Prompt: Moriarty's Christmas, from mrspencil

Christmas, as far as Professor Moriarty was concerned, was a waste of a day. He usually spent it engaged in astronomical research for his legitimate job, as even his criminal lackeys tended to take the day to celebrate, in their usual fashion of getting far drunker than any human should.

Such pastimes held no appeal for Moriarty. He disliked the lack of control inherent in drinking, and so would partake only enough to raise no eyebrows at the university events he must attend. Food, likewise, did not interest him save for its necessity for survival, and so his physique and strength remained that of a young man. He did not partake of tobacco, opium, cocaine, or any other drug, for the same reason he did not drink. He had no hobbies save for his work, for he could see no use to anything that did not benefit him, either in reputation or finances.

This year, however, after that fiend Sherlock Holmes had destroyed so many of his carefully laid schemes, Moriarty knew that the inevitable confrontation between them would not be long in coming. While Holmes had been a nuisance before, he now was a threat, and it behooved Moriarty to spend his time learning as much as he could of his opponent.

He therefore took himself out of his rooms and hailed a hansom to Baker Street. The street was nondescript, much like any other middle class street in London, full of ordinary bankers and clerks and one annoying consulting detective.

Number 221 was as nondescript as any other house on the street, no matter that Moriarty knew its occupant was entirely unique. The first floor window was open, and smoke furled out of it. Holmes, he knew, was a connoisseur of tobacco, though the amount of smoke seemed too much and of the wrong color for a mere cigarette. Moriarty had made some discrete enquiries among his contacts at various universities after a particularly aggravating encounter with Holmes and had discovered that he had gone in for chemistry at Cambridge before leaving with his degree half-finished. It appeared he had kept up with his study of the subject as a hobby. Raised voices, one of them a woman's, told him the appearance of the smoke (and the smell which had now become apparent as it traveled across the street), were not a welcome occurrence.

The woman must be Holmes's landlady. A figure of no importance, and Moriarty discounted her immediately. Like Moriarty, Holmes was a solitary creature, and he had no use for such people except for what services they could provide him.

He waited for a few more moments until the strains of a violin began to sound across the street. A Christmas carol, of course; even Holmes was not immune to the season. A disappointment, for Moriarty had counted Holmes as much like himself.

But then there was no one like himself. Holmes was perhaps the closest, but even he retained much of the useless trappings of daily life such as tobacco and music that was inessential to the perfectly organized mind. It was why Moriarty would ultimately prevail.

But first, he must prepare, and that meant knowing his enemy. This was what Moriarty truly relished, and so few had ever proven themselves worthy opponents. Holmes, despite his shortcomings, was the best prospect he had seen in many years. He was determined to enjoy his triumph.

Moriarty knocked on the hansom so the driver would continue on. "Kensington," he said. To defeat one's enemies was to know their weaknesses, and Holmes had one great weakness, one which Moriarty intended to make Holmes's downfall.

The street in Kensington was largely the same as Baker Street, save that it was almost entirely made up of doctor's practices. The one Moriarty was interested in stood one away from the corner, a small, brick building with a blue door. Moriarty dared to peek out from the hansom to look in the windows.

Inside the dining room sat a woman, still young but nearing middle age, handsome in the plain way encouraged by English boarding schools of girls likely to become governesses. It was, however, her husband Moriarty was interested in. His lieutenant had described him as ordinary in every possible way; a doctor, a veteran, mustachioed, blond-haired and blue-eyed and in every way the very standard model of Englishman. Even from the small glimpse Moriarty had of him through the window, there seemed nothing out of the ordinary about him whatsoever.

Yet that could not be all. For surely Sherlock Holmes would not suffer the presence of someone so dull. There had to be something to this Dr. Watson, something that was not obvious.

There was nothing Moriarty could see. Inside, Dr. Watson passed a platter of potatoes to his wife with a smile, and his demeanor was the very ideal of gentility and humility. He was brave; Moriarty knew that from the reports from his lieutenant, who had found himself facing them both and come off the worse from the doctor's service revolver, but that was to be expected of someone who had served in the Battle of Maiwand. He was intelligent; not a genius, of course, but certainly enough to keep up with Holmes. But again, the man was a doctor, so that was also not unexpected.

Moriarty could not come up with any reason why Holmes should be so attached to a fellow whole seemed so impossibly dull. Or to anyone, for that matter, Moriarty held no one in high esteem, and even those deemed closest to him, such as Colonel Moran, were mere business associates. Friendship was weakness he did not allow himself to permit. Or would not have, even had he wished it.

That Holmes did, apparently, wish to leave himself open to this weakness, was also a disappointment. Though it gave Moriarty the opening he needed.

Yes, he was quite sure that in defeating Sherlock Holmes, the key would be Dr. Watson.