I am the writer. Allow me to be your guide through this series of unconnected short stories pondering "What If" scenarios that would make the Sherlock Holmes' canon very different from the one we know and love. Follow me, and ponder "What If?" - Inspired by Marvel's "What If...?" series. "What If" prompts will be at the end of each story. Written for fun, not to be taken seriously.

John Watson set his feet to fight as four men approached him from the darkness and surrounded him. He knew he'd never be able to win this fight, but he wasn't about to go down easily. He was almost certainly going to die here, but he was going to go down swinging. There would be no one save his adversaries to bear witness to his bravery, but he'd know. And hopefully, when his body was found, his dearest, genius friend would be able to know that he'd tried.

He swallowed hard, trying to keep his face neutral and not show any fear even as he saw his enemy's weapons glinting in the moonlight. He readied his cane, the only weapon he had to defend himself with. Then, in the mouth of the alley he glimpsed a familiar silhouette. It was Sherlock Holmes. The silhouette of Holmes raised his hand, and that was the signal for Watson's attackers to begin their assault. And in the end, when he was beaten and broken and bruised, he saw Holmes once more, laughing before he turned away, leaving Watson in the alley for dead.

"Watson? Come back to me, Watson."

The voice was soft, gentle, but still too loud. He groaned from the pain of it, and immediately the voice stopped. Something cool and wet covered his face. He groaned again, feeling something being held to his mouth.

"It's water," said the voice softly. "Drink it."

Watson obeyed, although he sputtered and spilled most of the water. He didn't have the strength to do anything else, falling back into blissful unconsciousness.

When he woke again, he found his friend sitting on a chair next to his bed, he was slumped onto the edge of the mattress and was asleep. Watson reached out slowly with a heavily bandaged hand. He hadn't intended to wake his friend, but his movement caused him to wake anyway.

"Watson," he breathed. "You're awake. Thank God." He took Watson's bandaged hand in his so gently it didn't hurt him.

Watson smiled very slightly, glad to be safe and with his dearest friend again.

"James."

Moriarty smiled fondly. "John."

Much later, after Watson was feeling a bit better, he reclined on the couch while professor Moriarty stalked up and down their shared living room in Baker Street.

"I'm so sorry," Moriarty said for what must have been the hundredth time. "I should have been with you."

"You didn't know he would do something like this. Stop apologizing."

Moriarty shook his head. "You were a bloody mess when I found you, Watson. You were unconscious for nearly five days. I thought I'd lost you. All because I underestimated the sheer brazenness of Sherlock Holmes' type of evil. What exactly did he tell you?"

"I don't quite remember," said Watson with a small shrug. "I know he was walking beside me. I think he had a gun. I remember… I remember thinking that whatever he wanted, I wasn't going to give it to him. I was never going to betray you. I think he threatened you, but I don't recall what he said. And I know he didn't personally hurt me. He had his goons for that. He was there, though. I think he told them not to kill me outright. Because they could have, but they didn't." He reached up to tenderly touch a large knot on the back of his head.

"I'll see him hanged for his crimes," Moriarty swore to no one in particular. "Damn him! The man is a Napoleon of crime. This entire city reeks of his influence, I can see his hand in nearly every serious crime perpetrated throughout the metropolis. But thanks to his own intelligence and his damn brother we can't stick anything on him. But I swear, Watson, I'll see him hanged."

"James…"

"I don't know how. I'm getting closer, though."

"James."

"Hmm?"

"Sit down. Please. You're driving me crazy."

"Sorry, Moriarty murmured, instantly complying. He sat beside Watson hand lowered his voice. "How are you?" He took one of Watson's hands in his and peeked under the bandages covering one of Watson's worst cuts.

"It's fine, James. I'm a doctor, remember? I can take care of it by myself." Watson chided him gently.

"Of course I remember," Moriarty said. "You never let me forget with your constant bullying about my health. So let me do this for you, my friend."

"As long as you're not trying to help because you still mistakenly think this is your fault."

