I’m one.” Okay, maybe not-so-skilled assassins, then. Though I’m sure he’s decent enough with his chemicals, I certainly have the upper hand, here.

“So you work with him directly?”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“What’s he like?”

Jack thinks. “Quiet. Cautious. Scary. I don’t think anyone noticed him, much, when Moriarty was in charge... he stayed in the background. But he’s been pretty ruthless while taking over.”

“Lots of poisoning?”

Jack nods. “Among other things.”

“What does he want?”

Jack gives me a look like, Really? “Money. And power.”

“Why does he use passphrases?”

His eyes go wide. I know more than he expected. “To make sure that the right person is coming to meet with him. Especially if he’s meeting someone new.” I motion for him to continue, and he swallows nervously. “He texts instructions to a dedicated mobile -- we all carry one. Then he sends the passphrase separately.”

“What’s the passphrase for?”

“To text back to him, outside the meeting place.”

I think it through. “Harder for the wrong person to intercept the text, then?”

“Yeah.”

“He is cautious.”

He nods.

“What are his other lieutenants like?”

“I don’t know. I don’t get to meet with any of them.”

“Any majors, captains?”

“N-no, I don’t think so.”

Maybe not a military man, then. Or maybe it’s an indication of how much higher he sees himself compared to everyone else. Or maybe there are others, and this lad just doesn’t know them.

I’m silent too long. Jack gets up the courage to ask questions of his own. “Who are you? What do you want?”

I ignore him. “How do you set up a meeting with Moran?”

He laughs. “You don’t. You wait for him to set up a meeting with you.”

“How would you, though, if you had something urgent to tell him?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

I reach for the kettle and pour some near-boiling water into his lap. Enough to make him scream and squirm and hurt like hell, without causing any serious damage. First-degree burn only.

“I have an emergency number,” he pants. “I’d text him. Tell him I need to meet.”

“And he’d send back a time and place?”

“Yeah, probably. I’ve never tried.”

“What about the passphrase? Is it 'albatross'?”

“No, it’s different for everyone, every time.” Jack pauses for a moment. His eyes dart to the side, and he says, “I’ll need to get a new one. Moran will send someone to tell me.”

That would be inconvenient. But I think he’s lying. Giving me a reason to keep him alive. Devising an opportunity where he could give an SOS signal. I don’t know that for sure -- I’m not you. But I think there’s a chance, given how he won’t meet my eye. “No. You already have your next passphrase. Because you’re a trusted lieutenant.”

He swallows. “No I don’t.”

“Oh, you do. And you’ll tell me.”

It takes several hours and a number of threats, but I eventually get Jack to tell me Moran’s number and his current passphrase, and I determine that Jack doesn’t know much else about Moran or his network. I don’t actually hurt him -- much. Afterward, I take his phone, send a text, and then stare at him, still tied to the chair. I feel my gun pressed comfortingly against my back, and I consider using it. He’s not, after all, a nice man (he’s confessed to poisoning at least a dozen people while we’ve been having our chat). I wouldn’t feel remorse. But gunshots would attract attention. And I would have to clean up; my fingerprints are all over this place, for one thing. I don’t want to take the time. Moran responded to the text almost immediately; I’m anxious to start preparing for our meeting. Instead, I gag him and leave him tied up in the kitchen. It’s possible someone will find him, eventually, but by then it should be too late to change anything.

* * *

I’m at the hardware store when I notice the man with the shaved head. He was near 221B when I stopped by after visiting Jack to pick up a few things -- I’m almost sure of it. And now he’s here, looking at paint samples. It could be a coincidence, but I doubt it.

I add a few items to my basket, along with the supplies I already have. It looks like maybe I’m doing some home repair. That’s fine. I make my purchases and add the items to the knapsack I’m carrying. Then I take a circuitous route to a coffee shop I know.

