==Chapter 10==

The End of Innocence

"Her dreams led her to the darkest parts of London where he couldn't follow and keep her safe. His dreams had ceased to exist long ago."
― Lorraine Heath, Surrender to the Devil

Moriarty had said little to Holmes since leaving the castle, waiting until the train was well away from Nottingham before clearing his throat and saying quietly, "I believe I owe you an apology."

Slumped back in his armchair, Holmes slowly looked up, still white-faced, eyes haunted; he could still hear Robin's last anguished screams before the blade fell... Watson's cry of sheer agony ending abruptly as the doctor blacked out from the pain...

Moriarty's growl was an unexpected but merciful distraction. "Events... Cromwell... went much further than I had anticipated. I underestimated him, and I am sorry."

Holmes's lip curled, giving his mentor a look of pure loathing. "Why?" At the very least, Moriarty could easily have acted to halt Locksley's execution, and he hadn't so much as lifted a finger.

Moriarty favoured him with a faint, dry smile. "Because I made several grave errors. Do appreciate this; I have not apologised to anyone in rather a long time."

"Is that so?" Holmes felt much too drained to sound more than faintly ironic. "If you expect me to believe," he went on coldly, "that you felt any sort of compassion for Cromwell's victims..."

"You of all people should know that I am incapable of feeling compassion. I deal in logic, and there was none in the murder of the Lady Marian and her child."

Holmes flinched involuntarily, then was suddenly struck by a wicked impulse. "All the same, Professor..." He gave Moriarty a humourless smile. "I think perhaps Cromwell is to be congratulated."

Moriarty's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why so?"

"Well, he deliberately crossed the Napoleon of Crime and lived to tell the tale, did he not?" For the moment, anyhow...

Moriarty arched an enigmatic eyebrow, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled. "And yet I believe that Cromwell's tenure as Sheriff is about to end rather prematurely."

The detective closed his eyes a moment, digesting the news, although finding it considerably less satisfactory than he'd hoped. "Dear me. One hopes his new position will be more suited to a man of his talents." In the iron cage above the castle battlements, feeding the carrion birds... A pity Holmes wouldn't be there to see it.

Moriarty's faint smile was audible. "I think he shall find it so."

Holmes hummed absently in acknowledgement, blindly gazing out of the window. His thoughts had returned to Cromwell thanking the detective for his help... perhaps it was mere denial on Holmes's part, but something about that just didn't sit right...

He wasn't even aware of Moriarty's scrutiny until the Professor finally inquired, "Is something wrong?"

"In particular?" Holmes answered sourly, much less appreciative of this interruption, then sighed; Moriarty was hardly an ideal sounding board, but he supposed it would have to suffice. "Cromwell lied, I feel certain of it."

"About your involvement in the arrests, yes. But why are you so certain?"

Holmes barely heard him, mind racing. That message, the bread in Holmes's wine... bread and wine... the Last Supper. Locksley wasn't calling for help, he was telling his band to stay away, to watch over his wife and child... he'd meant to sacrifice himself to protect them... but if Cromwell's staff had reported the message to the sheriff, the other outlaws could never have received it, which had to mean... "Locksley's confession," he said finally, heavily. "It took too long, his couldn't have been the only one the priest was hearing. The other outlaws had already been captured."

Moriarty nodded. "Just so."

Holmes's eyes narrowed at the glimmer of approval in his mentor's. "And you already knew that."

"It was not terribly difficult to deduce."

You bastard... "And if I had not?" Holmes asked, keeping his tone soft with difficulty. "Would you have allowed me to believe that their blood was on my hands?"

"It still is," Moriarty answered, just as softly. "Up until the very last moment, you did not intervene at all, and by then it was far too late for everyone. You were the accomplice, Cromwell the unwitting accessory. He believed they deserved to die, and yet, by your own argument, you knew they did not."

