Keisuke Matsuoka - Sherlock Holmes - A Scandal in Japan

Moriarty’s prospects were in alignment, and fruition was near. This chance must not be allowed to escape.

At last, Sherlock plucked his silver cigarette-case from his pocket. He tore several pages from his notebook, placed the pages inside his cigarette-case, and set the case next to his stick.

His eyes drifted absently into the distance, but only for the briefest of moments. Immediately, his gaze regained its usual sharpness. He lifted his chin and leveled his eyes at Moriarty. “I find I am able to assure myself that my career to this point has not been in vain. If you wish to settle this by discussion I am at your convenience, though I inform you in advance that I must accede to no proposal that does not involve your surrender to the police.”

The sauce of the man! Moriarty felt his temper flare. Fortunately, the time for patience was nearly past. Sherlock Holmes approached the rocks, leaving his walking stick behind.

However, he did not stay his approach until he was nearly upon the professor.

“Why do you draw so near?” demanded Moriarty.

“So that we may better hear one another. We have agreed to settle these matters between us by discussion, have we not? A shape-up would be beneath the dignity of a man in your position, Professor, I’m sure.”

“Indeed,” said Moriarty, taking a step away and attempting to lure him further toward the rocks. “Come this way, so that we may discuss matters face to face.”

In response, Sherlock grabbed him by the arm. “I shall stay at your very side. There can be no interference in our conversation.”

This was precisely the behavior that Moriarty found so infuriating. With Sherlock so close, it was impossible for Colonel Moran to take his shot.

Then toss him from the cliffs and be done with it! The thought flashed into Moriarty’s head as his pulse rose.

Moriarty was inexperienced in the savage art of fisticuffs. In his career as a criminal, his role had been only to organize and plan—the deeds themselves had always been carried out by his agents. This moment, however, only required that he force Holmes back a few paces. If he was able to place Sherlock on the rocks for even a second, Moran would secure the kill. No game, however fierce, was beyond the colonel’s skill.

Sherlock realized immediately that Moriarty was preparing to free his arm.

Like Sherlock, Moriarty was tall and thin, but he was also far older. His face was pale and wan, and his eyes were hollow and sunken beneath a balding, protruding forehead. His face, which jutted forward due to the stoop of his back and tended to undulate with his movements, had ceased to quiver. His eyes were fixated on him.

A man accustomed to fighting would move briskly, before allowing their opponent a chance to read their intentions. Men less accustomed to such brush-ups, however, might hesitate before their courage reached its sticking point. Such men had a tendency to adopt mannerisms designed to conceal what they were planning. Moriarty was breathing quickly, obviously deliberating over his stance. He opened and closed his hands unconsciously, perhaps to test his own grip. Indeed, the professor’s behavior was unmistakable.

A moment later he jostled his arm free and shoved Sherlock in the chest. He was pushed back toward the cliff. But Sherlock reacted immediately. A left jab? No, he stretched his arms toward Moriarty and grabbed his lapels in both hands. A look of surprise crossed Moriarty’s face. As it might, Sherlock thought. In the Western imagination, grabbing at your opponent in such a manner during a fight would seem futile. One might secure one’s opponent, but with both hands thus engaged there would be no opportunity to carry through with further strikes. Moriarty was likely only capable of interpreting his move as a precursor to desperation—namely, throwing himself from the cliffs with Moriarty in tow.

Such, however, was not his intention. His body moved half by instinct. Still gripping Moriarty’s lapels in both hands he took a step backward and jammed his elbow tightly into the professor’s side. He was in his opponent’s pocket in an instant. Turning his body, he threw Moriarty backward, over his shoulder.

Moriarty’s hefty mass was flung into the air, their positions instantly reversed. Landing at the edge of the cliff, Moriarty scrambled to gain his footing. His balance, however, already tilted dangerously toward the falls. He clutched at Sherlock’s shoulders, but the other man only straightened his back and shook him off. Once a man’s center of gravity had been destroyed, it was easy to dispatch him without further resistance. This was the foundation of jujitsu.

Moriarty’s arms, flung up in the air, began flailing desperately like the wings of a bird. But one glance showed it was too late for him to regain his footing.

“Holmes!” Moriarty screamed as he fell. He plummeted down the sheer cliff face, his body macerated in the falls before it struck a rock. He rebounded upon impact and finally collided with the rolling water below. The entire process took mere seconds. The basin below continued to seethe with tremendous quantities of water, betraying no indication that anything had transpired. Moriarty was entirely lost from sight.

Sherlock breathed sharply, winded. Eventually, he realized that he stood at the very edge of the rocks. The spray surrounded him on all sides like a heavy fog. And how fortunate that it did, he thought. Though it was unlikely that anyone had been watching them, he was still grateful for the cover.

He was struck suddenly with inspiration. Perhaps this situation could be turned to his advantage.

Only two sets of footprints led to the place. If Sherlock did not return, he might fake his own death.

Once the remaining members of Moriarty’s gang, laying low in London, were to learn of Sherlock Holmes’ death, they would likely abandon restraint and venture out into the open. But without Moriarty to guide them they were nothing but a motley band of blundering fools. A few anonymous letters to the police, the proper hint here and there, and the remaining men should soon be placed in the docks.

But if he were simply to return to London? Then Moriarty’s criminal agents would burrow even further underground, continuing to harass Sherlock with dogged attempts upon his life.

It would not stand. If he were assumed dead, his enemies might be rounded up in one fell swoop.

Ought he to meet with Watson so the two of them could get their stories straight? No, John was an honest man. Expecting him to conceal the death of his dearest friend would be too much.

Sherlock glanced furtively at his alpine-stock and cigarette-case, which still rested against the rocks. A twinge of guilt gnawed at him, but he was aware that he was only delaying the inevitable.

He turned around. He strode quickly toward the towering cliff face and hugged the rocks closely. Placing his feet against the outcroppings, he began to clamber up the rocks. His clothes would be thick with mud, but no matter. If he were to tumble backward, head over heels, it would be a hasty plunge into the waters below. To his ears, the roar of the falls sounded like Moriarty’s plaintive wail. The rocks were extremely slick. He clutched at a patch of weeds only to have the roots pull free. Nearly losing his balance, by some feat of strength he managed to cling to the cliff face, persisting in his treacherous climb.

He found a rock shelf at the height of approximately two men from the ground. The shelf itself was some three feet deep, forming a naturally flat bed covered in soft green moss. He sprawled across it. Surely he was now hidden from sight from those below.

But were his actions rational? The thought only now occurred to him. He had not yet given much consideration to what view the law might take of his feigning his own death.