Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. And here's the ending of this tale! Special thanks to Sendai for inspiring it, and I hope you enjoy it, my dear! And of course, everyone who's followed this tale too – I love you all!
Holmes unofficially moved in with Watson for the first month. They spent so much time discussing Moriarty's schedule, and how and when the occasion to give back such a poisoned gift might present itself, that it simply wasn't practical to spend as much time on train trips as he should have going home each night. Besides, the Montague Street flat had been unwelcoming in the best circumstances, and with a tiger breathing down his neck, it was simply intolerable.
The doctor didn't even remark on how long his guest was staying, chuffed about once again having company in the big, empty house if his behaviour was anything to go by. No wonder, especially since – like the detective's in Bloomsbury – his business wasn't exactly the most popular, so he didn't even have a steady stream of patients to keep his mind off the past.
When Holmes suggested they both relocate – together – to some more auspicious place, Watson thought the man was joking. How could they bring along such a houseguest to any respectable neighbourhood? Maybe one much more crowded? True, he never heard of the… creature… since his brother's death. But for all he knew, Moriarty came to collect it – and if their plan failed, the sorcerer might well be laid up with the flu the day the monster was unleashed again.
"Then let's say we'll move when we have beaten Moriarty," the detective replied to his objections. "A more central position might help your practice flourish just as much as it will my detective business. I'll admit that my side investigations into fake paranormal matters aren't as appealing anymore. Not when I know I could stumble into another legitimate – and malicious – practitioner."
"Can't blame you for that," the doctor snickered. "I'll think about it. I know you have a point, but even selling this house – a central place comes with central London prices. It might not be a smart move when we're already short on funds."
That was how Moriarty-stalking was paired with house hunting in Holmes' routine. The professor had requested and obtained – no wonder that people would agree even to the most troublesome of his requests – a sudden sabbatical, and had holed himself up in his house. With the necessity of having the victim agree to the exchange, even Holmes' breaking and entering abilities would be moot.
"If we're lucky something will break in that devil's nest, and you could enter as a repairman and give him the paper with the receipt," Watson said, frowning, when yet another day had passed without the hint of a solution.
"No, for such minor things he'd have one of his servants deal with the occasional worker – and as much as they undoubtedly take after their master, I'd rather snuff out the source of such wickedness. Personnel, even of the kind who doesn't mind committing crimes, can be replaced all too easily," the sleuth replied, shaking his head. Still, there had to be a way to reach the man!
Finally, their investigation spread to what the sorcerer was doing when the elder Watson met his fate. If it was a murder method Moriarty habitually employed, he could have a pattern – and that could reveal some important clue.
Watson followed him around, saying simply, "Better you have two shadows than one." The soldier grinned when – in the periodicals section of a library – they found a mention of Professor J. Moriarty participating to a conference about the Middle Ages in Belgium on the very week of Henry Watson's death. "He's never made a secret of his grudge, and probably felt very clever being able to produce the 'I wasn't even in the country' kind of alibi, the bastard," he whispered, to avoid the librarian's ire.
Holmes was frankly surprised that the man would open himself to sleights of hand so close to the deadline, as travelling offered all too many opportunities to scammers of all kinds. Moriarty had to be very confident in his actual plan being impossible to crack – and to be fair, it would be so for most people. It almost was for him.
Next step, finding out Moriarty's plans. Conferences, especially international ones, usually announced their speakers well in advance, and the professor knew perfectly well which days he needed to have booked. In fact, three months could be too little time for most organizers. But with the man's style, it wouldn't be odd or difficult to make sure – by human or supernatural means – that someone couldn't take part, after all, making his offer of a contribution look like a godsend.
"Knowing the risks he opens himself to by travelling though, wouldn't he keep his participation a secret?" the soldier asked, frowning. He might not understand magic, but he had a good grasp on strategy.
"He's hungry for recognition. He will advertise anytime whom he considers his peers – or better said, his possible disciples – welcome him. Even if it should be only as a stand-in," Holmes replied.
His university was informed of the man's plans, luckily. They visited it, and Watson was stunned at his new friend's acting ability. If he hadn't known Holmes previously, he would have honestly believed that he had such a deep interest in his studies and so much admiration for Moriarty, and he would love to know if it was possible to listen to any lesson from him during his sabbatical. The detective included the doctor in Moriarty's fan club, and Watson couldn't blame the assistant they cornered for his reaction. He would have raised an eyebrow too, wondering exactly what kind of men were fascinated by such peculiar themes as Moriarty researched.
Discovering that the sorcerer was indeed planning a trip to a weeklong conference in Swiss, two days before the deadline he'd given Holmes, made them both giddy – and the poor university assistant clearly even more concerned.
As soon as they were back home, the sleuth announced, "We have a month and a half to make you the most accomplished of conjurers."
Watson balked, and he thought he could be forgiven. The last thing he wanted was to actually become an expert at controlling spirits.
Holmes rolled his eyes at him. "In the sleight-of-hand sense, not the actual magician sense. You know I wouldn't be a good teacher for the last one anyway. Moriarty has met me, and as much as I can disguise myself, I would prefer not to risk having him recognise me. He might have heard of you – I am quite sure he has, as he'd research his victims – but you haven't actually met, have you? There are enough former soldiers in Britain that a 'casual' meeting shouldn't spark any worry, even should he recognise your career."