Holmes bit his lip; despite the temptation, pointing out that he had tried to help the outlaws would be most unwise, he must at least pretend to acknowledge the 'truth' of Moriarty's argument. "And the moral of the tale is...?" he said bleakly.

Moriarty shrugged slightly. "Sometimes a solution cannot be found, and difficult choices must be made." He looked Holmes in the eye, tone growing stern. "And if you ever attempt again to do something so colossally foolish as that little display in the courtyard, I shan't intervene."

Holmes met his gaze coolly. "Indeed? I was under the strong impression you at least wanted me alive."

Moriarty raised a warning eyebrow. "I wouldn't be adverse to you spending a decent stretch in a cell to calm down."

Holmes favoured Moriarty with a sour smile, unimpressed. "An excellent notion, Professor – I do find myself in need of rest just now." He rose carefully, still feeling a little unsteady, and gave a mocking bow. "I pray you will excuse me."

He turned away, intent on making his way to the end car – he didn't care if there was a couch or similar in there or not, just as long as it didn't have Moriarty – when a completely different voice came from where his mentor sat: "Very well, my boy. Class dismissed."

Holmes froze. That voice... nervous and high-pitched, one that he hadn't heard in over 25 years... He turned back, deeply puzzled as to why Moriarty would mimic his old mathematics teacher... but the gleam in his mentor's eyes was not merely amused, it was almost exultant... and Holmes turned white as he made the connection, mind reeling. Christmas of '69, Moriarty emerging from the Rift... and Professor Charles Newman had begun teaching at Holmes's school in 1870...

The corner of Moriarty's mouth lifted slightly. "You were once such a scintillating pupil..."

Holmes reached out blindly for the back of the chair he'd just vacated, the nausea he'd felt at the execution back in full force. Nine-year-old Sherlock, so young, so grateful for even one teacher who seemed to understand his need to question everything... some use of disguise, no doubt, but the passing of over two decades had clearly been enough in itself to keep Holmes from thinking any perceived likeness between the two... the one... was more than mere coincidence...

He gradually became aware that Moriarty had also risen, looking genuinely alarmed. "Dear me. Perhaps you should see one of the doctors when we arrive home."

Holmes flinched backwards, the show of concern only serving to sicken him further. All that time... befriended and counselled by the very man who had tried to murder him as an adult... If he searched his memories long enough, how much more of Moriarty's influence would he find from beyond the Rift? ...no, he would not look, he didn't want to know!

Forcing himself to come back to the present, he swept Moriarty a look of pure scorn, eyes burning with fury and betrayal. "Go to hell," he growled, and stalked away, barely resisting the urge to break into a run – but after all, where was there to run to? Holmes had thrown away his present, his future... and now Moriarty had ensured that he would never be able to remember his past without seeing the Professor in every shadow.

"Welcome back, Director." Moriarty looked up from his paperwork at the strangely-accented English to see one of the new scientists from Italy standing in the door of his office.

"Thank you. Do come in," Moriarty answered graciously in perfect Latin. The man entered. "This will not take but a moment of your time: I have a simple request."

"Yes, sir?" All of history happening at once had an unexpected bonus for Torchwood: Roman scientists. Uninhibited by a collapse of their Empire and aided by Victorian technology, they had soared above the developments of the formerly current era and brought science to an unprecedented peak with technology that matched the standards of a full century into the non-existent future. Moriarty had quickly recruited several of these splendid minds to meet the challenges Torchwood faced. A pity that he could not manage to persuade Leonardo da Vinci to come to England, but the man was content to remain on the Continent, delighted with the work his countrymen were doing.

"I should like Sherlock Holmes to be involved in the development of the Time enclosures." Frozen Time had a peculiar set of disadvantages. No one aged, which also meant that while no one died of old age, no one was born, either. This rule extended to animals and plants, which made necessities such as food, wood, and fiber increasingly scarce. Ironically, for anyone to survive Frozen Time, Time would have to be reintroduced in a controlled environment to replenish resources. "Would this in any way hinder your team?"

