Archive of Our Own ^beta

THE ADVENTURE OF THE LOVESTRUCK FUGITIVES
(A “Moriarty the Patriot” Alternate Ending)

Act 1: At the River

Five boys are standing on a gravel spit at the edge of the Thames. It’s dark, and they are hidden from the road by the large shed at the rear of a clothing factory. They stare up the dark, swiftly flowing Thames at the flames and smoke rising from the center of London. Screams and cries can be heard in the distance, as well as the creaking of buildings succumbing to the flames, but here it is relatively calm and quiet.

“Let’s go,” says one boy. “‘E’s not coming.”

“Quiet,” says the largest boy with the pole.

“But Wiggins,” says the first boy, “London’s on fire. ‘E’s not going to come tonight. Let’s just split our 2 pounds and go.”

“I said no,” says Wiggins. “No body, no will. Remember? One way or the other, this is the last mission that maniac’s ever going to give us. I’m stayin’ to collect that will. And anyway, ‘as ‘e ever lied to us?”

“This is stupid,” says the boy. “’E’s not coming.”

“What’s that?” The smallest boy is pointing down the river at a strange black and twisted object drifting their way. At first it appears to be more rubble from the fires, but as it drifts closer they start to pick out details.

“Ugh, a body!”

“Two bodies!”

“It’s ‘im! Bring ‘im in!”

Wiggins steps into the water up to his ankles and prods at the floating object with his pole until it’s close enough for him to grasp the sodden fabric with his hands. He and the other four boys drag the tangled mass up onto the shore, where it indeed proves to be two bodies tied together by a rope, their heads obscured by strange swollen sacks.

“Where are their ‘eads? I’m not touching that!” screams a boy.

Wiggins shushes him. “It’s like ‘e told us, remember?” He takes a folding knife from his pocket and cuts into the first sack. Air hisses out and the sack collapses. Wiggins tentatively pulls it aside, and a pale and vacant face covered in a mess of black hair emerges. It’s Sherlock Holmes. Wiggins slaps him violently across the cheekbone and kicks him in the side. “I think ‘e’s really dead!” He kicks him again in the side of the chest. Sherlock rolls slightly and begins coughing up water. Wiggins kicks him more gently now in the back.

“Now now, Wiggins,” Sherlock wheezes and coughs. “You’ve done an admirable (cough) job at following my instructions, but you’ve (cough cough) revived me sufficiently now.” He drags himself up on his arms. “Quick, cut off this balloon.” Wiggins does so, and Sherlock flings it away. He gets to his knees and casts off his waterlogged jacket with another round of coughing.

Suddenly he freezes. “Liam!” He is looking desperately around now, and his eyes follow the rope tied around his waist to a sodden pile lying halfway out of the water. He tries to stand but can’t, and crawls and scrambles across to where William lies, his face also covered by a dark sack. “For the love of God, the knife!” Wiggins proffers it, and Sherlock cuts the balloon away from William’s face. This face is deathly purple, still, and pasted over with blond hair. Sherlock brushes it away and rolls William onto his side. “To think that after all of this, I may be a moment too late!” he cries, pounding on William’s back with his fists. “Liam, you have to wake up!” He locates a precise point on William’s back, places a fist over it, and pounds on his fist with his other hand. William is jolted, and water pours out of his open mouth. He begins to cough faintly. Sherlock collapses onto the ground beside him, relief washing over his face.

After a moment or two, he arises onto his elbow again and croaks out, “Wiggins, did you get the blankets? Bring them here. Good. Now cut our rope. Take off William’s jacket. Throw the jackets and rope and balloons into the Thames. Good. Now go for the cab man.”

Wiggins turns on him. “Where’s your will?” he says. “Let me see it.”

“Ah yes, of course,” says Sherlock. “Always the businessman.” He reaches into his shirt and pulls out a waxed envelope tied by a string around his neck. It is somewhat soggy and falls off the string. “Here it is, Wiggins, your payment for your most excellent services today. I leave to you all my earthly belongings. You may collect them from Miss Hudson the day after tomorrow.”

Wiggins takes the envelope and grins. “Thanks, Mr. ‘Olmes. It’s been a pleasure doin’ business with you.” He runs off to get the cabman.

--

Sherlock and William are bundled in blankets in the cab as it pulls up to Baker Street. William is unconscious but breathing faintly, and Sherlock has his arms around him to keep him from falling as the cab bumps over the cobblestones. The air is thick with smoke, but this part of the city is free of fires. When they come to a halt, Sherlock limps out, pays the cabbie handsomely, and, staggering, half carries, half drags William up the stairs into 221B and lays him across his bed. With the lights off and an averted gaze he strips William of his wet clothing and wraps him in blankets. This accomplished, he takes a cigarette from a box on the bedside table and lights it shakily as he kneels on the floor beside the bed. In the faint light from the burning ember he studies William’s face and reaches out a trembling hand to brush the hair from his eyes again.

Act 2. The Vigil

The first light of dawn is seeping in through the curtains. On the radiator, two sets of men’s clothing are drying. In the bed, William lies bundled up in blankets, motionless. Sherlock, in a dressing gown, is perched beside him, intently studying William’s face as he smokes a cigarette, his brows furrowed and an overflowing ashtray balanced on his thigh. “Liam,” he says. “Can you hear me?” There is no response from William, whose breathing is so faint and slow that Sherlock notes each tiny rise in the blankets with relief and a fresh drag on his cigarette. “Liam, you’re all right, aren’t you?” he quietly asks the silent form.

