What If: Sherlock Holmes Style

by YoughaltheJust

I am the writer. Please, join me, and ponder... What if Sherlock Holmes was the Napoleon of Crime? What if Mycroft was a detective, too? What if John Watson was blind? What if Holmes and Watson were literal, not figurative, brothers? What if Holmes was a mad scientist? What if...

9. Old Aquaintance

Content Notice: contains kidnapping and non-graphic scenes of torture and violence. Readers, please use your own discretion. As always, please message me if you'd like full-spoilers specifics on what to expect. Thank you.

---

Sebastian Moran nodded once, leaning casually against the wall as if he'd not just been asked to do the impossible. He slipped his hand into his jacket, fingering the pistol he kept there. As much as he loved hunting with a scoped rifle and as interesting as the professor's specially commissioned air rifles were, he very much preferred to do his assassinations up close and personal with his old trustworthy.

People were hard to kill from far away. He always found himself looking around, getting distracted, wondering about them. He wondered, sometimes, who they were, why they were on his list, and, worst of all, who would miss them. Not really the questions an assassin should think about, but he couldn't help it. It was easier up close; it was urgent and dangerous and somehow personal. He could imagine, when he was close to them, that they were simply another enemy like he'd faced a thousand enemies on the battlefield before. Then, after they were dead, he had to focus to escape, had to run and fight and almost get caught in the process. He loved the chase, both hunting and being hunted. He always got away, and it was always thrilling. This new target, though, this would be difficult, not because of who it was but because of…

"You will, of course, be given your usual rate of compensation," the professor said, clearly exasperated that Moran was loitering after being given his assignment. Worse, he was leaning against a priceless painting the professor had stolen from a museum in France. Or, rather, that he'd planned to have someone else steal. Moriarty always had someone else do his dirty work, and usually it ended up being Moran.

Sometimes, Moran wondered how Moriarty had any muscle in his limbs at all, for he'd never seen the man lift a single finger to do anything himself. Moran had even seen the professor's assistant, the silent servant who always stood in the corner of his office, wipe a smudge off the other man's glasses for him. Moriarty deemed himself above such trivial tasks, and it was irksome to a man like Moran who loved doing all he could for himself.

Moran took a long drag of his cigarette and then flicked the butt on the other man's expensive rug, stolen straight from an American millionaire. Moriarty scowled but said nothing; he was a smart enough man to know Moran may be on his payroll, but he was in no way the assassin's master. That was, if Moran had to guess, one of the reasons the evil genius liked him so much: he'd never sniveled before him like all the other sycophants Moriarty was surrounded by. As if to prove his point, the silent man picked up the cigarette and gingerly placed it in an ashtray.

Moran blew out smoke before working his jaw and frowning at Moriarty. "Not this time," he drawled. "I'll take my own payment."

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "I was not aware Sherlock Holmes had anything valuable in his possession which would be worth stealing. I do not plan to have Baker Street ransacked. After all, there's still the other I told you about. Doctor..." he glanced at his files. "Watson."

Moran lit up another cigarette, striking his match on some stolen statue he didn't know the origin of. "I am very aware. And Doctor Watson," he said slowly, "will be alone and disoriented after Holmes is gone. If he goes missing, well, who will bother to look for him? Not a dead detective." Moran himself shrugged dismissively as if he was certain there was no one else besides Sherlock Holmes who cared about the doctor. Which he wasn't, naturally, but he had a good idea that no one besides the detective would be able to find him.

"You want Doctor Watson as compensation?"

Moran shrugged again as if to say 'yes. And?'

"Very well," the professor agreed. "Take him. Or, if you don't, I'll have him found. He doesn't seem that valuable of a hostage, however." Moriarty let the sentence hang, clearly expecting an explanation.

"What I want him for, what I do with him, and what happens to him afterwards is my business," Moran grunted. "I'll get him myself, you just ensure any evidence I leave behind is covered up in all regards."

He dropped his burned out match in the other man's water pitcher and walked out. He could hear the man growling, and he grinned. He may be an assassin, but that didn't mean he liked crime, and Moriarty was one of the worst people he'd ever met. He himself wasn't an angel, but he'd never betrayed England, and Moran very much suspected Moriarty had. A few more jobs and he'd be rich enough to put Moriarty on his list, then pack up and start a new life in Africa where the only thing he'd be killing would be the wildlife.

He really was going to regret killing Sherlock Holmes. It was thrilling, of course; Holmes was going to be one of his most dangerous adversaries. But Holmes was good for England, good at getting criminals off the streets. Moran knew he was a damned hypocrite, but he really didn't care. He admired Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson…

He took a long drag of his cigarette. Did Watson remember him? He doubted it. The doctor would have had a hundred men under his scalpel in his time, and he hadn't been in the colonel's command. Moran remembered him, though, for how could he forget? And now, he was going to have him.

Moran walked vaguely towards Baker Street, wondering what the professor was even now deciding he must be wanting the doctor for. Would he think it was to torture him? Some revenge ploy? Something worse? Moran wasn't half as creative as the evil genius was, but it was sometimes fun to imagine the crazy things the professor could come up with. Moran had once watched him concoct a robbery that was to be covered up by letting loose two lions from a nearby zoo while simultaneously setting fire to the home they were robbing, which happened to have the zoo between it and the fire station. In the end, it had worked like a charm and the fire and the loss of priceless art had been blamed on the slow response from the fire team after one of them was mauled in the street. Moran hadn't been there, but it had apparently been unforgettable.

So, what could Moriarty be cooking up in his mind as a purpose for why Moran wanted the doctor? Likely he thought Moran was planning to release Watson onto the moor and hunt him down like an animal. Now that would be interesting, but that was something Moriarty would do, not Moran. Moran was sporting: another reason he liked to assassinate men to their faces. They needed at least a sliver of a chance to fight back.

He found himself standing outside 221B, staring up at the windows where, presumably, the doctor and the detective were relaxing in the safety of their own home. He abandoned his cigarette on the street and walked up to the door. "Oh, what the hell," he murmured, and knocked. It didn't get more face-to-face than this.

The door was opened by a sweet-looking older lady who was polite to a fault and accepted his smile and his story that he was an old friend of the doctor. He could tell she didn't like that he reeked of cigarettes and that she was a bit annoyed he was calling so late in the evening, but she showed him up.

Doctor Watson was standing when he entered, and he watched the doctor's face go from warm and welcoming to confused. "I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to remind me…" he started to say.

"Watson!" Sherlock Holmes yelled, jumping to his feet and grabbing the doctor roughly, "get behind me!"

Moran pulled out his revolver and leveled it at the detective. "What an endearing show of devotion," he murmured, "but I'm not here to kill him, Mr. Holmes."

"Isn't this a bit bold, Moran? You can kill me, but you won't escape."

"I'm supposed to kill you, Mr. Holmes," he answered with a shrug. "I have a suggestion. Sit down, won't you, and I'll explain." He gestured his gun towards what was likely their dinner table. Holmes and Watson looked between each other, clearly knowing they didn't have a choice. They sat, laying their hands flat on the table, making Moran wonder if they'd been threatened like this before and, if they had, how they'd gotten out of it.

"As you know," Moran said, "I'm here to kill you, Mr. Holmes. Now, I could have done it already. Or, I could have waited patiently and decided to do it a hundred different ways in the coming days. But, seeing as how I'm having a sudden mid-life crisis and considering a career change, I'm going to give you an offer no one else has ever received. I'm going to shoot out your kneecaps so you'll be crippled but you'll live. Tomorrow, that nice lady who let me up is going to run a report of your death in all the papers. You'll spend a few months confined to your couch here with the curtains drawn. Eventually, you'll read in the papers that Moriarty has been killed. After that happens, gather together, let's say, one thousand pounds. Certainly you have some rich clients out there who will pay up. You'll be contacted, and after you pay up John Watson will be returned to you."

"Returned?" Watson said, his face still confused.

"You'll be coming with me, doctor," Moran explained shortly.

"Shoot me," Holmes said, "but if you truly don't mean to kill me then leave Watson here."

"You're not the one making the demands here, Mr. Holmes. Be grateful you will live. Now stand up, just you, and take it like a man. Stay where you are, doctor, or I'll shoot him through the heart."

Holmes glanced between Watson and Moriarty, then slowly began to stand.

"Please," Watson said softly. "If you're going to take me as insurance anyway, there's no reason to cripple him." It was a weak argument and he knew it, but Watson stood and put himself in front of Holmes and Moran anyway.

Holmes put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "This is a better outcome than I thought we would have tonight, Watson. I'll see you again, my friend. Be brave; I don't think he plans to kill you, so stay alive and well no matter what happens. Stay strong."

The words were so quiet Moran had to strain to hear them, and then he watched as Holmes extended his hand. Watson took it, and the two shook hands firmly. Then, as if they'd rehearsed it, they both lunged at Moran. He quickly stepped back, aiming at Holmes and squeezing the trigger. Watson had been moving before he aimed, however, and the bullet smacked into the doctor instead of the detective.

