==Chapter 1==

A Fitting Welcome

"The light of day showed you the limits of possibility. But walk through the dark, the absolute, total darkness, and the possibilities were limitless."

― Michael Grant, Fear

Tuesday 6th March, 1894

"The Director will see you now, sir."

Moran nodded curtly at the underling that had led him to the study, striding in without knocking – perhaps now he'd find out why he'd been summoned from his lodgings at this ungodly hour. A man sat behind the ornate oak desk, hands folded. The Colonel bowed slightly, noting warily that his host's face was hidden in shadow, the fire in the hearth behind him the only light source. "Director."

"Welcome to the Torchwood Institute, my dear Colonel. So good to see you again."

Moran's blood froze. That voice... no, it couldn't be! Then his host switched on a nearby lamp on the desk, illuminating a set of very familiar features... The Colonel's eyes widened in shock and disbelief, taking an involuntary step backwards. "My God..." Although now that he took a second look, he could see that this man was far too young, almost young enough to be the Professor's son! Drawing his revolver, he aimed it straight at his host's forehead, eyes steely. "A most impressive likeness, sir –" he continued coldly, "do convince me not to put a bullet in it. Why am I here?"

The imposter's smile faded. "Because it was time," he responded with admirable steadiness. "I must ask that you not put a bullet in my head, Colonel; it would be very messy for all concerned, and I would rather not be killed by an old comrade. I can explain everything, and I do not expect it to be easy for you to believe…" quietly, "but I do think that I can convince you of the truth."

Moran frowned deeply, his suspicions not the least bit allayed, but with a flicker of uncertainty in his gut. After a long moment's consideration, he reholstered the weapon.

His host gave him a slight nod of thanks, gesturing at a chair to the Colonel's left. "Would you care to take a seat?" Once Moran had done so, never taking his eyes off the man in front of him, he continued. "You still do not know what Torchwood is, correct?"

"I'm afraid not."

His host nodded. "We have had to remain highly secretive, for several reasons." Moran's eyes widened again as the imposter's voice took on the Professor's old lecturing tone, seemingly without conscious effort. Could it be...? "The Torchwood Institute was founded by the Queen herself in 1879 and is answerable to her alone; very few persons in the government are even aware of our existence. The most pressing reason for secrecy is that most would think us and our mission insane. "

"And that mission is?"

'Moriarty' looked Moran directly in the eye. "To protect the British Empire from extraterrestrial threats."

Moran couldn't quite suppress a snort, although he tried to turn it into a cough. "Pardon me, 'Professor' – and would these extraterrestrials be the ones responsible for your appearing a good twenty years younger? "

'Moriarty' favoured him with a small but brittle smile. "The two are connected, but not one and the same." He leant forward, resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers. "Consider, Moran: mankind's history is riddled with tales of gods, demons, dragons, ghosts, witches, fairies, creatures of the night." He spread his hands slightly. "Where did they all come from? "

The Colonel's lips tightened, patience starting to wear dangerously thin. "I really couldn't say, sir - I've never had much time for fairy tales."

His host sighed and nodded. "Very well. If I may retrieve something from my desk? It isn't a weapon, but you may have your revolver trained on me again if you wish. " When Moran nodded back in invitation, leaving his weapon holstered, he pulled a drawer open and took out what appeared to be a book. "This is a... personal favourite." He set the volume on the desk and opened it... and Moran exclaimed aloud as a shimmering image sprang to life across the hollow inside, richly illustrated and bearing a script like no other written language the Colonel had ever seen.

His host raised his eyebrows, smiling faintly at the reaction, then pressed a small block of text – an entirely different page appeared. Moran unconsciously leaned forward in his seat for a closer look, then shook himself, refocusing on the man before him in shock and awe. "Forgive my scepticism, Professor," he said with complete sincerity, if somewhat stiffly. "It's good to see you again."

Moriarty visibly relaxed, with something akin to relief in his expression. "It is entirely understandable, my dear Moran. Most are unwilling to accept the existence of the fantastical things we at Torchwood must take for granted."

The Colonel nodded slowly, eyes gleaming speculatively. "And would I be correct in thinking, Professor, that your inviting me here, just as –" His jaw tightened involuntarily; "Sherlock Holmes seems on the verge of returning to London, is no mere coincidence?"

