A burning pain tore my arm as bone stripped away from my humerus, radius and ulna. And then—lit by the savage silver moon and the rippling sheets of green and purple light—my soul blade appeared in my hand.
Well… I say hand…
Really, it appeared between my thumb and forefinger, which I had pinched together. Couldn’t really hold it in my hand, could I? I’d cover the whole thing. There, blazing in the supernatural light, was the bony toothpick that represented all my hate, fear and wrath.
I saw Moriarty start in surprise. His eyes widened, then squinted. The corners of his mouth twitched up. It was coming: the laugh. In the next heartbeat, I’d be at him.
But I was three heartbeats too late.
The moment I thrust my hand upwards, Holmes curled his good leg underneath him and thrust himself straight towards Moriarty. It wasn’t much of a charge—more a series of angry hops. Holmes’s left leg was useless; if he’d trusted his weight to it, he’d surely have fallen. Yet Holmes was a large man and even at a battle-hop, it does not take much time for a fellow with such long limbs to cover fifteen feet. Moriarty howled with rage and fear. He raised the Webley and fired, sending another bullet crashing into Holmes’s torso—I couldn’t see exactly where, but I saw him stagger.
Stagger. Not falter.
Still Holmes came on. Moriarty took a step back, dropping the Fasces box. Holmes was on him now. Normally, Holmes’s physical strength was enough to overmatch my own and—I was sure—Mary’s. But then, he’d just been shot rather badly. Twice. His grip closed over Moriarty’s right wrist, but I could tell he was shaky and feeble. He yanked Mary to the edge of the path, trying to force her over, and I cried out in protest. Funny, that. I’d intended quite the same, but to see it happen… well… it was a horrible sight. I didn’t care much for Mary, but she’d never done anything to deserve such a fate.
Yet Holmes was too weak to inflict it. Moriarty twisted away from the edge and, I think, nearly managed to get his wrist free of Holmes’s grasp. In this, at least, he was frustrated. Holmes hung on resolutely, but his face was pale in the moonlight. Moriarty lost his grip on the Webley, which clattered against the side of the mountain, before falling onto the muddy path. That is not to say he’d been disarmed, however.
“Kullek!” Moriarty shouted, and the silver blade appeared in his other hand. He jammed it deep into Holmes’s side. Holmes gave a cry of pain and protest, but refused to let go. Moriarty rewarded his tenacity by yanking his blade out, then plunging it in again, just beside the first cut.
And then—it would seem—the weak and faltering Holmes came to the same conclusion I had: that too much thought for self-preservation would doom all hope. He clasped his right elbow down over Moriarty’s sword arm; the pair were now entangled on both sides. Then, with a final effort, Holmes gave a mighty, one-legged push.
I was already running forward by that time. And if I’d started a moment sooner, who knows how things might have gone? My outstretched fingers felt just the whip of fabric as Holmes’s greatcoat brushed them.
How horrible Moriarty’s scream was! Because, of course, it was really Mary’s.
And how vexingly overconfident were Holmes’s final words to me. As he plunged into that black and churning chasm, he croaked, “Don’t worry, Watson! I’ll be right baaaaaaaaaaaa—”
Sixty or seventy feet down, Holmes and Moriarty dashed against the rocks on the far side and Holmes’s voice stopped. In the darkness, against the white spray of the falls, I could just see their forms careen back and—I think—collide with the rocks on the closest side.
Then… no more.
No sound but the rush of the falls as thousands of gallons of water fell and fell and fell into that churning cauldron that had just swallowed my friend, my wife, and our nemesis.
Don’t worry, Watson! I’ll be right baaaaaaaaaaaa—
Nothing to see but strange, ethereal light rippling over the path and one confused London doctor, staring down into a chasm.
I couldn’t believe it.
Or, no. I didn’t believe it.
I mean, I knew they had fallen in. And I knew Mary was never coming out. Holmes and my betrayal of Mary was now complete. She’d come to us for help, as had so many before her. We had failed her, utterly. We never recovered the treasure she’d engaged us to find. I’d mocked and mistreated her. Holmes had bound her soul to a fellow she didn’t care for. I’d robbed her of a chance at matrimonial happiness. And now, due to a struggle she’d never taken an interest in, she was dead.
If there were such a thing as divine justice, I knew Holmes and I must answer heavily for what we had done to Mary Morstan.
