AUTHOR'S NOTE WITH A WARNING:

This is my last fic. Will not be too long. I'll finally write by chapters. I think I have based myself more in the books than in the movie, but since there's always a porn bit at least I just can't understand why anyone would think porn with the books, you know, it's weird, so I post here. Alright so this is the whole story going on with Moriarty, if any of you don't know what happened with Moriarty read at your own risk, it's understandable but I don't know if it will ruin some of the sherlock holmes II for you (I don't know how it will be but maybe they'll adhere to something).

Alright, also all in this is gray, I mean, not sad, no stark fluff, no nothing, gray; and despite all its grayness I never have a point, it would be lame of me to have a point.

Here we go:

LONG INTRODUCTION OR IN WHICH THE DJIVER CANAL IS THE STAR

Holmes knew an emperor of crime existed in England (indeed an emperor, for at that time the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland was an empire and his net ran by many of its territories, though also - crime not respecting official frontiers - his empire occupied other land which in the maps belonged to France, Germany and Spain), but he didn't know who it was until – as Watson's account correctly placed – the fourth of January of 1891. How he got to be after him Holmes called a "trip" on the part of Moriarty; it would be very well called that in a world where everything was improved...

Moriarty was hidden behind Colonel Moran and then behind other three major agents: Alfie Gray, Joshua Burns and Declan Diaz; such was the chain of command. Moran met with Moriarty only when indispensable and where they wouldn't be seen, in the fields in the outsides of London, beyond the West End Station, (no risk to find any of his scarce students there or teacher colleagues, or for Moran any of his subordinates, wife and sons, lovers and friends…); their reunion site had a code name as well as the act itself and the numbers and signs used to indicate the hour, and each time the code was changed, the end of their reunion was always marked by Moriarty telling Moran what code would be used next (not that it needed too much wit, it was always some standard sentence that wouldn't wake any suspicion). Moran spent part of his days screaming and scaring soldiers in the Honorable Artillery Company Armoury (he also falsified documents and that was the way in which, at least the London Gang, got their guns), they obviously had telegraphs there and so they did at King's College (where Moriarty taught a few classes but mostly did research, the kind of all genius-driven-secluded research proper of the times), but they faded away their connection by sending the summoning telegrams instead from post offices nearby, nearby because not even them were without time and space limitations. Joshua Burns ruled the thugs that executed the orders sent by letter and scarcely personally by Moran regarding London where their activity was more intense; Declan Diaz ruled those who indeed were travelers, yes, a dynamic unit always on the move which also acted as pirates in the seas; while Alfie Gray was an agent for transactions or in other words criminal agreements with gangs from "the continent". Moriarty was invested with great brain, economic and muscle power.

How was Holmes supposed to know he was behind any job?; they would get to Joshua Burns maybe and it was already a long shot, to Moran if they were too lucky, but to Moriarty?. The flaw was that had Moriarty kept that isolated, his agents would have taken over, he would be losing the rewards from their operations since many would be carried without his consent or knowledge; it is true that it wasn't easy to escape Moriarty's scope, he could detect the signature of his own gang without problem, with as much as reading the square of text that was the report about it on the papers, and they all had learnt treason was paid with life and some former minutes of excruciating pain. Moriarty had gotten to be the head of all those toughs because of his capacity to detect opportunity, and had stayed as such because of his capacity to scheme, which meant everyone wanted to be under his command; their strikes had high benefits and good odds at no one getting caught. He detected opportunity by reading the papers; through infiltrated agents in the government, the banking system, and other such important and influential sectors; and by walking around; the first two meant well paid blackmail or "favors" could be done, the second meant there were great loots to obtain from robbery in houses, vessels and trains; he had long ears and fast hands, he heard things and made himself with the possession of records.

The "trip" happened when Alfie Gray was murdered in Bruges, Belgium; Alfie Gray was found drowned in the banks of Djiver canal in Christmas Eve and the case enraptured Holmes, because of the day it happened and because it was Christmas when he read it (and Holmes wasn't as cold and logical as he claimed, things that happened in Christmas had also a different scent to him), because Alfie Gray was supposed to be an important businessman of great reputation and they had stupidly speculated that drunk he had fallen to the canal, and because a note had been found in his pocket which read and was written in English: "Mathéo Olivier 135,000 pounds; Romain Bonnet 200,000 pounds; Bank 1,000,000 pounds approx". In fact it would be best if you all read what he read at 12 in the afternoon on Christmas day when he woke up after a cocaine-induced stupor:

"MR. ALFIE GRAY CARON OWNER OF G-STEEL MURDERED.