The Roman's eyes widened. "On the contrary, sir, we'd be glad to have him… if you're certain he'll not be a liability. No offence, Director," he added hastily, "but we are at a most delicate stage of testing, and… well, he does have a certain… reputation here at the Institute, if you take my meaning."

Moriarty smiled faintly, amused. "It's a little-known fact that, before quitting university to become a detective, Sherlock Holmes was working on his degree in chemistry. Had he not gone into the investigative field, I have no doubt that he still should have become renowned as a scientist. He will not be a liability."

The other man nodded, looking more reassured. "Thank you, sir. Would you like me to invite him personally?"

"Yes, I think so, thank you. How is the project progressing?"

The scientist brightened. "Oh, most promising, Director. Once we'd worked out the equations for the Rift energy patterns, all the problems we'd been having gauging the temporal variance almost seemed to solve themselves!"

Moriarty hummed thoughtfully. "Promising indeed. You must not forget, however, that you are dealing with one of the most dangerous substances there is." The debacle at Niagara Falls had taught him that—Rift matter was not at all to be taken lightly. He brightened, though, at the thought of finally having something to which Holmes could apply himself. The boy had not taken either the end result of the Nottingham trip or the revelation on the train at all well—only to be expected, but still. And, unfortunately, Moriarty was too occupied with keeping the civilised world from falling to pieces to meet often with his protégé. This project, at least, would keep Holmes from boredom, the most important thing at the moment until Moriarty could devote more time to him.

"Well, my thanks for the acceptance and the news. If you could see Mr. Holmes as soon as possible, I should greatly appreciate it. You will most likely find him in his quarters."

The other man bowed. "Very good, sir."

Two 'months' later...

"Professor." Moran entered Moriarty's private laboratory with a caution born of experience. There was never any knowing what the man might be working on, and salvaged alien technology didn't always take kindly to being poked and prodded by human scientists.

Moriarty looked up from where he stood at the main table, tinkering with a device that calculated distances and routes in space, taken from a crashed extraterrestrial vessel – sadly, the ship had been too badly damaged to ever fly again. "Ah, Colonel." He smiled. "I have something for you that I think you'll appreciate very much."

"Sir?" Moran ventured nearer, looking dubiously at the clutter.

Somewhat to Moriarty's chagrin, he had never kept track entirely of what extraterrestrial – or in this case, futuristic – technology his lieutenant had been exposed to. He picked up the phone that had been found on Watson when he'd first been brought in. "I don't believe we've discussed this before. Do you have any ideas as to what this might be?"

Moran frowned slightly – he did at least know that, thank you. "Yes, sir, it's a portable telephone."

The professor nodded. "Better still, it stores the telephone number of a certain girl from the future."

The Colonel's eyes gleamed, a cruel smile beginning to spread. "And this phone may be used to track the other?"

Moriarty smiled in return. "Indeed it may. I have need of the 'phone here, but this—" he gestured to another machine on the table—"is a relay device that will receive the data from the 'phone and send it to this." He picked up a small, phone-like device for which the technicians did not yet have a name, and handed it to Moran. "There is a map on that device, and it should give you the girl's location as soon as I begin the program on the phone."

Moran accepted the device with a nod of thanks, grip tightening on the case in surprise when it vibrated in his hand, the map Moriarty had described appearing on the screen.

Moriarty looked over at the map, which began to hone in on the Surrey side of London's outskirts. "Excellent."

Moran's grin could now be described as downright vicious. "Permission to go out hunting, Professor."

"With my blessing, Colonel," Moriarty purred. There were few things more satisfying than seeing his tiger ready and willing and sure of victory.

Slipping the device carefully into his coat pocket, Moran strode back out of the lab.

(Scene rating: D)

Visits to London always involved foraging for food. At least, that was what Beth and the boys prefered to call it; more properly, they mostly stole said food. Beth's justification was that the little ones and Sally certainly deserved to eat as much as any human in London, and when Time was restored, it wouldn't matter anyway. (It still didn't entirely sit well with her, but she knew it needed to be done.)

