==Chapter 9==

Robin

"Remember, Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies."
― Stephen King

Let me see... telegraph posts sixty yards apart, passing one approximately every two seconds... Thirty yards a second equals eighteen hundred a minute, so... one hundred and eight thousand yards an hour, divide that into miles and we have... sixty? No, sixty-one, sixty-one point... point... something. Damn.

Holmes sighed, staring morosely out of the train carriage window as the posts continued to flicker past at what might be termed an impressive speed; then again, they were only hauling two carriages this time. Being the Napoleon of Paperwork – which Holmes had taken to calling Moriarty in the privacy of his own thoughts – Torchwood's director had no need to tolerate the usual delays and inconveniences associated with this method of travel. As far as Holmes could see, the only unusual aspect of this trip was Moriarty ordering that his protégé accompany him.

The detective didn't doubt his mentor's assertion that this would be 'an enlightening experience', but whatever new lesson the Professor intended him to learn, he was certain it would be no more pleasant than all the rest. He slumped further down in his leather armchair, gaze turning from the window to travel around the luxuriously furnished sitting room. He had to admit, Moriarty having his own private car did make such forced journeys a shade more tolerable; still, he might be able to appreciate his surroundings a little more if he knew more about their destination than its being somewhere north of London. Working out how fast they were going was rather pointless when he had no idea of how far they had left to go...

"We are going well." Holmes gazed out the carriage window then glanced down at his watch. "Fifty-three and a half miles an hour, if I'm not mistaken."

"Oh, come now, Holmes," Watson scoffed as he lit his cigar, "even you can't know that without seeing the quarter mile posts!"

The detective looked smug. "The telegraph posts on this line are sixty yards apart – a simple calculation." Actually, he'd been working it out for the last ten minutes on his newspaper with a stub of pencil, but Watson didn't need to know that...

Holmes blinked, startled. For a moment, he could have sworn... but of course it was just his own reflection in the glass. Heaven only knew where Watson had been moved to since their last conversation, he hadn't thought it wise to inquire – not that it mattered, of course, he certainly had no desire to pay the man a visit. He stared back out of the window, trying to focus on the passing scenery, with little success. "He left me no choice," he found himself muttering sullenly, hands tightening on the arms of his chair. "What did he expect?"

"Talking to oneself is a dreadful habit, my dear Holmes." Moriarty had returned from the end carriage.

Holmes shrugged, not bothering to turn his head. "I fail to see why you would object, Professor – eavesdropping can be a highly instructive activity."

Moriarty raised an eyebrow as he came into the detective's field of vision. "And occasionally useless and depressing." Taking the chair opposite Holmes, he crossed one leg over the other, hands clasped on his knee, appearing completely at his ease. "Have you heard the news of the new Sheriff of Nottingham?"

Curiosity instantly aroused, Holmes shook his head – as if he'd been in a position to hear intelligence of that kind. "And whom did their copious Majesties consider a suitable replacement?" If the old stories were at all accurate, he could imagine that the previous sheriff would have been long overdue for retirement.

Moriarty gave a dry smile. "Of all people, Oliver Cromwell."

Holmes blinked. "An... interesting choice."

"Mm. Apparently, he has the ruthlessness their Majesties require in dealing with Robin of Locksley. The 'Merry Men of the Greenwood' are not faring well at all."

"So the tales are more than mere legend," Holmes remarked lightly, trying to ignore his growing sinking feeling. "I had wondered." If Robin Hood had been a boyhood favourite of his, what of it? The days of such naïve hero worship were well and truly over.

Moriarty nodded. "Tales of that sort generally are. One really must wonder at the British predilection for making heroic figures out of criminals. By all accounts, Locksley directly opposed the reigning law."

"A law administered by grasping, corrupt officials –" Holmes countered swiftly; "hardly the epitome of what most would deem true justice."

"And he attempts to play benefactor to the poor and destitute... Is the law, then, the villain in this instance?"

