A Sword in Defense, Part 1

Rating: K

Friendship, Angst.

Summary: London did not remain quiet when Sherlock Holmes was believed dead. Nor was life peaceful for those he left behind. The opening paragraphs of THE FINAL PROBLEM were so much a declaration of war I felt there was a great deal left unsaid. And I submit to you--the fiction out there that deals with the allegedly glamorous life Sherlock Holmes led while he was avoiding Moran can be measured in hectacres. But there is not a single piece I can find that deals with those three years for Watson and Scotland Yard.

We can blame Colin Jeavons for being such a good actor for inspiring this plot.

Characters: Inspector Lestrade, Colonel James Moriarty.

"You are Inspector Lestrade," said the mourning-black man in the doorframe.

Lestrade was well-used to the cautious contempt his social betters carried for him. Unlike the true gentlemen, this one would have him use the tradesman's entrance rather than sully his honor by permitting him in the front door.

Lestrade knew how to play the game. Although he was still quite exhausted from the Henley Royal Regatta1 of two days previously, he rose to his feet, his clothes sticking to his body in the wilting heat of July. He could have remained seating—a show of his own personal power in his office—but it would have quickly turned into a battle of wills neither man would truly win. Only hardness of feeling would result, and that invariably reaped harsh rewards. Besides, the mourning-black was a dead giveaway that he should be treated cautiously.

Despite the weather—which was enough to paralyze a man—his visitor was clad in the deep black of grief suitable to the cooler months. The graying black hair receding from his dome only increased the ferocity of his leathery face.

"I am indeed Inspector Lestrade, sir." He nodded his head formally. The other was so ramrod-erect he appeared to have no real spine at all. An iron pipe was more suited to that body.

His visitor stepped inside, once, and did not remove his hat. A metal circle rested at his breast right where a posset would normally be placed; Victoria Cross. Military, Lestrade was unsurprised to notice.

"I am here to report a liability of truth, Inspector. You have a reputation for tenacity that even your enemies admit to. This is a matter of tenacity."

Lestrade's sense of unease grew although he hid it well. "And what would that be, sir?"

"My name is Colonel James Moriarty, West-Station."

Lestrade hoped his reaction did not show. In truth, he had been wondering when something of this nature would finally happen.

Moriarty he might be, but he bore little kinship to the slump-shouldered nemesis of the late Sherlock Holmes. Where the Professor had been pallid and glittering, a product of mind without little personal movement, this man was bronzed to his cuffs and collar from activity. His health burned the same way his brother's intellect had burned; coldly and self-driven. Holmes had described the professor as giving the impression of being much larger than he really was merely by his presence. With this brother, there was no impression. He was bigger. Bigger in a way that actually discomfited Lestrade.

Lestrade was a small man. He knew it and was unbothered by it. Being described as little was only a fact. There was no point in any other attitude. Yet Moriarty was conjuring feelings he had thought were left behind in his past as the smallest child on the street, the one to be tormented simply because it was natural to destroy the weakest member.

"Colonel Moriarty." Lestrade nodded his head again. "Please, would you care to sit down?"

"I have no interest in lingering with unpleasant business." The Colonel reached inside his black coat and pulled out a large rectangle of pale paper—an envelope, tied with string and sealed with a ring. "It is unpleasant business that brings me here."

"Very well, sir." Lestrade answered him with as much tact as his nature would allow. "I have no desire to delay you or interfere with your valuable time."

A grunt was his reward. "You have worked in the past with Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Your peers assure me you are immune to prejudice and work evenly with friend and foe. Very well. I am reporting a crime to you that involves a man you may or may not think highly of."

"Go on, sir." Lestrade felt his chest constrict at an old instinct. He knew nothing good was about to happen.

"Dr. Watson in his florid accounts has given the world a description of his wounding in the Second Afghan Campaign. I am here to tell you, as the same Colonel Moriarty who was at the Battle of Maiwand, his account is fictitious. I wish to see his falsehoods addressed."

"Falsehoods." Lestrade repeated numbly, his mind for once not obeying his need for the situation. "Falsehoods in what way?"

"To begin with, he was reprimanded before the battle for failing to perform his duties as a surgeon." The envelope tapped Lestrade's desk with an absurd lightness for the weight it carried. "He was flogged, Inspector. Flogged for willful disobedience on part of his superior officers. The report is inside this folder. And secondly, if he was indeed wounded honorably in battle, in his left shoulder and opposing leg by Jezail bullets, I would much like to know the reasoning behind this."

Moriarty had pulled out another rectangle, bound in pasteboard. He held it over Lestrade's desk like a board. Lestrade's hand did not quite shake as he took the object—he would have far rather closed his fingers around a coiled serpent.

A serpent, after all, might have a chance of missing its strike.

Moriarty remained where he was, imperiously waiting. He watched as Lestrade slowly turned the pasteboard over, and opened its folded leaves like a book. His lips tightened in satisfaction as the Inspector turned white.

To be Continued

If you want to know what Lestrade saw, go to this link:

history./Battles/kandahar1880.htm

and look at "Stragglers of the 66th (Berkshires) coming into Kandahar"

1 Regatta on the Thames, usually first week of July.