Sherlock Holmes- A Study in Blood

Chapter 27

"There's an east wind coming (...) such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared." ~ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Watson leapt from the carriage and hastened up the decrepit steps of the crumbling theater that yet managed to loom over him. Holmes often met with his Irregulars here. "It's so overt, it's covert," the detective had told him. Grand Street Theater had fallen to disrepair years ago, and even in its derelict state, it had become a landmark in its own right. One everyone knew, but no one bothered to pay attention to, which had made it the perfect meeting place. Unfortunately, it also made it the perfect hideout for Moriarty. He only hoped Holmes' knowledge of the theater could give him an advantage, and maybe buy Watson some time.

The idea that he may very well be too late lingered in the back of his mind, torturing him with grisly images of what he may find. He pushed them further back and carefully tread up the once grand staircase, noting how strange it was that there was no one about. No one to guard the door or simply to keep a look out. Either Professor Moriarty was overly confident, or his miraculous return was not as well received as the man would have liked, but whatever the reason, Watson was glad for it.  It allowed him to place his focus on finding Holmes. He followed voices, one welcomingly familiar, the other monstrously so, that lead him to the main auditorium. With cautious steps, he made his way to the balcony.

Crouched low, he chanced a glance over the rail. There was Holmes, center-stage with Moriarty circling him like a cat. It was unnerving to see Holmes in such a position. In all their years together, he never allowed himself to be caught, unless doing so served a greater purpose. He had to trust that there was one now. With his rifle loaded and ready, he settled in to wait for the opportune moment to present itself.

"All the world's a stage, Mr. Holmes," Moriarty's voice echoed through the empty theater, and Holmes' fingers curled into fists at his sides, "and you, with the role of a lifetime in your grasp, have wasted it. Domestic life has made you predictable, Mr. Holmes, and ever so dull. Even so, I cannot have you ruining my plans like the last time. You'll no longer be in my way."

The former professor raised his pistol, and Holmes felt his blood run cold as he stared down the black barrel, but he did not, would not, so much as flinch. He would not give the man such satisfaction. After all, he had often thought of dying as easy. It was living, in his opinion, that was the more difficult task. And yet, facing death in such a way proved quite the opposite to be true. His heart pounded in his chest and he was painfully aware that it may be the last time he would feel such a sensation.

It was not life itself that he would miss, he realized, but the people in it to whom he had grown more attached to with every passing day. Angelic little Mary. His dear Irene. Simza. Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft. John.

What would become of John?

The crack of a gun echoed through the empty chamber and Holmes was momentarily stunned. Moriarty stumbled forward. Their eyes locked, and the madman let out a maniacal laugh. Hardly able to breathe himself, Holmes' gaze traveled down to where, rather than a bullet wound in his own chest, one blossomed across Moriarty's. The man fell at his feet, the dark stain of blood spreading outward from the entry wound in his back and staining his coat.

His heart threatened to gallop out of his chest, and he worked to control his breathing as he looked around for the assassin. It was then he happened to glance up and see Watson standing above him in the balcony seats, lowering his rifle. He allowed his eyes to fall closed in a moment of dizzying relief. Only then did his body calm and his mind take control.