He sits in silence a moment, watching William breathe and smoking down his cigarette. He lights another from the butt. “Would you like to hear how I saved us? I bet you’ve already got it figured out, but I’ll tell you anyway in case you want to hear.”

“I’ve studied the currents of the Thames extensively, Liam. I’ve even written a monograph on the subject, though no one at the Yard has bothered to read it. But perhaps that’s just as well in the end… So I knew that at the center of the Thames is a patch of deeper water with a faster current than the rest of the river. And because of the speed, and the curve of the river, things that fall into that current almost always wash up at a gravel spit behind Silver’s Clothing Works. There have been several cases of suicide I worked on that were most instructive.

“I was hoping to convince you to come down from Tower Bridge with me, and truly it would have saved a good deal of trouble if you had. But I also knew how single-minded you are, so I anticipated you would most likely try to plunge off the bridge.

“Most people think that a man dies instantly when he strikes water from a great height. But I have examined enough corpses to know that death actually comes by drowning. As I’m sure you know, the man is knocked insensible by striking the water, then he drowns because he is unconscious and cannot avoid drowning.

“Well, fortunately one of the chemical experiments I’d been dabbling in involved the development of a carbon dioxide-filled foam that is generated upon contact with water. And I had some samples of an elastic rubber that I had been working with to see if laboratory gloves could be made from that material. So it was a simple matter of affixing the one inside the other and tethering it to the inside of my shirt. I made a second self-inflating foam for you, which I kept in my pocket. As we fell, I clipped it to your belt and tie. …You even dressed impeccably when heading to your death, Liam.” He smiles and shakes his head and lights another cigarette from the butt of the last. “I’m sorry if it choked you, but I had to keep your head above water. The last thing I brought was a rope with clips on each end, which I used to tether our belts together so we wouldn’t get separated from each other in the river.

“People always look for a body near where it hit the water, and they don’t think to search downstream until later. But actually the body drifts downstream quite a distance while it’s under water, especially if it has fallen from a great height, and especially if it’s attached to some buoyant foam as we were. I assumed that by the time we surfaced we would most likely be past the search area and in the clear.

“I had told Wiggins, a street urchin who I often find useful in my investigations, to wait at the gravel spit and retrieve my body, dead or alive. I paid him two pounds in advance and have bequeathed to him all the earthly belongings remaining in my flat after my death. Because Sherlock Holmes is dead now, Liam, along with William James Moriarty.

“Wiggins, I said, please make absolutely certain I am actually dead before taking the will from under my shirt and abandoning my body. …Perhaps I should have explained to him in more detail how to determine if someone is dead, as I received several bootprints in my back during the procedure.

“I had hired a cab to wait near the gravel spit earlier in the day and had to pay the cabbie two pounds in advance as well due to the general state of emergency about the City today. I’m running low on funds now, I’m sorry to tell you. I picked old Cuthbert the cabbie, who is half blind, so he wouldn’t be spooked by the sight of the city burning. I figured we could get away in the cab and come back here to regroup. I’ve sworn Wiggins and co. to secrecy, but even if he tells what happened, no one will listen to a street child. He’s the perfect accomplice.”

A ray of light from the rising sun breaks in through a gap in the curtains and strikes William’s face. He moans slightly and frowns. “Sherly…” he mumbles. “Supposed to kill me… Sherly…” His eyes flick open for a second, then squeeze shut. He moans, and a tear runs from the corner of his eye and across the bridge of his nose. Sherlock, watching him, grins at his name, then winces, then shrugs and stubs out his cigarette. He chucks the ashtray onto the floor where it overturns and spills its contents. Very carefully, he presses an arm under the blanket-wrapped bulk of William and raises him slightly until William’s head is propped up against his chest. He folds his long arms around Williams upper arms and interlocks his fingers in front like a safety restraint.

“It’s all right, Liam,” he says. “You’re not hurt too badly, are you?” William lets out a low moan and is convulsed with silent sobs. “Supposed to kill me,” he repeats.

“Shhh, Liam,” says Sherlock, squeezing him tighter through the blankets. “The Lord of Crime is dead, drowned in the Thames with Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock whispers. “But you’re still here with me.”

“Kill me…” William moans again, eyes screwed shut.

“Sorry, Liam,” says Sherlock firmly. “That is the one thing you got wrong. And I’m not sure why, since you were always three steps ahead of me on everything. But there was never even the remotest possibility that I would kill you. Not even for one second did I entertain that thought. I wonder if there was perhaps something else you wanted from me, but didn’t realize it yourself…” he muses.

“It did seem there was a good chance that you would kill me someday, but I was more than willing to accept that possibility just to be near you again. The day I murdered that asshole Milverton, I was standing there waiting for your bullet to pierce me…” William’s eyes flick open for a second in surprise and dart around the room, finally looking up into Sherlock’s downturned face and sad smile. They study each other for a moment, and Sherlock reaches down again to brush the hair out of William’s face. As his finger strokes the pale hair and soft brow underneath, and William’s eyes open a bit wider, a loud knocking on the outer door shatters the quiet moment.

“Scotland Yard!” comes the shout from the hall, followed by more banging. “Anyone in there?”