"It is my fault," Moriarty murmured, "but let me help because I'm your friend."

"It's not," Watson insisted, "but very well."

Moriarty checked Watson's head wound and changed that bandage, still clearly feeling guilty but ceasing to discuss it for the moment.

"Watson," he said instead, "there's something you should know."

"Hmm? What's that, then?"

"I've left the university."

"What? But you adore teaching."

"I do, but now I know I can't be a detective and also be a professor. Teaching is too scheduled, too rigid. Too easy for criminals to take advantage of. I had to choose, and I have. Don't be upset for me, I can teach later. Maybe once I've seen the likes of Sherlock Holmes be punished for his crimes."

Watson frowned. "You didn't leave just because of what happened to me, did you?"

"No," Moriarty assured him. "It was the end of the term, John, and I'd been contemplating it for a while now. I won't lie and say that what he did to you didn't cement my decision, but it wasn't the root cause of it.

"What about your students? They adore you."

"I teach mathematics and astronomy, Watson. There are dozens of academics out there currently fighting for my job. I promise you, they'll get by without me. And when I feel I can teach again, someone will want me. At least, I hope."

"They will," Watson said with certainty. "You're brilliant. That's why you became the youngest department chair in the college's history and why they'll take you back."

Moriarty smiled. "Good old Watson. I believe you have more faith in me than I ever have." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose I am very young to have been where I was. I don't feel young, though, Watson. I must confess that sometimes, and more in teaching than in detecting, I feel very old."

Suddenly, someone was knocking on their living room door and Mrs. Hudson slipped through, shutting it quickly behind her. "I told him he's not welcome!" she exclaimed.

The next moment, Mycroft Holmes had pushed open the door and was standing before them.

Moriarty scowled at him darkly, but the elder Holmes' gaze was riveted on the heavily bandaged and bruised Watson.

"I think, professor," he said slowly, "I am ready to help you with an investigation into my brother."

John Watson sat across the table from Mycroft Holmes and moved a chess piece seemingly randomly.

"Check," Mycroft said, moving his quickly yet deliberately.

Watson sighed, and moved another piece carelessly.

"Checkmate. Would you like to play something else, doctor?"

"No," Watson grumbled. "I'd like to leave."

"I am not stopping you," Mycroft pointed out. "You're not necessary here, I can protect myself."

"Nevertheless," Watson said. "I'm simply here to make certain of it."

"My brother won't come to kill me. You and Professor Moriarty, however, you two I could see him attempting to kill in revenge. Besides, whatever was going to happen surely has happened by now. Go home. I can tell you're impatient to see for yourself what has transpired."

"I'm worried," Watson admitted. "I'm used to being close by when there is danger. I'm used to being near to the professor and watching his back. I wish I was there now. But I understand why he gave me the assignment to protect you. It was a job that needed done, and as much as I hate to admit it I shouldn't strain this leg. Your brother's goons messed it up very badly."

Mycroft looked away uncomfortably. "Believe me or don't, but I've never tried to shield him. Sherlock, I mean. As a matter of fact, I didn't even think of him for a very long time until Professor Moriarty came to see me. I'm over a decade Sherlock's senior, you see, and we share nothing besides familial connections. He made it very clear that he didn't care to get to know who I was, and so I didn't get to know him, either, and instead focused on my own career. When the good Professor first came to me and told me of his crimes… I did dismiss him at first. But I also have had an independent investigation of my own made. When I learned of what he did to you and saw it with my own eyes, I knew it was true. And I am sorry, doctor. I wish I would have known, wish I could have prevented this somehow."

Watson shook his head. "I believe you. Sometimes you think you know a person and it turns out you don't. You didn't even know him, so how could you know what he was like?"

"I… suppose so," Myrcroft replied slowly.

"I had a brother," Watson admitted with a shrug. "And I did know him. I loved him. I thought we were close… and then one night he got drunk, decided to try and rob a man, and was killed by his would-be victim. All right in front of the pub, mind you, with about a dozen witnesses. I thought I knew him, but I had no idea who he was. When I learned of it, I kept telling myself the man I knew would have never done that… and so I had to admit to myself I didn't know him at all."

