Just a short chapter this time, set a few years after the flashback of the last chapter – but all part of the jigsaw. I hope it will all work in the end ...!

Disclaimer: Moran is a creation of ACD.

Chapter 6

January 3, 1895

He stared at the newspaper.

Moran remembered that day well; the events were burned into his mind. The day in question had been the best part of a year ago – a spring day, March 27th 1894. And why had that day been so special? Because of her, of course.

It had come as such a shock to be able to reanimate his acquaintance with the Duchess of Mortonwell. Not that was the title that she had gone by, of course; she was now just plain 'Mary'.

He had been walking along Park Lane when – there she was. Just a face in the crowd at first, and he had been uncertain that it was she – but the full realisation had finally dawned as she turned and their eyes met. She had gasped as she saw him, and, he recalled, likewise he on seeing her; he saw her put her hand to her mouth, and then turn as if to move away. But then, as though she had resolved to face him, she had relented and had made her way though the crowd towards him. In the middle of the hubbub of the fashionable West End, they had met and within minutes were exchanging news of the intervening years since they had last met, talking as though they had never been apart.

He had been called away on a secret mission, he had explained. He had been out of the country and unable to communicate with anyone. What he had thought would be a posting lasting a couple of weeks had extended first to months and then years. All lies of course, but she was not to know. He was thinking on his feet. He of course had deeply regretted any hurt he had caused, to her especially. He had expressed his anger and shock as she told him that later, on the evening of the day they had last seen each other, her house had been burgled. All her jewellery, diamonds, gold had been taken.

He listened on in silence as she told of her life in the next years, spent eking out a living, hand to mouth, replying on her name and the kindness of strangers. But that was all forgotten now. She had been able to start again, provided initially by a small winning on the Ascot race; she had then found that she could build on those winnings, as long as she was careful not to invest too much at any one time. She was now, she said proudly, both a 'woman of leisure' and a 'woman of substance'; able to pick and choose the course of her life, able to choose what she would do next. She reeled off a list of the exotic places she had visited – Spain, France, Morocco ...

He had listened rapt as she told him at last that her thoughts had always been for him; that she fully understood that he had to serve his country and that if the same was to arise again he should not think twice of following his orders again. All had ended well.

He hid his unease that she was so eager to reacquaint their relationship that his lies had just washed over her. For the first time in many long years, his heart had been touched again.

She was still talking. They had much to catch up on. Would he not be her guest at her apartment nearby?

The following morning, the curse that seemed to afflict his life had struck again. Ever since the fateful day his path had crossed that of the Professor it seemed somehow inevitable that anything he touched would turn to dross. So much for honesty being the best policy!

She had been right of course. Waking up in the warm apartment, the spring sunshine beaming through the windows, he had at last decided to make a clean break. Oh, he would have to offload Moriarty's empire, but there were others waiting to take his place. Others maybe much too willing and eager to take his place, but they were there. Could he trust them? Perhaps not, but he was in love. At last he had found a woman he could cherish, to pour affection on to; for too long his life had been cold, empty. The shadow of the Professor had grown long. Perhaps it was time to stop walking in the darkness.

Clearly he had been off-guard. Perhaps his experience of the past half decade had meant that he had overlooked how people would react when told that their lover had in fact been the means of their ruin. Either way, she had listened, face aghast, as he had told her that it had been he who had arranged the burglary of her house; that he had in fact been one of the raiding party. He had had to do it. He was in fear of his life.

Her anger had been not the blazing fury that he had so regularly experienced when others maintaining the Professor's legacy had fallen short of his exacting standards, but rather the cold desperation that showed that betrayal was the worst crime that any person could commit against another.

She had told him quietly to go. No further explanation, no further contact. No way back.

So there he found himself, walking again down Park Lane, watching the beaux and belles enjoying the early morning sunshine. The Park had been bursting into life, but he was dead inside. He had sat on the nearest bench and sank into a depression. It was his fault, of course it was. He resolved there and then never open himself up to anyone again. Never to be honest again. Always to hide his intentions. Always to hide his emotions.

Nearby a particularly vocal group had been laughing as they made their way along the path. One simpering woman had been speaking to one of the men, whom he later found to be Ronald Adair, who in turn was showing off in front of his friends. His prowess at the card table was unbeatable, he had boasted. Moran's ears had perked up. He knew his own prowess at the table was unbeatable. Here at least was a good opportunity to lose himself for a while.

He had gone over to the group, and introduced himself. And the rest, as they say, was history, wasn't it? The beginning of the end, as far as he was concerned. One step too far. But did he care? How was he to know that Holmes would be back? He just remembered the burning fury, the need to eradicate everything in his life that seemed to be against him.

His thoughts snapped back to the present; sitting on a wooden trestle in his cell, staring with unbelief at the newspaper article. She was dead. The love of his life, dead.

The great hunter cried uncontrollably.