Team Blue Genius

Travelling by sea was Sherlock’s only option, as it was the easiest way to avoid detection and he did not want to leave any traces of his time in Ireland. He had arrived by ferry to Cork harbour early in the morning, and was outside the Central Statistics and Records Office by nine o’ clock. Getting in was easy; all he needed was an official-looking badge and an authoritative air and soon he had been given the appropriate clearance. He was led to a computer and after a brief explanation about the operation of the system was left to his own devices.

  It wasn’t hard to find. Not wanting to waste any time, Sherlock typed in the first name he needed, that of Richard Brook. Up came his records, a series of fake facts; there were his fake parents, fake birthplace, fake driving licence and fake education, a whole new identity that had been masterfully created and sold as truth to the entire world. Even through his utter contempt and loathing for this man, he couldn’t help but admire the attention to detail.

  Sherlock pulled up another window, one entitled ‘James Moriarty’.  This time he read through the profile with much greater care, noting any alterations in his change of address or the universities he had attended for the possible contacts and leads which could come from them. The biggest surprise to him was Moriarty’s PhD in mathematics from Trinity College Dublin. It wasn’t so much a question of his qualification; he never doubted for a second that Jim had the mind to complete one, but it was the fact that he hadn’t become bored of academia halfway through the course. It had happened when he had been studying as an undergraduate student in college.

  Sherlock looked at the clock and realised that he had lingered for far too long. He had to be going.

  “Goodbye, James Moriarty,” he said softly, and with great satisfaction he deleted the records. It was if he had never existed at all.

    Year 2 – Trier, Germany.

  Sherlock had no idea what interest Moriarty had in the quiet, though touristy, town of Trier, but his search had led him there, so there he went. It was quiet; the crisp January air seemed like it was holding its breath. Snow lay in a small dusting on the medieval buildings and cobblestone streets, and everyone who had any sense was staying inside from the slippery conditions and the bitter cold. Sherlock was not one of these people, and he moved carefully but deliberately down the streets to his current destination. He had had several days to get used to his new environment and now knew the streets well. Of course his map was not the same quality as the standard he had set with London, but it was good enough.

  A hooded figure appeared in the distance. Though there were many lights lit all around him, he could not see the man’s face from far away. Sherlock made not attempts to disguise himself and walked right up to meet him. They shared a quick exchange in German, before the man walked away, beckoning for Sherlock to follow him. Sherlock did as he was told, and they walked down a maze of side streets before entering a shabby house, one that retained none of the quaint charm of the tourist village. Inside were two other men. He was quickly searched for weapons and then told to sit down.

  Their conversation was conducted in German. Sherlock explained his situation to the men, leaving out some of the important details like who he actually was. It had taken a whole year to find these people, his first lead. They were three men who had fled from Moriarty’s underworld and had been on the run across Europe ever since, using old contacts and tricks of the trade in order to avoid detection.

  “We thought we were safe when Mr Moriarty died,” one of the men told Sherlock. “But his grip is strong, even in death.”

  “No,” agreed Sherlock. “Death will never conquer that man, but I intend to do so. Do you know who the person in charge is now? It must have been his second in command; did he come to power when Moriarty died?”

  “No one knows his name,” he replied. “Apparently he was a former military commander based-”

  A shot rang out, and the man speaking in front of him crumpled to the ground. The other, the man who had frisked him, stood with a revolver in his hand.

  “Put your hands in the air,” he said, waving the gun at the two men left standing.

  “Hmmm, I thought you’d be the mole of this group,” said Sherlock, sitting back in his chair. He didn’t raise his hands. “It’s a small tick you have. You see, whenever you’re lying you touch your left ear.”

  “How do you know this? It’s only the first time we’ve met you.” He gestured more insistently to his gun, warning Sherlock to comply with his orders. Sherlock had no intention of doing so.