Sure enough, when I’m standing in line for coffee, I catch a glimpse of him walking by outside. He’s definitely tailing me. He has the walk of an army man. I suspect he’s one of Moran’s. How long has he been following me? Since Jack’s? Since before?

I have to lose him. How?

Then I know. With a sigh, I head for the bar.

I only have a few drinks, for once impatient with this portion of my day (it wouldn’t do to actually get inebriated now, either). Best to play it safe, though, and put on a display of normalcy -- even though I’m guessing they haven’t been following me long enough to know my usual patterns.

And then it’s dark, finally, and I head out to where the men who charge by the hour are waiting. I choose one who hardly looks like you at all. I’m in a hurry, and anyway, I can’t afford to get distracted by him.

I take him to a hotel. And then I promise him a large wad of cash if he will stay in the bathroom for a few hours. He’s confused, but amenable. Once he shuts the door behind him, I get to work.

* * *

It’s the scheduled time and place. I’m outside an old church, now abandoned and crumbling. It’s 1 A.M, and the streets nearby are quiet.

I take out Jack’s phone and send a text: “Moonlit.” I know there’s a chance it’s a fake passphrase that will warn Moran that it’s a trap, but it’s all I have. I gamble it will work. After several tense minutes, the side door of the church swings open. A man I’ve never seen before is holding it.

“You’re not Jack,” observes the man. He’s short -- about my height -- and extremely well-muscled. He’s clad in olive drab.

“No.” I smile calmly.

He pats me down, taking my gun. “This should be interesting.” He turns and walks down the hall. I follow him into the nave, full of pillars and shadows and tattered solemnity. We walk to the platform upon which the pulpit stands, where an average-height man in nondescript attire awaits (he would blend right into the rush hour crowds in the financial district). The man in olive drab climbs the steps and moves to stand behind him.

“Hello,” says the colonel, in a perfectly average voice -- no lilt. He’s older than Moriarty -- maybe by a decade. His dark hair is graying. He is far less showy, more utilitarian, than Moriarty. Not that that’s difficult. He has a commanding presence, nonetheless.

“Hello.” I stare up at him.

“Who are you?”

Watching him carefully: “I’m here with a message from Moriarty.”

Moran cocks his head. “He’s too dead to be sending any messages.”

It’s true, then. “Are you sure?”

“Quite. He shot himself in the head. I disposed of the body.”

I blink. He committed suicide? That's not something I expected. “Why --” No, stop. I don’t actually care about the madman’s motives for killing himself, though I’m angry he took away my chance to do it. That’s not the question I really want. “How did he kill Sherlock Holmes?” I blurt, revealing more information about my interests than I probably should so early in the game.

Moran looks at me calculatingly. He shakes his head. “I don’t know. He never confided in me about some of his interactions with Mr. Holmes.”

I feel despair. I’ll never understand, now, why you left me. I push it down. “So you’re in charge now.”

Moran nods. “And you’re not here with any messages from my predecessor. You’re John Watson. I remember you now, from the papers. The detective’s sidekick.” I incline my head. “Why did you come here? You’re brave, I’ll give you that.”

I smile. “Probably more stupid than brave. But I thought maybe we could make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“I’d like to offer you my services. I have both military and medical training -- I’m intimately familiar with how to stop people from being alive.”

His eyes narrow. “Why?”

“I like danger.”

“You’ve only killed for your country. And mostly, you save people.”

I laugh. “You don’t know about all my kills, then. Would I have been friends with Sherlock Holmes if I’d had a firm moral grounding?” I don’t know how much he knows about you, but I hope he knows enough for this to be persuasive.

He considers. “But indeed, you were friends with him,” he says. “And I find it hard to believe you would work for the people who were responsible for his death.”

I shrug. “Were you involved with that?”

“No.”

“It’s true that I would never work for Moriarty. Honestly, I was planning to kill him if he was still alive. But as far as I know, you didn’t kill Sherlock. And I think some of our interests may align.”

Moran nods, slowly. “What would you like in exchange for your services?”