“Stay right there, Liam,” says Sherlock, patting him on the top of the head and slipping his arm out from under him. He dashes out of the bed, kicking the ashtray across the room, and tosses his dressing gown onto the floor. From the closet he yanks out a frilly dress, which he throws over his head, followed by a handkerchief which he knots under his chin. “Just a moment, offisa!” he shrieks out in falsetto, as he throws on house slippers and a pair of large, round glasses. Biting his lips to redden them, he exits the bedroom at a run, latching the door behind him.

Sherlock throws open the front door to the flat, and there stands a tired-looking Inspector Lestrade, his hand raised to pound again. “Wot can I do for you, offisa?” Sherlock squawks.

“Pardon the intrusion, ma’am,” says Lestrade. “You may have heard about the conflict between Mr. Holmes and the Lord of Crime last night. I’ve come here to see whether Mr. Holmes has left anything behind that can shed more light on the Lord of Crime situation. …And I admit that I wanted to check just in case Mr. Holmes somehow survived the fall and made it back here. I thought I smelled tobacco smoke, and I was hoping…” He brushes at his eye and sighs, then collects himself. “…And, if I may ask, who are you, ma’am, and why are you here?”

“Oh, I’m Mrs. Chambers, Mr. ‘Olmes’s ‘ousekeeper, sir,” says Sherlock. Mr. “‘Olmes told me if he didn’t come ‘ome last night, I was to pack up some of ‘is things for ‘is brother Mycroft. ‘E’s leaving the rest to some chap named Wiggins,” says Sherlock, quickly tossing files into a box.

“Sherly…” comes a weak moan from the bedroom. “Oh, that’s me son Billy,” says Sherlock. “‘E’s under the weather, so I ‘ad to bring ‘im along. Quiet now, Billy, like a good boy, while your mum talks to the nice offisa!”

“Sherly…?” comes the moan from the bedroom again. “Poor dear,” says Sherlock, “‘E was broken-hearted to ‘ear about Mr. “‘Olmes. That man was a real ‘ero, I tell you, saving us all from the Lord of Crime.” Shouting to the bedroom, “Sherlock ‘Olmes was a ‘ero, wasn’t ‘e, Billy?!” To Lestrade he says conspiratorially, “The doctor told me Billy’s got the scarlet fever, but ‘e don’t seem deathly sick to me, just taken a little poorly.” Lestrade takes a step back towards the door. “I ‘ad to bring Billy along, couldn’t leave ‘im alone in case ‘e turns for the worse. I promised that dear Mr. “‘Olmes I would take care of ‘is things, after ‘e went and gave up ‘is life for us, so I ‘ad to come.” He shoves the box of files and the Stradivarius case into Lestrade’s hands. “Be a dear and take these to Mr. ‘Olmes’s brother for me, will you sir?” He coughs twice Lestrade’s direction and blows his nose noisily on a handkerchief.

“Yes ma’am, I’ll do that right away,” says Lestrade, and dashes from the room and down the stairs.

“Well, that’s done,” says Sherlock, reentering the bedroom. William has sat up slightly in the bed and is regarding him with confusion and perhaps a hint of amusement. “Sorry, Liam, it’s time to get up. Can you stand? I wish you didn’t have to see me dressed as one of these ridiculous women,” says Sherlock, “but it can’t be helped. We must get you out of this house and well out of London before Lestrade remembers that Miss Hudson does all the housekeeping here. It’s a good thing he has been up all night and is mourning my death, or he would have puzzled it out by now.”

He throws their clothes from off the radiator into a suitcase, along with some more clothing, his emerald tie pin, and a few other valuables which he collects from around the flat. “Wiggins wouldn’t know what to do with these anyway,” he smiles as he tosses them in.

“I’m to be Mrs. Harold Chambers, and you will be my elderly and crippled… husband,” Sherlock says, blushing. “I’ve secured us passage on the express train to Inverness.” He grabs a well-worn suit and overcoat from the closet, and throws them on the bed, followed by a grizzled grey wig and beard. From under the bed he produces and unfolds a wheelchair. “Let me help you get dressed, Liam.”

Act 3. In Transit

Mr. and Mrs. Harold Chambers are sitting opposite each other in a private train compartment as the afternoon shadows of London flash past. There are quite a number of construction and emergency vehicles visible out the window, assessing the damage from the fires. Above the Chambers’ heads, their suitcase rests in the luggage compartment. A folded wheelchair leans against the seat to the left of Mrs. Chambers.

The Chamberses are eating pasties wrapped in newspaper, Mrs. Chambers scarfing hers in a most unladylike manner, Mr. Chambers taking small and careful bites. His beard appears to have become detached from his chin and is hanging below. Mrs. Chambers, gulping down her last bite, stretches her left arm several different ways, then extends her feet across the compartment towards Mr. Chambers. She tents her fingers in front of her lips, from which the rouge has worn away, and gazes across at her husband from under lidded eyes. “Sherly,” says Mr. Chambers with a half smile, “that’s a most unsuitable way for a lady to be sitting.” But Sherlock, who has been awake for three days straight setting up this escape and nearly drowned the night before, has already fallen asleep with his head pitched back, and his arms slip down askew at his sides.