  “The thing is, Mr Hundt, oh yes, I know your name too, is that I’ve been watching you and your gang for days. Based on my suspicions, I decided to have a chat with your two friends earlier about you. They didn’t believe me at first but I think the penny started to drop when they realised that no one had caught up with you for months. Considering the contacts Moriarty has, he never would have allowed you to escape if he didn’t think there wouldn’t be anything to gain. In essence, this group, led by you, became the best double agents against the people resisting Moriarty. Now I don’t know about you, but I don’t think your friends in Trier would be too pleased to hear about that. Gentlemen, if you please.”

  The door burst open, and several men wrestled the man with the gun to the floor. Sherlock turned to the hooded man, the one who had led him through the streets of Trier to this house. The man was kneeling beside his friend, and seeing that the man no longer had a pulse, closed the man’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Sherlock said. “But I really need your help. This man, did you know anything about him?”

  “No, I’m sorry,” he replied. “We heard rumblings that this man had something to do with the Irish IRA, but beyond that…” He didn’t finish his sentence, instead turning back to his friend.

  “Thank you,” he said. “That is more than enough information to go on. I really appreciate it.” Sherlock turned to leave, but the man called him back.

  “There’s a man in France who you might want to find,” he said. “Moriarty… he had bank accounts in Zurich, lots of them. This man is not a friendly one, but his information could shut down the funding for all of Moriarty’s schemes. If you find him, he could give you the answers you need with a bit of… persuasion.”

  “What’s his name?” Sherlock asked.

  “Marcus Camus,: he replied. “The last time I heard, he was lying low in Strasbourg. But that was six months ago. He has probably moved on.”

  “Thank you,” Sherlock said again. He hesitated for a second, then fished in his pocket and took out a card.

  “Call the number written here. Tell them you were speaking with a man named Odysseus. The person on the line will know what you’re talking about. He works with the British Government. He’ll keep you safe.”

    Year 2- Metz, France.

  The information Sherlock had been provided with was accurate, though out of date. Marcus Camus had indeed been in Strasbourg, but left two months previous when the authorities caught wind of his presence. Sherlock had spent almost six months trying to track his new location. He had asked, nudged and persuaded people for whatever information he needed, and roughed up a few more who hadn’t been as willing to part with what they knew. Some, not a lot but enough, had tipped off Marcus before he could get to him, and so the search began all over again. However, this was to be expected. Moriarty’s secret keepers had been chosen for a reason.

  Sherlock was getting tired. He had been running around in circles for almost eighteen months now, and he seemed no closer to achieving his goal. His life in London seemed like a lifetime ago, and he hadn’t had any contact from England besides a short encrypted note from Mycroft in March, and that was only a small briefing about new intelligence he had obtained about Moriarty’s network in Budapest. He had no news or information about the lives of Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, or John. He often wondered how they were, but he didn’t even dare make any contact with them, be it by telephone or via the web. It was too dangerous. There would be time when he got back. For now, he would be left to wonder.

  Six months of searching had led him to the city of Metz in France. Not having organised a place to stay, he wandered the streets, taking in the city for the first time. Sherlock at least now had a face to go with the name, though Marcus Camus was the kind who had no qualms about changing his appearance. Anecdotal evidence from the people he had question implied that Camus had at least four different hairstyles, and was not averse to changing his eye colour using contacts.

   Camus was not the only one who had made drastic changes to his complexion. Sherlock had also done the same; gone was his dark, curly hair and instead it was now short and red. Since information had leaked to Camus about a man with dark hair looking for him, Sherlock had thought it best to change it for his own sake. His thoughts wandered back to John; he wondered how his friend would react to seeing Sherlock as a ginger, but he then admonished himself, forcing the indulgent idea from his mind.

  A church could be seen over the roofs of the buildings in town and Sherlock, for no reason in particular, found himself walking towards it. He had never been a religious man; to him, comfort and satisfaction could only be found in hard facts, and the hypothesises based around them. He only liked puzzles that could lead to an answer by examining the clues, not by taking things on faith. Still, religion did have its uses; it was a powerful motivator and brought peace to the many who adopted its teachings. One of the beautiful things about religion which even he would agree to was the exquisite art and architecture which were made and created with the money the Catholic Church accrued during the Renaissance period. While he and so many of his classmates had been forced to endure the tedious torture of Shakespeare, France and Italy had a world of culture to gaze at in their everyday surroundings. That said, Sherlock would never concede that any city in the world was greater than his London.

