London – 1894

"Don't look so bloody smug."

"I'm not smug. It's just the unfortunate shape of my face." Those were the last words spoken, accompanied by a bland sort of smile that hid a multitude of sins – or should have - but this time it hid nothing at all, and the inspector doesn't like it.

That was four minutes ago, and the man in question has left. The inspector still doesn't like it. Lestrade has been silent, but it is not a vacuous silence, more the silence of a terrier with its mouth full of rat, puzzling out how best to eat it without being bitten.

Clarky knew that quality of silence well, knows too the sharp and slightly irritated look of a man who could see a lot from where he stood and didn't care for any of it. It was no feat of intellect to know Holmes was the one responsible for both the silence and the expression, which were pointed at the doorway through which he'd exited.

Clarky shifts his weight surreptitiously from the ball of one foot to the other. The knack was never the discovery of what had vexed Lestrade, that was the easy bit. The knack – the real craft of it and key to whether his working life would be bearable for the next hour – was knowing what question Lestrade was asking in the privacy of his own skull and getting him to voice the damn thing instead of just chewing on it.

He nods at the doorway, a pointless gesture since Lestrade is facing it. "It's good to have him back," the constable offers.

The inspector makes a non-committal noise at the back of his throat.

"Didn't seem quite as he was, sir," Clarky continues, gingerly testing the conversational waters. "Not quite the swagger of the old days. Like he was tired..."

Lestrade turns on him with an incredulous look pinioned beneath furrowed brows. "Tired? He's just hared across London in disguise, spent half the night on watch duty cramped in a corner and then tackled an armed man taller an' heavier than him, had the life half choked out of him, then clocked the bastard rotten and kicked him in the nebuchadnezzars! To top it all, he was smilin' when we got here!"

"Well... he's still Holmes, sir."

The inspector shakes his head. That's what bothered him. Was he still Holmes? The insufferable and eccentric intellect is still here, still keen. But much of the arrogance that accompanied it has gone, and with it some of the verve. It makes him wonder who managed the impossible – that of knocking down Sherlock Holmes a peg or two. And he also wonders, in the months and cases that are sure to come, whether he'll wish they hadn't.

A second ineloquent noise of gruff acceptance. He rubs his gloved hands together against the chill of the city evening. "They will've got the Colonel loaded by now. C'mon, there's paper work to be done."

Lestrade was a man much put upon.

He had worked his way up to Detective Inspector, which meant he was no longer 'one of the lads' – he knew he was called 'Sour Face' behind his back and he wasn't invited out to have a drink with them as often as they indulged in the practice. But the boisterous ragging and wary distance he endured from the men under his command was preferable by far to the awkward contempt visited upon him by his superiors. The Home Secretary and his office were old-school, as was the Chief Inspector – landed Lords and gentry who viewed the detectives of the Yard akin to hunting dogs: necessary things, biddable enough, good for security, but one kept them lean and locked out of the parlour when company was around.

In other ways too he was stuck in the middle. He wasn't a stupid man, and what he lacked in sparkling intelligence, he made up with in sheer tenacity and hard work. He was not a man for whom the pertinent details of a case leapt out. But he was a man who would read the reports and check the evidence as many times as it took for those details to show themselves. This meant he was decent if stolid inspector material, but he was no Sherlock Holmes.

Given the circumstances, he should have been boon-companions with Gregson and Bradstreet, but he wasn't. (Gregson through preference – the man was a callous pole-climber who'd sell his own granny if it would help his career. Bradstreet through circumstance: he was a decent fellow and they had a liking for each other, but the high-ups kept shifting his division.) Which frequently left him with an unsatisfactory or unsympathetic ear to pour his woes into, or no ear at all.

For these reasons and for many more, Lestrade was a man much put upon who, in a kinder and more decent world, would have been treated a little better – a kindness in truth he deserved. But the London streets were far from kind, and so the inspector had developed a scowl; it was rumoured he even scowled on Christmas morning when nobody with a roof over their head and a hot cup o' cha had any business scowling. (This was a slander. But what was true was that Lestrade frowned so much he had a tiny pad of muscle over the inner edge of each brow – especially the right – which would not lie smooth even when his face was in repose.)

