“Dismissed,” he barked at Parker in annoyance. “Get out, and keep an UNSEEN eye on Baker Street this time, if you value your miserable life.”
“Yes, sir,” a cowed Parker bowed and hurried out.
Haines rose and began to pace.
“Is there a response, sir?” the manservant asked.
“I’m debating that, Charles,” Haines murmured absently. “Wait there, please.”
Sherlock Holmes, Haines pondered. And on his home turf. THE Sherlock Holmes, fresh off a nice long vacation after taking out the original Moriarty, and I’ve got his full attention. Sonofabitch, how that bastard Harris screwed up! The tesseract’s destroyed, and I’m stuck in the wrong damn continuum. Holmes wasn’t even supposed to be here.
He took a deep breath and calmed himself. Wait. What else did Harris say about that other Holmes? Something about him being totally useless in the modern world? Yes, that was it! How even his liaison was unimpressed to the point of disgust. “This guy ain’t such hot shit,” was how Harris put it. I’m well above him intellectually. I’ve had espionage going on right under everyone’s noses for a year and a half, I walked away with a small fortune, and now I’m set up quite comfortably here, with knowledge of the future no one else has! Not to mention, he smirked, three or four little tricks up my sleeve.
Haines nodded to himself. Yesss, let’s do it. Beard the tired, pathetic old lion in his own den.
“Charles,” Haines said, mentally reminding himself to resume his grandmother’s accent, “send the following telegram immediately: SO SORRY SENSE OF HUMOUR LACKING STOP 7 PM 221B IT IS STOP YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED AWAY STOP C-J-M.”
“Yes, sir, right away,” Charles said, scurrying off to obey.
* * *
Young Billy brought up the telegram, leaving it under the door for Holmes. The detective deeply regretted deciding, after all, not to see the boy, but it was for the best. The fewer people who actually saw Holmes in this timeframe, the better, and he flatly refused to put Billy in that sort of danger. It would be bad enough to have him escort Haines to their appointment; he would not add to it. In fact, Billy was under strict orders to depart for his mother’s house immediately after seeing Haines into the flat.
Holmes went to the door and fetched the envelope, extracting the flimsy and reading it.
“My, my, it seems our—adult—Billy was right in his assessment of our prey from the dossier, Skye.”
“Definite overblown ego, Sherlock?” Skye’s soft voice floated in from outside.
“Have a look at this, my dear,” he grinned, holding up the slip of paper bearing the message. “Can you read it?”
“Yes,” the voice that responded was low and cold, more so than the detective had ever heard it. “I see it, Sherlock.”
Angry, he realized from her tone. Furious, in fact. Haines just made a dangerous enemy of my Skye, if he had not already done so. Odd, he mused. Haines killed her friend; threatened, then commandeered her life’s work; and finally used it to escape to a different continuum. Not to mention the kidnapping and murder attempts upon her person. But what pushes her into utterly implacable cold fury is an insult to my abilities. Warmth filled him as he contemplated that thought.
Glancing at the clock, he observed, “A quarter to six. He will arrive shortly. Are you ready, Skye, you and your ‘cloud of witnesses?’”
Holmes heard a soft, distant buzz, like a swarm of bees in a June garden, then Skye replied.
“We’re ready, Sherlock.”
“Capital.”
They settled back to wait.
* * *
Haines prepared himself for the appointment, donning overcoat, top hat, and cravat in appropriate fashion. He tucked several items into various pockets of his garments. Then he extinguished most of the lamps and left his flat.
“I shall be gone some two or three hours, I expect, Charles,” he noted to his servant as they went downstairs. “You are dismissed for the time. It is, perhaps, a good opportunity to take your supper, as I shall undoubtedly want your presence as soon as I return.”
“Very good, sir,” Charles agreed, following his new master downstairs and veering off to the servants’ quarters as Haines exited the front door and whistled for a cab.