"I'm sorry," Mycroft said softly.

Watson gave a small shrug. "Sometimes, you have to make your own family. My family is gone, but I found James, and he's been a closer brother than any other family I've had. That's why I don't like being so far away while I know for certain he's in danger."

"Then go. Certainly he didn't mean for you to stay here indefinitely."

"He'll send word," Watson replied. "This is where he wanted me, so this is where I am. I don't desert my posts, and I don't disobey my orders. Moriarty knows he can count on me, and that will never not be true."

"That is admirable, doctor," Mycroft said, "But I mean what I said. I release you from your obligation. If my brother wants to come after me, let that be on my head."

"No," Watson countered. "Not until I hear from James."

"Very well," Mycroft conceded.

They sat in silence for a minute as Watson reset the chess board. He had just finished when a constable came pounding on the door.

"Doctor Watson!" he called. "Doctor Watson!"

They quickly let him in.

"What has happened?" Watson demanded.

"It's the professor. Now, he's okay for the moment, but he's been shot."

"Shot! Where?"

"In his side. He's asking for you."

"Where is he?"

"Being taken to Charing Cross. But you should also know that Sherlock Holmes has escaped. I'm here to help protect his brother, but be on your guard."

"Thank you," Watson said, pocketing his revolver and grabbing his coat. "I've got to go to him."

Mycroft nodded, but Watson didn't see it for he was already leaving. He had only one concern and that was for Moriarty. He needed to know if he was alive. the quickest route to the hospital took him through alleyway shortcuts through the city. It was there he was attacked.

The last thing he saw was Sherlock Holmes above him before the world went black.

"I suppose you want to know what's happening."

Watson gazed at his captor and said nothing, trying to focus and to not show any fear.

"My apologies for the drugs, but I presume I'm correct when I assume you don't harbor any fond thoughts towards me."

Watson was sitting in a wheelchair drugged to the point he couldn't fight Sherlock Holmes and they were both in a private train car headed for who knows where. Holmes was reclining in his seat, staring at Watson coldly.

"You've probably guessed already that you're my insurance in case that damn professor lives and decides to do something rash like chase me. For your sake, you ought to hope he dies, for then I might be persuaded to set you free."

Watson ground his teeth to keep from lashing out.

Holmes barked a laugh at him. "Oh, please, doctor. Let's not have any delusions of grandeur from you. I've defeated you twice now, we both know you're no threat. Try and avenge your precious professor and I'll simply kill you."

The madman leaned forward, taking one of Watson's limp arms and tying it down to the wheelchair's armrest. Then, he did the same with the other, tying that one even tighter before covering Watson with a blanket and tucking it around him so no one who walked past their compartment and saw him though the window would suspect he was being held hostage in the chair.

"I didn't order them not to kill you, you know," Holmes continued, reclining once again. "I don't underestimate people often, but I did you, doctor. To me, you were just an easy target to show Moriarty what his fate would be if he continued to pry into my affairs. He was supposed to find you dead, or better yet, in the process of dying. But then, Doctor Watson, you surprised me. You lived. You are one of the only miscalculations I've ever made." He leaned forward, gazing at Watson creepily. "That makes you interesting. And that's why I've not killed you yet." He rattled off a long list of deductions he'd made about Watson and who he was and his life experiences, all of which he could have learned if he'd read the stories Watson published about Moriarty's adventures. Holmes then sat back, grinning as if he'd done something impressive.

Watson continued to stare back impassively. He was not impressed; Moriarty could do all that and more without potentially knowing it all beforehand.

"Like it or not," Holmes pointed out with that damned grin still on his face, "I'm your only companion from now on. Perhaps for the rest of your life, really, not as though that's a long time. Are you sure you want to keep up your childish stony silence?"

Watson regarded him. "They're too tight," he finally slurred, the drugs making talking difficult.