His brow is furrowed now, as it happens, in a way that suggests his already thinning regard for humanity is about to be sorely taxed. It usually is when someone knocks on the door to his office. "What?" he asks, schooling face and voice into some semblance of – if not goodwill, then at least not open hostility.

"It's time sir," Clarky reminds him.

A narrow smile of satisfaction graces his face. "So it is. Wouldn't want the Colonel to be late for his appointment, would we?"

Clarky offers his own milder smile in return, but his eyes betray a keenness that is just as sharp as the inspector's. "No sir."

"Stone walls do not a prison make nor iron bars a cage," the prisoner annunciates with a careful edge of leering levity. The Colonel's presence seems to fill the cell, leaving little space for the compact, pale faced inspector. Even though Lestrade has dressed with his usual care, he is somehow diminished by the clothes, his coat wears him, and he looks smaller than his actual size. Sebastian 'Bastian Rex' Moran, on the other hand, seems to fill out his clothes, adding to his stature, his latent menace swirling in the air and brooding in corners as an extra party to the interview.

Lestrade clears his throat and looks around. "Would appear to me, all-in-all, that isn't entirely accurate, given your present circumstances."

Moran smiles and his hand sweeps the air, encompassing the grey walls of the cell, the warder with his keys and even Constable Clark who is doing his best to merge with the wall he stands against. "Oh this? This is merely a temporary inconvenience, a small stumble on my path to the Celestial City."

Lestrade splutters, a sound of incredulity and annoyance. "I'm starting t' worry about your sanity. Per'aps confinement has proved to be a bit too much for you? Unless I'm mistaken, an' I'm not, you're facing a capital charge for the murder of Ronald Adair. You'll hang," he says simply.

From his vantage point, Clarky is disquieted to note the smile spread further across the Colonel's face.

"Oh really, do you honestly think so?" His pleasure has a condescending streak which widens in his voice. "Information is a most interesting commodity and you might be surprised how many ostensibly respectable people need the assistance of – oh, how would I put it? - persons able to obtain items which are not strictly above board."

His smile is fixed and his eyes hold a terrible gleam. "You, on the other hand, will not be at all surprised to hear what steps they will take to ensure that this information does not get to the ears of their peers - in some cases Peers indeed! Influence, breeding and the ability to know someone who knows someone who can put a word in the ear of the Home Secretary are mighty powers, especially when used for ill." Moran neither sits upon his cot nor paces; he stands at his ease like a man in his study about to enjoy brandy and cigars after the day's business. "In addition, by now my lawyer will have a letter from my gunsmith admitting that he has made over a dozen guns identical to my own, thereby discrediting the only real evidence against me."

The Colonel tugs at his cuffs, a fastidious gesture made facile by the sly cast to his eyes and the flash of teeth in his smile. "Unfortunately, the old chap will not be able to testify in person; fell under a hackney cab. Or a train - or perhaps fell off a ferry - I am awaiting my lawyer's account with the full details. I expect the news to arrive shortly."

Lestrade looks stony, refusing to be baited.

"What perhaps you do not fully understand, my dear Inspector, is that society is like a jungle - or perhaps a veldt. You, I see as a leopard. A fine, brave and arrogant hunter, capable on his day of bringing down the biggest of prey. However, when the pack of hyenas or wild dogs gather around, he must give up his meal and slink away, overwhelmed by the numbers of the lesser breed."

Lestrade's face has been noted on its habitual sourness but such petty scowling is nothing to the profound dislike showing upon his features now. "Really. And what does that make you?"

He dismisses the little rat's baring of its fangs with a wave of his hand. "Oh, I am what I always am: the man with the hunting rifle. I have heads of all the beasts on my trophy wall, no matter how untouchable they thought they were. But - enough of that," he says briskly. "I asked you here to talk about the future." Another gesture, this time one of welcome. "I have always thought that we have much in common..."

