Disclaimer: main characters belong to ACD.

Well here we are, at the last chapter. Is the ghost from Holmes and Watson's past the ghost you were expecting?

I would like to make a suggestion before you read on. Please re-read Chapter 1 of this story – which recounts events earlier in this particular day – and also my first story, the one-shot 'Falling'. Thank you for all your kind reviews.

Chapter 15

Tuesday, 7th September 1920

It was, indeed, a long journey back to Sussex. By the time Holmes arrived, the sun was starting to set; evening birdsong was filling the air, and the bees had settled in their hive for the night. Mr Horton had offered his usual service to Holmes – one which he had been happy to do since Holmes had helped his family in a matter of great delicacy – in collecting him from the station, and had left him at the garden gate. Holmes walked up the path to the front door, turned the key and entered.

On the one hand he felt exhausted; many months spent as the Irishman O'Connor, working inside the 'Clay Street Fellowship' as it fell apart around him, with the ringleaders one by one being arrested and brought to justice. When he was not O'Connor, he had spent every waking minute working tirelessly, researching the leads he was given by stray remarks of gang members, of names dropped, places mentioned, slowly and surely piecing together the jigsaw of the case, both to allow the police to make their moves against the 'Fellowship' and to further his knowledge of some of their key members.

A few minutes after his arrival he had poured himself a brandy and had settled himself in his favourite chair, in the small lounge, to re-read the day's newspaper. At last he put it down and picked up from the table a rolled up piece of cloth and a packet of letters – those same items which had lain for thirty years in the safety deposit box of Professor Moriarty. Only the bag was missing.

As the shadows lengthened he turned on the light to aid his study, and unrolled the cloth. It was a painting, quite amateurish, of a country house. It had, in past years, hung in a cheap frame on the wall of the Professor's 'office' in Marylebone; for some poor unfortunates, that office was the room in which their fate was sealed. With a wry smile Holmes recalled Moran's description of his own meeting with the Professor, down to his recollection of the picture. It had seemed out of place in the rest of the ordered anonymity surrounding the Professor.

But now, looking at the picture, Holmes sighed deeply. He recognised it, of course, for it was the family home in which he and his brother had spent their early years – the Squire's manor, in the grounds of which, in the former gamekeeper's cottage, he was now sitting. He could see the same house as he looked out of the window; on a slight rise, beyond the orchard. It had been a conscious decision, of course, to return in his retirement to the place where he had spent those happy years, so cruelly cut short by the Professor. Not the manor itself, of course, for the buried memories which returned in his dreams would have given him no peace, of that he was sure.

So many things had been cut short by the Professor. With a sigh, and half reluctantly, he slit the string tying the packet of letters, but put them to one side. He had read some, of course, but not all. He knew there were some in the packet for which he would need help to face.

Right on cue the lounge door opened. "I thought I heard you arrive."

"I did not want to wake you," Holmes replied.

"Is it over?"

"Yes."

"As expected?"

"Moran has been sentenced to hang. It is over. Mr Wilson can enter his well-earned retirement." Holmes smiled.

"But the hiding goes on." In one respect Holmes saw that a great weight had been lifted from Watson's shoulders in that moment. "I am getting fed up being something I am not – or someone, rather."

"It was necessary," replied Holmes. "It still is, my old friend. John Hamish Watson died in that bank vault. In some circles you can never appear again. The alias must remain. It would cause ... embarrassment. "

"Especially since someone will be hanged for my murder; yes, it would be."

"You are well?" It was a question Holmes asked every evening of his friend during his visits from his home in Devon, and by his tone he betrayed that he was always worried there might be a change in his friend's condition.

"You worry too much, Holmes," replied Watson. "I'm a doctor. I would know any signs of concern."

"You never did trust Moran, did you?"

"Of course not. But then, as usual Holmes, you chose not to tell me what was going on."

"And I say as I have said on many occasions before, Watson," replied Holmes. "Which is, namely, that you are an excellent fellow and have many abilities – despite my teasing of you – but one quality you do not have is the ability to obfuscate. Had I told you what was going on, we would not have succeeded."

Watson went over to the table and sat down, with a slight wince as he did so. He pulled a notebook from his pocket. "So, now it is all over, you are not going to your bed until you have provided me with some answers so that I can write up an account of this case. I have been at a complete loss, and I would really appreciate some explanations. At times I feel as though there have been cases within cases."