On this particular visit to London, a bobby saw her snatching from a food stall when the owner had stepped out for a minute. Cursing her luck, she turned and ran. The bobby followed and wasted no time in alerting two nearby Roman soldiers, who eagerly joined the pursuit. They were hard to lose, but Beth had developed a street boy's talent for weaving through a city and losing her would-be captors. But by the time she'd done it, she was in a very dark, very derelict part of town, and she did not have a very strong idea of where she was.

She stopped for a moment to catch her breath and try to get her bearings. "Oh, terrific," she muttered.

The next moment, she felt a sharp prick at the back of her neck, gasped, stiffened, and swore—she'd been shot with a dart. She ducked for cover, grasping at the dart and managing to get a hold of it. She gasped again as she pulled it out and hit the ground, scrambling for the shelter of abandoned junk so prevalent in this part of town… but rather more slowly than she ought to be.

Poison. Oh, zed, poison. At least it wasn't the stuff from The Sign of the Four—she'd already be dead were that the case. Still, poison was poison. And she was lost and alone in a deserted part of London—none of the Irregulars could have any idea where she was. Shh, no, calm down, focus.

A whistled tune pierced the silence, slow and echoing: the first line of "Ring Around the Roses," accompanied by slow, heavy footsteps sounding closer and closer.

An icy terror wrapped itself around her heart, and she shrunk further back into the darkness. But her own breath suddenly sounded too laboured, too loud, and it was getting harder to breathe.

The second line was whistled even more slowly, footsteps falling silent.

Oh no, where is he?! Heart hammering, she drew her revolver, her movements aggravatingly sluggish.

A familiar rough, leering voice came from somewhere above her, sounding amused. "It's only Hide-and-Seek, little one—" Beth startled back with a scream, and the voice turned darker, menacing—"if I can't see you."

Moran. Trembling, she lifted her gun, but her fingers and thumb fumbled uselessly, unable to cock it.

He gave a deep chuckle. "Shall we dance, my dear?" There was a whizzing noise, and brick shattered in the wall behind her.

She cried out and scrambled to her left, then struggled to stand. Her limbs felt increasingly leaden and weak, and she swayed and nearly fell sideways, only just catching herself on a stack of crates. She couldn't stay upright. She was lightheaded and shaking and weary, and her legs didn't want to support her. Trying to step forward, she collapsed to the ground, unable to hold herself up any longer.

Moran's voice was suddenly much closer, at ground level, a quiet, mocking sing-song. "We all… fall…" He appeared out of the shadows, eyes gleaming with something that looked very much like hunger, evil leer widening on the last word: "Down…"

Sky: Poor Beth... *hugs her tightly* Yes, we know that's an awful cliffhanger, but there's a good reason for that, and there are two ways to find out what that reason is. You can wait for the next chapter, which will fill you in on exactly what happens... or you can read that last scene in full on Tumblr. Yes, the scene continues. But, in the end, we decided that it wasn't strictly necessary to have the full thing posted here; you may have some inkling as to why. On Tumblr, it's called "The End of Innocence: Extended Scene" at our blog, wholmesproductions dot tumblr dot com. Please be aware that it's the darkest and most disturbing scene to date in Children of Time.

On a different note, kudos to Ria for the opening scene. *also hugs Sherlock* I think it's one of my favorite CoT scenes ever now. Poor little Sherlock, he had no idea...

Ria: The idea for making Moriarty part of Sherlock's childhood came up quite a long time after we decided to bring him back via the Rift, but it just seemed to make so much sense! Moriarty's obsession (let's be honest!) with Holmes, combined with the need to keep out of the way of his younger self until after Reichenbach – not to mention that the Torchwood Institute didn't exist until 1879. Makes you wonder how much of a part he played in its original foundation...