In which Sherlock Holmes is blown to pieces by his own reputation. Its a bit tongue in cheek (to say the least) and, like my last Sherlock Holmes short, more of a singular event within an adventure than an entire story
It had been a full month since the shocking re-emergence of Professor Moriarty, discovered through a slip-up by one of his subordinates (who promptly vanished). Accordingly, it had been a full three weeks and six days since the return of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes to London, following his retirement in Surrey.
Of course, we now realised how absurd it had been for us to assume that Moriarty had himself tumbled over the falls of Reichenbach on that fateful afternoon in 1891. The man who so famously remained off stage in his criminal dealings, personally entering into a game of combat with his arch nemesis atop a thundering waterfall? It was now so painfully obvious that he had sent an imposter, and that my friend had never in fact met Moriarty. Holmes had spent many sleepless nights punishing himself for what he referred to as his 'abnormally human error'.
With the accused so long assumed dead, the arduous enquiries into Moriarty's criminal career had understandably been abandoned, and the campaign process to have them reopened was proving to be slow. So Sherlock Holmes promptly set in motion his plan to once again bring down the 'Napoleon of Crime.' He swiftly resumed residence at our old address and managed to once again rope me into his adventure.
One afternoon, Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway of our Baker Street lounge, clutching an envelope marked for the attention of Sherlock Holmes. Upon one split-second glance in its direction, Holmes immediately sprang to his feet and snatched it.
'It is him' he groaned.
'How can you be sure?' said I
'The envelope is of the same type used the last time Moriarty sent me a warning.'
'Ah yes' I replied. 'That shocking business concerning the Valley of Fear.'
'Precisely. Let us see what my sinister pen-friend has to tell me this time.'
He opened the letter, pulled the note from the envelope and, after speed-reading it, dropped it on the table.
'The same, unusually thick type of paper used before' he said.
It read;
In the bustling centre
Between a house of faces and its Greatest
A London Monument lights up.
'Trafalgar Square' my friend exclaimed. 'He means to blow up Nelson's Column!'
'How do you deduce that?' I asked.
' "A house of faces and its Greatest" ', Holmes repeated. 'The 'house of faces' was rather obscure to decipher, but London's greatest face?'
'Big Ben!' Said I. 'The clock face.'
'Yes. And what other 'house of faces' could he refer to, which faces Big Ben?'
'I'm not sure.'
'It could only be the Portrait Gallery which sits on Trafalgar Square staring down Whitehall, at the clock face. So that leaves Nelson's Column as the London Monument.'
'But why would he blow it up?' I asked. 'Its an old, unpopulated statue. What would he gain?'
'Fear' replied Holmes. 'He's spent years in the dark, meticuously gaining the allies and assets required to pull this off. If he can orchestrate such an attack without having been thwarted thus far, he will have secured his long-coveted reputation as the world's greatest criminal mastermind. I have considered him such for many a year, but alas the world does not take my word as seriously as it should.'
'You are more celebrated than you think you are' I remarked. It was true, in the many years since his emergence as the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes had gradually achieved national celebrity through his incredible crime-solving skills and my regular reports of them. He had, by his rather old age, become something of a London Monument himself.
Holmes waved in dismissal of my compliment and turned for the door. The long years had not dampened his youthful energy. 'One more adventure' he beamed. 'Coming, Watson?'
I followed him out of 221b for the final time and jumped hastily into a hansom that he had hailed moments before. At that we were bounding down Baker Street post haste to Trafalgar Square.
The Square seemed calm as usual, but knowing what was imminent only served to render that calm eery and ominous. A lone bagpiper played on at the foot of the steps to the gallery, his disjointed, airy tune adding a chilling score to our endeavour. Holmes strode through the Square to Nelson's Column, which he then began to scrutinise from every possible angle, dropping to his hands and knees and enthusiastically feeling the stone all around, squinting through his study. I watched in anxiety from a distance as he returned.
'Nothing' he groaned. 'No sign of gunpowder or any tampering. How is he doing this?'
I tried in vain to supply alternative theories. 'Perhaps the explosives are inside?'
'Impossible' replied Holmes. 'At least without producing tell-tale signs on the outside.'
'Maybe Moriarty has bombers positioned in the surrounding area?' I continued.
Holmes shook his head. 'There are few people here' he said. 'And nobody close enough is carrying anything that could conceal a bomb, anyone further wouldn't have the range. He'd have to-'
Holmes stopped, mid-sentence. 'Of course!' he shouted. 'Watson, check over there.' He gestured toward a side-street leading to Charing Cross station. 'Watch for anyone suspicious-looking and report back immediately.'
I obeyed my friend and started down the street, curious as to his intentions. I turned and looked back, expecting to see him hard at work once again, analysing every inch of the surrounding area for a clue he may have missed. Instead, he simply stood there, head lowered, clutching what appeared to be Moriarty's note.
Then it dawned on me.
No sign of any explosives. The unusually thick piece of paper. Then the most unbearably obvious clue of all; A London Monument Lights up. Moriarty had never intended to destroy Nelson's Column. As I initially asked, what would be the point? It was merely a red herring, a false hint to get Holmes exactly where he wanted him, tricking the world's greatest detective with his own obsession for complex puzzles.
Holmes was the London monument. 'You are more celebrated than you think you are' I had said earlier that day, and I have punished myself daily ever since for not making the link then.
All of this passed through my mind in seconds. Then it happened.
The sound was deafening, and it threw me to the ground, sparing me from the most terrible of sights to behold. My friend was blown to smithereens. No corpse remained, no shape of what was my friend moments before. Only bits of him.
It had already dawned on Holmes, the moment he asked me to check the side street. He was simply getting me to safety. There was no time for him to discard the bomb, concealed in the paper and triggered in a way that remains a mystery. Then his 'One last adventure' remark from earlier in the day occured to me. Had he already known his days were numbered or did he simply assume he'd finally beat Moriarty and retire for good? I'd never know.
A day or so later, reports came of Holmes' deerstalker cap being found atop the head of Nelson, presumably from the explosion. Although strangely I don't remember him ever wearing it.
It wasn't long before Professor Moriarty was linked to the crime and executed for it. But he went to the gallows a happy man, having outsmarted and defeated his rival in his final act of criminal mastery. No punishment could this world ever inflict upon him. It was never found out why he didn't simply detonate the bomb at Baker Street when we received it, although I suppose he wanted Holmes' defeat to be public, or else he wanted me alive to suffer it.
Sherlock Holmes was dead, slain by one of the few things that eluded him; how much he meant to the world.
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