William regards him silently. Without the force of his dynamic personality to support it, the disguise of Mrs. Chambers appears quite flimsy. He isn’t even wearing women’s shoes and has put on the skirt over his regular trousers, William notices, as his eyes work their way slowly down the sleeping figure. Certain Sherlock is asleep, he uncrosses his own legs and arranges them on either side of Sherlock’s left leg so that their calves are sandwiched together. He sits this way for close to an hour, studying his companion, before he too falls asleep.

…

They are awoken the next morning by the rap of the conductor on the compartment door. “Now arriving in Edinburgh! We stop here for 30 minutes! Next stop Inverness!” Sherlock smiles warmly as he wakes, and his eyelids slowly lift. He observes the leg situation, and his smile broadens. William, a sweet smile on his face while asleep, opens his eyes suddenly and jerks his legs back, assuming an impassive face.

“Good morning, Sherly. You know, I’ve read your monograph,” he says. “Prevailing Currents of the Thames and their Applications for Corpse Retrieval. It was quite good.” Although William has said this to cover his embarrassment, Sherlock only grins wider.

“You read my monograph?! Really?!” he says. “Nobody ever reads them! If the Yard had read it they could have easily found us down by Silver’s shop, and we wouldn’t be here now. It never occurred to me that criminals would be reading them instead and getting tips… (sorry, Liam), but I’m so happy that it was of use to you!”

“Indeed,” says William, smiling. “After I read it, I never allowed any of my customers to throw bodies into the Thames. Of course, I prefer to leave them in place as a message, but if they have to be disposed of, I always insist on the ocean.” His face darkens. “Just listen to me, still smug after all the terrible things I’ve done. What a wretched man I am…”

“Oh come off it, Liam,” says Sherlock. “You know you did every one of those things for a good cause. There’s a reason I’m not with the Yard. I can’t tell you how many criminals (sorry) I’ve let get away at the last minute because I respected their motives. I make my own justice. You have accomplished so much for the good of the country. Be proud of what you’ve done!” William eyes him skeptically from across the compartment, still frowning.

To change the subject, Sherlock lights a cigarette as he tells William his plans for their escape. “Sorry I couldn’t get a sleeper compartment for this trip, but I’m out of money. I was thinking, we’ll lay low in Inverness for a few months to recover and raise some funds, then we can book passage elsewhere by ship. We might go to Switzerland, if you like the idea. My customer in the Case of the Crenelated Partridge was Swiss, and speaking with him about the villages by the Alps whetted my appetite to travel there someday. Or we might even go over to the States, and try our luck in the Wild West!”

“Do you think we would wear serapes?” says William, with a chuckle. “And have gunfights with outlaws? What a humorous image.” His faint smile fades. After a long pause, he adds impassively, “Does this mean that you intend to travel with me for an extended time?” He can’t meet Sherlock’s eyes as he asks this.

“I was hoping to, if you’ll have me,” Sherlock replies, looking a bit hurt. But he takes a drag on his cigarette and regains his optimism quickly. “You’re the most wanted man in England, you know” (he winks), “and it seems to me that you might need a bit of help getting back on your feet. Plus, don’t forget that I murdered that douchebag Milverton! And maybe that piece of shit helper of his who pissed on my violin! Plus I helped you escape, so that makes me an accessory to the Tower fire! And I also shot that guy Tonga right through the head (although it was in self-defense), and everyone forgets about him for some reason… I’m kind of a bad-ass too, you know! Anyway, we are both fugitives from the law now, and fugitives need to stick together! Will you stick together with me, Liam?” He is leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands extended, as he delivers these last lines.

William has taken on his most bemused face. “In that case,” he smiles at Sherlock. “I would love to.”

…

Late in the afternoon, the train is pulling into Inverness station. Sherlock flexes his left hand a few times and rolls the shoulder. He straightens the kerchief over his dark hair, brushes the ash off his dress, and, standing, unfolds the wheelchair. “Do think you can walk now?” he asks. “We still don’t know how badly hurt you are, but I’d like to lose the wheelchair soon so we’re not as conspicuous.”

“I believe I may have broken a rib,” says William, feeling his side as he stands up cautiously in the shaking train car. “But now that I’ve rested so long I should be able to walk. However, since we arrived on this train with a wheelchair, we must depart with one so as not to arouse suspicion.”

“Agreed,” says Sherlock, and William repositions his beard as he takes a seat in the chair.

Act 4. New Opportunities

On their way through the train station, they pass a men’s room, and William steps from the wheelchair and enters it with the suitcase. He emerges several minutes later dressed in his normal clothing, though somewhat shabbier for its washing in the Thames. “Thank you for bringing my clothes. It’s lovely to wear my own attire again. I seem to have lost a sleeve garter, but everything else is perfect.”

Sherlock has gifted the wheelchair to some orphans, who can be seen out the window giving each other rides down the street. “It’s a good thing they printed such a terrible picture of you in the papers, Liam,” Sherlock says, checking out his dapper friend. “No one would ever recognize you from it.”

“That was Milverton’s doing,” says William, shaking his head. “Petty to the last.”

“That bloody wanker,” mutters Sherlock.