"Dammit," Moran breathed, but in reality he was too thrilled to be disappointed yet. He had known Sherlock Holmes was going to be dangerous, and he loved that he'd been right. He dodged the man's lunge and grinned as Holmes smacked into the wall sideways. Holmes overturned a side-table, pushing Moran back and putting a barrier between them. His attention was divided, however, between the assassin and the doctor, and Moran took advantage.

He aimed carefully before Holmes could fully prepare for his next move, and shot one of the detective's shins. He paused, listening to the man's cry of pain and waiting to see what he'd do. He didn't disappoint. Instead of falling, he seemed to grow, reaching upwards and grasping onto a decoration Moran hadn't noticed. It was a coat of arms, presumably belonging to one of them, and was complete with two swords. The swords must have been real, for Holmes drew one out easily and flung it smoothly as if he'd practiced for this exact scenario before.

Moran swore again as the cool steel sliced through the sleeve of his jacket and he felt hot blood running down his arm. He didn't know how much damage had been done, but he could still raise his arm, and so he could still shoot. He'd been distracted, though, and Holmes could have taken advantage except he, too, was distracted. He'd made the mistake of making sure Watson was still alive before going on the attack again. He was holding the other sword, but he wasn't close enough to use it.

Holmes was clearly no soldier; a soldier would have known the wounded have to wait until the battle is over. Moran was a bit disappointed, but perhaps he should have expected that. Watson was the soldier who would have known better, even though he was the one exception to the 'wait until the battle is over' rule. Being that exception was likely what had got him shot to pieces on the battlefield. Moran was grateful to medics, of course, but he was all too aware of how many of them got left on the battlefield themselves. Watson hadn't been special, and had fallen like all the rest.

Moran leveled his shot. He was shooting right towards both of them, but hadn't been worried about where his bullet would land for a very long time. He squeezed the trigger, and watched as the bullet tore through Holmes' other shin. The detective cried and fell to the ground, lacking even one good leg to support him. He wasn't really down, though, for he raised himself just enough to hurl the sword like a javelin. Moran felt it embed itself in his stomach near his hip.

Growling, Moran pulled it out even though he knew he wasn't supposed to. He grasped his wound and stalked over to his defeated enemy. Holmes was now collapsed next to the doctor and was clutching the other man's wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.

"Please," he said as softly as Watson had mere minutes before. "He's dying, don't take him. Don't hurt him."

"Worry about your own injuries," Moran said. "I know where I hit him. And be grateful, Sherlock Holmes. Both those bullets could have been through your eyes. Had you just did as I said it would have been over by now and he wouldn't have been hit. Nevertheless, I've been generous to you. Instead of taking out your knees I hit your shins. At worst you'll have a double amputation but you'll keep your knees. So be grateful. Keep your end of the bargain and I'll keep mine. Goodnight, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

He kicked the detective so hard he was afraid for a moment that he'd snapped Holmes' neck with the force of it. But no, he was simply unconscious; he was going to have a headache for weeks, but Moran didn't really care. He bent down, grabbing the doctor and hauling him to his feet. The other man groaned miserably and pitched forward.

"You'll live," he said. He grabbed a bottle of brandy from a side-table and poured it on the doctor before dragging him towards the door. The old lady was gone, for the police or a doctor he didn't know and didn't care. He found a long inverness that might have been Holmes instead of the doctor's, but once again Moran didn't care. With the coat and the stink of alcohol he was nothing more in the darkness than a man taking his drunk friend home. The doctor would live, Holmes would live, and his plan was still on track. Overall, not such a bad night after all.

---

John Watson woke to find himself in a soft bed, swathed in bandages, and with only a fuzzy recollection of how he got there. He reached up, knowing he had a fever even before he touched his forehead and felt how hot his skin was. He'd been here before: shot and feverish and bedridden. He didn't want to be like that again. He wanted to get up, to know what happened, and, more than anything, to know why he wasn't at home and where Holmes was. He struggled to his feet, vaguely remembering an intruder and a fight. Where was he?

"You won't get far."

He spun slowly in an arch, but didn't see anyone.

"Because you're ill, I mean. Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Over here."

Watson tried to focus, his eyes finally landing on a man in a wheelchair near the corner of the room.

"Lay down, please," said the stranger. "I'm not sure I could pick you up," he said with a slight smile.

Watson, still dazed and unsure, did as the stranger said. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Thomas Moran, at your service. I've been watching out for you to wake."

"What happened?"

"You were in a cab accident."

Watson frowned, knowing that wasn't right but not wanting to be in an argument with someone he didn't know while he was physically incapable of fighting back.

"My brother should be here in a moment," Thomas said. "He's been asking about you often."

"Your brother?"

"Sebastian. You came here with him. Don't you remember?"

"I'm… having trouble remembering, actually."

"You took a hard knock to the head, I'm afraid," Thomas said, and he smiled so warmly Watson had a very hard time imagining this man had ever done anything to harm him.

"Thomas," came a voice from the doorway. "I told you there was no reason for you to stay up so late. Go to bed, my dear."

Sebastian Moran. Of course. Watson remembered in a sudden rush, remembered the fight in Baker Street, remembered he'd been kidnapped.

"I'm alright," Thomas was saying.

"I said go to bed. I need to speak with Watson anyway." Sebastian Moran came into the room and leaned over his wheelchair-bound brother, kissing his cheek warmly. "Sleep well."

"Goodnight," Thomas said with a sigh. "Goodnight, Mr. Watson."

"Goodnight, Thomas," Watson said softly. As soon as he was gone, Watson frowned darkly. "I take it he doesn't know what you are."

"No," Moran said. "And if you want Sherlock Holmes to stay alive and well you'll keep it that way. Understood?"

Watson shut his eyes briefly. "Understood," he said. "Why am I here?"

"I told you that you were coming with me."

"I remember… somewhat. I mean, well, why am I here instead of… anywhere else, I suppose. Not bleeding and infected and being tortured in a dungeon somewhere?"

"I'm not that cruel, doctor. You're not going to be tortured and never were. What you are, is an old army friend of mine who has come to my home to consult with my brother, but you were injured in a horrible cab accident on the way here. Now, you're here to recover, spend time with your old friend, and consult with Tom once you're well. Depart from this narrative and Sherlock Holmes will suffer for it, I assure you."

"Consult?"

"Thomas is only unable to walk because there's a bullet somewhere between his spine and tailbone. He can stand, but it's unbearably painful. The doctors in Afghanistan left it in: they didn't care about what kind of life he'd have when he came home, they just wanted to ship him off and get on with others. And the doctors here have been worthless: they won't take it out, either. They say it's been too long and that there's too much of a risk he could be paralyzed due to the operation."

"They're right," Watson pointed out weakly. "Depending on where the bullet is, even a tiny slip during surgery could leave his spine permanently damaged. You need a specialist."

"You are a specialist."

Watson raised one eyebrow. "I'm not sure where you got that information from, but someone told you falsely. I was an assistant surgeon in the army, and now am a general practitioner."

"No one told me; I know it. Do you remember me, John Watson?"

Watson blinked at him. "No, I'm afraid not," he admitted.

"I went under your knife once, doctor. You looked me in the eye and told me that I had to bite something and take it like a man because you were running out of anesthetic and you weren't wasting any on a leg wound, and no, I wasn't special because I was a Colonel. I hadn't asked, by the way. You took a bullet out of my leg while I watched, and then I laid on the ground and watched you do a dozen others so assistant surgeon my arse. And do you know what I saw?"

"Lots of blood, I imagine," Watson answered pawkily.

"It was one of the poor sods you did use anesthetic on," Moran said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I heard someone tell you he was a goner, but you started anyway. I didn't know what was happening, but someone told me later that you took a bullet out from in between two vital organs. I forget which ones, but I remember being impressed. When news reached me about Thomas, I sent word to your unit to have you contact me, but that was three months after Maiwand, and the only thing I got in response was they hoped you weren't dead of Typhoid by then. I forgot about you until I read 'A Study in Scarlet.' And then, I knew that if I couldn't get a doctor to operate normally, there may be… other options."

"Like kidnapping?"

"You'd never have agreed under normal circumstances."

"I'm not agreeing now."

"You don't have a choice, doctor. You can, and you will."

"Do you think the other doctors are lying to you?" Watson snapped. "One tiny mistake, that's all it will take to make sure he never so much as wiggles a toe again. Do you know what that means?"

"Do you know what kind of life he's living now?" Moran snapped right back. "Always trying to walk, always in so much pain? I'd do anything for him, but he hates taking help."

"And if he becomes paralyzed he'll never do anything without help again. Is that what you want? To see the look on his face everyday while you massage his legs because he's slowly losing circulation and his muscles are wasting away?"

"If he's free of pain then yes! Anything, so long as I don't have to see the look on his face every time he raises himself out of that damned chair! He's my baby brother, and if I have to kidnap a doctor then I'll kidnap a doctor!"

"And how do you know I won't kill him on purpose?"

Moran laughed at him. "You won't, doctor. It goes against everything you believe in. You're the kind of man who doesn't compromise his morals; you'd never botch a surgery on purpose. Believe me, I've met my share of corrupt doctors."

