Driftings of a Dead Detective (Sherlock Holmes & SherlockianBeats)

Sherlock Holmes was not dead. To the rest of the world he was. To the rest of the world he died nearly 3 years ago, committed suicide in disgrace. He died a fake, a fraud, a liar. But he was none of those things and he certainly was not dead.

He was in fact, living and working over the continent in Europe, travelling from one place to the other, solving crimes and slowly breaking up Jim Moriarty's insiduous criminal web. It had taken him far longer than he expected, far longer than he would have wanted. Sherlock knew he couldn't risk returning to Baker Street until he had arrested or killed the top members of Moriarty's network. If any of them knew he was alive it was entirely possible, and likely, that they would try to exact some kind of revenge for their dead leader, targeting either Sherlock himself, or his friends. And there was no way he was going to put them in danger again.

It was a painstaking process, involving lots of undercover work, infiltration, spies, snitches, inside men, and as much information as possible fed through from his brother Mycroft, one of the few people who knew of his continual existence. It was interesting work though. Exciting, dangerous. And he was rarely bored. He rarely had time to stop and think, but when he did, his thoughts always turned to John. Sherlock missed John more than he could ever have imagined. He was glad of the constant work, the fighting, the violence, the crimes, anything, anything at all to stop him thinking about his only friend. The only person in the world who had ever trusted him. The only person in the world he had ever trusted, and he'd had to leave him behind. Occasionally he would dream about him, dream of them being together again, a team, an unbreakable unbeatable partnership. He only felt like half a detective without his trusty blogger.

Aside from the main part of his job tracking down agents, assassins and criminals working for Moriarty, Sherlock also helped out with minor crimes, murders and little mysteries in a similar way as he did in London. Working under the pseudonym of Sigerson he managed to build up quite a reputation in his own right. Throughout all of this, there was one man who continued to elude his grasp - a man named Sebastian Moran. Ex-army like John. A top sniper and at one time considered to be Moriarty's right hand man. Sherlock had heard rumours, reported sightings, had studied and learnt everything there was to know about him, but never actually met or seen the man himself. It was infuriating and annoying, but he continued to ask his spies and informers everywhere he went, telling them to keep their ears to the ground for any news.

Three years ago - Jim Moriarty shot himself, in a vain attempt to prove a point. Over the three years ex-Colonel Sebastian Moran had driven himself crazy, watching Sherlock supposedly kill himself, having to keep an eye on John Watson - now he had decided to sod the world in it's glory.

Excessive drinking, gambling as well as the women. Moran was now know as a melanderer and a diverse gambler. Currently his location is just outside of Zabrze, Poland - keeping a low profile whilst keeping an eye on the remaining network - a young man of Sigerson has been eradicating the remnants of his former lover and employer, Sigerson had a recognised name in Europe - Moran had a possible sighting of this mysterious crime-fighter and was now on the prowl.

Sebastian found a possible sighting at seedy hotel known for child sex traffic rings, Sitting outside the location stealthily, the past flooded through the Sniper's head. Jim's last conversation, their last date, evem their last argument. This could relieve some of the pain.

Sherlock was in the Southern French city of Antibes, investigating a series of art thefts, when he received a text message from one of his many sources around Europe. Reported sighting of Moran in Zabrze, Poland.

As he always did when he was given these nuggets of information, the detective dropped everything and booked a flight over there. Catching Moran was paramount. He would kill him if he had to, but whatever happened he needed him off the streets. Only with Moran gone could he return to London, to Baker Street, to John, and to start rebuilding his career and reputation as a consulting detective.

He had no further leads, so would need to spend a while getting to know the town and the type of criminal activity they had going on, mingling and talking to people, keeping his ear to the ground, and waiting to see if he'd get any further details from his contact. And there was no better way to find out about crime than to offer his services to the local police.

His reputation as Sigerson had spread far and wide, and they were only too happy to consult him on their latest investigation - an allegaton of sex trafficking at a local hotel. Within half an hour Sherlock was on his way down there accompanying one of the officers, a young man named Dobrinski. It was a seedy looking dive, a group of people hanging around outside who looked like drug addicts.