  Soon he had arrived in the open plaza where Metz’s church stood, as magnificent as any in France to behold. It was night time, and a few couples were walking together, hand in hand, in the lazy, mid-summer heat, ignoring all others but themselves as they spoke in hushed whispers of love. Sherlock passed them without another thought, and made his way inside the church. The large, heavy main doors were closed for the evening but a side-door for those seeking night time prayers and respite remained open, and it was through this he entered. The church was dark, save for the lights of a few candles placed at the side altars on the left and right of the nave. He was alone, save for two other people who were praying.

  Sherlock slid in to one of the pews at the back of the church and sat there in quiet contemplation. He thought about himself and how his life had changed so much in the last year and a half, he thought about what he still had left to do, and he thought about John. In fact, he mostly thought about John.

  By the time he snapped out of his own thoughts, he was alone. He berated himself and not being more vigilant and wary of his surroundings. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on John; had there been one of Moriarty’s men in this church he would be dead right now. Sherlock stood up, stretched, and made his way to the side door.

  He noticed it out of the corner of his eye, and just in time too; a tiny bit of metal glinted in the candlelight and he ducked to avoid a candlestick aimed at his head. It hit the wall with a deafening clang, and reverberated throughout the empty church.

  “Bonsoir, mon ravisseur,” said a voice. The light did not reach where he was standing and so his form was obscured by the shadows, making his voice sound like it was coming from the darkness itself.

  “I hate villains who talk,” Sherlock replied, looking for a way to get his back to the open space of the church. He didn’t like being cornered. “Well, unless they’re telling me things I want to know.”

  “I never wanted to kill someone in the house of God, but I feel that on this occasion you have left me with no choice.” He stepped out of the shadows, brandishing a gun. Sherlock was surprised the man had answered in English.

  “Hello, Marcus,” Sherlock said, exhaling a slow, contented breath. Finally. Finally.

  “And goodbye to you, Sir,” he replied, pulling the trigger.

  Sherlock lunged forward as the shot was fired, sending the bullet that was meant for his chest into his clavicle. The bone shattered, sending pain like an electric shock coursing through him. He tackled Marcus to the ground. The gun clattered away, just millimetres out of reach. The two men brawled on the church floor, throwing punch after punch, kicking whenever they could at weak, vulnerable points on each other’s bodies. Sherlock, knowing he would not win in a fair fight of strength in his condition, mustered all his strength and used both of his legs to kick Marcus hard in the stomach, throwing him off Sherlock and allowing precious seconds for the consulting detective to grab his gun. Both of them stood still.

  “Tell me about Moriarty’s bank accounts,” Sherlock said.

  Marcus laughed. “You must be joking,” he replied.

  “Does it look like I’m joking?”

  “What do you need with his bank accounts? A petty thief would know not to try and steal from Moriarty.”

  “Well, I am no petty thief,” said Sherlock. “And besides, Moriarty can’t do anything to me. I killed him.”

  This seemed to take Marcus by surprise, though he did his best to conceal his shock. “Dead or alive,” he said. “I am loyal to Moriarty.” Marcus ran towards Sherlock, and shouldered him hard on his shattered collarbone. Sherlock was caught off-guard and fell back. He tensed and fumbled for grip, but in doing so pulled the trigger without meaning to. The bullet shot straight into Marcus’s stomach.

  It was like time slowed as he watched Camus fall to the ground. Every second, every action he made as he clung to life would stay with Sherlock till his own death, but he would never be able to remember the sounds. This was not the first time he had seen a man die before his eyes, but this was his first kill. He dropped the gun, then thought better of it and put it in his pocket. His rational brain was trying to guide him, but the emotions welling up in him were like nothing he had ever experienced and drowned that rationality out. Vaguely he remembered that he should check the pockets of the man before him, and rifling through them he found a key card to a hotel in the city, and his wallet. Sherlock stood up, holding onto a church pew to steady his shaking legs. His mind was screaming at him to get out of there, to run and never look back, but he remained, frozen as he looked at the body before him.