"Do you refer to the law itself, or its agents?" The distinction was a fine one, perhaps, but nevertheless existed.

Moriarty arched an amused eyebrow. "The law is nothing more than what it dictates, is that not so?"

"A simplistic viewpoint," Holmes answered slowly, sensing a trap, "but essentially correct."

"And what the law dictates in this instance is to tax those who can barely afford to keep roofs over their heads and to hunt down a man who is attempting, outside of the law, to aid them."

Holmes's brow furrowed. Why was Moriarty suddenly appearing to support the opposing argument? "Well, the law is both written by and dictates to its agents; still, one had to exist before the other. Therefore, one could argue that it is the author of the law that is the true villain, and the law itself either an unwitting accessory, or a willing accomplice," he concluded triumphantly – he couldn't help feeling just a touch of pride, however minor the victory.

Moriarty smiled faintly. "Then I would question its use entirely, but that will do for another time. Theory aside, we are heading into a highly volatile situation in Nottingham, one that must be resolved before England has a small but very real civil war on its hands."

The detective's eyes narrowed, kicking himself for not recognising the trap earlier. "I suspected you had more in mind than a mere abstract debate."

Moriarty raised both eyebrows, responding mildly, "Clever lad. We are going to Nottingham Castle to mediate a compromise between Cromwell and Locksley. Something must be done, lest outlaw and sheriff spend eternity locked in a battle of wits."

Holmes's eyebrows were also lifting. "And you imagine either party would agree to such a proposition?"

"Do you suppose that none can be found which would benefit both parties?"

"On the contrary – but to succeed in convincing both sides of the mutual benefits will be by far the greater challenge." Holmes didn't envy Moriarty that task in the slightest.

"Mm." Moriarty's returning smile would have put the Mona Lisa to shame. "I suggest then, that you plan carefully what you will say to them."

Holmes resisted the urge to swear – he could hardly blame Moriarty when he'd practically walked right into that one all on his own – and nodded slowly, the sinking feeling rapidly deepening. "Indeed."

Moriarty could not have asked for a better opportunity to involve his pupil in politics. Naturally, Holmes had been difficult to teach every step of the way—he answered questions put to him well enough in the discussions Moriarty launched, but he offered no initiative of his own, no enthusiasm or ambition. The boy was in danger of boring himself to death through sheer stubborn refusal to actively engage with the fascinating new world around him.

Nevertheless, it was with mixed feelings that Moriarty entered this particular affair. There was one topic that he and Moran never discussed by mutual silent consent, and that was the actual practices and tactics of the British army. Quite apart from his own loathsome father and brother, both of whom had served abroad, Moriarty disliked the army on grounds that approached a sense of morality. In his naïve and ideal youth, he had believed it to be one of the many aspects of British society in dire need of massive reform.

On those grounds alone, he harboured a private dislike for Oliver Cromwell. On more personal grounds, James Moriarty was of an Anglo-Irish family, born of a purely Irish mother. As such, he had inherited more than a bit of his people's contempt for Cromwell.

However, he could not fault the man's efficiency and neatness. The Great Hall bore a large desk at the far end where an official chair would otherwise have been. Cromwell himself, dressed in a plain black suit, sat at the desk, engrossed in a report but looking up when Moriarty and Holmes were escorted into the room. "Welcome, my lords—pray be seated." He waved a hand at the chairs before the desk, not bothering to rise, returning his attention to the report.

Moriarty remained standing. "We are here to negotiate a compromise between you, Lord Sheriff," he said evenly, "and Robin of Locksley."

Cromwell looked at him oddly, then in understanding. "I can see you never received my last missive to Whitehall, sir. My apologies for the wasted journey, but I stand in no need of a mediator."

"Dear me," Moriarty said mildly. "Surely you have not executed Locksley already?" He knew well that Cromwell had not; the Torchwood agents placed in Nottingham Castle would have reported such to him upon disembarkation from the train, and no such messages had been received. Nevertheless, he saw Holmes tense in his peripheral vision. He had long known—and been amused—that Robin Hood had been a boyhood favourite of the detective.

