Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes... or Moriarty.

"You hope to place me on the gallows. I tell you I will never stand upon them!"

-Moriarty from "The Woman in Green"

I will never stand upon the gallows; this I swore the day my dear brother was hanged. It wasn't for the fear of knowing that with the pull of a lever I would meet my maker. It wasn't even the fear or death nor the anguish of being caught. It wasn't even the act I despised. It was one man. Inspector Howard McDonald.

Let me tell you the inspector was not a small man. He was 5'11 and well over twelve stone. In his younger years he was the equivalent of an American lumberjack with a full red beard and moustache to match the shock of hair on his head. At the time of my brother's demise, the hair was thinning and the facial hair vanished.

In the end, it was the inspector's eyes, not the dreary weather nor the image of my brother's lifeless body swaying to and fro, which stays vivid in my mind.

Prior to my sibling's arrest, the inspector had made numerous attempts at capturing him. When a countryman was discovered beaten to death near the Channel, Edward was instantly accused. McDonald wasted no time in pursuing him. The endless cat/mouse game went on for weeks before Eddy was cornered in a warehouse in Wales. Words cannot describe the triumph in the inspector's eyes the day he announced that Edward Moriarty, the man wanted for murder, was caught and sentenced to be hanged by the throat the following week. I was only a lad of ten.

Now those eyes were focused straight ahead to the condemned man on the wooden platform. They were hard as rocks, those honey-colored eyes. In them I saw more smugness and triumph than I had ever imagined. It was like he took some sort of sick pleasure in seeing a man die; my brother die. The whole time, my eyes never left his. I could barely register the creak of wood, the swoosh as Edward's body fell, nor the sharp twang as the rope was pulled taught. All of my attention was focused on those damn smug eyes.

Afterwards, as the crowd that had gathered disbanded, the inspector's gaze found mine. He came over to me and my dear old mum, who was trying in vain to stop the sobs that tore at her soul. The honey eyes had become a smidgen softer as he gave a well rehearsed speech of how "sorry" he was for our loss. Mother never stopped her wailing. I just glared. McDonald patted my head and bid me farewell. I prayed that I would never have to see those damn eyes again.

I was wrong.

Now, many decades after Edward's death and my old mother's passing, I find myself in the mist of those eyes. Now, however, they are blue and sharp as steel. The burly old woodsman has morphed into a tall, thin man with a hawk's beak. The old Scotland Yard's uniform has been exchanged for a deerstalker and caped coat. McDonald has been dead for some time. Now Holmes fills his place.

Our minds are evenly matched. We both know it. Whenever we face each other I see my brother's fate in his eyes. For as long as I live, I will never give Sherlock Holmes the satisfaction Edward gave to McDonald that cold morning. Never.

"If you are instrumental in any way of bringing about my destruction, you will not be alive to enjoy your satisfaction."

Moriarty from "The Woman in Green"