Holmes smiled. "Only one case, Watson, but many facets, that is true enough. Very well. Where you you want to start?"

"At the beginning. It's always good to start there."

"Very well. For your benefit I will fill in some details. But you would not expect a full account. I am not going to let you give all the tricks of my trade away," he finished with a chuckle.

"It may not be picked up anyway," replied Watson. "I can't present it as my work, can I?"

"Others have had works published posthumously." Seeing Watson's face, Holmes tried not to laugh, but failed at the last. "Very well. So, where to start? Well, with the Professor I suppose. Who lined up a job for Moran to burgle the home of the Duchess of Mortonwell - but Moran fell in love, hook, line and sinker. Smitten."

"It seems unlike him."

"Perhaps. But love can change a man – as you well know. But after his initial failure, the Professor threatens Moran to within an inch of his life, when the deed is done it breaks the Duchess. The theft of her jewels, the fact she lived as a widow, conspired to cause her to experience something of a breakdown. Surely, though, she rebuilt her life, and when they met again – the day before Adair was killed, you recall, and which marked my re-emergence from my own 'death' – she is successful and the spark is rekindled."

"Useful history, Holmes, but how does this relate to the events of this last year?"

"Patience, my old friend, you will see. So, where was I? Ah, yes. The consequences of their immediate actions is that she now carries Moran's child, but immediately they estranged again. That thread of his life we know too well – the murder of Adair, our trapping him in the empty house opposite 221B, and his eventual committal to Bescott House for 'correction'. Which, I will say now, was entirely successful. Let's be clear about that."

Watson rubbed his stomach tenderly. "So you would have me believe."

Holmes ignored him. "The Duchess, meanwhile, retires to Kent to have the baby. She needs to disappear, for the life she has been leading would be unduly complicated by the presence of a child. She abandons the child when it is born, and then quietly reinvents herself. Again. It is what she is good at. Did I tell you about the Duke?"

"He died in a riot in Egypt, on their honeymoon."

"Yes, he did; but what I haven't told you before is that she killed him."

"What?"

"Oh, yes, it is undoubtedly true. I have checked with the police in Cairo. They sent me the post mortem. As a result of my work they have re-opened the case, and are seeking their own warrant for her arrest and extradition."

"Amazing."

Holmes smiled. "Meanwhile, as we know, in Moran's absence Clay takes over the Professor's empire and gradually, carefully, rebuilds it to become a feared operation again. Always the businessman, Clay maintains a baseline income from extortion from the local traders, including Wiggins, and a few others whom I have had the pleasure of making my re-acquaintance. Until things come to a head – namely, my involvement."

"Hearing you were after them was a cause of some concern, no doubt. Your reputation is well known, and Clay has plenty of reason to fear you."

"And the Duchess, of course. Quite brilliant. To those outside the 'Fellowship' she is just another plain Jane. No-one would suspect her of being involved in such unsavoury affairs. But within the Fellowship, she is 'the Duchess' again. Imagine how that panders to Clay's dreams of royalty. He accepts her unquestioningly, but over time she undercuts him and latterly is the true brain behind the criminal activities. A cruel brain, marked by the increasing violence of the crimes they commit."

"Oh, come, Holmes. She is a woman. How could she best Clay?"

"We have come across some formidable women in our time, Watson."

"True, but even so, Holmes, the degree of savagery that the papers tell of, I can't imagine a woman behind it all."

"Really?"

"No, I cannot."

"Hold that thought for a moment, then. So, to the events of last January. As you know, I did some sterling work as O'Connor in the autumn, so much so that I had access to the inner circle, meeting Clay on a number of occasions. I put it to them that Moran was seeking reconciliation, and they duly met up, whence Moran started playing his part spectacularly well. We met a number of times throughout the autumn in secret - even from you, Watson, for what was to pass needed, I am afraid, and for the reasons I have already explained, to be kept from you."

"Hmm. Perhaps. But it is a nasty habit of yours, Holmes!"

"I carefully weigh up everything, but there was still at the point when it all came together, great risk. I was so aware that it could all go wrong. So, on the day, which I am sure you remember very well, Clay kidnaps the Manager's daughter early in the morning, and sent word to me to meet him."

"At the expense of Bingelow."