"I'm a kidnapped doctor. How can you know for certain?"

"That soldier I saw you operate on? He wasn't ours."

Watson's eyebrows knit together. "I do remember him," he murmured. "He was so young, couldn't have been sixteen. But it wasn't personal; it wasn't even about his age. It's triage, and the worst wounds go first. And you're right. I won't kill your brother, but neither will I paralyze him. Chronic pain can be managed, but…"

Moran slapped him hard. "Don't you dare insinuate he deserves to be in pain!" he hissed.

"I didn't…" Watson started to say, but Moran had already jabbed him with something before he could recover from the slap.

"Go back to sleep, doctor," he said. "And remember, one wrong move from you, and Sherlock Holmes dies and you stay here with me for good."

---

"Good morning."

The voice was soft, musical, and very unlike the one which had bid him goodnight. Watson sat up, grimacing through the pain. "Good morning, Mr. Moran."

"Please," the younger man laughed, "call me Thomas. Any friend of Sebastian's is a friend of mine. Here, I've brought you breakfast."

"Thank you, Thomas," Watson murmured. "Don't you have anyone to do for you?"

"Oh, yes. I didn't make this, believe me. I can hardly make toast. Mr. Rodgers, he takes care of all our needs, but I told him I wanted to bring it to you myself since I didn't know if you'd be getting up. Sebastian said that a piece of iron impaled you when your cab crashed, and so I can't imagine you're feeling well."

"Like I got shot," Watson murmured darkly.

"I know what that's like," Thomas said, and somehow he didn't seem upset.

"So do I. I suppose Moran, er… Sebastian, told you I, too, ended up on the wrong side of an enemy's gun."

"No, he didn't. God, I hope I don't look like an ass. If it came off as complaining, I mean."

"It didn't," Watson assured him with a smile. "Thank you sincerely. For the breakfast, I mean. And where is, um, Sebastian?"

"In London. He'll be back for luncheon. He said he trusts you with me." Thomas laughed, not noticing the look that passed across Watson's face. "After breakfast I'll let you use one of my chairs and I'll show you around. If you like, of course. It hasn't been long since the accident."

"Thomas… I'm still having a bit of trouble remembering. Where exactly are we?"

"Dartmoor. You're quite forgiven for not remembering; Sebastian has little apartments all over England for he travels so often. London, Oxford, North, South, East, West… he's got so many hiding places the most dedicated criminal would be envious!"

Watson swallowed hard, covering his nervousness by picking up a cup of tea and sipping it. "Thomas, I understand you've consulted with several doctors."

"Yes. Sebastian insists on it. He seems to think he can find someone who can help me. I know I have to live with it, though. After all, it's my own damn fault. I never should have tried to be something I wasn't. I don't know how much he's told you, but at the risk of getting too intimate, I don't mind telling you that Sebastion has always tried to do more for me than he should. Beating the boys who used to pick on me, paying for me to be tutored by only the brightest minds, and ensuring the most competent commanders wanted me in their regiments. I adored him. I still do, don't misunderstand me."

"But you felt you had to live up to his expectations?"

"I felt I had to live up to his expectations," Thomas confirmed. "He's brilliant at strategy and hunting and everything military, but I'm no soldier. I never was. I was a sensitive, nervous child more suited to poetry than planning an attack. I never should have signed up, and it was no wonder I got shot to pieces. If I'd have ever grown a spine on my own and simply told my brother I couldn't be what he thought I was, then my real spine might not have been damaged. I'm living with the consequences of my choices. If you can help me, then I thank you. But please, rest yourself!"

"I rested myself after I got shot the first time and all I got was an infection and a severe case of typhoid that left me bedridden for months. This time I think I'd like to move."

Thomas cocked his head to the side. "This time? What do you…"

"This injury," Watson said quickly.

"You weren't shot?" Thomas asked, and his voice was low and serious as if he knew the truth.

Watson ignored that and tried to make a joke of it. "It certainly felt like it," he said with a smile.

"You wouldn't be the first," Thomas said, "so don't lie to me."

"What do you…"

"He needs to be more careful!" Thomas exclaimed, and it startled Watson to see the kinder Moran brother so angry.

"He's too bloody impulsive," Thomas murmured, shooting Watson an apologetic look. "You were hunting, weren't you? And that idiot took too many risks and you ended up with a bullet…"

Watson reached out and touched his arm. "Thomas," he said softly, "I was impaled in a cab accident."

Thomas took a deep breath. "Sorry," he murmured. "But twice he's brought home hunting partners who took an accidental gunshot. I know that's a hazard of hunting, but he needs to be more careful. He has a hard exterior, you know, but he's really a soft man at heart. He'd never forgive himself if he killed someone outside of a battle."

Watson choked on his tea.

"Alright?" Thomas asked worriedly.

"Y-yes," Watson stammered, wondering what Thomas would think if he knew his brother worked as an assassin for a living. He wanted to tell him, to get the young man to see the truth, but the only thing that would accomplish would be, most likely, getting both himself and Holmes killed in retribution.

If Holmes was still alive. Watson couldn't quite remember what had happened, but he knew Holmes had, at least, been injured. What if he hadn't made it? The thought made Watson despair, but he couldn't afford to dwell on the feeling. He needed to believe Holmes was alive. He needed to recover from a gunshot wound, perform an impossible surgery, and get back to him so they could stop Moran together. If Holmes was alive. If…

"Watson?" Thomas' voice broke through his thoughts. "Would you like to be alone?"

Watson realized he was crying and wiped his eyes. "Pain flareup," he lied. "You know how it is."

"Of course," Thomas said, accepting the lie even though the look on his face told Watson he didn't believe it. "Are you ready to see the grounds?"

"Of course. Oh, ah… do you have my clothes?" Watson asked sheepishly.

"Oh, yes, Sebastian has your bag around here somewhere…" Thomas rummaged around for a moment before muttering an exclamation of satisfaction and holding up a bag that clearly wasn't Watson's. The doctor smiled anyway and took it with thanks. He rose to his feet, dressing himself in the unfamiliar clothes and testing his limbs and the pain before accepting a wheelchair and painfully pushing himself after Thomas. He had a lot of reconnaissance to do; when he made his way back to Sherlock Holmes, he wanted to be able to give the detective everything he needed to take Moran down.

---

"I trust you two have had a restful morning," Moran said, seating himself at the table.

"We did," Thomas said brightly. "Doctor Watson loves your garden."

"Your garden, Thomas," Moran laughed. "You spend far more time in it than I do. I only pick out the plants. Which you know, Thomas, I'm not actually very good at. I must tell you, Watson, of the time I picked out a plant I thought would be perfect…"

He went on to tell a humorous story of how he'd brought a whole host of poisonous plants home, and Watson pretended to act like he was simply sharing a good time with old friends.

"I'm so glad you two are getting along," Moran said when lunch was finished. "Doctor, I can see you're done in. Let me take you back to your room. Thomas, I'll meet you in the garden in half an hour."

"I can…"

"Go to the garden, Thomas. I'd like to have a word with doctor Watson, and I need to help him clean his wound."

"Yes, brother," Thomas said softly. "Please call for me if there is anything I can help with."

"Of course."

Moran took Watson's wheelchair and pushed him to his room. "You're doing well," he said softly. "And, seeing as how Sherlock Holmes is holding up his end, you'll be free in no time. Provided you don't do anything stupid, of course. Here we are; take your shirt off and let me see the wound."

Watson silently did as he was told, trying not to show how much pain he was feeling. He took a piece of paper from his pocket, handing it to Moran.

"What's this?" the assassin asked as Watson unwound the bandage on his torso.

"A list, what does it look like?" Watson grunted.

"A surgery list?"

"If you're going to force me to operate despite the risk and against my professional judgment, I'm going to need to be prepared for any eventuality."

"Why are pigs on the list?"

Watson raised an eyebrow.

"You mean you're going to… practice?"

"You kill men for a living, Mr. Moran. Please don't tell me you're going to condemn me for cutting open some swine. If I had access to a medical cadaver, I'd use that, but under the circumstances I don't think you'll allow me to go to the nearest hospital and ask to use their laboratories. Pigs will have to do."

Moran was frowning. "I could probably get you some cadavers…"

"No!" Watson exclaimed, horrified.

"I didn't mean I'd go on a killing spree," Moran said, rolling his eyes as if that was obvious. "I simply… know where I can find some bodies no one will miss. Here." He passed Watson a new bandage since Watson had been examining the stitches and hadn't found any signs of infection.

"I won't be able to perform the operation anytime soon," Watson murmured, and he knew Moran could hear the pain and exhaustion in his voice.

"Then you won't be leaving this room anytime soon," Moran snapped. "There will be no more sneaking around for you. Don't think I don't know what you're up to. I'm going to send Thomas on holiday, and when he comes back, you'd better be ready!" Moran stood abruptly, towering over the injured doctor.

"You're the one who shot me!" Watson bit back, and Moran struck out, backhanding him across the face. While Watson was reeling from the blow, he saw Moran filling another needle.