Mr. Alfie Gray Caron, important businessman owner of the French knife producer company G-Steel, was found dead in Bruges, Belgium, around 8:15 p.m of Christmas Eve by Eloy van Hecke of 15 years old. The body was found in one of the few earth banks of the Djiver canal.

Until now the police have only revealed that earlier speculation going around in the local news, by which drunk Mr. Gray would have fallen to the canal and drowned were wrong; although the police determined by his breath that he had indeed drunk a high quantity of some alcoholic beverage, the different patterns of wetness and some dry patches on his clothes, as well as the position of the body led police officer Cornelis Dingue to ascertain they were in fact signs of struggle; according to him, - in what turned to be very soon the police's official version -, Mr. Alfie Gray would have been murdered by being forced to drowning about an hour before his body was found.

Eloy van Hecke is being held custody for the moment though he is considered a weak suspect. Dingue declared: "Eloy van Hecke lives as he said in the street of Bejignhof, right by the side of the canal, he immediately informed the police of having found the body, and upon his shock he threw the ginger cookies he said was taking to his friend Pieter Vlaminck who lives only a few houses away; we are taking him to the police station for further interrogation and holding him in cautionary custody for forty-eight hours, after which if no incriminating evidence against him is found he will be released."

G-Steel is leader in knives' sales in France, with exports to the German Empire and Russia; Mr. Alfie Gray also had investments in Netherland's Dijkstra's tulips and coffee plantations. He was son to an Englishman and of French mother, had resided in France for the past eight years and wore the French nationality. It yet rests for the French Police to make any declarations about their possible intervention in the case. The press will also be expecting statements from his lawyer Ugo Morel and his business associates.

Report by Archie Evans, from Belgium."

The paperboy trusted in Sherlock Holmes and so he always delivered all the papers whether he was available to pay at the moment or paid next day, or later; another paper then gave the news like this:

"WEALTHY BUSINESSMAN FORCED TO DROWN DURING SNOWY CHRISTMAS EVE.

By Logan Barnes

It was the 24th December, Christmas Eve in the colorful town of Bruges Belgium; people celebrated the birth of Jesus in the comfortable warm in their houses, some played under the snow and Sint-Salvatorskathedraal (Cathedral of Saint Salvador) belfry struck 8 o'clock, when Eloy van Hecke of 15 years old with residence in Bejignhof, stood in the bank of Djiver's Canal by the side of the blue corpse of Mr. Alfie Gray Caron, the ginger cookies he had carried on the wet ground around it.

Mr. Alfie Gray is a renowned businessman, owner of the knives' producer company G-Steel. According to the police, he was brutally murdered at most one hour earlier that same holy day; it is presumed the merciless assassin held his head underwater until he drowned.

Eloy van Hecke, until now the only suspect and already apprehended, claims innocence alleging he was going to the house of his best friend and also neighbor Pieter Vlaminck (a kid also), to offer some of the ginger cookies his mother had prepared for the festivities, when he saw the gruesome scene the flaccid corpse of Mr. Gray made, after which, scared, he immediately ran to inform the police.

Apparently Mr. Gray had no close family and died without issue, so it is unclear to whom his wealth shall be going; his lawyer Ugo Morel has refused making any declaration on the subject. It is clear however that this is no ordinary murder, but one where high economic interests are at stake, and thus the investigations will not cease until the guilt has been properly placed.

The police will not give any more details about the case to the press; but this reporter has found out that Mr. Alfie Gray had on him only his notes-replete wallet and a piece of paper which text I quote here literally: "Mathéo Olivier 135,000 pounds; Romain Bonnet 200,000 pounds; Bank 1,000,000 pounds approx"… a businessman until his last breath."

Holmes read all the papers about it, but neither of the others gave other new or useful facts; he speculated about that which he cared with the data from these two reports, of which he found, in both, the last part to be the most interesting. Pounds… 'pounds', he thought, and the sheer volume registered!, so informally too, in a piece of paper, two of them with names of men instead of companies, a bank without name… "bank" in English, he was supposed to have lived in France for eight years; and he only made business in Netherland, the German Empire, Russia and France, what was he doing noting down ciphers in pounds sterling?, (it wasn't the more appropriate exchange currency )… What was he doing making business personally with some men, what was he a salesman?, he went around selling knives for such quantities to men without companies, he followed other people's investments?… What dirty business was he involved in?... 'in the United Kingdom' no less…

And thus Holmes knew Alfie Gray was working with criminals from the United Kingdom; he didn't want to jump to conclusions but a rumor in his mind wouldn't let him be, 'The Head', it said.

