Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Spoilers: End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence, mentions of drugs, swearing

As always a heartfelt thank you to everyone who alerted, favd, read and followed my story so far. Love to talk to all of you and your input inspires me and helps me write!

Special thanks to Impractical Beekeeping for his/her brilliant stories "Things to Do When You Are Dead" and "Fearful Symmetry", a portrait of Moran

Reviews could get you an assignment with the 1st Bangalore Pioneers :-)


Tiger, Tiger


There´s one week time left to find out what Roylott is up to, Mycroft has told me. My first weekend in India´s capital has been rather less productive in this respect, since Chandra has mainly taken me to the sights of Delhi on his motorbike. Neither of us was wearing a helmet, but I couldn´t care less being a dead man anyway. Instead, I took an instant liking to the feeling of freedom the reckless speed and Chandra´s breakneck overtaking manouevres provided and I caught myself wishing we could simply continue like this for the remaining days.

My host is still something of an enigma, though I believe I can trust him enough as far as business is concerned. He has been very attentive, telling me anecdotes of his hometown, recommending meals, giving me advice on how to navigate the streets on my own. He even noticed my growing frustration with the never-ceasing hustle and bustle of the megacity and tried to explain details about life in India and especially Delhi in the hope I would finally settle with the abundance of life and colours around me.

It is not so much the diversity of Delhi´s streets which irks me, but rather the fact that my mind is constantly presented with too many details while I am completely stripped of my powers of deduction. Even though I am quite familiar with the Indian community in London, I am completely at a loss to tell someone´s profession or status in society in this foreign place since the evidence delivered differs fundamentally from my former experience.

Chandra doesn´t know about my deductive powers, and therefore fails to comprehend the degree of my irritation. He is aware of my growing unrest, though, and promises quick progress once we have tracked down Roylott´s son. In the meantime, he provides his anecdotes and litres of tea. He can´t know that every single mouthful contributes to manifesting my homesickness and expanding my frustration.

In fact, this is the first time in the past sixteen months I feel as if I am walking on broken ice regarding my mental stability. In the Himalayas, I was able to forget the fact that I am on the most important chase of my life. Now I am thrown back into the middle of it, and again I don´t like my part a single bit. Chasing criminals in London´s streets was hardly ever a game of life and death, but hunting down Moriarty´s followers is. And as different aims call for different measures, not my most treasured abilities will help me to survive, but simply courage and cunning. Or even brutality.

In the meantime, my mind, stagnating without any problems to solve, withers away and I wish I could stop it running in circles. I desperately want to blend it out, even if this would mean to regress to the questionable help of a stimulating substance. In fact, for the first time in these past sixteen months – and more - I am honestly craving a drug. Instead of relapsing, though, I drink Chandra´s tea and wait for him to lead me to Roylott´s meeting place.


After what seems like an eternity, Monday comes and Chandra appears at the door to my room with his familiar flashing grin and a pile of Indian clothes in his arms.

"Hi friend, time to get ready for our expedition," he greets me. "You should make a very convincing beggar, I think."

In the wink of an eye, he has helped me to dress and paint me as an old Indian beggar in a tattered, white robe. He tells me where and when we will wait for Roylott and his company to appear. The place is a famous restaurant on a street adjacent to the Janpath, and we will approach Roylott on its terrace, me posing as a deaf beggar. With some luck, I will be able to overhearing their conversation. It is a simple plan, but Chandra is convinced that it will work "since nobody in Delhi really takes note of an old, deaf man."

Soon enough, I find myself on the terrace of the posh restaurant, and I see Roylott´s son for the first time. He resembles his father well enough, the same broad back and threatening expression, huge hands and muscular shoulders. His company consists of three Chinese business people and one European, a man in his fourties, blue eyes, blond hair streamed with grey, displaying a smile of confidence – Sebastian Moran.

The men are sharing a table in one of the corners of the terrace, deep in the shade, but Roylott´s words are carrying to me quite clearly, since he doesn´t make an effort to soften his loud, rumbling voice.

"We can deliver whatever you want," I hear him say.

Moran, who has been leaning back in his chair, smoking a cigar, claps his hands. "You just have to order," he says. "We would be delighted if we could receive some goods in exchange, though."

The Chinese businessmen, who have been listening silently for the past half hour, nod in agreement and deliver their suggestions to the Europeans, but in a very small voice, so that I can´t understand what they are agreeing upon.

It doesn´t matter anyway, since Roylott retrieves a piece of paper from his jacket and straightens it out on the table cloth. "This is your chart. Follow our instructions and we will meet tomorrow evening," he says.

This is definitely my turn. It has been a long time since I practiced pick-pocketing, but I am fairly sure I will manage to distract the Chinese people long enough to get hold of the precious piece of paper. With the plea for money, I advance the group, stretching out my hands, mumbling unintelligible words and finally leaning on the table heavily, discreetly grabbing the strip.

"What the hell...," Moran exclaims while clutching my arm. His blue eyes meet mine, and for a second there is realization shining in his. "Wait," he orders. "Just wait, you bloody beggar."

I manage to escape his vice-like grip, and as soon as I am free I realize that my cover is being blown by my violent resistance. A frail, old man would not be able to easily wriggle free of Moran´s iron hands. In an instant, he knows something is amiss and he stands, quickly, aiming at me with a knife he has drawn from his belt. The blade collides with my still outstretched hand and mars it, before he wields it at an upward angle, cutting my chest. Gasping, I still manage to clutch the paper in my right hand, before I simply chin him with my left and turn, running from the premises, leaving the shouts of Roylott and the service personnel behind me.

Three blocks down the road I need to stop. My chest is still throbbing, blood trickles onto the pavement. Several odd looks from bystanders tell me that I probably should get going. I attempt to straighten and collect myself to walk away, but I have only taken a few paces when the welcome sound of a motorcycle comes nearer.

Chandra has come to pick me up. Despite my pain, I focus on memorizing the address which Roylott has written down in bold letters on the crumpled paper in my hand.

When Chandra helps me onto his vehicle, the image I remember most vividly, though, are Moran´s eyes - abysmal wells of spite, wariness and brutality.