But Holmes, you know! I really thought Holmes would be all right. I expected to find him climbing up the rocky side any minute—and me reaching down with a smile on my face to help him scrabble up the last few feet. Or he’d come levitating up out of the spray, brushing a bit of dirt off his sleeve and explaining that the idea his powers could be stripped from him had been laughable from the start. Because… because he was just so impossibly hard to kill. By God, the things I’d seen that man survive…
And Moriarty, too. I was certain I’d see him. I knew only too well what happened to the spirit of James Moriarty when you destroyed the body he inhabited. I’d seen that blue rune streak across the snowy air of Baker Street. I expected at any moment to see the spray light blue and watch Holmes’s great enemy fly free.
But there was nothing.
Nothing.
I’ve no idea how long I stood there. Well over an hour, I should think. Perhaps two. Staring down into the tumult. Waiting. Willing. Expecting that magic would work as it always had and that finality would continue to elude the two men who had always seemed so immune to it.
But eventually, my situation pressed.
I knew Moriarty had men nearby—he’d said as much. How long before they came looking for their master? It put me in a bit of a spot, if I’m honest. There was only one path back down from the falls and this—I was sure—was held against me. I could try climbing down to see what had become of Holmes, but… well… that would surely result in the predictable.
I had nowhere to go but up. My heart sank as I gazed at the sheer rock wall. One might be tempted to call it impassable. Yet, what choice had I?
I gathered up the few items that remained to me—my pistol with four shots still in, the battered box containing one of the nine most dangerous items on the face of the earth, and the few bills Holmes had scattered from his pockets. Then, with a grim sort of resolution, I took hold of the rock face and began to climb.
I looked down a few times—a foolish thing, I know—but I just couldn’t stop thinking I’d see Holmes. Even when I wasn’t looking back I constantly reminded myself not to be surprised—not to lose my grip—when he wafted up behind me and said, “Watson, what on earth are you doing?”
But he never came.
What did come was a rather disturbing train of thought. As my body fought its way up the rock, my mind began to parse everything Moriarty had said. Because, you see, Irene Adler had scoffed at the idea she could summon the guardian from one of her foci. They were bound, she’d said.
But hadn’t James Moriarty—the most artful practitioner of magic any of us had ever known—just said it was too dangerous for him to even open the box containing the Fasces?
Yet, something must have driven him to chance that confrontation with Holmes. Something must have accelerated his time frame, or that master planner would never have been so reckless. And I could not help but feel that this sudden desperation may have something to do with the item he’d come to claim.
I feared I might know the cause.
And I was right, too.
It took me some time to confirm it. I had to climb that cliff, avoid Moriarty’s men and return to civilization before I could know for certain. But why should you, dear reader, have to wait?
One of the many days I’d missed in my brief sabbatical as Hall Pycr
oft had been 1 July 1884. It is not a date that receives particular attention. Yet, I tell you this: it is one of the most important dates in human history. It is the date that may directly precipitate the end of human history.
1st July 1884 is the day Allan Pinkerton suffered his fatal stroke.
It is the day the Nine became masterless.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THANKS TO MY NEW EDITOR SOPHIE ROBINSON WHO stepped in to cover Sam who had a baby after stepping in to cover Miranda who had a baby. You do know what’s going to happen, right, Sophie?
Thanks to my agent, Sam, my illustrator, Sean, my copy-editor, Hayley, and my wife, Amanda—the hardworking gang who keeps turning these things into actual books instead of just random things I mumble late at night.
Thanks to Jean-Pierre and Elisabeth for selling us the wonderful home from which future G.S. Denning books shall be emanating. Also, thanks to Cathy for helping us sneak away with Jean-Pierre and Elisabeth’s home! Tee-hee!
And thanks, as ever, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle whose abominable work ethic has convinced me that it’s ok to take a great hiatus. I bet you mine’s not as long as yours, you lazy bastard!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GABRIEL (G.S.) DENNING HAS LEFT THE DUSTY WASTES OF Las Vegas and now lives in Puyallup, Washington with his wife, daughters, and billions upon billions of soul-sucking raindrops. It’s a good thing Mount Rainier is so pretty, or everybody in this place would have given up on life a long time ago.
For more fantastic fiction, author events, exclusive excerpts, competitions, limited editions and more
VISIT OUR WEBSITE
titanbooks.com
LIKE US ON FACEBOOK
facebook.com/titanbooks
FOLLOW US ON TWITTER AND INSTAGRAM
@TitanBooks
EMAIL US
[email protected]
The Finality Problem Page 30