And then it was January 1st, New Year indeed, and when he woke up from another cocaine-induced stupor and the long hours of sleep after, he went to see his brother Mycroft; Mycroft hadn't had the decency to visit him in Christmas nor in New Year's Eve but then again neither had he… only Sherlock and Mycroft understood each other, no rancor about it, what were they?, sentimental religious fools?, visiting each other for no reason at all during holidays… no; only Sherlock cared to visit because having enjoyed useless company before now left him feeling lonely at moments.

Everybody knew him at the Houses of Parliament, not that it mattered now, January first most of them were on vacations… Holmes entered and was striding by the halls as if it was his own house, accompanied by the echo of his steps; boy was it annoying getting to Mycroft while all alternative entries to the palace were closed!; he had to go around from the Westminster Hall to the St. Stephens Hall, to the Central Hall, arches and tall emptiness and luxury and gold around him, to the House of Commons; nobody was there and he went to sit in the stand – "I ban you all for life!", he spoke loudly and it seemed a shout; he stood up and went on, by the Officer's Corridor until he arrived to a study, adjoined with the Librarian's Residence and a dining room away from the Clock Tower… There he was Mycroft, one of the few working, 'behold the true government' Sherlock thought and he had had similar thoughts before, Mycroft, Managerial Executive Consultant in State Affairs (which meant in everything), yes, a something consultant or consulting something just like him.

- "Ah!" Mycroft said always willing to show off before his brother, not turning around. – "The prodigal son returns!"

- "Really Mycroft, receiving me with clichéd lines? Besides I return where?" Mycroft then rolled in his chair so his eyes could meet him. – "To Westminster?, was this our father's home, ours?"

- "Fine, fine, you're right; it was very vulgar of me. Besides it would also be wrong because you never left our home to become independent, our parents died."

- ""Our parents died", really Mycroft, that's cold even for me, for you!, you say it just like that, in New Year!"

- "Oh! Calm down Sherlock! You're being frivolous."

- "Am I?", he didn't really ask. He separated his arms straight from his body and flopped them back down again. – "Where is the parliament? Where is the Queen? Is she here? You know, I have never asked, is her robing room where she changes robes?"

- "You know very well that it isn't. Why do you want to know where's the Queen? Do you have a request of some sort? Is she in danger?"

- "No, no; although I must confess I have always had an itch to see what she does in her privacy."

- "Are you in love with her or something?" Mycroft splayed a hand signaling the vacant chair at the other side of his desk; Sherlock sat down as he replied.

- "Why? Has she told you anything? Is she interested? Does she want to go to bed with me?"

Mycroft looked at his brother; he was always fit but now he was also artificially thin, with cocaine thinness, dark eye-rings. – "I doubt it."

Sherlock shrugged. – "I came only to visit you. Wish you a happy 1891. A decade from passing to another century… my, my!, time flies!"

Mycroft scowled and narrowed his eyes. – "I'll be there with you in a second." He lowered his head to restart writing. – "I'll give your idiocy some of my valuable time, but at least let me finish this letter; I'm cluttered with work!"

- "You always are." Sherlock half stood up, inclined over the desk to get his nose at letter's height. – "What is it about?"

Mycroft stopped and looked at him with an annoyed face. – "Please keep yourself behind an imaginary red line crossing the desk at the middle of its width." Sherlock smiled and sat back down, properly. – "It is a nonsense letter to repeat myself in saying I had allowed a Colonel Moran to leave for vacations. Can you believe this Sherlock?, what do I have to do with the vacation periods of military men?, how is that any of my concern? Yet they make this great scandal about being short-notice, how the Mahdist war had just ended, could we do without Moran when apparently he is the best at training our forces in the use of heavy weaponry…? They come to me… What do they want me to do? Sure! I said, whatever, there are others and we're not at war right now!"