They exit the station and walk along the brick-lined streets of Inverness. Sherlock is carrying the suitcase and peering side to side as they walk. Suddenly he turns down an alley and ducks behind a stack of crates. “I must lose this hideous disguise,“ he says. “Stand guard for me, will you Liam?” William positions himself where he can best keep an eye out for onlookers. There is no one in sight, and he ventures a backward glance at Sherlock’s angular body as he strips off the dress. Sherlock looks up at that moment, winks and grins. A few minutes later he is back in his own normal clothing, also a bit worse for the washing. He unties his hair and shakes in out. It falls in tangled waves to his shoulders, emitting a powerful scent of tobacco smoke. William notices a piece of river weed that has become caught up in the curls and reaches out a hand to disengage it. Sherlock shuts his eyes.

A moment later he shakes his head and snaps back to focus. “We need to find some lodging, Liam, and quickly before night falls. I spent the last of my pocket money on the train tickets, and my very last coins on those pasties yesterday. What do you think we should pawn? I have my silver cigarette case received after the Underfield Calamity, the pearl cufflinks gifted me by the Prince of Lichtenstein, the inlaid snuffbox from the Prussian Affair, the emerald tie pin awarded me by a certain lady of distinction, a few other trifles… Sorry if I seem to be boasting. I’m used to speaking to John, and he gets so excited about lists of cases…”

“Oh dear,” he says, looking suddenly downcast, “it seems I’ve deceived poor John again. But the man couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. If he knew we were still alive it would be all over The Strand before we even got our shoes off.”

“You should pawn the snuffbox first,” says William quietly, looking away. “It is the least valuable item. You must be elegantly dressed when pawning fine items or the shopman will not believe them authentic. …Oh Sherly, I’m so sorry you are selling your treasures and deceiving your friend on my account. You know this isn’t the ending I wanted.”

“Treasures?” says Sherlock, looking at him in dismay. “You think I could give a whit about these things if the most fascinating man in the world was drowned at the bottom of the Thames? Let’s sell them all off and get a room! …In fact, if I’m not mistaken, there will be a “room to let” sign around this next corner!” They turn the corner, and the sign is visible in an upstairs window. Sherlock points and grins.

Having agreed that they must obtain funds before inquiring for the room, they continue down the street to the pawnbroker’s shop. William is standing in the alley with the suitcase sitting on the ground beside him. He is unsure what to do with his hands and keeps putting them in and out of his pockets and then clasping them behind his back; he is accustomed to carrying his sword-cane.

After a few minutes, Sherlock emerges from the shop with a wad of cash in his pocket and a blackthorn cane under his arm. It’s a polished wooden stick with a heavy, rounded head. “You looked like you needed one,” he says, holding it out. “No sword in this one, but it’s got a nice heft to it if you need to crack some heads.” William accepts it with polite thanks and downcast eyes. As they walk back down the road, he is using it for support rather than simply carrying it.

At the house, William does the talking. “Good evening,” he says to the lady of the house, a Mrs. Stewart, with his sweetest smile. “I see you have a room for let. We are two scientists on leave from university for the semester, up to visit some acquaintances at the Royal Academy. I am Mr. Laurence Morgan, a physicist, and this is Mr. Sydney Herreford, a chemist. We should like to lodge here for a few weeks or more if it’s acceptable to you.” He turns his smile on her again. Mrs. Stewart fans herself with a handkerchief, stands up tall to accentuate her bosom, and shows them up to the flat. It’s a sitting room adjoined by a single bedroom, with a nice view into a park across the street. The flat is furnished in thread-worn but serviceable pieces, including a small but comfy-looking bed covered in a fluffy counterpane. “Don’t worry,” says Sherlock to both of them, “ I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

Good to his word, when they go to sleep that night Sherlock drapes himself across the sofa fully dressed, and William, carefully folding his outer clothing and stacking it on a chair, slips into the soft bed. Both lie in silence, staring upward and unable to sleep. Sherlock smokes five cigarettes before he tiptoes over to check on William, who has left the right half of the bed untouched. Without a word, Sherlock lies down on top of the comforter on this side, turns his face to William, and positions one arm so that it barely grazes William’s arm. Now that their contact has been restored, they can rest. Exhausted from their travels and escape, they close their eyes.

Act 5. Hands

The early morning sun is shining in through the white curtains of the bedroom. William, fully dressed, is standing at the washbasin in the corner with his face angled down toward the water. His hands are covered in soap bubbles as he scrubs the top of his left hand with the right, then the reverse. Tears are pouring from his downcast eyes down his cheeks, dripping off his jaw, and spotting his vest.

Sherlock sits up in bed and rubs his left arm. “Everything ok, Liam?” There is no response but the sound of scrubbing. Cautiously he swings himself out of bed and approaches. From a few feet away, he watches William, who, after a few moments, slowly turns to face him, hands covered in soap.

“My hands are still scarlet with blood,” he says, shaking his head. “What have I done? They will never come clean.”

“Oh Liam,” says Sherlock. He stands for a moment regarding him. Another tear rolls down William’s face and spots his vest. “Your hands are perfectly clean.” He takes him by the elbow and turns him to rinse them off in the basin, then gathers them up in the hand towel. Suddenly, cradling William’s warm hands between his own in the towel, he realizes what he has done. He lets the towel fall to the ground, and William’s hands are in his. To cover his embarrassment, he offers, “Let me tell you about these hands.”

