==Chapter 12==

Elegy

Sometimes we love with nothing more than hope. Sometimes we cry with everything except tears.

– Gregory David Roberts, Shantaram

Moran stood stiffly to attention before Moriarty's desk, staring straight ahead and hoping like hell that his fear wasn't as visible in his expression as his failure clearly was – it was downright unnerving how the Professor could divine what a person was thinking from the smallest tell.

Moriarty's hands were folded beneath his chin as he gazed contemplatively up at his Colonel. The man was impassive, save for the slightest twitch in his features, but the Professor could sense the old soldier's fear. "Well then, Moran," he said evenly. "If you would be so kind, I would greatly appreciate an explanation as to how the British Empire's greatest tiger-hunter and my Empire's most successful assassin… failed to kill a girl not yet twenty. Please. Enlighten me."

Moran was painfully aware that Moriarty's placid exterior was only the calm before the storm. He had to sternly remind himself of what had become of other Torchwood members who'd attempted to make excuses after equally abysmal failures; one's sole chance for mercy in this situation was brutal honesty. "The truth is, Professor, that I allowed myself to become… distracted from my purpose. I delayed in striking the final blow, which gave Holmes's street Arabs the chance to intervene. The girl seems to have become their new general."

Moriarty's eyes narrowed. The foolishness of his chief of staff had put him in a difficult position: the most important tenet of running first his criminal organisation and then Torchwood had always been that the only person who was not expendable was Moriarty himself. Everyone knew that. The difficulty lay in the fact that Moriarty never had considered Moran expendable; the sentiment had simply not troubled him before now.

"Distracted… delayed… Interesting choices of words, Colonel. Dare I inquire as to what might have been so distracting that you delayed a kill?"

Moran braced himself for the inevitable reaction. "The girl herself, sir." Scarlet beads sliding down that pale, slender neck, the iron tang of blood mingling headily with the sweet scent of growing terror...

Anger flashed in Moriarty's eyes at the thoughts that Moran was thinking only too clearly. "I see," he said, still calm for the moment. "And now, because of your attempt to satisfy yourself with the body of a target, the target herself slipped right through your fingers." His voice rose suddenly, sharp with controlled fury. "Despite the fact that it was vitally important you end her life as soon as possible! You allowed yourself to be bested by mere children!"

Moran took care to wait until the Professor had ended his tirade before clearing his throat respectfully. "Not... entirely, sir." He reached into his coat and brought out the locket he'd taken from the girl's neck, the broken chain still stained with blood. Her despairing scream as the chain sliced through skin and flesh... such exquisite music he had drawn from her, cut so maddeningly short...

The man wasn't even trying to act repentant, much less think it, and that infuriated Moriarty further. Eyes turning icy, he stood and accepted the locket, head oscillating involuntarily. "I do not know," he said in a low tone, "how I could have clarified any further that the girl's very existence threatens the existence of all other life on this planet, including yours, Moran."

The Colonel drew himself up straighter still. "No, sir, you've made that perfectly clear. But if I may, Professor… thanks to our last encounter, the girl now believes that Holmes is in urgent need of rescue. She and her army of street rats will no doubt make an attempt sooner or later –" the vicious gleam in his eye grew brighter; "and they'll receive a warm welcome when they do."

Moriarty arched an eyebrow—did the man seriously believe he would escape the consequences of his blunder? "They shall, indeed, but you will not be part of it. Elizabeth Lestrade is no longer your concern, Colonel Moran."

Moran's jaw clenched. First Holmes in Tibet, and now the girl... He would rather have taken a hundred lashes than be forced to give up his quarry a second time, and Moriarty knew it, damn him. "Sir, I admit that I let my... appetites best me the last time – but it will not happen again. I respectfully request…"

"You will respectfully request nothing, Moran," Moriarty cut in sharply, satisfied to see the punishment hit home—"your 'appetites' may yet cost me very dearly. You will leave this room now and I will not hear another word from you regarding Miss Lestrade, is that clear?"

Seething inwardly, Moran forced himself to answer, albeit through gritted teeth, "Yes, sir," before stalking out without even a parting salute. He already had a good idea of who'd be given the assignment next. Jones knew less about human decency than a sewer rat, which would let him move through the underworld of Old London with an ease that Moran could only envy. Unfortunately, Jones wouldn't be able to track the girl the way Moran had on that ingenious alien device, as the phone she'd been carrying seemed to have vanished without trace – Moran allowed himself a very faint smirk as he strode along the corridor – or someone could simply have turned it off...

Holmes sat at dinner with his elbows on the table, chin resting on his hands, the plate before him untouched. The food wasn't the problem, which was plain yet adequate (no half rations for Torchwood employees!), or even the company, although Holmes would gladly cease attending this daily charade if he didn't know that such petty defiance would only be a waste of everyone's time, including his own. If Moriarty wished his protégé to join him for dinner every 'evening', the unfortunate protégé might as well show up and get it over with so that he could return to work all the sooner. Given the progress Holmes and the other scientists were making, food might be grown again in a matter of weeks... provided that the quantum variance sensors could be recalibrated, they still weren't sensitive enough...

