The challenge was called "Vengeance is Sweet: choose a character you dislike. This character must be one who survived movie/book/television show in question. Now write what you consider to be a proper death for them.
So, I returned to the original version of Sherlock Holmes – the stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Specifically, I am changing his version of "The Adventure of the Empty House" to satisfy my need to remove the one character that I absolutely despise! In the original story, Moran was arrested. I've made his removal a little more permanent.
I also tried something different for me with this one – it's written from Dr. John Watson's POV.
To Kill a Tiger
Three years! It had been three years since I last saw my friend, Sherlock Holmes, the best and wisest man I have ever known.
I am not ashamed to admit that I was overcome and lost consciousness for several moments when Holmes removed his disguise and presented himself to me. A gentle hand, a loosening of my tie and a shot of brandy quickly brought me back to my senses and within minutes I was ready to hear his reasons for his disappearance and what had occurred while he was 'dead'.
During Holmes' recitation, I couldn't help but notice that the past three years had wrought a change in my friend. He was still the brilliant madman that I had come to love as a brother, but his manic moods seem to have been tempered by what he had seen and done while he was away from London. He seemed more in control of his mind and his body and, joy of joys, Holmes even announced that he was finally free of the siren call of his 7% solution!
Still, as happy as I was to have my friend returned to me, I did feel some sense of betrayal. Oh, I believed him when he said that the reason he did not tell me that he was alive was because of my gentle heart and my complete inability to tell a lie. I had to believe that Holmes was dead, not pretend that it was so, in order for him to remain safe. I do not believe, though, that Holmes completely understands what pain the last three years had brought to me: first I lost my dearest friend, and then I lost my love when my darling Mary succumbed to a fever. Still, Holmes apologized so abjectly and so honestly that I could not help but forgive him. After all, who am I to refuse a miracle?
When Holmes then explained his reason for approaching me at this time, I was surprised to say the least. I had been in communication with Inspector Lestrade regarding the recent murder of The Honourable Ronald Adair, but so far no name had been put to the sharpshooter who had fired the lethal bullet into Adair's brain.
Holmes, though, had that name. The last of Professor Moriarty's upper echelon, his second in command: Colonel Sebastian Moran. Formerly of the 1st Bangalore Pioneers, Moran was a decorated war hero, an accomplished marksman and a prolific big-game hunter. Though we had never met, we served in Afghanistan at the same time and the story of his capture of a man-eating tiger that had been terrorizing several villages in India was the stuff of legends. His seemed to be the history of an honourable soldier, and I said as much to Holmes.
But when Holmes recited to me the tale of how the man had harried him at the Reichenbach Falls and then had trailed him through Switzerland, Germany and several other countries with the intent to kill, I saw red. I did not find it difficult to believe that Moran would do these things. While outwardly the dutiful soldier, there were always whispers and rumours surrounding the man. Soldiers are no less prone to gossip than any others and Moran's actions always provided fodder for discussion.
Hearing Holmes' tale, and knowing what I did of Moran, I was quick to agree to assist in the bagging of this tiger.
After a quick meal, I convinced Holmes to rest for a few hours. He must have been exhausted, for it took little persuasion for Holmes to bed down in my spare guestroom. While he slept, I took advantage of the quiet to clean my old service revolver and ensure that it was in perfect working order. Since Holmes' death, the piece had laid in the bottom drawer of my office desk, ignored and forgotten; an uneasy reminder of my past life. However, I knew I would need it tonight to ensure our safety and I was not going to blindly trust that it would still fire.
Ten o'clock that night found Holmes and I secreted in a darkened room in an abandoned house across from 221B Baker Street. Holmes' elaborate plan to lure Moran into acting precipitously was well under way so now all we could do was wait.
As we crouched in the dark, alert for any sound of Moran, my mind began to whir. I kept thinking about the man we were going to face and the evil he had done. He had killed young Ronald Adair to ensure that no one ever heard of his gambling debts and subsequent cheating; he had done immeasurable harm at the command of Professor Moriarty; he had hounded Holmes and threatened him with death several times over; he had stolen three years of friendship from me and he had denied London her guardian for the same time.
By the time we heard the quiet creak of a stair tread which heralded Moran's arrival, I was barely in control of my emotions. Anger was flooding my body and my mind was fixated on one thought – remove Moran. Holmes had grown increasing concerned about me and had glanced over at me several times in the last few minutes, but he kept his counsel and said nothing. He understood how I felt, if the next few minutes were any judge.
Moran entered the room and, crouching low, made his way to the window. It was the work of moments for him to assemble his deadly air rifle, place the stock on the window sill, take aim and fire a shot towards the sitting room window of 221B.
A feral cry sounded in the room, but I did not immediately recognize that it was I that had made such a terrible noise. Stepping out from the shadows, I cried, "Moran, drop your weapon!"
Shocked, Moran stood and turned to face me, the rifle now held limply at his side.
"Drop it!" I ordered.
The rifle clattered to the floor. Just as Holmes went to step past me to retrieve the weapon and restrain him, Moran let out a low snarl. Almost quicker than the eye could follow, he pulled a revolver out of his coat and started to take aim at my friend.
I couldn't let that happen! I had just got Holmes back, and I refused to lose him again so soon, especially to the madman before us. I didn't even take aim; I just raised my arm slightly and with a gentle squeeze to the trigger, let fly a bullet directly into Moran's brain, in the exact same manner as young Adair had been shot. Moran was dead before he hit the ground.
While Holmes stood still and stared at me in shock, I took eight steps to stand before Moran's lifeless body. Looking down at the man who had caused me such harm, I pulled back my right foot to give him a kick when I heard Holmes say, in a gentle tone, "Don't, old man. While he may deserve your fury, you will never forgive yourself if you do it. You have bested Moriarty's second-in-command and you have saved my life. Thank you."
Holmes then turned me to face him and carefully removed the revolver from my right hand. Smiling sadly he said, "Let it go, old friend. Let it go."
A shudder ran through my body and suddenly I felt my knees start to give way. Holmes, as observant as ever, grasped my arm and led me towards the window where I could lean on the sill.
Not twenty seconds later, the room was full of policemen, led by the always dependable Inspector Lestrade. Lestrade looked from Holmes and me to the man now lying dead on the floor and said, "Is that Moran then? Good riddance, that's all I have to say."
Rubbing his hands together, he turned to the officers and said, "Secure the scene and call the coroner." Then, looking over to where Holmes and I were still leaning against the window, Lestrade smiled and said, "Mr. Holmes, I should have remembered that wherever you are, chaos always seems to follow. I suggest you take the good Doctor back to your rooms and give him a healthy dose of brandy. He looks like he could use it. Once this mess is cleared up, I'll be over to get your statements."
As we passed by Lestrade on our way home, the Inspector placed his hand on my arm and, leaning in, said in a low voice, "There's no need to fret over this, Doctor. It was obviously self-defence and I, for one, thank you for it."