The Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes

April 12th (continued)

I disavow that insufferable, arrogant meddler, that bastard son of a bitch who calls himself my brother.

I awoke in a hospital bed, groggy and disorientated. My body felt as though it had been weighted down, and there was a nasogastric tube in my nose. I moved to dislodge it, but my wrists had been fastened down to the bed frame with heavy-duty nylon restraints. My ankles were likewise bound. I tested my bonds, but I was heavily sedated, in no condition to attempt any kind of struggle, but I knew instinctively who was responsible for this turn of affairs.

Mycroft stood at the foot of my bed, watching me with the mixture of pity and disdain that he reserved especially for me. It was an expression he had perfected shortly after I learned to talk and had applied liberally since, but never more than now.

"Sherlock," he said with carefully affected concern. "How are you feeling?"

The tube rubbed uncomfortably against the back of my throat, and it was difficult to speak. "Like someone pumped me full of drugs, shoved plastic up my nose and strapped me down. Get them to take the tube out."

"I can't do that," Mycroft said, his lip twitching. "You have to admit, you knew this was coming. I warned you this would happen if you didn't clean up."

I tried to focus on him, but my vision was blurred. "It was one slip, Mycroft."

"It was two. Alexander Cavuto was kind enough to inform me that your purchase from him was a relatively small amount, so I decided to let it slide. But the cocaine you so idiotically absconded from his corpse was cut with Nitrazepam, and other substances, which has necessitated long term intensive treatment." He sneered. "That was stupid beyond the pale, even for you."

I didn't for a moment imagine he might have any sympathy for my moment of desperate emptiness. He wasn't possessed of that kind of nuance. There was no need to let him know what had passed between Irene and myself, but I wanted information. I would have to risk it.

"Irene Adler?"

Mycroft's eyebrows rose, and he braced his hands against the foot board. He leaned in, remarkably spider-like for someone so soft and flabby. "I was surprised at you, Sherlock. I accepted long ago that you would eventually end up in this position, but I would never have dreamed that the catalyst would take the form of a woman."

He was almost gloating, taking no care to conceal it. He had been waiting for the opportunity to do this for years. I wanted to hit him, to kick him in the face and shatter his nose. Unfortunately, he was possessed of the missing pieces and as much as I hated him, I needed his insight. There would be time later for personal vengeance.

"Where is she?" I demanded, my voice slightly choked from trying to speak with the tube in place.

"Grand Cayman. She would have landed about an hour ago."

It took me a moment to make a mental calculation. I'd been unconscious for some seven hours. Being strapped down wasn't helping matters, and the drugs in my system were making constructive thought difficult. Helpless anger was coursing through me as I struggled to comprehend the meaning of Irene's flight. I felt betrayed, but I wasn't sure how.

Mycroft cocked his head. "Poor smitten fool, you are in a fog, aren't you."

"Go to hell," I rasped.

"You should also know that Geoffry Norton was recently discovered in his holding cell sporting a bullet hole in his forehead, his brains splattered all over the wall." He moved closer to me, dragging a chair to my bedside. "Does that sound familiar, Sherlock?"

"The Syndicate caught up to him for killing Caleb Marcel. Bound to happen. Your point?"

"He was shot with a .50 Action Express round, compliments of a Desert Eagle."

I felt a dropping sensation in the region of my stomach, as though I had stepped into a falling elevator. The truth, the obvious truth that I had so clearly overlooked, was starting to surface in my mind. How could I have been so extraordinarily stupid, so utterly blind?

Mycroft had clearly sensed my revelation. "While you were dashing about looking for a murderer, my department was monitoring the Preston Fund. We were quite aware of the illegal use it was being put to, but we had to wait for the right transaction before we could act. Geoffry Norton made that transaction, moving the funds into a Cayman Island bank account. He too had flight reservations to Grand Cayman, but was arrested before he could make his plane."

"You're inferring that he was shot by Irene Adler, when she was already in the air."

"I can see why you'd think that, but no. I'm not inferring that she shot Norton. The lands and grooves on the bullet were different from the one that was just recovered from the scene of the Marcel murder. The Desert Eagle was used, because those who engineered the assassination wanted you to make the connection."

I knew it to be true. There was no need to delve for an explanation, when it had been glaring in my face from the beginning. Irene had killed the driver, driving a needle into his neck. Irene had shot Caleb Marcel in the head, and had used her considerable experience and know-how to manufacture evidence full of misdirection and contradictions. She had all but told me she was responsible for Marcel's death, that she hated him, and knew I would overlook the obvious. She had manipulated Norton, and when she had no more use for him, she had ordered him executed before he could testify against her.