"That obvious?" the other asked, smiling bashfully at being so quick to misunderstand.
"Entirely, I'm afraid. Now, there are peculiar hand tricks, but even more, we need to teach you the ability of misdirection. You're entirely too honest and straightforward in your actions. Luckily, this is something I excel at," the detective said.
"As well as modesty, I see." The doctor chuckled.
"Modesty doesn't quite become a teacher," Holmes replied.
Watson proved himself a surprisingly apt pupil – then again, he was a highly motivated one. To the detective's surprise, the majority of his instructions had to go into not looking like he was out for blood than the actual sleight of hand. His passion was certainly commendable, but needed to be redirected, or Moriarty would curse him at first sight. To the sleuth's delighted surprise, Watson was all too willing to share not just a house, but a bed…and let the intensity of his feelings embrace his companion there.
When the day of the warlock's precautional trip came, Watson was on the train to Dover, too. Thanks to the warlock's hubris, it wasn't very difficult to deduce which one he would be on. Afterwards, it was the simplest of things, really. He'd rehearsed too many times to fail. Wander the train and, if possible, find a seat in their target's carriage. Which he managed, maybe because Moriarty made people uncomfortable enough to want to avoid him if possible.
The professor ignored him, besides a small groan of distaste at the lurid novel the doctor took from his pocket. The monster lounged between them. If things went wrong, Watson was determined to never come back – to London, Holmes, or life.
But then the moment came. At the station, Moriarty rose from his seat, and so did Watson, at the same time…his cane moved 'accidentally' in the way, taking everything out of the man's hands. The academic glared and barked at him, but the soldier was so apologetic and helpful that he couldn't be as sharp as he wanted to.
Watson had struck gold, because one of the things that fell from the other's hands was an envelope containing his ticket for the continent. Letting the evil note slip in was the affair of a second, and Moriarty even felt obliged to grumble a thank you when he took it. The former captain watched him go…and trotting smoothly behind him, the vanishing form of the devil they'd been sent.
The grin on his partner's face and the spryness of his step, coming back to Baker Street, was enough to tell Holmes everything he needed to know about the success of his mission. Surely he could be forgiven for snogging the man against the door. It was only the proper welcome for victorious soldiers, wasn't it? And if things progressed from there, well. It was life that, finally ridden of the shadow of a deadline, very enthusiastically reaffirmed itself. Promise of more to come. Again, and again, and again, until they both were old and retired – and even then, for good measure.
Still, there was a shiver of a doubt – would Moriarty have the capability of subduing his own weapon? Neither doubted that, if the man survived, he wouldn't back down in his vendetta. The newspapers soon put a rest to that, lamenting the professor's fall into the waters of the Channel.
That was to be the end of it, both thought. And if the fantastical events had inspired Watson to celebrate his genius partner's less supernatural achievements, nobody would complain. An obscure detective didn't get cases.
Until, one day, the post brought a letter to their new address. The most common paper, a beaten-up appearance…but singular news.
Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,
This might be a confusing letter, but my mind isn't entirely settled – which, as a Colonel of the 1st Bangalore Pioneers, I'm ashamed to admit. Since I'm not likely to make peace with myself – or you – anytime soon, I feel as if I owe you full disclosure – and a warning – all the same.
You might think I'm a complete stranger, but I'm not. I'm Moriarty's murderer, and we'll leave it at that. Part of me is still thrilled at that, because he lied. That image he sent you, with the cannibal? There are some of my kind who are turned through such disgusting practices, but not I. I fought a tiger – what I thought was a tiger, at least, but turned out to be one of my ilk – barehanded, and survived. Not without scars, obviously, and that's the reason for my present condition.
Why was I stupid enough not to shoot it? Some of my supposed brothers-in-arms hated me so much that they swapped my bullets for blanks before I set up for my hunting trip. I prepared everything the night before, planning to leave just before dawn, and didn't think anyone would have the gall to mess with it. They paid for it, of that you can be sure.
So paid Moriarty for his slander. Still – the man welcomed me, and allowed me to understand what I had become. He used me, time and again, sure. But it wasn't too different from how the army used me. They point us at someone, and we murder them, isn't it so, Watson?
The humiliation he subjected me to, and the haze of bloodlust that is part of my new situation, were the man's downfall. I'm happy I took my revenge on Moriarty for his behaviour, and a small part of me wants to thank you for allowing that. But the facts still remain – I never swore allegiance to either of you, and you used me. You used me without consent or understanding me as anything more than a monster, and against my chosen commander.
At the moment, I'm off to India – part of Moriarty's shared knowledge was that I could be myself yet again if I manage to murder the creature who made me, and I want to face you as an English gentleman. Once that's done…you might want to hide. It makes the hunt less boring, and I do so enjoy a good game.
Sebastian Moran
"Do you think he's serious?" Watson asked, after reading it.
"Oh, deathly so…but I refuse to tremble for a future that might never come to pass. As boisterous as the man is, there's still the chance that his prey will kill him before he can turn his attention to us. Now, are there any cases that require a more immediate attention?" the sleuth replied, shrugging.
Such was life in 221B.