“First of all, obviously, these hands are very clean. They are a little raw across the knuckles where they have been scrubbed too many times. I infer from this that their owner feels greatly burdened by the weight of his past actions.” Three more tears roll down and collect on William’s jawline before dropping silently onto the fabric of his vest. Sherlock eyes the perfect drips as they collect and fall, then takes a quick breath, very aware of the weight and warmth and smoothness of the two hands he is clutching. He ventures a glance higher up William’s face, but his eyes are downcast and still streaming. Holding William’s hands in his left hand only, he runs his right index finger along the length of William’s right index finger. “I can see from this slight indentation that the man whose hand this is often writes with a chalk.” His finger passes on to the pad of William’s middle finger. “But he also often writes with pen for many hours at a time. I would say this man is a professor who gives lectures and grades papers. He is a very conscientious professor, as he grades the papers himself instead of assigning the work to a graduate student.” William’s mouth twitches for a moment in the hint of a smile.

“Moving on to the palm,” says Sherlock, turning the hand over, “I can see that the man whose hands these are is not the type to leave all the physical work to others. Although these are obviously the well-manicured hands of a noble, they are strong hands.” He runs his finger over William’s palm. “These slight callouses indicate a man who is proficient at climbing… and martial… arts.” Sherlock is having trouble maintaining his composure. His breath has become quick and shallow, and he doesn’t dare look up to see how William is responding to this performance. No more tears have fallen, however. He turns back William’s cuff slightly to expose the dark purple bruises made by his own fingers only a few days before, as he desperately tried to hold onto him atop the Tower Bridge. He brings his face close to inspect the four blotches, with slight scratching where his nails had cut into the skin. “I can see that this hand belongs to a man who is cared for deeply.” He turns the hand back over and runs his right hand over the knuckles and delicate veins. “In short, these are the hands of a man…” (he is breathing quickly, and William can feel the warm exhalations across the backs of his hands) “…with deep convictions,… who takes his own actions… rather than leaving them for others. A man of… both an amazing mind and… impressive… physical… strength… They are the most… perfect… and… beautiful hands… I have ever seen.” As he speaks each word he brings his face fractionally nearer to William’s hand until, as he speaks the final word he presses his lips, trembling, against William’s knuckle. William gasps and steps back, breaking the contact. Their hands fall to their sides.

Now Sherlock is covering his face with his hands. “Oh God Liam, forgive me. I misread—“

“No.” William’s voice is strong and decisive, though he is trembling all over and his nostrils are flared. He reaches a shaking hand out and takes Sherlock’s hands down from his face. “You read me perfectly, as always.” He looks up and their eyes meet. The tears have dried into crystal tracks down his face.

“Now I shall tell you about your hands, if you like.” Sherlock’s eyes widen. William slides his fingers gently over the backs of Sherlock’s hands, stopping at each burn and stain. “These are the hands of a man who performs chemical experiments without adequate consideration of his own safety.” He flips the left hand over and runs his thumb along the pads. Sherlock quivers. “They are the hands of a man who is exceptionally skilled at the violin and yet has never shared this talent with the world.” He runs his long fingers over the knuckles of each hand. “These are the hands of a man who is also quite skilled at martial arts, specifically baritsu, but I can see that he has been a boxer as well.” He touches the palms gently. “These hands are equally adept with a revolver as with a sword.” William brings his face very close and inhales slowly, then blows the air out slowly across the palms. “These are the hands of a man who smokes altogether too much for his health,” he whispers breathily into the hands, with a smile. Sherlock has lost it completely: his mouth hangs open, awestruck. He can’t believe this is actually happening. “Though he professes a fascination with death,” says William, twisting the skull ring as he slides it slowly up and back down Sherlock’s finger, “in truth this man is spilling over with the energy of life.” A small involuntary sound escapes Sherlock’s lips. “They are the hands of the brave and kind and handsome man who has saved my life and given me something to live for,” William concludes, with a slow and gentle kiss to the center of each palm. He lifts his head and flashes his long-lashed scarlet eyes at Sherlock.

They stand breathing quickly and desperately by the washbasin, eyes locked together and their four hands clasped between them.

Act 6. Injuries

William and Sherlock are walking side by side down the street outside their flat. They are separated by about six inches of space, which Sherlock is endeavoring to fill by inclining his head toward William. They are walking at a moderate pace, but William is still using the new cane for support. Sherlock eyes his elegant hand gripping the polished knob.

It is a chill but sunny Sunday morning, and across the street at the park several young ladies and their suitors are strolling hand in hand. “You know,” says Sherlock, “I never could understand what would inspire a perfectly sensible man to lay down his useful pursuits for the day just to hang about with a woman. … But recent events have given me an insight into his motives.”

“Indeed?” says William with a laugh.

Unfortunately for their happy mood, just at that moment they pass a newspaper boy selling copies of the Inverness Courier. The boldface headline reads “MORIARTY BROTHERS IMPRISONED IN THE TOWER.” William stops in his tracks and turns deathly pale. They buy a copy and walk quickly across the street to a park bench to read it. Sherlock lights a cigarette, brows furrowed. William has assumed his most serious frown.

“Albert and Louis Moriarty,” the article reads, “have been found guilty of 87 counts of murder, arson, and destruction of property, as well as one count each of conspiracy against the State. They have been sentenced to life in prison and confined to the Tower of London. The mastermind behind the attacks, their brother William James Moriarty, is presumed dead after his fall from Tower Bridge the night of the fire. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective of Baker Street, was also killed that night as he attempted to apprehend Mr. Moriarty…”

“Oh my poor brothers,” says William, rubbing his temples. “What have I done to them? Here I am, out on a lark” (Sherlock frowns) “when I should be the one paying for my crimes! I’ve left then to shoulder the full weight of this unbearable burden!” He slaps the paper for emphasis.