Holmes shrugged and showed his palms, his lips making a pout, saying that way that he agreed. – "Poor Colonel Moran, seems to me like someone has a personal feud with him; not wanting to let him go on vacations during Christmas…"

And his brother seemed somehow even more irritated. – "What is wrong with you?, why are you being so sentimental? Christmas this, New Year that… Besides he issued his request on the 25th December, it is true that he left before the permission was granted, which is also part of the controversy, but while he crossed the English Channel… it was fast if he has arrived by the 29th."

- "Really, without permission? Well where is he going?"

- "Bruges…"

- "What?" Sherlock interrupted, bolted to sit upright.

Mycroft scowled and disconcerted stared at him. - "What?"

- "His destination."

- "Bruges Belgium?"

- "At what time was the permission requested?" He wasn't respecting the imaginary red line rule again, in fact he snatched the letter.

- "Sherlock!" Mycroft snatched it back. – "It doesn't say there. The request was registered the 25Th December at 9 a.m., I guess then he asked to leave about an hour before it."

- "Soldiers rise at six. Am I not right?" Mycroft only nodded in silence. "They train for an hour an hour and a half, papers arrive to people who want them such as me or you as early as seven… Brother mine I sense myself reaching the peak of my career, no!, I shouldn't jump to conclusions… Allow me to make you a question that will seem futile to you brother mine" Mycroft had his eyes wide on him during his murmured raving. - "Who goes to Bruges, Belgium?"

- "Colonel Moran." He very shockingly joked, when he was usually stoic and even more importantly there was a pressing matter.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turned his head one side and then to Mycroft again. - "No!, no!" He insisted. - "Who goes to Bruges Belgium?"

- "Nobody. No other Englishman except for me would even know it exists. Who has family in Bruges?"

Holmes smacked the desk, and sat down relaxed again with a rude grin on his face. – "My dear brother you're stupid; how could you not know?"

- "Whatever do you mean?"

- "Alfie Gray…"

- "Who?"

- "I see, not interested even when he is the owner of G-Steel."

- "Is he? Well why would I care? We don't even import knives and whatever else they produce."

He smacked the desk again. – "Exactly! Brother, I'm a genius!"

- "If you say so Sherlock."

- "Well, where would I usually find Colonel Moran?"

- "At the Honorable Artillery Company Armoury."

- "Do you know if he keeps constant communication with anyone?"

- "My little little brother, I had only vaguely heard his name before this whole rumpus."

- "Could you intercept all telegrams arriving from Bruges to London, and vice versa, until he comes back?, without giving yourself or me, or the crown! away, to anyone!, nobody must know, but I need you to make sure the messages get to me too."

- " I guess I could, all telegrams from Bruges because he will be using an alias right?"

- "Doubtlessly, if he addresses himself at all. Can you describe him to me?, physically."

- "Yes of course. Around 5 feet 11 inches; strong built, very muscular, bulky, wide bone structure; square face with strong jaw, skin whiter than yours but less white than mine, opaque black hair cut very short, small blue eyes, irregular nose tending to be wide, it seems he is prone to clench his hands into fists for no good reason."

- "Yes, that will suffice. Dear brother, this was the most pleasant social visit I've ever made you."

Mycroft smiled and chuckled cut. – "Probably because it turned out to be anything but."

Sherlock stood up, padded his shoulder and left striding with as much arrogance and nonchalance as with which he had come in, only perhaps more content.

He had thought of making a shortcut, with the description of Colonel Moran getting to know about his communications, who he sent telegrams to; but he decided to wait, if he reported to anyone it meant that "anyone" was above him, or if he gave orders they would be incriminating: He was going to let the Alfie Gray affair guide him, it would be the most effective way and absolutely detectivishly fun.

Aria if you come across this again, well I probably shouldn't thank you, but I liked your review, harsh and quite insulting but at least you actually told me something, you know; I repeat, anyone can tell me anything in reviews, alright?

And I'll even say that maybe you're right, as it is indeed always my problem when I write: I ask myself constantly, what is the right way to express this with all its meaning, causes, etc., without the use of metaphors, which I dislike very much; and then that brings me problems with ponctuation. But I do have to remark that I'm not trying to pass off as an intellectual, or trying to impress anyone ( I just try to write exactly what I have in mind... exactly).

Oh, and I just checked the information on Amanda McKittrick Ros on wikipedia. That's not fair!, I would never try to embellish needlework in such a way!, haha, (nor anything for that matter, it is "artistic" exageration which I despise most).

But yeah, I have listened, for the moment I'll just segment my long sentences and paragraphs through the use of good simple ponctuation, that should make my writing less complex to start with. Alright.