Holmes' brows furrowed. "What?"

"The binds on my right wrist. They're too tight and it's cutting off the flow of blood to my fingers."

Holmes huffed. "Nice try, doctor. You won't trick me into setting you loose with something as simple as that. There will be no escape for you, not until the release of death."

"Nevertheless, it is too tight."

Holmes closed his eyes and leaned his head back for a while until Watson was certain he was resting, but then suddenly Holmes was peering at him again.

"Do you know why I do it, doctor?"

"You read Ambrose Bierce and envied Peyton Farquhar?"

Holmes grinned at him. "It's the pursuit of power, doctor. It was never about the money, the treasure, the things. Only the power. I have it in me to be one of the most powerful men in the world, I can pull the strings of world events and play governments like a puppet. Before your professor came along, I was the spider in the middle of a web that spanned the entire continent and I was aware of every small vibration of it. As I said, nothing is more thrilling than the pursuit of power. I will simply have to start rebuilding again, and it will be as much of a thrill as last time."

"I... understand," said Watson slowly.

Holmes cocked his head to the side. "You do?"

Watson nodded, the movement making his head swim. "You're brilliant. You want to be acknowledged for your brilliance, and that's hard to get. The world seems made to take advantage of brilliant minds. Someone else always seems to get the credit. But to play the game for its own sake, to know you will be the most powerful… I understand that."

Holmes considered that. "But you don't want power," he finally replied.

"No. I don't. And I'm not brilliant. But I can understand feeling taken advantage of. I know what it's like to have the pursuit of something be an end in itself."

"Does Moriarty take advantage of you?" Holmes asked, seemingly genuinely curious.

"Hmm? No, of course not. But you wouldn't be the first one to think so. Ever since I began to write out some of our adventures, people have assumed I am more his secretary than his friend."

"That is not what I asked, doctor." Once again Holmes regarded him, seemingly noticing that Watson was looking worse for wear. "The drugs should be wearing off," he finally said, "so what's wrong?"

"I told you, it's too tight."

Holmes finally took his comment at face value and leaned forwards, pulling back the blanket to reveal Watson's hand was a dark purple color from his blood pooling and failing to circulate. Holmes' brow furrowed as he realized Watson was telling the truth. He untied the hand and Watson gasped in pain as his blood began moving again.

"I'm not a liar," Watson mumbled, cradling his hand close to himself.

"So who are you, really?" Holmes asked.

"Who are you?" Watson shot back.

"Now, now, none of that. Unless I decide to kill you, we're stuck with each other for a while."

"You're wrong, you know," Watson replied. "Having me as a hostage will not dissuade Moriarty from catching you. He may be a friend, but I'm a soldier. I know what it takes to win a war. Moriarty knows it, too. He'll come after you even if he knows you'll kill me once he finds you. And he'll… catch you."

Holmes caught onto his hesitation. "If I kill you, then you believe he'll kill me. You're afraid of it. More afraid of it than the fact you'd be killed."

Watson didn't reply, but also didn't look at him and Holmes smirked. "Don't worry about that possibility, doctor. Your precious professor will never have to ponder the moral guilt of murdering me in cold blood. He'll never even get the chance. If he comes after us, I will simply kill you both. I know you have faith in him, but I'm younger, stronger, smarter, and better all around. Maybe I'll let him live for a while so he can watch as I kill you slowly, knowing it's his turn next. Maybe I'll kill him slowly and let him die knowing you're still in my power and he can't save you. He don't win, doctor, I can assure you of that."

"I told you already, Sherlock Holmes: I am not a liar. He will succeed."

"He will try." Holmes reached into his pocket and retrieved a small, sinister looking syringe. "Our stop is almost here," he explained shortly. "Goodnight, doctor Watson."

Watson felt the sharp pinch of the needle ruthlessly and recklessly stabbed into his neck. He yelped in pain, he couldn't help it, and then the next thing he knew he was unable to think clearly once more and the world sank back into darkness.