  He had never wished John were with him more than that night.

  Year 3 – Zurich, Switzerland.

  It had taken Sherlock seven months to come to Zurich. After the events in Metz, he had sent out an emergency SOS to his brother in England who had arranged medical assistance for Sherlock and organised a discreet but effective team based in France to dispose of the body. Sherlock had required surgery, and it had taken aeons for the shattered bones in his shoulder to regrow. During his down time, he busied himself by making plans to access the bank in Zurich. Sherlock, even in the state he was in at the time, had the foresight to head to Marcus Camus’s hotel room to get what he could. He had found some things, namely a few bank account details, and almost a million euro in cash. However, when Sherlock had been allowed to leave the private hospital at which he was staying, he redoubled his efforts in tracking down the leads he had gained. It seemed that there was unrest in Moriarty’s underworld at the disappearance of Camus and the money, and taking his absence as desertion, plans were being made to secure the funds of the crime syndicate. A large amount of this was being done electronically, and Sherlock had people on Mycroft’s end working on that, but some other money, rumoured to be about three hundred million, was going to be transferred to Budapest if Camus didn’t surface by March.

  February had rolled around once again, and Sherlock had made it Zurich. He was disguised as a homeless person and had been so for over three weeks. If there was one thing he had learned from the homeless network he had employed over the years in London, being homeless meant you had the best ears in the city. In Zurich, money talked, and he was listening oh so very intently.

  Sherlock found out that there were four people who were the ringleaders of this money transfer, and they were all the top brass in Moriarty’s crime syndicate, saving for the military commander who, despite both Mycroft and Sherlock’s best efforts, remained unknown and elusive. It seemed that due to the large amount of money involved, no one wanted to risk trusting another member, especially since Camus had dropped off the map with a lot of money in his possession. The time of the grunts was finally over, and now the big boys were in play.

  One woman by the name of Sarah Asper was leading the transfer of money by courier. Sherlock had arranged for low-key surveillance of he whereabouts, as well as trucks to intercept the money as it was in transit. However, his conditions were simple; only he would have access to Asper, and all authorities would turn a blind eye to the means he used to get the information they, and he, wanted. They reluctantly accepted. Sherlock was satisfied that he could break her easily enough.

  The operation on the day was a huge success. The media reported that the Swiss authorities had apprehended three of the four leaders of a major criminal organisation along with a substantial amount of money that could not be disclosed for legal reasons. They assured the audiences at home that they would apprehend the fourth without delay.

  Sherlock had forced Asper out of the vehicle she had been driving and dragged her by the hair into a side alley in a dubious part of town. Screams wouldn’t be headed in this place. He took a gun out of his coat, Camus’s gun, and pointed it in her face.

  “Tell me the name of Moriarty’s second in command,” he said. His voice was dripping with malice.

  “Why should I?” she said, and Sherlock responded by breaking one of her fingers. She screamed in agony, and to Sherlock she became smaller in front of him. He broke another, and another, and soon her face was streaked with tears and mascara.

  “I’m not kidding,” he said calmly. “The pain will stop when you tell me who you’re working for.” Asper hesitated, and Sherlock made to reach for another one of her fingers.

  “Please don’t hurt me!” she screamed. “Please!”

  “Tell me!”

  “H-his name is M-Moran,” she said, stuttering over her words. “Sebastian Moran.”

  “Where is he now?” he pressed. “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s in London,” she said quickly, looking to avoid more pain. She looked up at Sherlock, and as if seeing him for the first time, realisation dawned on her face. She smiled, a smile that was disturbingly similar to the smile of James Moriarty.

  “You’re Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?” she said. “Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

  “Oh I am very much alive, and I plan to stay that way.”

  “If you can call this a life.” The smile wouldn’t leave her face. A nervous shudder crawled up Sherlock’s back, one he tried his hardest to suppress. “Tell me,” she continued. “Have you read John Watson’s blog recently? Apparently he’s finally moving on.”