After spending around fifteen minutes questioning the owner of the hotel, Dobrinski seemed satisfied in his alibi and his innocence. The man had been completely unaware the traffickers were using three of his rooms to trade in. Sherlock said nothing, at this stage he had been instructed only to trail the other officer, to observe. Sherlock was good at observing. A lot better than Dobrinski, it would seem, and the detective smirked as they made their exit, having already spotted a vital piece of missed evidence that would smash a hole in the manager's alibi.

After getting dropped off back at his own hotel, Sherlock jumped in a taxi and went straight out again, returning to the scene of the crime. He would solve this case on his own, and prove his usefulness to the Polish police force.

Moran sat there cigarette in hand, he wrapped the coat further around him and waited. The crime scene was pretty empty - two Polish police officers had left long after and now he had heard Sherlock could be on his way.

That morning Moran had decided on a handgun as weapon of choice, he did not want to kill Sherlock initially - torment and torture was on the cards with a few acquantiances he had acquired through his travels.

It was a cold afternoon, and Seb was getting impatient. He heard a cab and went to find a more suitable vantage point for attack. He was hidden behind the breakfast bar, ready to pounce.

The cab arrived outside the hotel and Sherlock paid the driver before getting out and heading through the doors into the lobby.

Earlier, he had spotted two names written into the guest book - Mazur and Kaminski. When the manager had brought up information on the three hotel rooms used in the trafficking incident, he noticed the rooms were booked in the name of Mazur and Kaminski. He then observed the hotel manager's surname was also Kaminski, and that his own handwriting used to write out his phone number in case they needed to contact them again, was almost identical to the Kaminski in the guest book. They were brothers, or at least close blood relations.

He was pleased to note there was no one in the lobby. He could hear the manager's voice in the distance, on the phone in his office, the front desk currently empty.

Sherlock glanced all around him to double check, then approached the desk and grabbed the guest book, carefully tearing off the page he needed as evidence.

Moran was hyperaware and alert; he heard the door open. He cocked his head and gripped the handgun before stepping out behind the breakfast bar opposite Sherlock. Seb tilted his head in a reptilian fashion like his former employer and lover.

"Mr Holmes. Stay where you are please." Seb spoke with confidence and a sense of awareness of the situation. "The rumours are true then - the great infamous Sherlock Holmes is alive and yet you have no residual trauma from the fall." he took a breath before stalking towards Sherlock, locking the door behind them.

Seb waved the gun towards the chair. "Sit if you may."

Sherlock was just pocketing the crucial piece of evidence when a figure suddenly appeared on the other side of the breakfast bar, pointing a gun at him.

He'd seen the man in a couple of badly angled pictures and various artist impressions, but never up close, never face to face. It didn't take him long though, to realise he was standing opposite the infamous Sebastian Moran.

He cursed himself for not having had a better look around the place, but then, how could he have expected this, how was he to know that Moran would be on /his/ trail...would know that he was still alive? It made him wonder whether some of the people he had been trusting to feed him information had been double agents all along, at the same time feeding back to Moran. It was always a risk of course, but it was a risk he had had to take.

Sherlock raised his arms slowly in the air. Moran had a gun, he had nothing except his fists and his wit. He couldn't get close enough to fly a punch and he had no doubt that Moran would pull the trigger if he made any sudden moves. At the present time, he had little choice but to submit to the other man's request and keep his senses on full alert for various little opportunities to present themselves.

"How did you know I was alive?" He asked, moving towards a small table and chairs in the breakfast area of the lobby. He sat down slowly, still keeping his arms raised. "And how did you know I was here?"

Moran smiles with a devious streak and walked over to the table before searching Sherlock; finding nothing except cigarettes, a knife and some currency.

"I heard rumours that a man had been assimilating the Network and he was very efficient, however when an outsider comes to the forefront of operations - I was informed." he stated cautiously. "I set the whole thing up - knew you would be enticed by it, and had to make sure it was you."