Watson spent his days in a drugged stupor, occasionally coming back to himself long enough to speak with Holmes who was, true to his word, Watson's only companion. Watson spoke with no one else, just him, even once they were off the train.

They were somewhere on the continent, and at some point Holmes had wrenched his bad arm so violently it had dislocated. Then, as Watson cried in pain, Holmes had broken his arm, snapping the bone. A doctor who spoke no English set it with stiff plasters and gave him a sling. It was Holmes' way of ensuring that Watson couldn't fight him even if the drugs wore off enough for him to have full control of his limbs.

His other arm was usually occupied with a cheap walking stick because his leg still wasn't healed from the first attack. The two of them traveled with a group of guides across what Watson slowly guessed was Switzerland. The guides didn't speak to him. Whether they couldn't speak English or were under orders not to, Watson didn't know. For all the talks he'd had with Sherlock Holmes, there hadn't been any more talk of Moriarty. Holmes had slapped him hard the only time he'd asked and he hadn't asked again. But he did hope that meant James was hot on the pursuit.

"Don't drug me tonight," Watson pleaded one night as they lay beneath the stars. The campfire was slowly dying, and the sky was beautiful. Had he not been lying beside a villain, Watson might have even enjoyed it.

"Why should I care what you want?" Holmes replied.

"Because I'm the only person who knows who you are. The only person you can talk to. You want me to be conscious, and I don't want to be drugged. What we both want doesn't conflict."

Holmes huffed. "Very well. By now you know you're at my mercy. I…" he grunted.

"Alright?" Watson asked.

"Hit my head. I do so hate the outdoors."

"Let me see."

"No."

"Come now, I'm a doctor."

"And I'm fine, doctor. Not that you actually care."

"I care enough to want to see if you're injured."

"You are a mystery to me," Holmes admitted. "I am not going to enjoy killing you. It's nothing personal, you know."

"That's alright, then," Watson replied. "I'm not going to enjoy dying. Nothing personal, see."

Holmes snorted. "Right. You know... I never betrayed England."

"You've had people murdered."

"Those people were part of my world, doctor. I had people killed, yes, but that was the risk they took when they became thieves and murderers themselves. I leave good, law abiding citizens alone until they mess with me. Like you and your professor. I know that might be hard to believe, but it's true. The men I steal from don't deserve what they have, the men I kill live a life of violence, the ones I employ have already ruined their own lives. I don't do that for them. I simply control a population that already exists. Someone has to, or else it's unorganized chaos. Having a mastermind running the show actually reduces crime for it limits the competition. I'm no traitor."

"You're going to kill me," Watson said. "Your argument falls apart when it comes down from grandiose speeches to reality. I have a feeling I'm not the only 'innocent' who's fallen prey to you and your organization."

"You're the only one I'm going to dislike killing," Holmes replied softly. "If Moriarty was dead, I'd let you try and run away. But as it is, he's not dead, doctor. And he's pursuing us. And in doing so, he's guaranteed your death. This is on his head, not mine."

"Right," Watson replied pawkily. "That only makes logical sense, after all."

Holmes frowned through the darkness. "We could have been on the same side in a different life, I think. You and I, Watson, we might have even been friends, so don't pass your judgement too quickly. Maybe one day, you'll understand."

Moriarty was waiting for them. They had made it to a place Holmes called 'the Reichenbach Falls' when he paused, retrieving a hidden gun. True to his word, he pressed it to Watson's temple. Seeing this, their two remaining guides quickly fled, seeing there was something going on they wanted no part of, and they were left alone.

"Surrender your weapons," Holmes called out, "and I let him go. We'll solve this like men."

Slowly, James Moriarty emerged from the path behind the waterfall. His face was set in stone and he held Watson's own revolver in his hand.

"Let Watson go first," he said. "You've caused enough pain already, this is between you and me."