Seeing Lestrade start to bridle, he turns languidly, giving the impression of space, of ground to the inspector. A moment of silence for ruffled feathers to settle and he continues: "I do not mean in the terms of morals, ethics or - might I say - financial stability. I mean in that we are both very good at what we do; very solid with ground work, so as to say. We do what we do by being methodical and cautious; cutting out the variables and chance and ensuring that we get the correct result by going with the certain - or at worse the probable." His back shifts a little, turning him an inch or so towards the inspector again. "The world works in a logical and coherent fashion and, by knowing the patterns of the minds of man, you can peer into the past and predict the future. We do not work by inspiration, lightning flashes of brilliance that illuminate the problem and leaps of faith."

He stops, turns fully and gazes at Lestrade with an intense look, searing into the eyes of the man standing opposite. "And it can be so very tiring to work with, or even worse under, those who do, especially when they are proved right time after time, despite all the sane and fair forces of the Universe being against them." His voice has lost its lazy rumble, is instead pulled tight as a Thuggee cord. "I will tell you a terrible secret. The Professor was far more than a chief to me; he was an ally, a mentor who opened up a world I had not envisaged or imagined, perhaps even a friend, and yet... When I saw him fall at Reichenbach, after I had gotten over the shock at the unexpected ruthlessness of it all... What I felt was an overwhelming feeling of relief." He speaks will ill-contained, savage joy. "Relief that I would no longer be mocked and belittled. That I would not be humiliated in front of my men by a cast-off remark which he did not even consider to be harmful and did not spend a second considering. That I would not have to live in his shadow and be remembered only as one of his lackeys." His demeanor calms in the eye of his own verbal storm. "So, Inspector. Does this sound familiar to you?"

Lestrade keeps very still, willing himself to neither confirm or deny the acidic whispers and unpleasant worms in his mind. "An' what of it?"

The slow-spreading carnivore's smile is back. "How would you like to be free of that? How would you like to be in a position to be able to liberate yourself at a word? Even if you did not choose to use it, you would always have it in your pocket. A mere whisper when he is at his most bumptious, a sly word at his most arrogant. No matter what he says or does, you will always know that you are the better man because you did not give into temptation. He - he would be a different man, cowed and weakened, no longer your better, just another mortal... All I need in exchange is a simple blind eye now and then. Nothing serious; just a freedom to deal with my business without inconvenience."

Lestrade remains blank as a statue, no emotion showing although something is being built piece by piece in the dark of his eyes.

Constable Clark, who has spent the last hour (the last fifteen minutes intently) wondering just how he'd prevent Moran from killing Lestrade with his bare hands if he had a mind to, now has something new to worry about. He fears of prisoner and policeman he's been watching the wrong man... He's worked with Lestrade for seven years, and it is that mundane familiarity that allows him to see the turmoil raging behind the mask.

Still, the inspector says nothing, merely looking back at the Colonel; the silence stretches out becoming heavy in the air.

In the end, it is Moran who breaks first; he is patient, but part of a hunter's patience is knowing when to call it a day, to rest and try a new strategy. "Well, what of it? You are not the only buyer in this bazaar. I had a very eager Caledonian gentleman earlier standing where you are now..."

Suddenly Lestrade utters a short bark of laughter. "Gregson - that over-dressed Scottish long streak o'piss? I may not like 'im but he'd never take a deal like that. Damn, self congratulating lanky gob-shite doesn't think he has an equal let alone a superior! But, an' I wouldn't admit it to his face, he's as honest as the day is long." Another bark, a snap of gruff humor. "God help me, I was actually tempted!" He shakes his head. "I actually thought about your bargain."