Sherlock places a hand on his shoulder, then removes it, then puts it back. “I should tell you,” he says cautiously, “that the night before the fire, I was visited by your brother Louis and that character-actor, Fred. They implored me to save your life by any means. I know it meant a lot coming from Louis, because he absolutely detests me! He could hardly bring himself to even look at me, but he was driven to do it by his deep love and respect for you, and I was his last chance to save you. At the end of our conversation, Louis told me that he didn’t care what happened to himself, even if he was to be executed, just so long as you were safe and happy. That man lives for you. I’m sure Albert feels the same way, but he respects you too much to undermine your wishes. He would have let you die rather than disobey you, although it would have broken him completely.”

William is still looking down at the paper and shaking his head. He scowls grimly. “They think I drowned in the river and are mourning my loss, even while they assume the burden of my guilt. They have no idea we are here. How could I have done this to them?” He covers his eyes with his hands.

“Have a little faith in me,” Sherlock smiles gently, and takes a long drag from his cigarette. He blows the smoke away out across the park toward the happy laughing couples. “Remember when you were just waking up in my bed” (he shuts his eyes for a second), “and Lestrade came barging in? And I had to dress hurriedly as that ridiculous housekeeper? I was packing up “Sherlock’s” papers for Lestrade to take to my brother Mycroft. And I gave him my Stradivarius for safekeeping as well. Mycroft also plays the violin, and he has long been convinced that my estimable instrument is a mere forgery. He never could believe that I found a true Stradivarius at a Tottenham Court pawnshop for 55 shillings. I guarantee you that the first thing Mycroft will do when he receives those items is to pick up my Stradivarius and play, for the sheer pleasure of trying to prove me wrong. …But, I have woven one of your sleeve garters into the bow, which he will notice as soon as he picks it up. I have never worn one of those fiddly items, and he knows my preferences quite well. In that way, he will learn that we have both survived.”

William looks up, both beaming and blushing. “I do believe Mycroft is on good terms with your brother Albert, is he not?” Sherlock continues. “He will certainly relay the news. Also I believe it is possible to live in some comfort in the Tower, if you have the right connections. And after a few years of peace and prosperity between the different classes, if all goes according to your plan, the brothers will certainly be exonerated. It would not be like Mycroft to leave two such useful players to fester in a prison.”

“Oh Sherly, thank you!” says William. “Though the garter was perhaps a bit indiscrete…” He grips Sherlock’s arm in his pleasure, thinking of his brothers’ joy at the news. Sherlock winces and pales. When they stand to head home a few minutes later, he swoons and drops back onto the bench. William feels his forehead. “You’re feverish!” He presses two fingers along the side of his neck to take a pulse. Sherlock tilts his head to trap them there. “You’re blood pressure is… Oh, never mind, it’s becoming elevated again.”

“Sorry,” says Sherlock, and raises his knee. “Liam, I may require some medical attention,” he admits shakily a few moments later. “Remember when I got cut by a certain sword a few days ago? We had several other, more pressing concerns at the time, but now we should perhaps address this one.”

…

Back at the room, Sherlock stretches out on the couch while William unpacks gauze, iodine, cotton swabs, needle and thread, and a bottle of brandy from a paper bag. He unbuttons Sherlock’s sleeve and rolls it up his arm. An oozing, bloodstained rag is tied around the place where he cut him with his sword at the top of Tower Bridge. “Oh dear,” William says, peeling it away and inspecting the red and infected wound. He fetches boiling water from downstairs and rolls up his own sleeves, washes hands and arms at the basin, and, kneeling by the couch, begins scrubbing Sherlock’s arm with a soapy cloth. “I learned battlefield medicine from Jack Renfield,” he says. “And I’m quite proficient. Now stay still while I swab the wound. It will sting quite a bit, so drink some of this brandy. I’m going to sew you up and hope for the best. It’s the least I can do after cutting you so badly, Sherly. We mustn’t go to an actual doctor in case we are recognized, but I daresay I will do a more sanitary job anyway.”

Sherlock is watching with pleasure and only occasionally wincing as William attends to his arm. When the procedure is completed, William binds it tightly in clean gauze and looks over his work. “It seems I seriously underestimated your substance abuse habit,” he comments, running a finger along the many tiny marks on Sherlock’s inner arm. “Do you intend to continue injecting morphine and cocaine on a regular basis?”

“I only do that when I’m bored,” says Sherlock, smiling. “And I don’t believe I will ever be bored again as long as we’re together.“

“Are we going to play arms now?” he asks, reaching out for William’s bare forearm. “Let me see what I can—oh my.” He stops flirting and looks at William seriously; the many scars on William’s arm stand out even whiter than his pale skin. “You have been severely beaten and abused as a child. Who did this to you? …Oh.” He sits up straight and stares into William’s scarlet eyes. “You killed them, didn’t you? The original Moriarties. You killed them, and you burned the house down to hide the evidence. Dear God.”

William is still on his knees by the couch with the remaining gauze in his hand, but he straightens up and stares back, cold defiance in his face.