"I'm not that gullible, Professor Moriarty. And I'm not that stupid. I'm not alone." From below them, a figure in black emerged and aimed a long rifle at Moriarty. Watson had seen him before, but hadn't realized this man must have been following them and watching from a distance to protect Holmes. He must be part of Holmes' gang, must have eluded capture in England.

"Put the gun down," Holmes demanded again. "We can settle this like men. It will be my pleasure to destroy you face to face, I assure you. I could have Moran shoot you right now, but I have more honor than that. So put it down."

Moriarty slowly looked between Watson and Holmes before lowering his weapon and placing it on the ground.

Holmes also released the tight hold he had on Watson. And put his weapon in his pocket. "Moran," he commanded, "keep an eye on this one." He pushed Watson towards the man in black. "And don't shoot him, I want him alive."

But as Holmes was speaking, in the moment no one was holding him, and before he could be used as a hostage once more, Watson lunged.

After that, everything seemed to happen at once. Watson hit Holmes hard, bringing them both to the ground. Moriarty advanced on Holmes to fight him. Moran advanced, too, grabbing Watson roughly by the throat and pulling him off of Holmes. Somehow, Moran ended up with his rifle aimed squarely at Watson's chest. As he squeezed the trigger, Holmes moved, or maybe he had been moving already.

Holmes shouted something that might have been 'no' or might have been nothing, and grasped the barrel of the rifle, pushing it away. The rifle fired, and then Holmes was screaming from pain because the bullet had shattered his hand.

Watson must have taken the opportunity to kick out at Moran, because the big man yelled and staggered backwards, not realizing he was right on the edge of the falls. He went over with a scream. Moriarty had taken advantage of Holmes' distraction and fished the gun out of his pocket, quickly putting himself in between his friend and his enemy with it.

As it happened, however, he needn't have been worried. It was already over and Sherlock Holmes was twitching on the ground unnaturally.

"Is… is he dead?" James said to no one in particular.

Watson shook himself and looked around, taking in his surroundings. Upon spying Homes, he crawled to him, taking his wrist in hand and feeling for a pulse.

"He's dead, James," Watson whispered softly. He leaned over the body, examining it. "It looks like he knew he'd lost. He's poisoned himself. He's gone. He's… gone."

"John…"

Watson took the murderer's head in his hands, closing his eyes. He reached and found the hand which still bled and covered it with the man's own handkerchief which was all he could do with his own arm still in a sling.

"John…"

"I knew him, James. Not well, but maybe more than anyone else who ever did. His brother didn't even try. The men he had under him were terrified of him. I think..."

"John…"

"And in the end he saved me. Why would he do that? He did, didn't he? I saw him reach out."

"John."

Watson looked up at him. "James."

"Are you hurt?" Moriarty asked dumbly

Watson snorted a laugh. "Yes. But I'll live."

Moriarty reached his hand out, and Watson placed his good hand in it. Moriarty pulled him up, and the two friends embraced. The professor held him a bit too tight for the comfort of his broken arm, but Watson didn't care, gripping James' shoulder tightly with his good hand in turn.

"James."

"John."

"God, I'm tired," Watson whispered, his voice breaking.

"I know."

"I want to go home."

"I know. So do I."

"Are you hurt, James?"

"No. I'm not hurt. I'm fine."

"He said he shot you."

"He did. That's why it took me so long to start looking for you. I'm so sorry."

"You're here. We're alive. That's all I need."

"You're alive. That's all I need. Let's go home." Moriarty started to turn away. Watson paused, looking at Sherlock Holmes' body once more. "Let's go home," he finally whispered, and he turned away as well. Together, the two of them walked down the path arm in arm as the Reichenbach Falls roared behind them in an endless cascade.

What If: Sherlock Holmes was the Napoleon of crime and James Moriarty was the genius of Baker Street?

And so, dear reader, we see a world very different from the one we're familiar with. A world where a brother's negligence set a young genius on the path towards evil while the friendship of a doctor brought a different genius towards good. Could Sherlock Holmes have been saved? Perhaps. But we'll never know, and I can't say. I can't interfere. I can only report what is. I am the writer.