"No," he moaned, but Moran stuck him anyway and there was nothing Watson could do to stop it.

---

Moran sighed, taking the needle out of his arm. He didn't like using cocaine too much, but Moriarty supplied it freely and he couldn't help himself sometimes. He knew it was one of the ways the professor was trying to keep an iron grip on him, but he could still beat him. He knew he could. He didn't need the drug, he just liked it sometimes.

He tried to ignore how volatile it could make him and how he was fairly certain Thomas knew all wasn't well. He laid back on his bed, wondering how he'd make excuses to Thomas in the morning. His brother was already rather fond of doctor Watson; it wouldn't be easy to convince him to leave the house so doctor Watson could 'recover' in peace. But neither would Moran allow him to see the spectacular bruise he'd just left on the defenseless man.

He scrubbed his face with one hand, wondering how he'd changed so much from who he used to be. He liked to think that he was a man who at least lived by a code, and he never thought that he'd assault an unarmed man. Some hunters broke the legs of the goats they used to lure tigers in, and Moran had always hated that. Now he hated that he was such a hypocrite, but he supposed that assassins shouldn't really care if they were sporting about it. That was his problem: he thought too much. That was perhaps why he liked oblivion so much, why Moriarty knew he'd always take the drug.

He wanted this to be over, and it would be over soon. He was determined it would be over soon. Tomorrow he'd throw the doctor down the stairs to explain the bruises, lock the man in his room, and keep him there until he could do the surgery. Then, he'd kill Moriarty, collect a ransom from Holmes, throw his cocaine away, take Thomas on a long holiday, and settle them somewhere they could have normal lives. He couldn't foresee a happy life for himself, never planned on marrying or having a family or making friends of his own. He didn't deserve a good life, but Thomas did. Thomas would prosper, and Moran would be alive to be there for him because Thomas would want him to be. Whatever he could give to Thomas, he would.

He frowned, thinking about the doctor. What was he going to do with him? He didn't want to hurt him, but Thomas would always come first. If that meant he needed to maim an innocent doctor, then so be it, and such was his last thought before falling into the oblivion the drug offered.

---

John Watson woke with a start, the pain intense. He was grabbed before he could get his bearings, and gasped in pain as he was dragged roughly. The next thing he knew, he was falling, and all he could do was lay still and moan in pain when he finally stopped. He could feel himself being lifted, thankfully gently.

"Seb?" someone said, "what was… God, is he alright?"

"He tried to walk up the stairs. He must have thought he was more recovered than he is and didn't ask for help. Go back to bed, I'll take care of him."

"I can…"

"I said go back to bed, Thomas. I won't risk both of your health being ruined."

"What was he doing upstairs?"

"Coming to see me, I presume. I'll ask when he comes to. I don't think he made it up."

"I don't see why…"

"Stop arguing, Thomas. Go to bed."

"Seb, I…"

"Do as I say!"

"I hate you when you're like this."

The sentence was said so low that Watson, still reeling with pain, didn't hear it, but he did sense the change that came over his tormentor.

"Thomas…"

"I know, so don't lie to me. I've found the damn needles you use. So tell me the truth… does he supply you?"

"What?"

"He's a doctor. Does he give it to you? Is that why you never told me about him until he was shot?"

"There was…"

"I was a soldier, dammit! Even if I never was much of one, I know what a damn gunshot wound looks like. You shot him, didn't you?"

"Thomas, I wouldn't…"

"You went on a hunting trip, used that stupid drug, and shot your friend because you couldn't think straight. I'm right, aren't I?"

"Tommy…"

"Tell me!"

"I…" Sebastian started, then sighed. "Listen, Thomas, he doesn't give it to me, and he doesn't like that I use it. I asked him not to tell you because he's been helping me quit. I promise. We were on a hunting trip while he coached me, but I fell back and indulged. Yes, I shot him, but it was an accident, Thomas. Please, I'm trying to quit."

"Sebastian, can't you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you, Thomas, but I didn't want to burden you with this. I'm doing better. I promise. Now please, go to bed. He's very heavy and I need to make him comfortable. We'll talk about this in the morning."

"Sebastian…"

"Good night, Tommy."

"I… good night, Sebastian."

Watson's head was grabbed after he was laid down.

"Did you hear that?" Moran hissed at him. "You're a friend who's helping me. I need Thomas to like you, so don't mess this up. If Thomas won't get the surgery because he doesn't like you, then I'll kill you, Sherlock Holmes, and anyone who gets in my way."

---

"Watson… Watson, please be alright, doctor. The other doctor's miles off and Sebastian said you'd be alright so no one sent for him…"

Watson groaned, trying to wake and knowing there was some urgency even though he didn't quite know why.

"Oh, thank God," Thomas said, and Watson found him hovering when he woke. "How are you feeling?" he asked worriedly.

"Stupid," Watson murmured. "Tried…" he racked his brain, knowing he needed to say the right thing but not entirely remembering what that was.

"You tried to get upstairs," Thomas finished for him, taking the pressure off. "You fell."

"Yes."

"Why were you trying to get upstairs?"

"I…" Watson fumbled, knowing the answer but straining to know what to say.

"You thought my brother was going to inject himself with cocaine, didn't you?" Thomas said softly. "I know he asked you not to tell me, but I know he uses it and I know you're trying to help him. So please, there's no need to lie."

"I'm sorry," Watson murmured.

"No," Thomas said quickly. He leaned forward, grasping Watson with both hands and kissing him tenderly. "Please, it is you who must forgive me. I thought you were supplying him with it, but you've been nothing but selfless."

"Thomas, I… I don't mean to lie to you."

"I know, doctor. You've tried to be loyal, but I've been suspicious for a while now, and now that I know, I can help."

"It's not easy," Watson murmured sadly after Thomas had sat him up and helped him drink a glass of water. "My… my own brother died from it."

"God, Watson, I'm sorry," Thomas murmured. "Do you think…"

"He wants to stop," Watson assured him. "That's most of the battle. We'd never save him if he didn't want it…" and to his own surprise, Watson choked a little on his words. He couldn't help it: even though he'd lied about his brother being dead he was thinking of Holmes. Holmes, who had no desire to stop anytime soon and was as dear as any brother. Holmes, who may not even be alive…

"Watson, I'm sorry," Thomas said softly. "I'll leave you alone. Please, call if you need me."

Watson, exhausted, in pain, and overwhelmed by grief for a friend who may or may not be dead, buried his head in his hands and wept.

---

His recovery was slow. It was only after nearly three weeks had passed that Watson was able to stand for long enough to properly examine Thomas. Even a cursory examination was enough to tell him that the young man needed a specialist, but with Moran's gun at his back and the threats in his ears, all Watson could do, in the end, was smile and say he'd do his best.

He'd meant it, too, and had begun to practice. Moran brought him cadavers he didn't ask the origins of, and Watson dutifully made good use of them. Moran had attempted to bow out of the sessions, but by then Watson was a bit tired of captivity and was confident, despite several beatings, that Moran wasn't going to kill him. Yet.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, clearly exasperated.

Moran raised an eyebrow. "You can't escape, doctor," he drawled.

"I can't perform surgery alone, either," Watson snapped back.

Moran blinked in surprise as if he hadn't thought about that. "Oh. I see. Who do you…"

"No! No more kidnapping. You'll do just as well as any nurse for one surgery, and at least that way you'll know no one's sabotaging Thomas. Now get back over here: you have a lot to learn."

"I'm an assassin, Doctor Watson. I make the wounds, I don't heal them. I bought all the medical equipment you could possibly need. You have a whole hospital here in the cellar. Make use of it."

"Do you want Thomas to make it, or not?"

"Don't you dare…"

"Then get your lazy arse over here and listen. Besides, you're supposed to be having a medical session with me right now, anyway. What is he going to think about your commitment when you walk away from your intervention sessions?"

"I don't need help," Moran grunted, but he came back, eyeing the corpse almost warily.

"You kill people for a living," Watson monotoned, "and you're scared of a corpse?"

"I don't just kill people," Moran grumbled. "I also cheat at cards and take rich, gullible buffoons on hunting trips."

"Lesson one, then. Get up close and friendly with our volunteer here."

"What? Surely that can't…"

"Shake his hand and introduce yourself."

"I don't think…"

"Do it. If you're going to be squeamish at all I need to know now. You're going to see worse, and Thomas isn't going to look half as good as our friend here does while he's under my knife."

"But this man's dead…"

"Which means he won't be bleeding, or convulsing, or waking and screaming in pain."

Moran's face twisted in disgust, but he hesitantly reached out and shook the corpse's hand. "Hello," he said nervously.

Watson unceremoniously pulled a sheet off the man which had been the only thing covering him. "Anatomy," Watson said shortly. "Internal and external. Tell me what you know."

"All the basic things, I suppose…"

"Not good enough. You start messing with one part of the body and the others will inevitably be affected in one way or another. With Thomas, I'll be especially worried about his legs. Now, tell me what you know."