She had anticipated me. She had offered me hemlock and I had eaten it from her palm. I lay my head back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling, grinding my teeth. How could I have miscalculated so badly? Had I actively chosen to underestimate her? To overlook her position in the rogues' gallery?

More than that. I, the least prurient of men, had sought for three years a confrontation with her, knowing how it would end. I had wanted the woman from the moment I had first spoken to her, from the moment she had turned her predatory smile on me as I had sat in the witness box, grinning back at her. Had I entertained an idea of peeling her exquisitely tailored obsidian Givenchy suit from her graceful limbs? Subconsciously, perhaps, but that didn't scratch the surface. Irene was more dangerous to me than cocaine, and infinitely more addictive.

Mycroft was silent for a moment, and I sensed him debating whether or not to reprimand me. When he spoke, the disappointment in his voice was palpable. "I hope, Sherlock, the irony of this doesn't escape you. I am aware that there has only ever been one woman to you, and that Irene Adler embodies something unique and remarkable. But if she had been an agent for good, you would have taken no notice of her. The criminal, the deviant, the bizarre, that's what attracts you, to your detriment, and the detriment of those around you. I have told you before, this fascination will destroy you."

"It's not too late," I said, trying to keep the desperation from my voice. "I can find Irene's assassin, track down her other confederates."

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Her confederates, or I should say her confederate, has already proven himself to be quite beyond your reach."

"What do you mean, has already proven himself?"

Mycroft picked up the hospital bed remote and raised the bed, putting me into a sitting position. He drew out of his pocket a black and white photograph, and placed it on my lap so I could see it clearly. The date stamp was two days ago. It was a security camera still-capture.

All of this was incidental. The subjects of the photograph had arrested my full attention. It was as though there were nothing in the room, nothing in the world, except for that image.

The camera had caught Irene Adler mid-laugh. There were lines of mirth on her face, her eyes twinkled. I had never before seen her laugh in such a way, and it disturbed me. This, perhaps, had something to do with the identity of her companion, with whom she appeared to be totally at ease. James Moriarty had a possessive hand on her shoulder, showing his teeth in a grin as he whispered in her ear. Most unsettling were his eyes. Completely divorced from the smile on his face, they were turned into the security camera, watching with an insolent lack of concern.

I immediately knew that Moriarty had intended for me to see the image, had carefully orchestrated its content to achieve maximum effect. It had worked. I was stunned. At a loss for words, I looked at Mycroft for an explanation.

"I don't know when they made contact," he said airily. "It's possible the conspiracy goes back years, or maybe she only recently enlisted Moriarty's help. I have no doubt that she might have accomplished the murders and absconded with the £20,000,000 on her own."

"No," I said, trying not to choke on the tube as my throat constricted. "She wouldn't kill for money. It's beneath her. It lacks ambition."

Mycroft fixed me with a critical eye. "You would know about that, would you? I don't think having yourself been "beneath" Irene Adler qualifies you to make declarations about her motives."

"Stop prevaricating, Mycroft. Give me the facts."

He arched a brow. "Our intelligence suggests she and her compatriot are making a bid to gain control of the Syndicate. She is presently out of reach, but Interpol has been alerted. We are bound by conventional law, that is to say, our jurisdiction is limited to Britain and our ability to prosecute depends on more than circumstantial evidence. Your indiscretions certainly don't help matters."

"If I find empirical evidence, it won't matter. I'm not the police. I'm not restricted by their petty ethics, their stupid rules. My jurisdiction has no limits. Give me time, Mycroft."

He slowly shook his head. "You've done enough damage and put enough people in harm's way, including your friends. Detective Inspector Lestrade may on occasion exploit the fact that you can cross lines than he can't, but you've crossed one too many with me. You forced me into this position. There's no other alternative."

He was serious. He was going to go through with it. My certainty was compounded when he pressed the button to call the nurse, who promptly came through the curtains with a syringe in hand. He looked to my brother. "They're ready for him, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft stood, and put a hand on my shoulder. "It's time."

"No." I tried to raise myself, tried to fight the overwhelming fatigue, with no success.

Gently, he pushed me back. "I'm sending you somewhere safe."

"You're putting me away. Out of the way."

"In this case, it is the same thing," he acknowledged, then nodded to the nurse, who turned and emptied the syringe into the IV hub. "At the moment, you're beyond my help. It's only temporary; I'll recall you when the time is right."

"Mycroft. Don't."

He squeezed my shoulder. "Get well, Sherlock."

I tried to open my mouth, to call out, to scream my rage, but it was as though I was sinking down into deep water. He turned and walked away. I watched his retreating back until my vision went liquid, then dark.

To Be Continued...