* * *
The darkened flat was silent for ten minutes. Suddenly three shadowy figures emerged through the wall—two male, one female—and spread out through the apartment. They made careful inventory of every item in Moriarty’s old chambers, exploring every drawer and cabinet, nook and cranny; even exposing and opening the hidden combination safe with gloved fingers. They found little of interest, save a large, heavy lockbox in the safe, which after hefting once, they left alone. The woman held up a long, thin item.
“This had better come with us,” she observed. The men glanced up from their various searches.
“Aha,” one said. “Ball point gel pen. Yep, that can’t stay here. Any more where it came from?”
“Not that I can see,” she opined. “What about you two?”
“Nothing,” the second said.
“Me, neither,” the first agreed.
“Anybody else catch anything?” the woman said into the air.
“No,” another woman’s disembodied voice commented. “I’d say he took anything else with him when he went out. Which probably isn’t good for Holmes. What are you going to do about the lockbox?”
“Leave it,” said the woman inside the flat. “We already know what’s inside is chronologically appropriate; Billy Williams did some quick checking for us while we were en route here. We don’t have the key anyway, and Sherlock has plans for it. It’s better here—it won’t raise security issues, in the form of awkward questions, that way.”
She closed the safe and locked it, returning it to its hidden configuration.
“Okay, let’s go,” one of the men said.
The three apparitions vanished as quickly and silently as they had come.
* * *
Seven o’clock came and went.
“Not especially punctual, is he?” Holmes noted into the air at seven-twelve.
“Are you sure he hasn’t fled, Sherlock?” Skye asked from the other side of the wormhole.
“Mycroft’s network would have notified me if he had. No, he is simply late, because he is overconfident. He has—”
Holmes heard a knock on the front door downstairs, followed by Billy’s voice greeting a stranger and directing him upstairs to the door of Holmes’ sitting room; moments later a single set of footsteps could be heard making their way up the stairs. Holmes habitually counted the seventeen steps as the visitor ascended.
The sound of the front door closing downstairs told Holmes that Billy had made his departure. Another dear friend safe from the man, he thought in secret relief.
Seconds later the door of the flat opened without so much as a knock.
* * *
Haines entered the room, then tried to hide his start of surprise as he recognized the man seated across from him.
Commander Sigerson, he realized, moving into the room. Sonofabitch, that was the other Holmes—unless of course, the Sigerson family is simply my world’s offshoot of the Holmes clan, just as I am—was—the modern version of Professor Moriarty. Still, it says a lot. If it WAS Holmes, he didn’t have a clue. Not nearly as smart as his literary reputation makes him out to be.
* * *
Holmes noted the progression of Haines’ thoughts by the fleeting expressions and glances in the other man’s eyes, and smiled inwardly. He also noted Haines’ hand floating near one pocket.
So that is where he has secreted his weapon, the detective realized. This should prove interesting. I had at least my revolver when I faced the real Moriarty in this very room. But I left it behind in the Chamber, in order to perpetuate the plan. Keep your brains about you, Sherlock, else you may lose them.
Holmes didn’t bother to rise, merely gestured Haines to the chair across from him. Haines remained stand
ing at the end of the sofa.
“Colonel James Moriarty, I presume?” Holmes asked in an artificially polite tone.
“I am,” Haines said calmly. “And you are the celebrated Sherlock Holmes.”
“That is indeed my name, and some do consider me so, yes,” Holmes nodded indifferently. “It really will not do, Colonel, it simply will not. I cannot have London overrun so soon after doing away with the previous Moriarty.”
“I fail to see you have a choice, Mr. Holmes,” Haines said smoothly. “You may have had an advantage over my kinsman, but you have no such advantage over me. Why, you’d never even heard of me until a day or so ago, I’ll wager.”
“Quite true,” Holmes lied smoothly, maintaining the fiction that Haines was in the wrong continuum. “But a Moriarty is a Moriarty, after all, and I have little concern.”
“Then you’re a fool,” Haines snarled.
“Your—what? uncle? cousin? brother? father?—said much the same,” Holmes said nonchalantly. He rose, producing a pair of handcuffs, and moved toward the other man as if to take him into custody. “His body now lies at the foot of the Reichenbach Falls, and the bulk of his organisation is in ruins.”