By the end of the night, Moran was well on his way to being a slightly less berated pupil, Thomas one step closer to walking again, and Watson absolutely certain that the upcoming surgery was going to be a major violation of his hippocratic oath.

---

Watson and Thomas lay side by side, staring at the clouds moving overhead. It was a pleasant day, and with Moran gone Watson knew he wasn't risking a beating by asking to be outside. Thomas was an unwilling captor, and therefore a much kinder one who wasn't worried about his guest escaping. Not that there was anywhere for Watson to go; they were miles from anywhere and Moran was cruelly keeping Watson just injured enough that he couldn't go far.

When the gunshot wound had healed enough for the stitches to come out and the bruises from his fall down the stairs had faded, Moran had crushed one of Watson's ankles underneath his sturdy hunting boot. It hadn't been forceful enough to snap his bone and leave him unable to walk or stand, of course, for he still needed to perform Thomas' surgery, but that was easily accomplished by a good splint and the right height stool. Moran knew it, and so kept Watson just wounded enough that he wouldn't be able to escape if he wanted to, and Moran could leave the manor without fear.

He was away in London for the day, as he often was. Usually, he threatened Watson not to leave his room and Watson didn't, which hadn't been a hard task while he was still recovering. Today, Moran hadn't threatened him and so Watson had taken the chance to hint he and Thomas should go outside.

He breathed in the fresh air, closed his eyes, and felt the sun on his face. His thoughts turned, inevitably, to Sherlock Holmes.

Where was he? Alive? Or was Moran bluffing when he kept threatening to kill him? If he was alive, how was he? Could he walk? How badly was he injured? If Moran had shot his knees as promised, it would be months yet until he could even attempt to walk, though likely he never would again.

Watson tried not to think about Holmes. He tried not to wonder day and night whether his friend was alive or dead, whether he was alright, whether he was looking for him or giving up. The more he thought of Holmes, the more depressed his thoughts became until he was nearly certain Holmes not only wasn't looking for him but also that he'd never started in the first place. Watson tried to push the dark thoughts away, tried to imagine happy days in Baker Street, but even his fondest memories seemed to be taken over with a cloud and he found himself crying at night until, exhausted, finally falling asleep, only to wake the next morning with fresh tears already on his cheeks.

Thomas was kind to him, patient and distracting and oblivious in all the right amounts. Moran, however, was not. He sneered at Watson's pain, taunted him with heartache, and became worse as he slowly gave up cocaine with the doctor's help. He used their medical sessions as his own outlet for his frustration, and a day hardly went by where Watson didn't find himself bracing for a beating.

Moran was smart about it, though, and only left wounds where Thomas wouldn't see them to ask about them. He'd been visibly angry one day, had attacked Watson with some ferocity.

"Sherlock Holmes is nothing," he'd growled, knocking Watson to the ground in one blow.

Watson stayed down, not looking at him, though he knew that wouldn't make the assassin stop.

"World's greatest detective! Ha! I could be better than him! But no, you do everything you're supposed to and they toss you to the side like garbage. They all do." He leaned over the doctor. "You know it, of course. We're the same you and I." He stomped heavily on Watson's ribs, holding him down as if he'd been attempting to move. Moran tore open part of Watson's shirt, exposing his wounded shoulder.

"Yes," he murmured. "We're just alike. Did everything right, got wounded for our troubles, and ended up second fiddle to some damn charlatan calling themselves a genius. Sherlock Holmes is no better than Moriarty. You see that, don't you? Well no more. From now on, I'm looking out for myself. You should, too, but you won't. You're weak."

Moran grabbed his revolver from his pocket, pressing it to Watson's scarred shoulder. He knew it would make him cry out, which it did, and Moran grinned evilly. He pressed the steel harder against him, before turning it sideways so the sight dug into his skin. He drug the revolver across his chest, leaving an angry red scrape behind which quickly swelled with blood.

"You're mad," Watson whimpered.

Moran blinked at him, almost in surprise. He reached out, touched Watson's cheek almost gently. Momentarily, he seemed a bit confused and remorseful. Then, he growled, rising and kicking Watson once before stalking away. Watson stayed in the cellar, waiting for Moran to return and get on with their session, knowing he was right in his assessment. Sebastian Moran was, undoubtedly, mad.

He was thinking about that as he lay with Thomas, was feeling the ache in his shoulder and letting the pain distract him from thinking about Holmes. He wasn't doing a very good job of it, however, and Thomas noticed.

"Tell me about him," Thomas said softly.

"Hmm? Who?"

"Your brother. The one you're thinking about. You do that alot, you know. You don't hear a word I'm saying and you look so sad and far away… so tell me. Please?"

"He's… he was brilliant. Twice the man anyone else could possibly be: twice the brains, twice the skills, twice the eccentricities… hell, even twice the height. Not really, of course, but it seemed that way." Watson sighed.

"But he wasn't just great, he was… good. He ribbed me, of course. Always said things were so simple, so easy, but he never left me behind. I loved him, and I would have done anything he asked. I would have done anything to save him. But, in the end, he had to save himself, and I couldn't do that for him."

Watson had started to speak about Holmes, but somehow he'd switched to thinking about his real brother, and now his thoughts turned back to Holmes. If Holmes lived, it was very possible he would never walk again even if his wounds healed. Holmes… how would he do confined to a wheelchair? Not as well as Thomas, Watson was sure of it.

With or without legs, Holmes would come and find him. Watson was sure of that, too. But after he was home in Baker Street? Watson could see it in his mind's eye: Holmes would try to stay positive, try to be kind and generous because Watson was the one who had just been held captive. But, as the days would go by, Holmes would fall into a deeper and deeper depression. That depression would lead him right back to morphine or cocaine or both, and within a few months he would be gone. Watson meant what he'd said to Thomas: there was nothing one person could do to save someone else from addiction if they didn't want to be saved. Their shared friendship wouldn't be enough to save Holmes no matter how hard Watson tried, not if Holmes didn't try, too.

That thought was interrupted by Thomas nudging him. "Hey," his unwilling captor said, "when your ankle heals, you and I should go to London with Sebastian for a day. He'll go do his stupid gambling and you and I can take a walk somewhere. Well, you'll walk, I'll wheel…"

The idea of a leisurely stroll through a park in London just like he'd once shared with Sherlock Holmes during happier days was too much for him. "I'll be right back," he murmured, and stood, walking away from his captor.

He wanted to go. He wanted to walk away from here and not care where he ended up or if he was hunted down and killed. He got as far as the edge of the garden when he became aware of being watched. It was the butler, and Watson was familiar enough with being threatened that he knew a gun in someone's pocket when he saw it. He sighed, and turned to go back to the house.

"Watson?" Thomas called, but Watson ignored him. He went, limping, into the house and through to the room he had been occupying. Without being truly conscious of it, he found himself wrapping a sheet in a way that was, sadly, familiar… He stopped himself with a start, his whole body shaking slightly.

Watson shut his eyes, thought of Holmes, and dropped the sheet. He knew he needed to stay strong, but he wasn't sure if he could take being a captive for much longer.

---

Moran reclined in his seat, holding his cards in one hand and seemingly removing his cigar with the other. What he was really doing, however, was pulling an ace from his sleeve and hiding it in his palm before slipping it into his hand. He looked across the table to his partner, young Ronald Adair. He liked Ronald: the boy was honest and kind and open, the kind of perfect gentleman that made England proud. The kind of man Thomas would have been had the Moran's been born to money and land and power like Adair had. Instead, he'd been born to an ex-minister to Persia whose own gambling habit had left the family with a good name and nothing else.

Adair had the luxury of being a good person; Moran did not. Adair would never dream of cheating at cards, and he had no suspicion that Moran was. He'd be appalled if he knew, but he had enough money that he could afford to be ignorant. At least, that was what Moran told himself. It was easier than admitting he hated himself for cheating.

Like all his criminal endeavors, he'd once have been ready to condemn anyone else who indulged in it. But, unlike his worse crimes, he'd started cheating all on his own without the influence of Moriarty. He'd been a young man when his parents had been taken from him, and had needed funds quickly to make sure he could take care of Thomas who, at the time, was sick with the same illness that had taken the rest of their family. He'd told himself he'd stop when Thomas' doctor had been paid, but the bills had kept coming, and cheating was much faster than getting a job.

He'd told himself that he'd become an honest man when he'd joined the army, and for a while he was honest. He'd finally found his calling: he was a leader, a strategist, and a weapons expert. He loved it, and he fell too deep into it, eventually being discharged under a cloud for some of his more questionable leadership decisions. Moran had sacrificed some of his best men to overtake one of the enemy strongholds, made some decisions others deemed going too far. One of those decisions included burning a town of civilians which may or may not have been overrun with the enemy. Moran hadn't been charged with any war crimes, but neither had he been celebrated. Now, in his circles he was tolerated at best and shunned at worst. Mr. Murray, Sir Hardy, and young Adair were some of the only men who he regularly interacted with.

