Bit of background information for anyone who is less than familiar with post-hiatus canon. ( :
This chapter introduces Colonel Sebastian Moran and Professor Moriarty. The important thing that I need to mention to all of you Sherlock fans is that Moriarty isn't exactly the BBC character that you are familiar with. He actually only appears in two canon stories: "The Final Problem" (Reichenbach) and "The Valley of Fear" though in this story, he is only mentioned instead of being in the action. Moriarty is something of a Mafia Guardian: he protects nearly all of the criminals of England in exchange for their obedience and a share in their profits.
Moran is something of a second in command to Moriarty. Holmes describes him as "the second most dangerous man in London", second only to Moriarty himself. He escaped the police after Reichenbach and continued his activities in London until he was arrested in "The Adventure of the Empty House" for murder. This story takes place after his arrest.
I think that's everything that you need to know. Enjoy the story!
Lestrade could feel his gut tightening as Gregson made his report. He might have known that Holmes would get into some kind of trouble but nothing could have prepared him to discover exactly what trouble the detective had managed to stir up. The bloody man had only been in there for about ten minutes, for heaven's sake.
"Is he in stable condition, Gregson?"
"I believe so," said Gregson dryly. "He has Dr. Watson looking after him like a mother hen. From what the good doctor has told me, I think that we can safely believe that Mr. Holmes will make a full recovery."
Lestrade exhaled and shook his head. "Was Mr. Land the one who wielded the gun?"
"It's difficult to say. We know that Mr. Holmes was the one who brought the gun into the cell. I would wager that the gun went off in the struggle and that it was an accident."
"But why would Holmes have brought a gun into the cell in the first place?" asked Lestrade, gritting his teeth. "He must have known that something like this would happen. Of course he knew."
"We won't be able to ask him 'til he comes round," said Gregson. "But I think that we both know the answer to that."
"He doesn't have to be a hero," said Lestrade. "We are capable of occasionally convicting killers without his help."
Gregson chuckled, which only served to annoy his fellow inspector all the more.
"There's nothing amusing about this, Gregson. We were this close to convicting a serial killer."
"We still can, Lestrade. Nothing has changed in that department," said Gregson, shrugging. "If Mr. Holmes were to die, that would only intensify the case against him. If he lives, the fact that he was attacked at all doesn't exactly work against us."
Lestrade sighed, settling himself back into his chair. "It's just that I know that Holmes is keeping something from us. Why else would his conversation have ended with a bullet in his shoulder?"
"That's true," Gregson allowed. "I suppose that you'll just have to ask him that yourself."
"I suppose so. Is there any hope that he will come out of it before the trial?"
"There's always hope, Lestrade. In the case of our Mr. Holmes, I think that he's strong enough to make a full recovery before we know it," said Gregson.
Watson sat next to the bedside of his friend, watching his unconscious chest move steadily up and down with his breathing. He shook his head in frustration, willing the eyes of the detective to open.
Almost four hours ago, he and Lestrade had heard a gunshot ring out from behind the closed door of the cell. A few seconds later, they had burst into the cell to discover Holmes lying unconscious in a steadily growing pool of blood with a gun not far from his outstretched hand. The hand of the prisoner, a man named Jacob Land, was still resting on the barrel.
Holmes had initially been taken to a hospital, despite Watson's protests; he would have felt a great deal more comfortable if he had been the one to diagnose the seriousness of the wound, not having to worry about what another doctor said. But once they had been satisfied that the wound was not serious, they had patched him up and released him to the care of his flat mate.
It had taken a while for Watson to be equally sure that Holmes would recover. Mrs. Hudson had hovered over his shoulder, fairly clucking with anticipation as he worked. Finally, they both had realized that there was nothing more they could do and that they would have to leave the rest to Holmes.
Watson was loathe to admit it but he was furious at what had happened. The Yard knew that Holmes was the one to bring the gun into the cell in the first place. It seemed that there had been some kind of struggle and the gun went off accidentally. That was believable enough, he supposed.
The door behind him opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson. She came in softly, closing the door behind her. "How is he, Dr. Watson?"
"He certainly seems better, Mrs. Hudson. I don't see why he hasn't regained consciousness yet."
Mrs. Hudson sighed. "It would not surprise me at all if Mr. Holmes were toying with us."
"Mrs. Hudson, that is quite an accusation." Watson attempted to sound disapproving but the sentence ended in a laugh that he couldn't quite smother. She was right, of course. How right she was.
The man who was hurrying down the street would have been invisible to the average passerby. Through years of experience, he was now able to pass through London as he pleased and no one was ever the wiser. This suited him, for he had very important knowledge to pass along to his employer and he had no desire to be interrupted.
