A/N: Thanks to Catherine Spark for the prompt: Holmes is chased
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It is a very unpleasant thing for a hunter, to suddenly find himself the prey of another in his turn. He believes himself invincible, hot on the trail of his quarry - and then the next moment the tables are turned, and he's fleeing for his life.
I was in Prague when it happened to me.
I was in the middle of my grand task of dismantling Moriarty's European network. Moriarty himself was dead, lost in the falls of Reichenbach, two of his three chief lieutenants were in gaol, and I was hot on the heels of a third. The latter, a certain Sebastian Moran, turned out to be a more formidable opponent than I had anticipated.
He didn't know just who he was up against, of course, for the whole world believed Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street dead. That didn't stop him turning the entirety of Prague's underworld and most of its police force against me, before disappearing back to England himself. I discovered just how much cause I had to regret the unavailability of the network of acquaintances I myself had in London - and the absence of my faithful companion.
That night I lay curled up, sleepless, in the third class carriage of a train that was rattling its way across Moravia. I'd spent most of the day fleeing on foot across farmland. Now, my thoughts dwelt on England, and Watson.
In his stories, Watson often referred to me as a 'bloodhound on the scent', or a 'well-trained foxhound'. He overused the metaphor horribly, in fact. I didn't find the description particularly flattering to myself either. I now realised, however, how much more pleasant it was to be the hound than the rabbit.
In fact, I had particularly objected to the bloodhound label because it connotated an animal that hunted in packs, in cooperation with others of its kind. I had preferred to think of myself as a lone wolf.
Now, I resolved to return to London myself, to meet Sebastian Moran on my own ground - and more importantly, to call on the help of my loyal assistant again. If only I were back in Baker Street with him, by the fire, I should happily let him call me all the hackneyed metaphors he wanted, and enjoy it. And if he wanted to compare me to an animal that needed the help of at least one staunch companion - well, it would be a perfectly accurate description.