The Quiet Man

Hostage

Wait, what was that? I heard something. The presenter on the radio, I swear: wait. I heard a name. A name I haven’t heard in ages.

Moriarty.

Who’s this talking? What’s on now, a news programme? Moriarty. Is that what I heard? A woman’s voice. Moriarty. She could have said some other name, I suppose. Damn hair dryer. She could have been talking about some other person with the same name. It can’t be an uncommon name, really. Who knows. Isn’t there a writer called Moriarty? Or a footballer? I don’t know. Turn up the radio; I heard it, I swear. It’s something. What did I hear? What is she talking about?

“–found dead by police early this morning. The criminal mastermind was well-known to police after his arrest and surprising acquittal three years ago. In other news–”

Criminal mastermind? There couldn’t be two. There can’t be.

James Moriarty. Found dead? Where’s the paper? I brought it in this morning, it must be there. Nothing on the front page, but if I–

Christ, this paper is so thin, it’s so easy to tear. No, politics, politics, something about Serbia, royal watchers, thefts in Soho, shooting in Clapton, and–

There. James Moriarty, Criminal Mastermind, Found Dead. Dead. They got him. Finally. Who killed him? They don’t say. No details. He’s dead? Are they sure?

There’s no photo. Not that they’d put a photo of a dead man’s face in the papers, necessarily, but I’d like to have the confirmation. At least that it’s the same person, that it’s the one I remember. Well, it has to be. James Moriarty. What else do they say? Sham trial, definitely him. The jurors were threatened in their hotel rooms, their wives, their children at stake. Well. That explains that. We knew it had to be something along those lines. We knew what he was. We knew what he was capable of.

And there: Sherlock’s name, a mention of him, too: Moriarty once accused the late private detective Sherlock Holmes of hiring him to commit his crimes, but there is no credible evidence to support this accusation.

My god. Finally.

Someone sifted through the wall of fake news stories and DVDs that convinced Kitty Reilly. Someone saw it for what it was: not credible. False, in fact. A forgery. What I’ve been telling them all along. It’s not exactly a ringing endorsement of Sherlock’s innocence, but it’s something. No credible evidence to support this accusation. Did they manage to clear his name, then?

No credible evidence.

People will never entirely believe it, will they. There won’t be a trial, there won’t be a public airing of the entire sorry affair. Moriarty is dead. Is he? Can it possibly be true? Sherlock was innocent. It’s true.

Well, he wasn’t innocent, exactly. Not on the whole. I wouldn’t want them poking about too much in our affairs to find out. My gun isn’t strictly legally acquired or owned, and there is a trail of questionable but perfectly deserved injuries and deaths to account for. No: he’s not an innocent person, not at all, but he wasn’t guilty of that particular crime. He wasn’t a fraud, he wasn’t a criminal mastermind. He wasn’t; I know he wasn’t. He could have been, if he’d been so inclined. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t. I knew him. There were no magic tricks. Only him and his extraordinary brain chemistry.

Is Lestrade behind this? I heard he’d had a fight to maintain his position at the Met. Did he take on the task of clearing Sherlock’s name in his spare time? He should have called me. I would have helped.

No credible evidence. They wouldn’t be able to arrest him today, that’s what that means. Sally would only be suspicious, just like she always was. She wouldn’t be able to prove anything. They’d probably still have stopped letting him have the run of crime scenes, though. Which is as good as being guilty, really, for him. But still: it’s something. We could have worked through that. We could have found a way to make them trust you again. We would have been back on the inside of the tape before long. They need you, after all. They always will.