Lestrade does not pace, but his agitation is shown by the speed at which he spits his words out. "I 'ave to admit that I'm no genius, an' I thank the Lord every day I'm not so afflicted! I couldn't do my job if I had t' rely on genius." He leans forward. "What Mr Holmes doesn't always understand is that he'd go mad if he tried t' do my job. Most criminals are dull – an' often bloody stupid. If I'm called in on a murder, the killer isn't gonna be an Italian Count with a knowledge of Oriental poisons who's gaining revenge for a thirty year old blood feud usin' a shaved baboon as a trained assassin. It'll be a drunken Billingsgate porter who came home t' find another pair o' boots in his bed." A twist of a smile. "He criticises me f' always looking for the obvious; well that's because nine times out of ten – no - ninety-nine in a hundred, the bleedin' obvious solution is the correct one! It is the bloke with the smoking revolver, the lover with a bloody knife, the heir who wanted t' hurry up his inheritance t' pay off his debts, the gin addled girl next door."

He tips back on his heels a little, sniffs and folds his arms. His voice holds a quiet intensity. "An' no, I don't like t'be treated like an idiot. I worked to become an Inspector. I walked my beat for fifteen years without the benefit of a university education or school friends to give me a hand-up the promotion ladder. I walked into dives dodging knives and brickbats on my own with only the truncheon to protect me. I've patrolled streets alone where they count a dead rozzer as an initiation into being a man. I've been hospitalised, more broken bones than I can count, I took a cobblestone to the head in Trafalgar Square. I have earned my position by damn hard police work."

A second's pause, and the cast of his face changes, some of the acerbity being folded away back into its box. "An' yet, I also thank the Lord that Mr Holmes has been there. He's a thief-taker, and I don't have a better word for a detective than that. There are some clever bastards out there, an' sometimes we can only follow their tracks by the trail of bodies they leave behind. An' we have to deliver the news to the families o'course. 'Avenues of enquiry', 'doin' our best', 'followin' what leads we have' isn't worth a tinker's toss t'the family. You know – well, course not, you wouldn't know - the worst thing is the accusation in the eyes. That somehow we let this happen, that we failed to keep their loved one safe." He draws himself up straighter and the feeling behind his words confer upon him a brief nobility. "I'm willing t'live with the taunts, the snide asides, the rudeness and the larkin' about for the knowledge that he is not a mere mortal. That when everythin' else fails, Mr Holmes will not."

A signal to Clarky, a call for the warder and a step towards the cell door. "Oh, an' Colonel?"

Moran regards him with cool and open aversion.

"You keep stalking the jungle if you want. But just remember: sooner or later, every hunter wakes up with a weight on his chest and the breath of his prey in his face." Lestrade pauses at the open door before allowing the warder to enter with shackles. "I hope to see you at your hanging. But, if this does not come to pass, just keep looking over your shoulder. I'll be there. Dull perhaps, methodical and slow-minded, but there." A smile, glass sharp but with a genuine spike of satisfaction. "Now if you're prepared, Colonel? Your audience awaits."

The public gallery is above the courtroom, like the dress-circle of a theatre. It means the angles are all wrong and Moran must tilt his head or strain his eyes to the utmost edge of their sockets. It's not a prime position for a hunter, not when he knows the tiger is near. But Moran has two things on his side; time, and the relative safety of the condemned man (being charged to hang he does not fear drowning), so he is not worried.

He takes his time as the case proceeds, keeping an ear out for details in all the words spoken as easily as his ears once distinguished the call of an animal or the flattening of grassland fauna when game was near. His expression is calm, neither confrontational nor insolently bland as he carefully scans the faces in the gallery and the clerks of the court over and over again.

He is not a man who could watch a magic show done by a master conjurer and be able to say with certainty how the prestige is achieved. His mind does not work that way. But he has over the years (like any predator) become highly proficient in singling out the odd-man. The bird-call out of place. The shadow where none should be. The break in the grass, the patch of sunlight catching strangely... In short, he has the observational skills and instincts of the best gamehunter in all India.