“True, but as I pointed out, I have certain advantages he did not,” Haines said calmly.
* * *
Sudden agony seared through Holmes’ nervous system. The handcuffs dropped from enervated fingers, clattering to the floor. Holmes’ entire body stiffened and he fell without a sound. He lay at Haines’ feet, twitching and writhing silently.
* * *
“Oh, God! He’s got a stun gun!” Jones hissed in horror, lunging forward with weapon drawn.
Skye quickly introduced a small defocusing into the string beam and held out her hand.
“Stop! Colonel Jones, wait! It’s under control!”
“You knew…?” Jones turned to stare at Skye, and the room was silent.
“Sherlock suspected, yes,” Skye said, pain visible on her drawn face. The others suddenly noticed Skye’s gaze was avoiding the scene in the tesseract core. “Trust me. Everything’s okay. I’ll tell you if something goes wrong. You and Smith stand there and wait. Keep your weapons drawn. I’ve got mine, too—and Sherlock’s.”
She picked up the revolver lying beside her on the console, then removed her Glock from its holster in the small of her back, showing them to the two men.
“He’s unarmed?” Smith said in disbelief. “You let him go in without a WEAPON?”
“He refused. He was worried someone might notice the difference in the modern weapon, and wonder. His vest is here, too.” Skye shook her head in obvious frustration.
“Dear Lord, I hope this works,” Caitlin Hughes said fervently, the statement more prayer than comment.
“Not any more than I do,” an anxious Skye murmured.
Skye sat down, forced her attention back on events in the core, and dialed in the full focus once more.
* * *
Holmes waited until his muscles stopped twitching. Then he slowly dragged himself back upright. Before he could regain his feet, however, Haines jabbed the stun gun into his midriff again, and the detective got out a gasp before falling back to the floor. Finally, panting, he hauled himself to his feet.
* * *
“Great Scot,” he breathed, “what in blazes was that?”
“One of my little advantages,” Haines smirked. “And there is more where that came from. I have several little weapons secreted about my person which can cause anything from severe discomfort to death, and you haven’t the least clue about any of them. Would you like another taste?”
“No. No, I think not.” Holmes backed away in obvious alarm.
“Excellent,” Haines smirked wider. “And the best thing about all this is I can now report to the world how the great Sherlock Holmes quailed before me. I think a nice little, anonymous letter to the papers, depicting this encounter in excruciating detail, should do quite well, don’t you?”
“For God’s sake, man, you would ruin my reputation?” Holmes protested, horrified. “Let the matter lie. I see how things are. You will remain unmolested. Or,” desperate hope lit the grey eyes, “perhaps I can persuade you to…maintain silence. I have a considerable amount of funds on hand, the residual from my tour of the European and Asian continents…”
“So, the great detective is willing to pay hush money, is he?” Haines laughed cruelly. “Well, perhaps that will do nicely. Yes, I think I shall accept it. And then,” he sneered, “it might be nice to have a corrupt consulting detective in my employ. What do you think, Sherlock?”
* * *
Holmes had learned more than a few things from his liaison during his time in the other continuum: He now made use of the incense he felt at Haines’ disdainful and unauthorized use of his Christian name, and bristled.
“I offered you money. I will not give you my honour as well.”
“Oh, I think you will, if you want to live past tonight.” Haines’ service M9 pistol suddenly appeared in hand. “We can work out the details later. Now, how about that payoff?”
Holmes froze as he stared down the muzzle of the pistol, appearing mildly puzzled at the odd look of the semi-automatic, but in reality immediately recognizing its make and use. His shoulders slumped in defeat, and he gestured toward Watson’s old bedroom.
“My pocket-book is in there, in my baggage. You will find it in the blue valise, in the inside pocket of the lid. Take it all. There are several hundred pounds.”
“I don’t think so,” Haines smirked, gesturing with his pistol toward the door. “I know that old trick. You first.”