"Not yet, but that will soon be rectified." Cromwell looked satisfied with a job well done. Moriarty admitted in the privacy of his own thoughts that the man at least was one of the few politicians in existence who honestly believed that he was doing right by his country and the world. Such men were certainly too rare. "Locksley is in prison, abandoned by his men and awaiting his sentence."

Moriarty nodded slowly, digesting that. This would be a different scenario than he had previously imagined, but it should still suffice. "Lord Sheriff, I beg of you to give the man one last chance."

Cromwell sighed the sigh of an official inconvenienced by a lesser official. "Really, sir, you needn't waste your time; Locksley will never—"

Moriarty rarely made power plays against men of political significance. For this once, he made an exception, crossing the short distance to the desk and placing both palms on the parchment-crowded surface. "You would be wise to heed my wishes, Lord Sheriff," he said coldly; "I could have another man sitting at that desk before you could begin to comprehend what was happening around you." The role of the British Government Personified no longer belonged to Mycroft Holmes.

Moriarty removed his hands from the desk. "And my wish right now is that my protégé attempts to find a more palatable solution to the mess you have insisted upon making."

He saw Holmes start to grimace and then stop, no doubt revolted at hearing himself called Moriarty's protégé before another. Well, the boy would simply have to accustom himself to the idea; Moriarty had said, after all, that he would not coddle him. Holmes cleared his throat. "And a man of your vision, Lord Sheriff, is surely loath to waste any potential resource. Locksley may yet be convinced that his best interests lie in working within the law."

Cromwell eyed the two of them and shook his head. "That is doubtful, sir, but if you are so keen to fail, so be it." He nodded to their escorting guard, who stepped forward again.

"Very gracious, Lord Sheriff," Moriarty said dryly. He nodded and turned away—Cromwell was not worth the bow that Holmes was currently giving him.

This would be interesting.

Following the guard down the dungeon steps, Holmes was forcibly reminded of his visit to Bedlam with Shakespeare: a cold, cramped, dimly-lit space, stinking of excrement and fear – the only missing element was the noise. It was a mercy he wasn't claustrophobic, but he was still having to take quiet, bracing breaths as he tried unsuccessfully not to dwell on what had happened to Peter Streete. No Carrionites here, he told himself sternly, and there was still a chance that he might achieve better results than that this time.

The guard reached the first cell door and started to unlock it. "Take care, m'lords, he's a cunning devil."

"I'm certain we shall be all right," Moriarty responded dryly, nodding in dismissal as he entered the cell ahead of Holmes.

Locksley was already on his feet, eyes narrowed against the growing glare of the torchlight. If the man had entertained any notions of escape, Holmes noted grimly, his first hurdle would have been the large number of chains with which he was fettered, anchored to the wall at several points. Cromwell was clearly taking no chances before the execution.

The outlaw was of a height with the other two, ragged clothes all but hanging off his battered frame, worn thin from combined hardship and hunger; but Locksley's piercing gaze as he took in the newcomers left a dismayed Holmes in no doubt that the archer's spirit remained a force to be reckoned with. Dear God – persuading such a man to set aside his principles for what someone like Moriarty considered the greater good... If Holmes succeeded, it would be a miracle; nevertheless, he had to try.

It would be marginally easier, perhaps, if his childhood hero wasn't looking them both over with such thinly veiled contempt. "Who are you?"

"My name is of no concern to you." Moriarty nodded to Holmes. "This is the man sent by the Crown to sit in judgement and render a fair and just verdict."

Holmes stepped forward as Locksley snorted sardonically, doing his best to pretend Moriarty wasn't there, and desperately wishing that he were anywhere else at that moment. "My… associate neglects to mention, Master Locksley, that I am here first and foremost as a mediator. Before receiving word of your arrest, I was tasked with overseeing negotiations between you and the new sheriff." Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Moriarty moving back to lean against the wall, hands pressed together and watching intently.