His path through the backstreets showed just how knowledgeable he was about London's geography. Granted, a man in his position had to have such knowledge if he wanted to do his job right.
Michael Yorick might not have been the most well known of kind. The names of his employers were much more feared among the lowlife and criminals that inhabited London: Moriarty and Moran, just to name a few.
Nevertheless, he had often found that being the equivalent of a nobody to the rest of the world certainly had advantages. Some might call him a spy, but he preferred to think of himself as being employed among the classes of the criminals for hire employed by Moriarty. If someone came to his boss looking for a job well done, he was one of the men fortunate enough to be called on. And he was one of the best.
His route now took him to an abandoned shipyard on the banks of the Thames, the perfect hiding place for their kind of work. Perfect because it was so deliciously obvious.
He ducked under the hull of an incomplete ship, allowing the darkness to close in over him. He could feel the sand beneath his shoes as he picked his way over crates and tools to the very back. His hand reached and felt around on the decomposing wood of the hull until he found a metal ring. And he pulled. Hard.
Watson straightened up in his chair as Holmes appeared to stir in his sleep. A moment later, the detective opened his eyes and Watson allowed himself to exhale.
Holmes glanced around the room, seemingly in some confusion. Then his eyes seemed to focus and he blinked several times.
"How do you feel, Holmes?" asked John, quietly.
Holmes reached his good arm towards his injured shoulder and grimaced. "As well as can be expected, Watson," he said dryly. His gaze traveled from Watson's face to Mrs. Hudson. "Mrs. Hudson,"
"You gave us quite a turn, Mr. Holmes," she said, her face coming alive with relief at the sight of his eyes. "It's so good to have you have you back with us."
"Thank you for your concern but I assure you that I'm quite – ahhh," the sentence ended in a groan of pain as Holmes attempted to lift himself up on his good elbow; his injured shoulder had something to say about that. He was able to recover from the grimace long enough to look pointedly at Mrs. Hudson.
She seemed willing enough to take the hint now that she was satisfied that he was no longer on death's doorstep. She gathered up her skirts in one hand and hurried out the door, leaving the two men alone.
Once she had gone, Holmes allowed himself to fall back on the bed, exhaling sharply at the relief from the stabbing in his shoulder. He avoided looking at Watson, knowing that if he did, he would find the question that he would rather not answer.
Watson, apparently, decided to ask it anyway. "What happened, Holmes? The police are saying that it was an accident."
"And don't you believe that?"
"I know you, Holmes," said Watson simply.
Holmes sighed, rolling his neck back and forth in a futile attempt to relieve the pain. "I suppose that you think I encouraged him."
"I don't know the details," Watson admitted. He paused for a long moment, studying his friend's face. Then he shook his head. "You shot yourself, didn't you." It was a statement instead of a question.
"And why in the world would I do that?" asked Holmes, feigning innocence.
"I would imagine that you wanted to get the attention of whoever the real killer was."
"Land was the real killer, Watson. The entire operation was his idea. All he needed was someone to cover his tracks." Holmes looked pointedly at Watson.
"Moriarty."
Colonel Sebastian Moran slammed his palm down on the table in fury, causing Yorick to jump. "Are you absolutely certain, Yorick?"
"I'm afraid that there is no doubt, sir."
"How could he have been foolish enough to shoot Sherlock Holmes?" Moran seemed very capable of spitting out flames. "Did he completely lose his mind?"
"I don't know, sir," said Yorick, shrugging. "But it is expected that Mr. Holmes will make a full recovery. It's not serious."
"What did Land tell Holmes before the shooting? How much does he know about our operation?"
"Does it matter? He won't find us. No one ever traces crimes back to us," said Yorick, pushing his chest out in a ridiculous attempt at looking prideful.
"You don't know Sherlock Holmes like I do, Yorick," said Moran grimly. "He is not one of the blundering members of Scotland Yard who can barely find their hand in front of their face. He is something else entirely."
"What exactly do you plan to do, then?" asked Yorick. "If Land really did shoot him as badly as he says he did, he'll be out of the game for weeks at least."
"Land is a boasting fool. Nothing he says can be trusted. We never should have agreed to take on his case," spat Moran.
"How could we have known?"
"Scientists are all the same: totally mad. He's put us at risk and that must be stopped."
"What do you plan to do?" asked Yorick, not quite wanting to hear the answer.
"Our first priority is to silence Land. Then we go after Holmes," he said carefully. "There's a score between the two of us that I want to settle."
"Shouldn't we notify the professor?" asked Yorick nervously.
"There is no need to disturb him," said Moran carelessly. "I can handle Holmes on my own,"
"I certainly hope so, sir."
For anyone who was wondering, Yorick is an OC. ( :