"Yes, unusual, I think that was one of the few murders Clay has actually committed. In other respects he has followed both the Professor and, dare I say it, Moran, very well. Always one step removed from the smoking gun. But you will admit it certainly caught our attention, if only to realise the severity and urgency of his requirement. It was now or never. And it is probably all clear to you now, from that point on."

"Well, I recall that you ordered the cab unnecessarily loudly. But of course the police didn't know where we were to go, and 221B was under their surveillance. We might also have been being watched by members of the 'Fellowship' at that point."

"Very good, Watson, your enforced recuperation has done wonders!"

"But after that I'm lost."

"Oh well, we can't have it all ways." Holmes smiled at his old companion. "Honestly, I thought with all your complaints about how old you felt, you would have enjoyed some months' enforced rest."

"Not in that way, Holmes. Anyway, continue, it's late."

"My apologies. So, Moran has previously accessed the vault. He is allowed to do so by Sweatham who co-operates with him for fear for his daughter. Moran prepares the drinks as directed by Clay. Quite the showman, and of course Moran had put the idea into his head to do this, doubtless playing up my fondness for expensive drink."

"I hadn't noticed you had such a taste."

"Neither had I! But Clay wasn't to know, and of course this was critical that it should be there."

"How is that?"

"Because otherwise Moran would not have been able to prepare your glass with the narcotic I had made up the night before."

"I was drugged!?"

"Of course. Let me guess now – you didn't feel the sword, did you? You felt peace and tranquility?"

"I thought that was what death was like."

Holmes laughed. "No, not death, but to the untrained eye, almost as good as. A potent blend of herbs and fungi, belladonna especially; but once you had drunk it, the blow had to be delivered at a specific time – three and a half minutes exactly. I must admit it was touch and go; Moran handled Clay very well, but it was close. I noticed you were starting to go under before the blade struck; not that the unsuspecting or untrained eye would have noticed, but it was very close. A few more seconds and you would have been out before the blow had been struck, and that would have rather spoiled things."

"Not just my shirt!"

"I have already made that right with you, Watson. I had spent many hours with Moran, getting the blow just right – it had to be with Clay's sword, for then there would be no doubt that the blow was genuine. But he did it, as I knew he would – ran you through at the one point where it is possible to do so without causing a mortal wound. Damage, yes, spectacular, yes, but mortal, no."

"You knew he would succeed?"

"I had trained him well. I was ninety-nine per cent certain."

"Very reassuring."

"I had previously arranged with Lestrade that we should be given six minutes after entering the bank before he followed, and he was right on time. He saw what he needed to see – Moran killing you, red handed if you excuse the pun."

"But how did you fool him into my death?"

"Simple. Firstly, the preparation is so potent that for a minute after application your heart does stop. In the confusion I shouted for Miss Sweatham to get a doctor, so she ran upstairs and into the lobby, where who did she meet but a doctor attending a woman who had fainted. So she was able to get him, he came, pronounced death, and took charge of the body."

"That's just chance, Holmes!"

"Not at all. Young Lestrade has not had the pleasure of meeting either my brother nor Mrs Hudson. It was all arranged."

Watson whistled in submission. "But Clay got away."

"He needed to. Otherwise we would not have got to the Duchess, who is our real concern. She would still think she could hurt me through you. Your 'death' meant that you were safely out of the equation. And as to what followed, we must thank O'Connor."

"I read in the paper about Clay's arrest. I take it the 'Fellowship' is no more?"

"Crippled, yes. It might rise in some form again, but never again so potently. And with the Duchess wanted in both Egypt and in this country, whilst she has disappeared again I think it will be some considerable time before her influence is apparent again. At least, that is my hope. Lestrade has all the documents and accounts I was able to provide as O'Connor."

"Well, I've said it once and I'll say it again, and no doubt will continue to say it. Amazing, Holmes. You've done it again."

Holmes was quiet for a moment. "It would seem so, would it not? But I am afraid there is more, and will cause you to 'unsay' your kind compliments."

"'Unsay'? How so?"

"I should have felt so happy at the end of the trial, but I do not. Two reasons. Number one, Lestrade told me yesterday that, should the verdict on Moran be execution, then he would instead be returned to Bescott. To see what went wrong." He sighed. "I promised him release from his continuous nightmare. I will never forget the look on his face when the sentence was given. He welcomed death. But now he will feel I have betrayed him. He will not be pleased."