As he sat finishing the card game, he saw one of Moriarty's men come in and signal the professor was ready for him. Moran nodded at him before focusing on winning the game. He remembered the first time he'd met Moriarty. He was freshly discharged, slightly wounded, and living in an English settlement in India for a few months to make money before coming home. Moriarty had sought him out and hired him to guide him on a Safari to hunt a tiger. In the end, Moriarty had missed his shot and Moran had taken down the animal before it could maul the professor. Moriarty had recruited him shortly after that, and, knowing how evil the other man really was, Moran had sometimes regretted saving the man's life. Today, that was going to change.

He collected his winnings from the table, split it with Adair, and bid the other gentlemen goodbye with a promise that they'd have a chance to win their money back soon. He checked his revolver outside the professor's building, knowing that if something went wrong tonight he was a dead man. It was a thrilling sensation to know he was about to kill one of the most dangerous men in London, but he wasn't about to be reckless. Moriarty's minions would try to kill him, and Moran needed to keep his mind clear so he could kill them, too. He couldn't fail here, couldn't risk not going home to Thomas. Still, for the first time since he'd gone to Baker Street to kill Sherlock Holmes, Moran was feeling the elation only the danger of an upcoming death could bring.

"I trust," the professor said slowly, folding his hands on his desk deliberately casually, "that Doctor Watson has fulfilled the purpose you had for him?"

Moran almost grinned, but held it back. It wasn't often he had a leg up on the professor, but with this he did. Moriarty had obviously been wondering what the purpose was in kidnapping a doctor, but hadn't figured it out. Well, he was going to die not knowing.

Moran simply shrugged and helped himself to one of the expensive cigars the professor kept on his desk. He leaned against some priceless desk or other and looked at the man expectantly like he always did while awaiting his next assignment.

"Yes, well… good work on the Holmes' assignment. Quick work, at that. It was a bold move to attack so quickly, but a smart one, I believe. If you'd staked him out, he would have had time to notice and grow suspicious. Your next target is going to require quite a bit more legwork, so listen up." The professor reached for a file on his desk.

"Loyalty," Moran drawled, "is something reserved for the highest bidder. I suggest you take something valuable and go."

Moriarty looked up. "What…"

Moran raised his gun and placed a single round right through the other man's forehead.

Moriarty's servant made a soft choked sound, reaching to his own pocket where Moran knew he had a gun, but after looking in between Moran and the dead man for a moment he took the assassin's advice. He grabbed a vase from the side-table, placed it in a bag, and ran out of the room. Moran shut the door behind him and locked it, moving behind the desk and pushing the corpse out of the way. He rifled through the man's files, finding his own record and throwing it in the fire as pounding came on the door. He listened for just a moment, trying to determine who was out there. Was it Moriarty's men or innocent civilians? Moriarty liked to surround himself with both as protection.

Moriarty's men, he was sure of it. He took his gun out, standing in a defensive position as they broke down the door. He picked off three of them before they got smart and stayed out in the hallway. He was smarter, though.

"Kendrick? Is that you?" he called.

"Moran? What the hell…"

"It was Henry," Moran said, emerging into the hallway. "I thought you must be in league with him. He ran off and I went to check on the professor, but he's gone. I think he must be headed down the hallway this way. Let's go." He knew they'd believe him: he had a reputation for being one of Moriarty's favorites. He wasn't remotely one of the most powerful men in Moriarty's network, but he was one of the most dangerous, and everyone knew he was Moriarty's chosen commander for nearly every heist he planned. Moriarty had known Moran was a brilliant strategist and a great commander, and he'd trusted Moran as a second in command. Moran, always rude and often planning to kill the profossor, hadn't quite understood why the evil man favored him, but it had never served him better than it did then.

They all listened to him, all turned to run after Henry, and Moran shot them all in the back as they went. He didn't like it, but didn't stop to think about it. He grabbed a small statue he knew was priceless, and left through the back entrance, wondering vaguely what the aftermath of this would be.

---

"What's this?" Watson asked.

"Scalpel."

"This?"

"Forceps."

"Set up the anesthetic. Good… that's good. You're almost ready, nurse."

"I told you not to call me that."

"And I told you to make sure you're washed up before every session."

"I did…"

"You have blood on your shirt. You're not supposed to be covered in blood until after the surgery."

"And after you've killed somebody."

Watson paused. "You…"

"No," Moran assured him, then smiled slyly. "I killed seven people today. These few flecks of blood are nothing."

Watson turned away, his face twisting in disgust.

"Now," Moran said, "where were we?"

"I hate you," Watson murmured.

"Oh, come now, doctor. We have so much fun together during these little sessions." He cracked his knuckles, leering at Watson.

Watson braced himself, waiting to be hit, but all Moran did was laugh at him and knock him to the ground with one sweeping blow to his legs.

Watson stayed down, hoping Moran was done but doubting it.

"Tomorrow," the assassin growled, "you will take the bullet out of my brother. Then I'll collect your ransom and set you free. Provided you do well, of course. Hurt my brother, and I'll collect your ransom and then mail you to Sherlock Holmes piece by piece."

Watson didn't protest, there was no use in that anymore. He couldn't convince the man the surgery was most likely going to fail, couldn't change his mind.

"You know what, doctor, I'm going to miss you," Moran murmured. "Thomas likes you, and it would be a shame to deprive him of his new friend. Nevertheless, I don't think you'd last long if I kept you, so have no fear. I'll either kill you or free you."

Then, he did something Watson wasn't expecting at all. He sat on the floor with him, pulling out a cigar and lighting it. "Smoke?" he asked.

Watson itched to take it, but didn't. He hadn't smoked for the entire time he'd been a captive, and wasn't about to now. Not when one of the only thoughts keeping him going was the thought of how pleasurable it would be to have a smoke from his own pipe when he was safe and sound in Baker Street once more.

"You know," Moran drawled, "I killed Moriarty today. Sherlock Holmes is going to have his hands full with all the criminals who are going to quickly try to replace him as the most feared man in London. At one point they thought I would be the one who replaced him. So did he. But I explained to you once that I won't betray England. I'm not like him."

Watson snorted derisively even though he knew it would make his captor angry, which it did. Moriarty growled, rising and grabbing Watson's scalpel from its tray. He leaned over the doctor, pressing his boot into the doctor's stomach and touching the scalpel to the base of Watson's throat.

"You're lucky," he said, "that I need you in top shape for tomorrow. But then again, I also need to know this instrument's in top shape…" he pressed the tool into Watson's skin just enough blood began to pool beneath it.

Watson grit his teeth, not wanting to betray any pain, not even as Moran dragged it downwards, slightly increasing the pressure. He slit through Watson's shirt, pressing even harder, and only stopped when the doctor finally released a whimper of pain. He grinned evilly.

"Fine," Watson ground out. "If it helps you sleep, then I'll say you're a good person. But if you were confident you were, there would be no need to insist on it…"

"I could have made your life here a living hell," Moran growled. "Be grateful that all you got were a few beatings."

"Oh, yes, thank you so much," Watson replied pawkily, and Moran kicked him hard overtop of his freshly healed bullet wound.

Watson groaned miserably and held his wounded torso.

Moran almost looked regretful for a moment, but then stalked away. "Thomas should be in bed by now," he said. "Get yourself to bed, too. You have a big day tomorrow."

"Moran…"

The assassin paused. "Yes?"

"You could be a good man. Someday. But not tonight, not until you learn to love your brother."

"What the hell do you mean by that?" Moran growled, quickly advancing on Watson again.

"I mean," Watson said with a growl of his own, "that Thomas is your excuse for what you do. Your love isn't selfless, but it could be one day…"

"Shut the hell up!" Moran screamed, and struck Watson hard. "You'll be lucky if I see fit to let you live now. Now get the hell out of here before I forget I need you to help him." He grabbed the doctor by the back of his collar and dragged him to the entrance to the cellar.

Painfully, Watson made it to his bedroom and lay on the top of his bed, too exhausted to assess his own injuries. Or, perhaps, he simply didn't care enough. Which he didn't, not really, since he wasn't planning on living through the next day.

---

Thomas was unusually quiet at breakfast. Watson tried to act like everything was alright, but Moran kept shooting him dirty looks as if he'd betrayed him to his brother. Finally, while they were nearly finished, Watson asked him if everything was alright.

"I…" he said, and looked between his brother and Watson. "Do you two actually, well… what I mean is, are you friends?"

Watson blinked a few times and looked at Moran.

"You admit you didn't know each other in the army, you never mentioned him before, and you fight all the time. So, are you friends? Or are you telling me that to make me feel better?" He looked at Watson. "Are you just here because he's paying you?"

Watson tried to smile reassuringly. "Thomas," he said softly, "I wouldn't stay if I didn't care, I assure you. I told you this was going to be a hard road."

Slowly, Thomas nodded. "I'm sorry, I… I'm sorry." He shrugged.

"I'd like to help you, too, if I can," Watson continued, then swallowed hard. "This evening, with your permission, I'm going to remove the bullet from your back. Your brother is prepared to help me."

"Really?" said Thomas with a smile, "that's wonderful! Thank you, doctor."