  Anger blazed through Sherlock’s blood, and he thrust her back against the wall. He didn’t think; pure fury had taken hold of him and he let it control his actions without any hesitation. He put the gun to Sarah Asper’s head. Her eyes opened wide in terror, but he didn’t see it. He just pulled the trigger.

  Year 3 – London

  It was with hesitant steps that Sherlock walked up Baker Street. It had been three years since he had been in London, and though much had changed most of it was still the same. He was glad for that, though his mind map of the city would take some time to amend.

  So Sebastian Moran was conducting business in London. Now that he was cut off from any funds and his crime ring disbanded, he was stuck here for now at least. Sherlock was sure that a man as clever as Moriarty’s right-hand man had some contingency plans if ever something like that occurred, but Sherlock wanted to get this business done as soon as he could. Considering Moran’s extensive military experience however, Sherlock wanted to make sure that he was as prepared as he could be. To do that required a visit to 221B Baker Street.

  Sherlock stepped lightly up the two steps to his base, his home, and stopped before the door. Everything had remained the same; the green door, fraying slightly, and the gold lettering were comforting beacons of familiarity and safety for him after three years running from everything that had made up his identity.

  John was inside. He knew, because Mycroft had told him so, and Mycroft was never to be doubted about these things. Mrs Hudson had gone shopping, so he would answer the door if he knocked. If he could gather the courage to knock.

  Asper’s words had unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. Sherlock was afraid that him breezing back into John’s life, after being dead for so many years, was the last thing his friend ever needed. Sherlock was scared, so scared, but he had been alone for so long, and he didn’t want to be alone anymore.

  He had done so many things in the past three years; he had lived rough, been wounded, had even killed two people. He had changed from his experience; he was harder now, a tougher and braver Sherlock. And yet, the bravest thing he could ever possibly do, the toughest thing he could possibly do, even after all he had been through, was knock on that door.

It was a combination of Molly’s help and updates from the homeless network that had kept him going this past week. Everything after the fall had been a haze; though he had planned out everything to the exact detail, it was becoming harder and harder to recall the exact occurrence of events. The only thing that remained prominent in his head was John. He hadn’t meant for him to get caught up in this, and because of his own ego, his own selfishness, he had hurt the one person who had ever given a damn about his wellbeing. It was strange; a year ago that thought wouldn’t have even popped into his head. But there it was.

  Sherlock took the tube and with no destination in mind, decided to get off at Bond Street Station. He turned the collar up on his coat, this time to avoid anyone seeing his face. He wandered down Oxford Street, full at this time of day with weekend shoppers. He looked randomly at the people he passed. They were each engaged in cheerful chatter about unimportant problems, laughing as they shared in idle gossip about people they worked with. He was filled with a sense of disgust; did they not know that he had just died a week ago, been ripped from his life as easy as they lived and breathed. His rational mind told him no, of course not. Not one of them even noticed who he was. After all, they wouldn’t be looking for him. Sherlock was, according to the media and government records at least, deceased.

  He turned off Oxford Street and down the side streets to get away from the crowds. It was getting colder, and he thought of going back to his new home in Molly’s apartment. He didn’t like her cat though; Toby tended to rub himself all over Sherlock’s clothes and he rather liked having his suits free from fur. Mentally he made a quick assessment of his location and the nearest tube and was heading there when he found a small music shop. He stopped, thinking for a second of his prized German violin he had had to leave behind in Baker Street. The violins displayed were nowhere near as beautiful or as old as Sherlock’s; his violin was dated reliably to 1880 and to get it he had resorted to settling a small case of adultery for a wealthy landowner in Wokingham, but staring at the shop window he realised he missed the feel of one in his hands, even if it had only been a few days since he last played. Sherlock entered the shop and bought a moderately priced violin, the best quality he could find for the limited funds he had currently, and left for Molly’s. Before long he was putting the key in the lock of her front door, and he let himself inside.