Locksley arched a mocking eyebrow. "Oh, that should end well – wish you luck with that."

Holmes bit his lip on the inside, forcing himself to reply calmly, "Cromwell might be a glorified bureaucrat, but he is capable of realising where his best interests lie. We may still reach an outcome which benefits both sides… but only if you are also willing to negotiate."

The outlaw smiled mirthlessly, shaking his head. "You haven't seen what he does, have you?" On the contrary – what Holmes could deduce in the poor light about Locksley's treatment since his arrival was making the detective's chest hurt. How long had it truly taken Cromwell to decide that extracting a promise of cooperation from his chief adversary was a waste of time? "Men like that don't change."

"But how will you know for certain unless you are prepared to at least converse with the man?" Holmes was painfully aware of just how feeble he sounded.

Locksley... Robin opened his mouth, then paused, studying Holmes for a long moment. "Don't you think I have? Heaven knows I've tried talking to him." The outlaw shook his head again sadly. "He'll never listen. He'll ensure my voice will be drowned out."

Holmes narrowed his eyes, choosing a different approach. "As opposed to simply sitting here in a cell, awaiting sentence? How do you imagine that will benefit anyone?"

Robin's eyes gleamed with anger. "Selling myself out would hardly achieve that end!"

Holmes stiffened, the outlaw's words sounding only too familiar. "Well, you surely cannot believe that your death would do so!"

Robin suddenly looked very weary, shoulders drooping under the weight of the shackles. "No good choice to make at this point, is there?" His gaze travelled to Moriarty, then slowly back to Holmes, and the detective's insides twisted at the growing empathy in Locksley's expression – he didn't want to know just how far the man could see in this case.

Letting his frustration finally show in his face, Holmes answered softly, "If you choose to live, Master Locksley, you may still help your people. But no good will be achieved by choosing to die. Cromwell's no fool – a public execution is the last thing he wants." Putting Locksley to death before witnesses would only serve to turn a legend into a martyr. "Your death will be behind closed doors, unmarked, unmourned, inspiring no-one."

Robin lifted his chin, eyes anguished but his expression one of calm resignation, answering just as softly: "Then so be it."

Holmes closed his eyes for a moment, chest tightening. "Very well," he said quietly, hoping his voice would not quiver. "I shall inform the Lord Sheriff of your decision." Turning back to Moriarty, still struggling to master his cruel disappointment, he was taken aback to see that the Professor's brow was faintly creased, as if he'd been concentrating hard... and Holmes suddenly realised what Beth and Will's success in France should have told him long ago: despite being lost in the Rift, the TARDIS's translation must still be working! And whatever tongue he and Locksley had just been conversing in, it was one Moriarty didn't know.

Heart pounding, the detective paused as if another thought had just occurred, then turned back to Robin, his tone cold and dignified. "He hasn't understood us. Look angry and speak quickly: how can I get word to your men from here? To Marian?"

Robin's eyes widened in genuine surprise, which swiftly became a look of fury. He clenched his fists and growled, "One of the scullions. Put bread in your wine."

"Consider it done," Holmes answered in the same contemptuous voice, curling his lip for added effect. Turning his back again, he approached the door, chin lifted haughtily. "Open it," he told the guard, making an effort to speak English this time.

The guard obeyed, Moriarty taking the lead once more, and Holmes was pleased to note that his mentor was still wearing the look of subtle frustration. Following him out, the detective allowed his own earlier frustration and disappointment to return to his eyes; he would have to tread with extreme caution now. Holmes was under no illusions, the chance of the other outlaws actually mounting a successful rescue was all but non-existent, even if he got a message to them in time; and with Moriarty watching his every move, any step out of line could backfire horribly, and not only on himself...