Watson swallowed hard. He wanted to say, 'No. It's not. I'm not qualified. The surgery would paralyze you if I did it, leave you unable to control your own damn bladder. I'd rather die than perform this surgery.' But he didn't say it, didn't warn the younger man: Moran had made it painfully clear he wasn't to say a word of caution.

Not that it mattered, though, because Watson wouldn't be going through with it. He couldn't. He was going to wait until Thomas was anesthetized, and then he was going to take the scalpel and plunge it into Moran's throat. And if he died before he could, well, then it wouldn't matter to him anymore.

Watson spent the day alone in the cellar on the pretense of triple checking everything was clean and accounted for and prepared. Finally, he was joined by Moran who, after threatening him once more, turned away from him to go get Thomas. He didn't make it to the cellar entrance.

"Stay where you are, or he dies," came a voice.

Watson blinked rapidly, wondering if he'd already tried to kill Moran and had died in the attempt. Because there in front of him, standing as tall as ever while holding a gun to Thomas' head, was Sherlock Holmes.

Immediately, Moran's gun was in his hand, its barrel pointed at Watson. "Put that away, Mr. Holmes," he growled, a slight catch of his breath the only indication he was nervous.

"No." Holmes' voice was cold as ice, and he glared at Moran with more hatred than Watson had ever seen. "You took mine, so I've got yours. You can either drop your weapon and we can make a fair trade, else young Thomas here dies."

"Holmes…" Watson murmured, horrified, but Moran cut him off with a laugh.

"You? Murder a man in cold blood? You don't have the nerve."

"You think not? You kidnapped the wrong one of us if you didn't want your violence to be answered with violence. I have killed nobler creatures than him."

Moran hesitated. "You're bluffing."

"I, too, have a wounded brother. I am quite serious." He pressed the gun tighter to Thomas' head, who let out a cry of pain.

"Sebastian, please, what's happening?" he cried.

The cry was enough to make Moran hesitate, distracted. Watson took the chance and lunged, knocking the gun out of Moran's hand and sending them both crashing to the floor.

Moran screamed, lashing out at Watson with a knife Watson hadn't known he was carrying. Watson felt hot pain lance though his side, but, somehow, it was a distant pain, as if it belonged to someone else. Watson was still calm, still focused. And, in a moment where time seemed to stand still, it was just as he'd dreamt about, fantasized about. He raised his arm with the scalpel, and drove it home straight through Moran's jugular. He kept it there, felt hot blood run down his hand and soak the sleeve of his shirt.

"No!" the cry was Thomas,' and the next thing Watson knew he was being pulled off Moran by his frantic younger brother. "No! No, no, no, no, no…" Thomas' wail was continuous, and Watson covered his ears, not caring one hand was still soaked with blood. This was all too much. Thomas was supposed to be safely anesthetized. He wasn't supposed to see this, wasn't even supposed to know exactly what happened…

"Watson." Holmes' voice. Holmes was here. Holmes, who Watson had wanted to see so badly but now couldn't look at. Holmes, who had almost killed Thomas. Holmes, who was no better than Moran. Holmes, whose hands were on him now, trying to check him for injuries.

"Don't touch me!" Watson screamed.

"Watson, look at me. Please! Look!"

Holmes had drawn back, so Watson did lift his eyes to the other man, just in time to see him raise the gun he'd been holding to Thomas' head up to his own. The hammer was pulled back, and Watson screamed in horror as he saw Holmes' finger on the trigger. Holmes' pulled it, but nothing happened and the gun clicked harmlessly.

"See?" Holmes said, tossing the gun to the side, "it's empty. Empty, Watson. I wasn't going to kill him. I wasn't. I didn't kidnap him. He came with me willingly."

Watson blinked at him, trying to process it all. Slowly, he lowered his hands from his ears and shut his mouth which had been hanging open. He looked to Thomas, who had finally sat back from his brother's corpse. He was staring ahead, his eyes defeated.

"It's true," he murmured. "Sherlock Holmes found me today while you and Seb were here in the cellar. He asked for me to tell him all I knew, and he asked me to help him. We thought that forcing Seb to surrender might be the only way... we knew it might end badly. At least he went quickly."

"Thomas…" Watson said.

"I know. It's alright." Thomas tried to smile at him through his tears. "I thought you were my friend."

Watson nodded. "But I've always known that you're my captor."

"How many… how many people did my brother kill?"

Holmes and Watson glanced at each other, and the look on Holmes' face told Watson the answer was far too many.

"Perhaps…" Watson said slowly, "less than we think. The other victims of his… 'hunting accidents'... they might have been targets he took pity on." Watson doubted it, knew they were probably other kidnapping victims, but at least it was something to say that wasn't 'your brother was so prolific as a killer we don't know how many.'

"Watson, are you injured?" Holmes asked.

"I… don't know," Watson murmured. "You? How are you walking? You were shot…"

Holmes raised his pants legs. "He didn't shoot my knees, he shot my shins. The recovery was going to take months naturally, but amputation was a shorter recovery. I needed to find you, so I had them both amputated. So I could be, well, not quite back on my feet, but able to start investigating."

Watson closed his eyes, his mind rejecting the idea Holmes, Holmes who was always so masterful and strong, that Holmes… how could he have no legs?

"Hey," said Thomas with a short laugh. "At least your feet will never hurt."

"Watson," Holmes said softly, "let's get out of this cellar into the sunlight. I need to know if you're injured."

Watson was breathing hard, and he covered his face with his hands. There was so much happening he couldn't seem to think straight.

"Watson. Please look at me."

Watson tried, but the only thing his senses were aware of was blood, and when he opened his eyes the only thing they landed on was Moran.

"Help me. Please," Holmes said, and Watson felt Thomas grasp one of his arms while Holmes grasped the other.

"I'm sorry about your brother," Holmes murmured. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

"I'm sorry about yours. I admit I always suspected he wasn't what he appeared, but I never dreamed he was my own hostage. Now I shudder to think what he must have gone through spending all those hours alone with my brother… look! He's bleeding!"

"Dammit," Holmes said, "help me lay him down. Here. Watson, stay with me. You too, Thomas. Don't get distracted."

"Why couldn't I see what was happening right beneath my nose?" Thomas murmured.

Watson blinked rapidly, trying to push them both away. This was all too much, and he wanted to get away. But then the pain hit him, a sharp shooting pain that reminded him he'd been stabbed and answered his question of why Holmes was so worried about him.

"Thomas," he murmured. "I'm sorry…"

"I know," Thomas said, "You had no choice. You didn't mean to kill my brother."

"No," Watson said, and he raised his head to look the younger man in the eye. "I'm sorry because I meant to." He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, exhaled deeply, felt hot blood seeping through his fingers, and let go.

---

"I don't know what to say," Thomas murmured.

Sherlock Holmes was sitting beside him, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "Are you alright?" he murmured.

"Me?"

"You've done quite a lot of walking today for a man in a wheelchair," Holmes said.

"I'm alright. My brother never did allow me to walk as much as I'm able to. He hated seeing me in pain, but I hated being confined. I hated disappointing him more."

Sherlock Holmes glanced over to him. "Watson does that, too," he murmured. "Pushes through the pain, does what he has to do. That's why I know he'll make it through this, too. I… he will. He's got to…" Holmes trailed off, shutting his eyes again.

"Where should I go?" Thomas asked softly. "That you can find me, I mean. Or the police can find me, in any event."

Holmes chuckled slightly, "as much as I'd like to see you punished and burn your family home to the ground myself, I'm sure you can appreciate that Watson would be quite sore at me. You're free to go. If anyone harasses you, I will defend you. Where… where will you go?"

"I don't know. I can't go home. Or, I suppose, I won't. I don't want to be there. I have an old friend who's arranging to sell the place for me. Mr. Rodgers, the butler who always looked out for me, is in jail. My brother… I've read his journal. He was planning to leave England forever and take me with him. He was waiting until we had enough money… which shows how blind he was. He wanted to keep being a criminal, and so he made excuses to do it. I see that now. We could have cut out a long time ago. Why couldn't we have?" His voice was breaking now. "I still can't believe it. Why… why couldn't he have just…" Thomas began to cry silently.

Holmes, despite himself, reached out to the young man and touched his arm. "I know," he said. "But… he's found what he was looking for now. His striving is over. He's at peace."

"You really think so?"

"I think that's what Watson would say. He was… is good at that sort of thing. At seeing the best in everyone, even the worst of people."

"Watson planned to kill him. I don't think he saw anything in him that was good."

"Watson was about to be forced to perform a surgery he knew would paralyze his patient. He was willing to fight to keep that from happening. I know he said he meant to kill Moran, er, your brother, but I know what he really planned on. He planned to fight, but he didn't necessarily think he'd win."

"How do you know?" Thomas whispered.

"Because Watson is no great killer, and he had been preparing himself for death. He had a Bible in his pocket, with letters to myself and a few others, yourself included. He didn't think he'd live."

"What do they say?"

"I don't know. I didn't read them."

"You didn't?"

"No. If he dies…" Holmes choked a little bit. "He wrote them from a place of darkness and desperation, and I won't read them unless he dies."