He is, in his way, still hunting a tiger now. A tiger he knew would be here – must be here – for how could he resist? This tiger is an old hand and very very clever. He's able to shift into any shape a tiger could conceivably hold: he can be the shadow at your back or the stray tabby you pass in the street, the rug at your hearth, the medicine in the Celestial's lacquered chest, or the twin green lamps burning in the darkness...

His eyes rove the gallery again, ignoring the irritated look the barrister shoots him. You, little man, are of no import. I however, mean to bag this tiger by fair means or foul. I exhausted fair some years back... There. He lets his eyes move on, never stopping always scanning, circling, showing he is still weak and confused, no threat, no threat at all... But he is certain. He has found his tiger.

It takes all of Colonel Sebastian Moran's self control not to let a smile spread across his face.

Time passes. He is allowed to address the court. This is highly irregular, but it is what he insisted on. He has little sway nowadays, but in some places Moriarty's touch lingers still, and this is what he has expended his influence on. A minute, nothing more, in which to address the court. He could tell his story, but it would not be believed. He is a disgrace to his uniform, a cad and a criminal and the man he speaks against is lorded in London as some sort of modern saint. It would not do. Besides, even as a blackguard in disgrace he has his pride – he is still a gentleman. One does not snivel and cry and fling mud. One straightens one's back and accepts one's fate with dignity... and delivers a last low shot to the stomach – a gift to fester and bleed so that the enemy might remember the one who gave it.

His voice is rich, and rolls with gentle force, bending the ears of all who hear like that of the very best storyteller. "I spent many years in India serving Her Majesty, and for my leisure hunting game. I took pride in my work as in my sport. Her Majesty and I came to an unfortunate disagreement and parted on poor terms. But the hunt – the game - the Great Game and I remained on the best of terms." He speaks with the kind of off-hand command that has helped keep the British Empire running even when it shouldn't.

"In my life I have tracked and bagged many creatures. I respected them all, for their cunning and ferocity. But none do I revere more than the White Tiger. He without doubt has been the worthiest of adversaries. I first tried my mettle against him in London, but I was arrogant and underestimated him shamefully; he escaped me with ease. I followed him to foreign soil. In Switzerland he stopped to drink and I hoped to bag him, but distance and the wind were against me - I seared his whiskers, nothing more." The court is silent, as if it is a dinner party and Moran guest of honour, giving a speech to the table.

"I followed his trail as far as I could: across Europe, ever Eastwards towards the Orient, where at last I lost him and was forced to abandon the hunt. I returned home to lick my wounds and console myself with the reminder that whilst a huntsman tracks, a master waits. I waited, crafting my plans and laying my bait for the tiger's return... And return he did."

He smiles, a strange fixed smile, like a person who's seen something that only one with a very odd and mildly unpleasant sense of humour would find funny. He clears his throat, an affectation, recalling his own and his audience's attention. "I set a trap for the White Tiger. Alas, this time, the tiger won not just the battle but the war." He lifts his hand in a mimed salute. "I raise my glass to him. I shall pay for what I've done and the reckoning will doubtless be swift."

The smile is back, imperceptibly wider and more dangerous than before. "His reckoning will take years I've no doubt. I will have tomorrow. He will have a thousand tomorrows and have to suffer through them all..."

He looks up to the public gallery and to the stiff-backed mealy-faced and bespectacled gentleman he'd singled out earlier. He locks gazes with him, and him alone. "So I raise my glass – to Sherlock Holmes – in absentia. I have no doubt whatsoever that in the fullness of time, I shall see him in hell. We'll keep the brandy warmed."

The gallery is in uproar, people shouting down his speech and the fact he was allowed to speak at all. Moran doesn't care. He smiles, like a cat that has got the cream, as the mealy-faced gent goes ashen and fights his way through the press of people and out of the court.

His shot has caught its mark. The White Tiger may have won, but Moran has just ensured it is the most bitter of Pyrrhic victories.

NOTES:

Nebuchadnezzars – balls

Celestial – archaic term for a Chinese person