I stare at him like it’s a ridiculous question. “Money. Power. Excitement.” I haven’t shown much desire for money and power in the past; I hope he doesn’t know me well. Excitement, though, you clearly provided in ridiculous quantities; he probably knows that much. Mostly, I’m hoping that it’s hard for him to imagine someone not being motivated by these things.

He smiles faintly. “Aligned interests, indeed.” He paces, appears to be thinking. Then he steps down off the platform and walks toward me. As he approaches, he holds out his hand.

We shake. “I’m intrigued, John,” he says pleasantly. “And impressed with your skills in getting here. But I don’t trust you. Surely you didn’t think you were going to walk out of here alive?”

I shake my head. Everything slows down. I am watching the man in drab, still up on the platform, reaching for his gun. As he does, I am gripping Moran’s hand tightly and reaching for the switch. I am ready to detonate the dozen small pipes I am wearing inside my old military vest (concealed in putty to avoid suspicious lumps during the pat-down), ready to explode the gunpowder inside and send nails and screws and shrapnel ripping through my body and Moran’s. It’s much less powerful than the Semtex vest I had strapped to me at the pool, but it will do the trick.

I saw vests like this and bombs built on the same principle (well, more powerful, less hastily assembled, but same idea) in Afghanistan. Patched up dozens of people who’d had close encounters; lost more. Always worried one might destroy me. Never imagined I'd be pulling the trigger on it myself. But I’m ready to decapitate this crime syndicate (I wish it were Moriarty, but at least it will do some good, will mean something). I’m ready to join you.

I can still see the movements of the man in drab. His gun coming up. My thumb nearing switch. Shots ringing out from behind me, and then everywhere at once -- what? Who?

Something hits me from the side, and then I am on the ground. No. I was going to take out Moran. No.

I haven’t actually been shot, I don’t think. It doesn’t feel like being shot. Someone has knocked me down and is lying on top of me. I can hear more shots as I struggle to roll out from under the body. As I turn, I get my first look at the person who pushed me to the ground -- it’s the man with the shaved head. He’s lying very still, blood spreading from his chest, a gun in his hand. Was he protecting me when he knocked me to the ground? (Why would Moran’s man protect me?) Or was that just a happy accident? Who shot him? I’m confused, but there’s no time to think it through.

I grab the shaved-headed man’s weapon and look around. The man in drab is down, and more shots are ringing out from behind several pillars. Moran is running, almost to the door. He’s bleeding, but not stopping. I don’t understand what’s happening. But I have to hurry, before someone else shoots him. I want to do it myself. He’s too far away for me to be sure the vest will work. I raise the gun, cock, shoot.

I miss.

Moran is opening the door. I steady my arm, try again.

Moran goes down.

I got him.

I fall back against the floor and close my eyes. The shots have fallen silent. I wonder who the others in the church are -- rival criminals? -- and contemplate whether to put my thumb on the vest’s detonator once more. I wish you were here to analyze what’s going on.

“John!”

I know that voice. It’s the voice of your brother. What?

I turn, and Mycroft is there, looming, studying me. He’s wearing an impeccable suit. What’s he doing here? I struggle to stand. He doesn’t offer help.

Next to us, several people I don’t know are gathering around the man with the shaved head, taking his vitals.

“Are you all right?” Mycroft asks.

I nod. “What are you doing here?”

“We were trying to take down Moran,” he says. “Have been trying for some time. It seems the British government is in your debt, John.”

I glance over at Moran’s body, surrounded by even more people than the one next to us. “He’s dead?” Mycroft nods. “You...you also came here to kill him? Tonight?” It’s too much of a coincidence. Something doesn’t make sense. But my brain is still abuzz with adrenaline and I can’t make my thoughts straight and orderly.

“You led us to him. We weren’t sure where he would be, tonight -- he’s been elusive.”

“You were following me?” Then it clicks. “He was your man,” I say, looking down at the man with the shaved head.