"I did try to tell you, my lords." Cromwell waved an inviting hand at the simple meal of flatbread and cheese set before them. One thing you could say for the man, Holmes admitted grudgingly: he genuinely believed that living frugally was a virtue, and not only for the poor. This hall had clearly seen nothing resembling a banquet since the new sheriff took up residence. "An outlaw will never renounce his lawless ways, not after a lifetime spent wallowing in iniquity. If my predecessor had not been such an indulgent, blundering fool..." Cromwell shook his head and signalled the waiting servant to pour the wine.

"Yes," Moriarty said dryly, "such a pity. What can we expect to happen now?"

"My lords are invited to the execution, of course."

Holmes, who had just taken a bite of bread, inhaled sharply and choked on a crumb. Coughing helplessly, eyes watering, he reached for his cup, then suddenly realised the opportunity before him. He took a careful swallow of wine, then let the bread fall from his mouth into the cup, keeping hold of it at chest height until the bread soaked up enough liquid to sink.

"...a priest is currently with Locksley to hear his confession. That shall no doubt take quite some time – are you well, my lord?" Cromwell asked, while Moriarty only gave his protégé a curious look.

"Quite well, Lord Sheriff, thank you," Holmes croaked, still trying to clear his throat. He took another gulp of wine, steeling himself to ask: "If I may inquire, how do you intend to carry out Locksley's sentence?"

"A French invention: the guillotine." Cromwell allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. "So much swifter and neater than the rope... and less chance of trickery."

Moriarty raised both eyebrows, but remained silent.

Holmes, on the other hand, couldn't keep himself from replying innocently, "And so much more humane."

Moriarty gave a ghost of a sigh, but Cromwell remained imperturbable. "When my lords are finished, you shall be shown to the apartment you may have until the time of the execution."

Moriarty nodded politely. "Thank you, Lord Sheriff."

Holmes merely echoed the nod, not trusting himself to say anything more.

(Scene rating: V)

Moriarty was well aware that his pupil was up to something: Sherlock Holmes might have been inscrutable to mere mortals, but to Moriarty, with or without psychic abilities, the boy's emotions were an open book. The professor did not think that the boy would be able to help Locksley, but it would be interesting to see if anything came of his efforts. Holmes had, after all, once managed to destroy a full half of Moriarty's criminal empire; surely the detective had it in him to outmaneuver Cromwell. Moriarty certainly would not mind if the sheriff's plans were thwarted.

After a long, tedious wait, they received the summons for the execution. Holmes was not prepared in the slightest, but he made a brave face of it. Moriarty simply wondered how long that facade would last.

While awaiting the dreaded summons, Holmes had had ample time to question whether he'd truly done the right thing in sending that signal; but as he'd heard no disturbance of any kind in the castle since, he could only assume that the message had failed to reach Robin's men in time. And as he and Moriarty entered the main courtyard, he couldn't help feeling in combined dismay and relief that that was for the best: Cromwell's parsimony clearly didn't extend to defence. All the castle guards stationed around the courtyard and battlements were armed with what appeared to be the very latest model of army rifle – even without the disadvantages of medieval weaponry, the other outlaws would never have stood a chance.

A shudder ran through the detective, his eyes unwillingly drawn to the brand new guillotine in the centre of the courtyard; the raised blade glinted in the torchlight, a single fang in a pair of gaping jaws... Holmes blinked, tearing his gaze away to the prisoner standing in chains on the platform before it. Robin hadn't so much as glanced in the newcomers' direction, gaze fixed on Cromwell, head still held high in proud defiance.

Cromwell rose from his chair on the dais, looking inordinately pleased with himself. "Ah, my lords, welcome. Before we proceed, I should like to make an announcement."

Moriarty's eyes narrowed, having a fair notion of what was to come. "And pray what might that be?"

Cromwell nodded to Holmes, smiling benevolently. "I must thank for your assistance, it was most invaluable." Holmes felt the blood draining from his face. "The 'Merry Men of the Greenwood' have all been arrested, and their sentence carried out."

Robin's face was equally pale, his voice a hoarse whisper, "... you lie..."

"Also, at last... the sinful beauty, Lady Marian." Cromwell nodded to the guards flanking Robin. "The child in her womb was a regrettable loss..."