Suddenly Sherlock laughs. “What a man you are! What a brilliant child you must have been! Just imagine a child planning out such a perfect crime. Liam, you are truly a genius and prodigy of crime! You killed them, and now you’ve completely ruined their family name. That will teach them to hurt my Liam!” He smiles widely and pats his bandage. “You are truly amazing, Liam. When this wound heals, I will cherish the scar cut by your blade.”

…

A few days later, Sherlock is sitting with his back to the door at the small table, perusing the newspaper and jotting occasional notes into a journal. His sleeve is rolled up, and he touches the bandage on his arm, pats it fondly. The door opens, and William walks in, cane in one hand and a brown case in the other. He props the cane by the door and approaches Sherlock, laying a hand softly on his shoulder. “I’ve brought a gift for you, Sherly.” He holds it out, and Sherlock opens the lid to find a beautiful violin.

“Liam, I love it!” he grins. “Thank you so much! But how did you buy it? We haven’t pawned anything else yet.”

“I’ve been working a bit this morning,” William says, “and a certain customer paid me well in exchange for my services.”

Sherlock looks a little worried. “You haven’t killed anyone, right Liam?” he asks tentatively. William shakes his head. “Wonderful!” says Sherlock, and, picking up the violin, he begins playing a beautiful waltz, dancing about the room as he plays. The notes fill the small room with a quivering energy, and William, absorbing it all, smiles.

Act 7. At the Falls

A few weeks later, Sherlock and William have gone on holiday for a weekend in Morvich, a charming highlands village with traditional cottages and green pastures full of sheep. They are just walking out of their inn, and the landlord wishes them a pleasant hike. “It is a beautiful day for a walk up to the falls,” he says, and they smile as they pass the traditionally-clad villagers and yards planted with spring flowers. Climbing upward along the trail, they speak in low voices, as there is another hiker dressed in black who always seems to be a hundred feet or so behind them.

“We’re flush with cash now, Liam, thanks to my pearl cufflinks and your high-class customers this week. Were you perchance involved in the Moray Firth boat fire on Tuesday? No, no, I’m not to investigate! Sorry, old habits die hard! …If you like, we could start looking for ship’s passage to the continent soon. We’ll have all of Europe to choose from and could go wherever we like!

“On the other hand, it’s really quite comfortable here. I was thinking you might like to teach again. There is an opening right now at the Royal Academy for an associate professor. It’s well below your abilities, but if you show off your brilliance too brilliantly you’ll blow our cover. Well, perhaps we’ll just wait a bit longer and see what develops…”

William is moody and quiet, and appears to be wrestling with something internally. Finally he speaks: “Thank you for coming here, Sherly. I’ve always wanted to see the Falls of Glomach, ever since I saw a picture of them in a book as a child. They are second only to Reichenbach Falls in sheer height of falling water. It is said that you can hear the voices of the dead in the pounding waters when standing at the precipice. …I’ve always felt strangely drawn to powerful waterfalls, as though I could absorb some of their strength of purpose...” Sherlock gives him a concerned, sideways glance.

The path narrows as they climb up into the mountain, and the pleasant fall day gives way to a wintry contrast between black rocks and grey sky. The air grows colder, and the sun is hidden by the mist. Off to the right, the sound of churning water grows louder. The man in black is still behind them. At the next rise, the trail narrows until it is only three feet wide and running along the edge of the cliff; the trail ends in a sheer rockface a little farther along. Sherlock and William turn to look over the cliff at the swollen river plunging down over the falls into a black abyss deep below. The spray billows up like smoke, and the pounding of the water indeed sounds almost like howling cries from below.

Suddenly they hear rapid footfalls, and a young boy comes running up the trail with a note in his hand. “Hurry, doctor, hurry!” he cries, handing the paper to the man in black. “Mrs. Whittaker’s gone into labor, and the baby’s coming soon!” The man in black tips his hat to William and Sherlock, wishes them a pleasant afternoon, and dashes off down the mountain.

William and Sherlock are alone at the top of the precipice. They stand contemplating the beauty and horrifying power of the falls, William from his position leaning against the rock wall and Sherlock closer to the edge of the cliff. William frowns, and Sherlock turns away from the falls to face him, a puzzled half-smile on his face. “Sherly, are you not even slightly afraid,” William asks in his coldest voice, “that, despite all we’ve been through together, I may have brought you here to kill one or both of us? Rather than touring Europe together? It does seem like something I would do.”

Sherlock smiles at him, and a sudden burst of sun makes spangles of the water droplets in his hair. “That’s my Liam,” he says. “Always an undercurrent of danger. If I didn’t love your dangerous nature, I wouldn’t be proposing to spend my life with you. …Plus,” he adds with a laugh, “you know I could always defeat you with my wicked baritsu skills.”

William steps forward toward Sherlock with a thin, inscrutable smile, and places his palm flat against Sherlock’s chest as if to push him. They stand like this for a moment with the water churning behind Sherlock’s back. He smiles again, and the mist billows up behind him. Suddenly William grabs him by his unbuttoned shirt collar and pulls him forward into an open-mouthed kiss. They wrap their arms around each other, their tall bodies pressed together, and kiss until they are soaked with spray from the waterfall and their hair hangs dripping in their faces. Then, of one accord, they turn silently from the cliff and walk hand in hand down the trail to the inn.