Seb sat down and poured two whiskey's out and sat back. "Make yourself comfortable..how did you survive then?"

Sherlock held his arms out to be searched, considering making a break for it. He briefly wondered whether there would be other people here, waiting and watching in the background. Surely Moran wouldn't take him on alone?

He was annoyed to discover this whole case had been a set up. Probably the hotel manager was one of Moran's guys too. He said nothing and moved on to answer the question of his survival.

"Child's play really," he shrugged. "I knew Moriarty was going to force me to kill myself, so I was able to plan ahead. A bunch of my...associates...waiting on the ground with a rather large landing net, splash of fake blood and a good dose of acting. With a friend in the morgue and a brother in the government it's really not that hard to disappear and get a new identity."

Sherlock picked up the whiskey that was offered for him and took a sip, then lit a cigarette from his pack which was still lying on the table beside them. "What are you going to do now then? Kill me?"

Seb stroked the rim of the glass and cocked his head listening to Sherlock attentively. Seb sipped the whiskey and enjoyed the burn and chuckled. "Your friend was Ms Hooper I presume? She was very good in bed, shame Jim was protective over her."

Seb watched Sherlock with curious, deep eyes and laughed. "No, I won't kill you just yet, Jim and I were very alike. We like to play with our food and I want you to suffer for allowing my-my boss to kill himself."

"Molly Hooper is correct," Sherlock replied coolly, his eyes narrowing as Moran talked about her prowess in the bedroom, something he really didn't want to know or have to think about.

He sat back in his seat and took a slow drag of his cigarette, enjoying the taste of the smoke in his mouth. He'd started the habit again about a month after he left. Cigarettes were so much cheaper on the continent and no one around to tell him not to.

"You do realise you're just one man," he remarked, glancing Moran up and down. "The only advantage you have is that gun. But eventually your guard will slip and I'll easily overpower you."

Seb snarled at the detective's comments and leaned over the table knocking it over and gripping Sherlock by the throat; "Don't you fucking underestimate me Holmes. I am a killer and will kill you. But I enjoy playing with my food."

Seb tightened the grip around Sherlock's throat; "You know there is one point in the neck I could kill you by." He then let go and sat back in the chair.

"So what shall we do about our little problem. Watson must be killed as you are alive."

Suddenly the table was knocked over and Sherlock's drink went flying as Moran grabbed him by the throat. He hadn't been expecting such a swift action from the sniper and it took him by surprise.

"Oh I do believe you," he replied, retaining his cool exterior despite the slight quickening of his heartbeat. "But don't underestimate me either. I'm not an idiot. I know how to fight and I know how to kill."

The detective winced slightly as Seb tightened his grip. He knew all the pressure points just like Moran did, but he also knew the sniper would never kill him that way, at least not right now - he wanted to have his fun first.

Sherlock rubbed his neck where Moran had grabbed him, it was already feeling a little tender, but he soon forgot all about that at the mention of his friend. "You leave John alone," he snapped angrily, instantly leaping forward and grabbing Seb's collar in his fist. "He is nothing to do with this."

Seb smiled briefly before having to be face to face with his boss' nemesis and plaything, he snarled. "Let go you bastard." squeezing Sherlock's hand to cause him to release him Seb stood and smartened his jacket.

"Watson has everything to do with this, you were supposed to die and he live at a price. It takes one phone call to have him assassinated Holmes." he circled Sherlock before reaching over and stroked Sherlock's jacket down. "So - enjoying the scotch? Was always Jim's favorite."

Seb then grabbed Sherlock and punched Sherlock in the stomach, fists raised. Snarling he threw another punch to his cheek.

Sherlock reluctantly let go of Seb's jacket after the man squeezed a pressure point in the back of his hand, yanking his arm back and sitting down again to have another sip of scotch.

"Don't you dare do anything to him," he muttered bitterly, glaring into Seb's eyes. "I made a deal. Just because I was cleverer than Jim, just because I won, because I managed to outwit him, does not give you any right to hurt my friends. This is between you and I. You can do what you like to me, just...leave John alone."

