Prologue:
In Which Introductions Are Made
Let's not waste any time, shall we? Just the basic facts of my past, eh, and then we can get down to the reason why you are reading this. Dr. Watson has not deigned to mention either myself or my employer as of yet in his stories; he went so far as to painstakingly exorcise us entirely from the affair of Irene Adler and the so-called "King of Bohemia" in his published account. "A Scandal in Bohemia"—good fun all around, and scarcely a word of it true. The good Doctor certainly possesses a flair for fiction.
But I cannot trust that this aforementioned leniency will continue forever, and when the time comes that he writes up the events of the spring of 1891, another written record will be needed to set things straight. You can be sure that he won't depict either the Professor or myself in a favourable light.
My name is Sebastian Moran, Colonel, late of Her Majesty's Indian Army, the 1st Bangalore Pioneers specifically. Born in good old London, raised for a time in India, son of the British Minister to India. It may have been a place to build character, but it was no place to make a proper God-fearing British gentleman out of one's heir, so off I was packed to Eton and then Oxford.
That much is a matter of record, and what you, my fine, upstanding audience are here for is the sordid tale of my unlawful exploits with my unlawful friend and employer, Professor James Moriarty.
Well, as it turns out, our first meeting was quite incongruous. You see, there wasn't much love lost between myself and good old Sir Augustus, the model of British decency and decorum, an example to his fellow countrymen in India. Behind closed doors, however, he was the most hateful man I have ever had the misfortune of knowing—and that includes all manner of thieves, murderers, and assorted ne'er-do-wells whom I've known both in the service of my Queen and in the service of my old tutor. The old man wished for me to follow in his footsteps, but I dodged him. Made a mess of my time in Oxford—despite my not-inconsiderable intelligence, I will have you know—and joined the army. Fortunately, I had one or two friends in high places who were sympathetic to my plight, and I had a commission awaiting me. But Her Majesty's army wants their officers to be intelligent and well-educated, and my grades in Oxford were not up to par.
Moriarty was my maths tutor. He was the classic teacher-and-mentor: a sympathetic ear, words of wisdom, unflagging patience. All he wanted was a venerable age—he was only in his thirties at the time. But a better friend I could not ask for, and indeed had never known. He got me through maths, and I daresay that I taught him a few tricks at cards that he had not previously known.
We kept up a correspondence for the next decade or so while I was off in India and Afghanistan, fighting the good fight and furthering the cause of Queen and country. Patriotic of me, eh? Well, I suppose I wouldn't sell out my people for any price, but there was, of course, more to it than that. As it turned out, I was a natural good shot—the best heavy game shot in India, matter of fact—and I had a taste for battle. Some called me a hero, and I suppose I was, from a purely British point of view. Kept more of our men alive than the rest of the officers around me put together, but for all that, I was never a general. Oh, it might have come to me had I not been quite so… dissolute.
Most officers had more than one indiscretion which they'd prefer to keep quiet; it was purely bad luck on my part that I was caught out on one or two of my own. Card-sharping, a nicked Indian idol here and there, a superior officer's daughter in a discreet, torrid romance with the irresistibly dashing Colonel Moran. Too many dalliances with the native women, perhaps? I had the interesting experience of coming across a dark-skinned Indian boy with blue Moran eyes staring out of his thin face. Nothing like meeting your own unknown progeny to make you reflect on the course your life has taken; it's not, after all, as though Sebastian Moran is some uncouth, unintelligent scoundrel.
But I digress. I retired at the ripe old age of forty before they could saddle me with a dishonourable discharge, and returned to London.
James Moriarty was waiting for me with open arms. I don't think he had anything to do with my forced retirement, though I've seen him pull similar tricks with other men whose talents and services he wishes to acquire. No, my bad luck was just that, not engineered by the man I am privileged to call "friend".
The Professor made a full confession of his true livelihood and morals, and then offered to hire my services as his lieutenant. I would be well-paid and well-looked after for a mere handful of high-class jobs in the London Underworld. How could I refuse such a generous offer? True that, having revealed so much to me, I could not have left the Professor's study alive unless it were as his employee, but I wanted to follow him.
Anyone who has met James Moriarty will understand. He is compelling and forceful, charismatic and dangerous, the epitome of a leader for whom men would risk life and limb. Even the bloody Great Detective cannot help but admire him—his own words, I heard them myself.
"Will you join me in my work, old friend?"
"Sir, it would be my honour."
The deal was made, the contract signed, and my fate became irrevocably bound up in his. Dr. John Watson will be known to posterity for the company he kept; so, too, shall I.
Author's Note:
MISS ME?
Oh my gosh, hi, everybody! Yes, I still live—incredible, right? What's even more incredible is that I'm starting to write my own fic again, hallelujah! I haven't really stopped writing in the three years since I finished Mortality, but it's mostly been work on my co-written Wholock crossover Children of Time. I probably have my co-writer and best friend Riandra to thank for keeping me writing!
So, recently, I have had a terrible obsession with Moriarty and Moran. It doesn't help that there are only a handful of adaptations in which they share screentime (Granada, I'm forever bitter at you for neglecting this), and even written pastiches including both are easily numbered. I'm not a huge fan of the Warner Bro films, but I even rewatched Game of Shadows just for the Moriarty/Moran interaction. So much vastly unmined potential that it's maddening!
So, I'm taking steps to cure my own fever, or at least make it bearable! I don't know how few and far-between updates will be, because I have nothing more, as of yet, than this hastily-written prologue. But I want to do more. I need to do more. I'm getting back into writing Sherlock Holmes proper again, and I need to flesh out my villains. Yes, this story will be taking place in the Deliver Us from Evil universe—a rather revamped one. Revamped how? Well, you'll just have to stick around and see. ;)
Please review!