"But no harm can come, surely, Holmes. They will not release him, knowing what has happened."

"You think not? I wish I had your confidence, Watson. Which is why you must, except in my company, always be Mr Wilson. I think there is every possibility they will eventually release him. It would be dangerous, I think, for us to be around when that happens. But I have nonetheless done most of what he asked, so my conscience is clear in that respect."

"What did he ask?"

"For me to kill him. It appear that part of the arrangement may have failed. But, more successfully, that his daughter should be given the goods stolen in the burglary from the Duchess. That I have done. She was there at the trial, she knows he is her father. She did her research. It was not hard for her to put the clues together."

"How awful to see her father condemned. How did you find her?"

"Oh, Watson, it was not hard. That first time I saw her, did you not see the family resemblance? No, of course, you did not, even though I asked you."

"When ...?"

"The night of Moran's visit. The family resemblance is strong. Moran's daughter is Miss Violet's friend Emma."

"My word!"

"It all fits. Raised by an aunt in Kent ..." Holmes continued.

"The Duchess?"

"Exactly. Who undoubtedly has filled Miss Emma's mind with all sorts of poison about the wrongs she has suffered. And now she has wealth."

Watson poured himself a drink. "Well, I for one wish her well. But surely you worry too much about Moran, though."

"May I remind you that he should not have been released the first time; everyone thought that. I think the order from his release came from a higher authority. I think someone wanted to see what he would do, and particularly hoped he would want revenge on me."

"Who could do such a thing?"

"The Duchess. I think she has many aliases, and holds some sway in high places as well as low."

"But what could she want against you?"

"Oh, Watson, in many ways you will never change," smiled Holmes. "Do you still not see? You know the Duchess."

"I would recall, surely."

"Not under that name of course. Try 'Mary Wilcox'."

"No!!"

"But yes. And you see my peril. She has gone to ground. Her daughter Emma – who is, I remind you, the product of an evil, calculating, cold woman and a man who, before Bescott, was renowned for his hardness, cunning and cruelty – now also has great wealth and power. She has means at her disposal. Means to do the Duchess' bidding. It is not safe for me."

Watson was still trying to come to terms with this latest revelation. "Mary Wilcox ... now that's a name I have no fond memories of."

Holmes poured a drink. "So I must disappear, I am afraid. Not for long, I hope. I have provided, and will continue to provide, our constabulary friends with information. But before I go, there is one last task. Be with me as I open these, Watson."

He untied the packet of papers. His hand trembled as he opened each one in turn, and laid them on the table next to each other.

"The Duchess wanted to get the burglary goods back – but, for me, this is Moriarty's gold. Love letters. Love letters from the Professor to my mother. He loved her, but then fell ill, and in the meantime my father won her heart. I believe he never stopped loving her – hence the picture of the Manor. She returned them to him, unopened. He killed them, you know, and had the chance to kill my brother and I before stopping himself - but it changed him. I'm sure he almost instantly regretted it, and although it did not stop his criminal ambitions, once he knew what I became I think he always knew our paths would eventually cross, and that I deserved to be revenged upon him. I know I have some skill, but at Reichenbach he went over far too easily - almost as though he decided at that point that he would surrender to me."

"Remarkable."

"And this last letter is from him – to me." Holmes read it quietly.

Holmes.

If you are reading this I have passed from this world, and I hope it was at your hand. Feel no sorrow, for I took from you your wonderful, dear mother. I know it makes scant difference now, but – I am truly sorry. I have been a lesser man for that deed. Moran will be in touch regarding other matters.

Moriarty.

Watson whistled under his breath. "Well, that's the end, then, Holmes?"

"Apart from my need to leave, tomorrow, early; yes, it is over."

"Correction, Holmes. For us to leave. But where?"

Holmes smiled warmly at his friend, and tossed a letter onto the table. "I am so grateful, Watson. This arrived this morning. My cousin is having some problems on an archaeological dig in Egypt, and seeks my help. Egypt being one country that the Duchess cannot pursue us to ..." He looked expectantly at Watson. "And of course, with winter soon upon us here, the warmer climate should seal your recovery."

Watson smiled at his old friend. "Will it be Mr Wilson or Doctor Watson who accompanies you?"

"I think the latter, quite safely."

"Then, with relief, I will pack."

THE END