"I suppose… I suppose that's the right thing," Thomas murmured. "Still, I'd like to know what he wanted to say. I think…. I mean, I can't be certain, but I think that he really did consider me a friend."

Something flashed across Holmes' face, something that was almost rage or jealousy or both, but it only lasted a moment. "I'm sure he did," he murmured. "I'm… glad he had at least one. Why… why don't you come back to Baker Street sometime later? I have a feeling it will help Watson to see you. Not right now, but sometime."

"I understand," Thomas said. "Thank you."

He stood to leave, leaning heavily on a cane and grimacing in pain.

"Don't thank me yet," Holmes whispered to his turned back. He didn't mean Thomas to hear, but suspected that he did.

---

They used to sit close together. Not all the time, of course, but on their worst nights. Nights when they'd seen too much of the evil of the world, too much death, too much hopelessness and despair. When one or both of them wanted reassurance that life wasn't all bad and that things would be normal again, they would sit close together, sometimes talking, sometimes not. Sometimes all night, sometimes just until one of them fell asleep. But, always, they were there for each other.

They didn't anymore. Or, at least for a month they hadn't been. When Watson had finally been well again, Holmes had attempted to embrace him but Watson had cried out and shied away from his touch. Holmes hadn't come close again, waiting for horrors of what Moran had done to him to fade.

Watson hadn't spoken of it. He'd asked about Thomas, told Holmes what Moran's plans for him had been, and explained how he'd planned to kill the assassin, but he hadn't said a word about the injuries besides the gunshot and stab wounds on his torso. Holmes had been horrified to see the cruelty of some of the injuries on his friend, but hadn't asked about them.

Watson hadn't been avoiding him necessarily, but he hadn't been himself, either. He stayed in his room on the pretense of resting. Holmes was sure he was resting most of the time, but he knew his friend well enough to know he was sorely depressed about the whole thing. Holmes had a good idea why, but also didn't ask. It was sorely trying for him; he wanted to know what Watson had gone through more than he wanted answers to any case he'd ever worked. He wanted to comfort Watson more than he wanted his legs back. He'd gone to Watson's room a couple times and knocked on the door, asked very politely if Watson would come downstairs, even sat outside his door for hours waiting for him to come out, but Watson hadn't for reasons unknown.

Holmes was lying flat on the rug in front of the hearth when Watson finally did come down one night. He scrambled, grabbing his false legs and strapping them on so he could stand. He was barely finished when Watson came into the living room, and he knew his friend knew what he'd been doing.

Holmes swallowed hard. "It wasn't that bad," he said softly.

Watson's arms were crossed protectively over his chest and he was looking at the ground. "I…" he started to say, but then couldn't finish. He almost turned away, but Holmes went to him, holding one hand out.

"Please," he said softly. Watson didn't look at him, but he did reach out. Holmes resisted the urge to embrace him, instead just made him comfortable on one end of the couch while he sat on the other. He waited, fishing his pipe out of his dressing gown pocket and filling it with a shaking hand. He was almost ready to light it when a thought struck him: Watson hadn't smoked once since he'd returned to Baker Street. He rose, finding his friend's favorite pipe and scrounging around for some of the doctor's tobacco to fill it with. He handed it to Watson wordlessly.

Watson looked at the thing for a moment oddly before taking it in his hand. Holmes lit it for him, using the same match for his own before sitting back down. They smoked in silence for a few minutes, Watson laying his head back against the cushions and closing his eyes. He let out a long sigh.

"Thank you," he mumbled.

Holmes grunted.

"I… I didn't defend you," Watson continued softly. "To him. Moran. Forgive me."

Holmes looked at him as openly and honestly as he could, wanting to convey that there was no apology needed, a message he knew Watson received when his friend sighed softly.

"I meant what I told Thomas," he murmured. "I meant to kill him. Dreamed about it, let the thought of it keep me going. But it's all… different now, somehow. I keep wondering what I should have done. I spent a long time letting him push me around, letting him do as he pleased on the threat of your life. Should I have fought him sooner? Tried to kill him? Tried to run? Tried to tell Thomas the truth? Holmes, I…" his voice cracked, and he shuddered once.

"You did exactly what I would have asked you to," Holmes said firmly. "You stayed alive, and and you stayed as well as you could be, considering you were being held captive by the most dangerous man in London. And, in the end, Moran's death not only set you free, but also young Thomas Moran. Who knows what his future would have been like if his brother's crimes were dragged out in some long, arduous trial? What if Moran wasn't caught, and instead took Thomas far away, further isolating him? Don't you imagine he would have become angry and bitter and died a miserable, lonely creature? 'Journeys end in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says. This little play could have ended very badly indeed, but we have once again found ourselves in comedy instead of tragedy, Watson."

"In comedy," Watson murmured, "there is always a point where it could go either way."

"With a mass grave or with a song, a dance, and a wedding," Holmes finished for him.

Watson looked up. "There were a few funerals, I suppose."

"And no weddings. Except, perhaps, for young Thomas if his newfound independence leads to any new attachments, which it undoubtedly will. I'm afraid I was in no shape to dance even when I had two legs, but I can give you a song if you like."

"I would," Watson sighed, leaning his head back once more and glancing over towards Holmes' open violin case.

But, instead of going for his instrument, Holmes set his pipe aside and leaned his own head back, humming slightly. Then, he began to sing, his soft baritone echoing through the space.

"Personent hodie… Voces puerulae… Laudates jucunde…Qui nobis est natus…"

Watson closed his eyes, listening. The mix of Gaelic and Latin and English washed over him, and he let himself get lost in it. Intrusive thoughts came in, but he didn't latch onto any of them, tried to focus on being home and alive.

"Jesu of the skies… My little one, thou my delight… I with Thee, thou with me… next my heart through every night… 'S airiú… Who hangs from yonder passion tree?...Your son, dear Mother… Do you not know me?"

Watson tried to join him in the song, but his voice faltered, so he simply listened.

"'S airiú agus ochon!... Sad I am till you return… To have you at the break of dawn!... Ochon airiú… Without you…" the song trailed off, and they sat in silence for a minute.

"Thank you," Watson murmured. "I… will you stay up with me for a while?"

"Of course. I couldn't sleep anyway."

"I'm sorry. And I'm sorry… I haven't been a good friend. Or a good doctor. I meant to…" he sighed.

"It's alright, Watson," Holmes murmured. "There will be time for you to bully me about my health later. Why don't you lay down and we'll see if we can give you a full night of rest."

Watson hesitated, then sighed. He moved to stretch out, not bothering to argue that he was fine. Holmes moved out of his way and fetched him a pillow. He sat on the edge of the cushion, hoping Watson wouldn't flinch away from him, and he didn't.

He allowed Holmes to help him get comfortable, and when Holmes allowed his emotions to show on his face, Watson reached out to him and they finally embraced warmly, Watson letting Holmes grip him gently and holding him in turn.

"I'm sorry, Watson," Holmes murmured.

"So am I," his friend said. "Holmes…"

"Things will be alright, Watson. We'll be alright. Go to sleep." As if Watson had been waiting for permission, he did, dropping off nearly immediately. Holmes stayed with him, watching over him all night and playing his violin softly.

They didn't speak of it when Watson woke in the morning, but they did take a long morning walk through the park, sometimes rambling and talking and sometimes sitting and saying nothing.

They'd been sitting in silence for some time when Holmes cleared his throat awkwardly. Watson looked at him, raising one eyebrow.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Young Thomas Moran sent a letter yesterday," Holmes said softly. "He wanted you to know he's leaving England soon. Today, actually, in… about three hours. Would you… will you like to see him off?"

Watson looked to the ground, taking a deep breath. "Of course I'll see him," he said softly. "I harbor no ill thoughts towards him, nor towards any man who is still living."

"May I come with you?" Holmes asked.

"My dear man, I would be most put out if you abandoned me." Watson smiled very slightly, and Holmes smiled back.

Despite his words, Holmes found himself sitting and smoking idly while Watson and Thomas spoke together on the docks. Holmes watched as Watson and Thomas shook hands, Thomas rising painfully from his wheelchair to do so. The younger man then turned without looking back to board his ship, and Watson walked back towards Holmes. Holmes rose to meet him, and took his friend's arm in his arm. He didn't ask what Thomas had said and didn't mind if Watson didn't tell him.

They were alright, if not back to normal, and that was all he needed. Whatever Watson needed, he would help him. They would help each other, just like they always had. And he would never, never, allow Watson to be harmed like that again no matter what it cost him. He had a long road ahead of him to disband Moriarty's remaining criminal network, but he would have John Watson by his side as he did so, and so he could think of no more preferable scenario.

---

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading my story. I sincerely hope you enjoyed.

The 'what if' that sparked this story was, "What if Moran had met Watson in Afghanistan?"

The song Holmes sang was "Cantus" by Connie Dover, a song that seems to fit their era, but which neither of them would actually have known. I simply enjoy it. You can listen to it here: youtube watch?v=cXM47mFcpGA