Holmes stared at the pistol aimed at his chest.
“Very well,” he sighed despondently, and Haines’ smirk grew wider. “You seem to have me at a decided disadvantage.”
“That IS the idea. Now go. And remember, if there’s a trap past this door, if you’ve got your little Inspector Lestrade waiting for me, you’re a dead man.”
Holmes shot him a stunned glance, then turned awkwardly. Haines pressed the muzzle of his gun between Holmes’ shoulder blades, and together, with Holmes well in the lead, the men stepped through the door.
* * *
Holmes instantly felt the odd, heavy sensation. He hesitated only long enough to let it pass before immediately lunging out of the direct line of fire of Haines’ weapon, angling forward, down, and to the left. Haines, immediately behind him but still slowed by the graviton-like effects of the closed-loop string field, hadn’t time to react before he was through the tesseract and facing a roomful of people, half of whom were armed, and all of whose weapons were trained on him. His eyes grew wide in shock, then narrowed slyly.
“NOW, Skye!” Holmes shouted, as Colonel Jones and Agent Smith stepped forward, handguns at the ready.
Per Smith’s request, Skye hit the
—Just as Haines turned and leaped back between the monoliths.
Holmes impulsively spun, lunging for the fugitive.
“SHERLOCK! NO!!” Skye yelled frantically, instinctively reaching out.
The entire room shuddered.
Haines screamed horribly, but the scream was cut short as his body glowed a blinding white for a fraction of a second, then…evaporated.
A shock wave blasted out from the core as the tesseract seemed to explode. Jones and Smith sprawled on the floor, and the rest of the team leads dove behind consoles. Skye, frozen in horror, watched her beloved detective as Holmes, mere inches from the tesseract when it shut down, was lifted bodily from his feet and flung across the room by the blast. She barely had time enough to see him slam into the solid granite wall before she was knocked out of her chair by the force of the explosion.
* * *
221B Baker Street fell silent. After several moments, the door to Holmes’ old bedroom opened slowly, and a pair of grey eyes peeped o
ut. Mycroft Holmes eased into the sitting-room, followed closely by John Watson and Arthur Conan Doyle. The three men spread out, each carrying a cocked revolver in hand, and proceeded to examine the room in detail. Mycroft moved to the bow window and peered through the curtain, making the slightest gesture with his hand.
Below, on the dark, lamplit street, Lestrade and Company suddenly moved from the shadows and took Haines’ lookouts into custody. Several more constables headed off into the darkness in search of the last members of the criminal machine; glad to finally be able to round up the few that had slipped through the net eight months earlier, thanks to information provided by the great detective to his brother. Mycroft watched as another man, not with the police but familiar to him nevertheless, stepped from a nearby doorway and headed off. The elder Holmes brother knew the operative was on his way to Moriarty’s old flat to pick up certain items his younger brother had suggested would be there.
After a full ten minutes, the trio moved into the adjacent room, continuing the chary scrutiny. Finally all three eased the hammers down on their revolvers and put them in pockets.
“They’re gone,” Watson finally remarked sadly, moving back into the sitting room. “Just as Holmes and his angel said.”
“They went through the door to your old bedroom, Watson,” Doyle noted, “but I see no signs they actually arrived in the room. Do you see any evidence to that effect?”
“No,” Watson admitted. “Not even footprints on the rug.”
“None,” Mycroft agreed. “It is as if they simply vanished in the doorway.”
“Interesting…Perhaps this opens up an entirely new realm for exploration…” Doyle nodded to himself. He looked at the other men. “Well, gentlemen, I have an appointment with our publisher this evening, so I had best be going. Watson, do you intend to write up his…final problem?”
“Eventually, perhaps. But not anytime soon, Doyle,” Watson confessed quietly. “And certainly not with this little…addendum. At least not precisely as it has happened.” He shot a thoughtful glance at Mycroft.
“Very well,” Doyle nodded sympathetically. “Take heart, Watson. As Holmes said, we shall all meet again, one day. I will be seeing you, gentlemen.”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 70