Holmes comes into view in the crosshairs of the sights of the device. He stands looking intently over the grassy knolls of the Great Grimpen Mire, across from the shooter, oblivious.
He wears an Inverness cape and a deer stalker, and in his mouth is clutched a briar pipe. In his hand he holds a magnifying glass.
Perhaps the perfection of the sight is what makes Oswald hesitate. His finger is on the trigger.
His men are spread out along the route they thought Holmes would have to take. They are all lone gunmen now, the helicopter left back at the hall.
He hears and feels something land in the dip behind him.
He turns, not in time.
Professor Moriarty is upon him, silently, a long medical blade in his hand. He wears his opera cape. His top hat is on his head.
His gleaming eyes and wild grin shove themselves into Oswald's face. One huge, brutishly intelligent hand throws the technology aside. "Thank you," he tells Oswald, "for setting me free."
Oswald sees the blade enter him. There is no pain for such a long moment.
Not until Moriarty's hand jerks it expertly: back and to the left.