Moriarty own eyes gleamed, lacing his fingers together. "I'll not deny it." He smiled slowly. "Holmes must feel safe enough to come home..."

Moran, on the other hand, wore a broad, malicious grin. "Then I gather you have a fitting welcome planned?"

The Professor gave a soft, brief chuckle. "Indeed, but not quite the welcome you think. The time is not yet right for that step."

Moran nodded, concealing his disappointment. "I am at your service, Professor, as always. What do you require of me?"

"I require you to commit a murder, my dear Colonel, but it will require more time and effort than the standard. Scotland Yard will be baffled—which is no longer quite their constant state—and Holmes will not be able to resist coming home. You shall use the airgun."

The Colonel's eyes glittered at the prospect. It had been a long time since Reichenbach, and his fruitless pursuit of Holmes hadn't helped at all, although he'd occasionally found an outlet for his frustrations... "Who's the target?"

"The young Honourable Ronald Adair. I harbour no ill will against the boy himself; however... shall we say that the child pays for the sins of the father? What is essential is a target that is inconsequential in and of himself, and yet of import enough to sell the front page of all the papers." Moriarty steepled his fingers again, covering his mouth, looking expectant.

Moran snorted loudly. "That pious little milksop? I'll need one hell of a plausible motive!"

Moriarty laughed. "Why, it's quite simple: you and he will be whist partners at one of his clubs, and you, dear Colonel, will cheat, as I know it amuses you to do. Adair will eventually uncover the truth and attempt to persuade you to stop or expose you." He spread his hands, smile turning ironic. "What more do you need?"

What indeed? Still... Moran's eyes narrowed. "One more thing, Professor: how do you intend for the case to be concluded?"

The Professor's smile faded. "I am sorry, Moran. I need you here. But in order to achieve that end, you must... disappear, as I have done. Remain so thoroughly concealed that Holmes will never so much as suspect the truth until it is too late."

Moran's jaw tightened as he made the connection. "And for Holmes to believe I am no longer a threat..." He exhaled heavily through his nose, frowning. "You realise, sir, what you're asking of me?" After three years' dreaming of obtaining satisfaction for Moriarty's 'death', the thought of having to knowingly walk into Holmes's net was galling in the extreme!

Moriarty gave him an apologetic look, answering quietly, "Believe you me, I do, far better than you can imagine. And it wouldn't be easy for you in the slightest. But Holmes's victory will be small, indeed, compared to his ultimate defeat."

The Colonel nodded in resignation, the wicked grin slowly spreading again as he imagined Holmes's expression on coming face to face with Moriarty once more... "And the doctor?"

The Professor seemed to hesitate for a split second, then responded with a chilling smile of his own. "Doctor Watson will be that defeat: Holmes will never allow any harm to befall his dearest friend if he can help it."

Moran raised a sceptical eyebrow. "It'll be a miracle if Holmes doesn't have the door slammed in his face!" Watson surely couldn't help but be furious with the detective for deceiving him all this time. "Sir, I'm aware the doctor's as long-suffering as they come, but even he's got his limits."

Moriarty hummed thoughtfully. "But Watson has also just lost his wife and child. I think he shall be rather more grateful than not to discover that he is not quite so alone in this world anymore. Watson does indeed have his limits, and I am counting on that, but in quite a different way."

Moran merely nodded, rising from his chair – any further questions could wait till a decent hour. "If you'll excuse me, Professor, it is very late; I'll need at least a few hours' sleep before visiting the Bagatelle Club." Prison would be no joke, however short the stretch, and he intended to make the most of his last few weeks of liberty.

"Of course." Perhaps his lieutenant was imagining things, but Moriarty's half-smile seemed to have an affectionate edge to it. Echoing it, Colonel Moran gave his general a crisp salute, and marched smartly out of the room.

Ria: The idea for this scene actually came up over a year ago, but we only realised recently what a great flashback episode it would make. Apologies to Doyle, but the original case does have more than a few gaping plot holes. Just for starters, we're quite certain Moran would have known from Moriarty that Holmes didn't normally sit in that spot by the window – 'an old shikari' like him would spot a trap that obvious a mile away!

Sky: Yeah, EMPT is a tiny bit hard to swallow, just like FINA. And it's more fun to have Moriarty behind things! I think it also makes EMPT infinitely scarier—poor Holmes is so happy to be home; he has no idea what's being set up for him!