  Now that all the particulars had been set in place, Sherlock was for the first time at a loss as to what to do with himself. He did have one goal, and that was to wipe out Moriarty’s network, but even as he was thinking about going about it, he knew it involved bringing extra people into his plan, namely Mycroft. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk to his brother just yet. He knew he needed a new identity and passports and all the appropriate documents and only Mycroft would be able to provide those services to a level that would satisfy him. However there was going to be a talk, one about him not being as dead as Mycroft thought he was and he didn’t quite want to face that conversation. The only solace would be that he’d probably take it better than John would when the time came.

  Admittedly a part of Sherlock never wanted to reveal his faked death to John. He couldn’t imagine what he’d do. Probably curse him out of it with a whole manner of colourful expletives, knock his lights out, or beat him until every bone in his face was smashed to pieces and he was rushing to accident and emergency. These were all stark realities he would have to face, but at least in these scenarios they all ended with John accepting him into his life again. John could just as easily refuse to have any contact with him, ignore his texts and calls, or reject any or all attempts he would make at reconciliation. If that happened, Sherlock didn’t know what he would do. The thought of that was hundreds of times worse than how he was feeling now, he could only imagine the reality of that circumstance. It almost would be better to never speak to him again than to play out that possibility.

  The violin case was a cheap one, but at least it carried out its function adequately. Sherlock took out the bow first and applied a generous amount of rosin to coat the surface for its first use. He then plucked out the violin from where it was being snugly held and placed it under his chin. It took him a few minutes to become comfortable with the new model, and he tested out the sound beyond the perfunctory tests he had made in the shop. He played scales up and down each of the strings, tested the strength and resistance of the bow, and rattled off several exercises he knew from heart before starting to play in earnest. He played for a long time, song of song, and piece after piece. John had often said that he played in accordance with how his was feeling, and this was no different. He played fast tunes, melancholic ballads, pieces that were as chaotic as his jumbled emotions. Before he realised it, his fingers had large indents from the inordinate amount of pressure he had been putting on the strings, and underneath the bridge was coated with a thick film of rosin. He stopped, and the world came back into focus. Molly was sitting on her sofa, watching him with eyes full of admiration.

  “Molly,” he said with a cough, surprised at how off-guard he had been taken. He usually wasn’t so sloppy.

  “I’m, I’m sorry,” he said, smoothing out the creases of her skirt. “I didn’t mean- I mean, I came in and you were playing and I didn’t want to interrupt so I sat down and I should have said- it was just that you were playing so beautifully and I-”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said, cutting her off and settling back into his stoic demeanour. “It was just a few songs.”

  Silence crept in between them, neither of them knowing what to say. A lot of those had been happening in the last few days he had spent in her apartment. Their relationship had been purely a work based one, and this much time in each other’s company was more than either was used to.

  “How are you?” she finally asked.

  “Fine. Fine,” he replied, and turned to the window. “I’m going to have to leave London soon.” London. His home, his stomping ground. Nowhere else in the world meant the same as London meant to him. Another thing Moriarty had taken away from him. “Moriarty’s network is based mostly in Switzerland, and I need to go there to smoke them out of their sets.”

  “You’re leaving?” she asked. “When?”

  “Soon, I’d say, probably in a day or so. I need to talk to my brother. He can get me the things I need.” He turned back to look at you. “I’m sorry to impose on you one more time, especially since you’ve done so much already, but I’ll need you to get him to come here. By tomorrow, if you could.”

  “That’s fine.” Her cat had jumped onto her lap and she was stroking it lovingly. It purred and settled down to sleep. Silence fell again. She looked at her cat for a while more before she spoke.

  “Toby liked what you were playing,” she said. “What was it?”

  “I was playing a lot of different things, Molly, so I’m not sure.” It was true. He had been so wrapped up in playing that it didn’t really matter to him what the songs were.

  “The last one then. Who was that? It sounded familiar.”

  Sherlock thought hard. “I think it was Tchaikovsky. Why?”

  “Would you, I mean, if you don’t mind, would you play it again, or some more of it? It was really beautiful.”

  The words were like a faint echo in his ear. John had always remarked about how nice Tchaikovsky was every time he played his pieces. In time, he had come to associate Tchaikovsky with John, though when it had happened he wasn’t sure.