“Yes.”

I think through the confusion of gunfire again. “Did the man in drab shoot him?”

“Yes -- though I believe he was aiming for you.”

“Will he live?”

One of the men next to him looks up at us and shakes his head. He died saving my life, apparently. I try not to laugh bitterly at the stupidity of someone trading their life for mine, mine which I tried to give up.

“When did he start following me?”

“We’d been tracking the movements of Jack Alpert, whom I believe you met earlier.” I nod. “We started watching you closely after you visited his flat. Then we stopped, for a while,” he continues. “My operative determined that you had given up and were... no longer doing anything relevant. We only realized his mistake later.” Mycroft shakes his head just a bit, looking down at his body.

I wonder just how aware Mycroft is of my personal activities of late. Watching me closely could mean they were already watching me. Does he know about all the men? Does he see the resemblance? I push the thought away.

My ploy with the prostitute worked, then -- even if I was shaking Mycroft rather than Moran. “How did you determine that I was doing something relevant again?”

“We had a tracer on Alpert’s phone.” Which I still have in my pocket. Ah. “Once we noticed you’d been on the move again, and not to any of your usual haunts, we rushed to follow you. And got here none too soon, I think.” His eyes flicker to my vest. He knows what I was going to do. I hold his gaze.

“Moriarty is dead," I tell him.

I want him to tell me that’s a lie. Instead, he simply says, “Yes.”

And even though I don’t want to, I believe it. Moriarty wouldn’t be able to stand staying dead, staying hidden. He’d be taunting us -- or at least Mycroft -- if he could. He’s gone. Really gone. “Will someone else take over for Moran now?”

“Unlikely, I think. He’s been piecing Moriarty’s network back together, but it’s been fraying badly at the edges. Agents defecting or going missing, everywhere. And Moran has been the central point of contact for all who remain. There’s nobody else with his knowledge; without him, the web will unravel.”

I nod again. I wish I felt some victory, some pride at having protected people. Or even some satisfaction at having destroyed the network of the man who destroyed you. But I just feel the adrenaline starting to leak away, and the beginnings of the hollow feeling returning.

I remember this, from Afghanistan. After the fighting was over, and there was no more danger, no point to it all. The emptiness that would creep in, eventually. Once I’d returned to London, you used to distract me from it in the aftermath of danger -- we’d laugh, and talk, and the excitement of the chase would fade into the intimate companionship of our everyday life. I never minded that. I wasn’t hollow, then. But I’ll never have that again, will I?

“John,” Mycroft says, watching me closely. He seems oddly hesitant. “Come with me. There’s something I need to tell you.”

I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to hear that my life isn’t worth throwing away, or whatever he’s going to tell me. Mycroft is the wrong Holmes, and I don’t want to hear anything he has to say. I shed the vest, so he won’t worry over it -- I won’t need it if I decide it’s time to go -- and I turn and walk toward the door. Mycroft calls after me once more, but doesn’t try to stop me.

* * *

I overdid it this time. The whisky. I can barely stand as I stumble through the alleys.

I should go home.

Instead, I head for the streets, where the men and boys await. Lots of them are slender. One of them will do. One of them will look enough like you.

I’m lucky -- the first one I see is about your height.

He’s bold, standing out under the streetlamp. Usually they hide a bit, lurking in the shadows, wary of police. Is he new? Or does he just not give a fuck?

I could use someone who just doesn’t give a fuck. Maybe he could remind me how to be like that. How to ignore the emptiness.

His coat is wrapped around him, and his collar turned up, the way you used to do. It’s not as nice as your coat was, of course. But it will do. He’s lean, very lean, even with the extra layer of the coat. His fingers, clutching the coat, are just like yours. Good.

I get closer.

Hair. He has your hair, though longer.

Cheekbones.

Eyes.

Oh.

Oh.

You.

The world spins and roars, and your eyes are the last thing I see as I crumple to the ground.