Sherlock was beyond saying the word 'please' but if that was what it took, then he would say it. Deep down, he knew that John was his weakness, that he would do absolutely anything to protect him.

He knocked back the scotch in one. "It's fine," he shrugged. "Although I've never been much of a drinker. Alcohol's a depressant, I prefer stimulants."

Then suddenly he was winded by a sharp blow to the stomach. He doubled over, trying to catch his breath and was caught with a punch to the cheek, but he recovered quickly and hurled himself at Seb, bear-hugging him and knocking him backwards onto the floor, still holding on and landing on top of him.

Seb was about to strike again when he felt the full force of the Consulting Detective and landed flat on his back, stunning him for a moment. Seb snarled, showing evil and threatening eyes.

"Holmes, you're quick...shame your pretty face is going to be fucked up."

Seb gripped Sherlock's collar and went to flip him over, knee to the groin and Seb threw the fallen detective over - smashing him into the wall.

Sherlock felt Seb's knee connecting with his groin and had no choice but to let his grip go weak and the sniper spin him over, his back slamming into the lower part of the wall with a thud as he doubled over in agony unable to speak or move for a second.

He squinted up, panting and trying to recover from the crippling pain, and spotted Seb's gun lying on the floor to the left. He took a deep breath and made a dive towards it.

Seb crawled onto fours and smiled crookedly, righting himself then dusting himself down. "Mr Holmes - Jim was always going on about how clever you were - but you are just the bully and thug that I am."

He raised his fists and saw in his periphery that Sherlock was going for the gun, he picked up the poker near the fire place and raised it. "Don't even think about it."

Sherlock stopped midway to reaching the gun, when he saw the poker raised in the air. He froze in his position for a moment, then slowly moved back to his knees, now face to face with Seb.

"Or what? You're going to smash me in the head with that?" He raised his arms slightly in the air as a mock form of surrender. "You really think you can? I could just as easily grab it off you and use it against you...and please Mr Moran, do not compare me to you. I am nothing like you."

Seb looked at the detective, watching his behaviour, making threat assessments. He did not want to kill the man just yet.. he wanted to torture him. "No..I will not smash you in the head Holmes..too messy for Jim's liking."

A snarl went through his throat and he growled. "It's Colonel Moran. Not Mister." he leaned forward slightly, raising the poker and pointing at it. "I think I need to play with my food."

Sherlock grinned. "Of course, Colonel," he replied sarcastically as he got to his feet and brushed down his suit.

"You think I'm just going to stand here and let you 'play with me'," he shook his head, his eyes quickly darting round the room and assessing all of his escape routes. "You'll have to restrain me first."

Seb mock bowed and smiled dropping the poker; "A fist fight to suffice for now Holmes?" he enquired confidently before raising his fists.acing himself

An idea popped into the Colonel's head; "Do you like it rough then Sherlock? Ever fuck you little pet?" he chuckled deeply before bracing himself for the upcoming fight, his adrenaline and pulse increasing, making him slightly aroused.

"Fists are fine," Sherlock straightened himself taller and adopted a boxing stance, feeling fairly confident. He was good at fighting. Moran would need to use some kind of dirty tricks or pull out a weapon to beat him, although he wouldn't put it past him.

He took a step closer to the sniper, ready to throw his first punch. "John? And myself? You are joking right?" He scoffed, finding the idea ludicrous. "John will tell you himself, he's not gay. He hates it when people think we're a couple. Besides, that kind of thing doesn't interest me."

Seb watched Sherlock move towards him and adopted a more confident stance - he cocked his head from side to side before raising his right hand a little higher.

"Yeah - I thought he was your pet..maybe not...sure you are a good lay though. A nice virgin ass." he snarled before jostling his steps ready to punch.

Sherlock looked at Seb in a mildly disgusted way. "That's something you'll never find out," he muttered. The idea of having sex at all was rather unappealing, never mind with Moran.

Not wanting to waste any more time with small talk, he threw a quick left hook to Seb's cheek, grinning and actually starting to enjoy this. Much more interesting than what he was doing previously.