"No!" Robin screamed, struggling furiously as the guards dragged him forward. "No, you monster!"

Holmes had been frozen to the spot with horror as Cromwell spoke, but the cruel satisfaction in the sheriff's voice and the sheer anguish in Robin's was suddenly too much, and something inside him snapped. Without even a conscious thought, he turned and lashed out at the nearest armed guard, trying to wrench the rifle out of his hands.

Oh damn. Moriarty had not quite foreseen Holmes's reaction, but Cromwell had taken things too far. Mentioning not only Maid Marian but also an unborn child was unnecessarily sadistic—Cromwell's intentions were not nearly as righteous as he believed them to be.

The unoccupied soldiers aimed their firearms at Holmes and the man with whom he was struggling. Moriarty signaled for one of them to approach the combatants—the boy had to be stopped from doing something even more colossally stupid than he had already done. The soldier stepped forward and delivered a sharp jab with the butt of his rifle to Holmes's back, directly between the shoulder-blades.

Holmes gasped in pain and slumped to the ground, stunned, his opponent planting a knee in his gut for good measure as he went down.

"Enough!" Moriarty said sharply. He stepped forward and gently lifted his protégé. Poor foolish, caring boy... "Steady," he murmured.

Locksley hadn't ceased fighting his guards, even managing to lay one of them flat, but was soon overwhelmed and forced into position at the guillotine, the lunette quickly locked around his neck.

"Please..." Holmes croaked, struggling for breath, "...don't..."

Cromwell shook his head implacably, signalling to his men. "Justice must be served."

The blade dropped.

Holmes turned his head away, he couldn't bear to watch... A dry sob escaped him at the sound of the falling stroke, tearless eyes burning. He'd failed him... he'd failed them all...

Moriarty squeezed Holmes's shoulder gently, then turned his furious gaze upon the sheriff. "Your justice be hanged, Cromwell," he said icily, "and you with it."

The man stood completely unmoved, responding almost as coldly, "As you say, my lord: my justice. Their Majesties granted me the authority to do as I saw fit here, knowing full well what those methods would be. Locksley was a traitor to the crown; he received a traitor's death—" his lip curled—"and a far more merciful one than he deserved."

Moriarty smiled murderously—what he wouldn't have given to have Moran here at this moment. "Their Majesties, then, are fools, and you with them. The other executions were revenge on Locksley, pure and simple. Were I not burdened currently with my protégé, I would shoot you myself. Good day." He turned away and supported Holmes out of the courtyard. Two of the guards broke away from the others and followed him, two of his own agents with the sense to know that Cromwell couldn't be trusted at this point, and their director might have need of them.

Dazed and trembling, Holmes felt much too shaken to object to Moriarty's assistance. Even with that steadying arm around his shoulders, it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other as they left the castle behind them... and the terrible, senseless end of England's last remaining hero.

Sky: Okay. I know. That was cruel. That was really, truly cruel. Believe me, it was upsetting to write. For the life of me, I can't even remember why we decided to do this, only that... well... Sherlock. Character development. *hugs him protectively* But yeah. Still upsetting.
Especially because Robin Hood was probably one of my earliest heroes, not unlike the Great Detective himself... or the Doctor. Speaking of which, this chapter was first scripted out months at least before "Robots of Sherwood" aired, so our... my... portrayal was not really based on Mark Gatiss's writing or Tom Riley's acting, but rather the Robin Hood I'd grown up on, Richard Greene. (Look him up on YouTube; you won't regret it.)

We also see a bit more backstory on Moriarty, and a slightly gentler side, which was great to get to write. Like Sherlock Holmes, he's got to be complex, with layers and layers to peel back and discover, because... they're both so brilliant. Look at what they've done with their lives. No way either man can possibly be as static and wooden as sometimes people make them out to be.

Anyway, hold on in there, folks. More rough rides to come. And keep holding on to your Kleenex boxes.