Seated to Holmes's left at the head of the table, Moriarty paused in peeling an orange, his expression one of benevolent interest. "Well, how are the Time enclosures progressing?"

"Mm..." The detective nodded absently, still deep in thought. Perhaps they should try decreasing the level of gamma radiation in small increments, it was possible that the Rift matter could be controlled with a much weaker infusion...

"Dear me. In that case, I have good news: our dear Colonel has at last dispatched of his young prey."

Scarcely paying attention, Holmes was about to nod again without bothering to conceal his irration – how Moriarty expected solutions if he wouldn't let people concentrate... Then a frozen hand suddenly seemed to clutch at his insides as the Professor's words finally penetrated; for one dazed moment, he wondered if he'd even heard correctly. Beth... Elizabeth... was dead? No... no, that wasn't... she... she couldn't...

He was painfully aware of Moriarty's intense scrutiny as the Professor continued. "He submitted this –" the frozen hand tightened its grip as Moriarty produced a tarnished, heart-shaped locket, the delicate chain broken and stained red... no... "as his trophy."

Now white to the lips, Holmes forced himself to breathe. He must remember: circumstantial evidence was not proof, there were any number of ways Moran could have obtained that locket! The fact that Holmes didn't care to speculate on any of them was irrelevant... and Moriarty was still awaiting some kind of response. "Well..." he managed to reply in a relatively even tone, keeping his hands clasped together to prevent them from shaking, "it would seem the dear Colonel is to be congratulated on a successful conclusion to his hunt. It would have been so humiliating for the poor man to have to admit defeat."

"Indeed… it would also seem that the Colonel made his target pay for any humiliation he'd already suffered." The Professor resumed peeling his neglected orange. "He says that he should have sent a more conclusive trophy, but it would have been difficult – not enough left of the body when he was finished... why, my dear Holmes –" Moriarty interrupted himself with a look of apparent concern, "you seem rather unwell. Is anything the matter?"

Swearing inwardly for having allowed himself to flinch at such obvious provocation, Holmes gave Moriarty a look of icy scorn. "I merely object to being regaled with grisly details during a repast. Such subjects are surely best kept until after dinner."

Both Moriarty's eyebrows were lifting at that – Holmes wasn't certain why, and frankly, he didn't care. "My apologies."

Not trusting himself to answer, Holmes nodded shortly and turned his attention to the food in front of him. His appetite might be completely ruined, but then so was his concentration – he desperately needed something to focus on until he could finally leave the table.

Watson had learned many tricks to help pass the time while on stakeouts with Holmes, and being a prisoner here had seen him using every one of them in a desperate attempt to keep from going mad with boredom. Finding a way of accurately marking the passage of time, one which his guards wouldn't immediately find and destroy in their periodic searches, had occupied his thoughts for a good while. Eventually, he settled on his own resting heartbeat as an hourglass, which he'd used to work out roughly how long it was between each meal. Marking every third delivery, Watson estimated that he'd been a captive the equivalent of five months – not that it signified in here, and dwelling on the matter only served to lower his spirits further.

Exercise was his preferred activity at the moment, not least because it allowed his mind to go mostly blank, a much-needed reprieve from all the stress. He'd tried meditation several times for that purpose and given up in despair after every attempt – there were simply too many voices that would not be silenced, too many regrets...

Watson's ears pricked at the muffled sound of approaching footsteps: damn, much too soon for his next meal, it had to be either a search or Moriarty. He rose from the bed with a heavy sigh and was standing easy in the center of the room when Moriarty entered, flanked by several guards, two of whom immediately came forward to take hold of the doctor's arms.

"Doctor Watson."

Watson chose not to echo the man's nod of greeting, careful to stay as relaxed as he could under the circumstances. "Moriarty."

Moriarty favoured him with a revoltingly genial smile. "Forgive the precaution, my dear sir – I have some news which may be of interest to you."

"I am all ears, my dear sir," Watson sneered back. "What new lesson has your prize pupil learnt this time?" Every visit of this kind was equally fraught with hope and dread: hope that Holmes might have failed to live up to his mentor's expectations, just once... and dread that he or his former friend might be made to suffer for that failure.

Moriarty's smile turned cold. "The lesson of letting go, Doctor. Colonel Moran has apprised me of his success in tracking down and dispatching his young prey."

Watson felt the blood in his veins turn to ice.

"Unfortunately, there was not enough left of the body to send it back."

"No..." Watson whispered, now white as a sheet. "No, I don't believe you!"

Wordlessly, Moriarty held up Beth's locket, and Watson felt like he'd punched in the gut to see the broken, blood-stained chain. "...no..." Please, God, no, not Beth! And, dear heaven, Sally... whatever had become of her?!

Moriarty's next offhanded words only made him feel sicker: "Holmes had nothing but congratulations for our dear Colonel."

Watson's eyes burned with fury, growling through clenched teeth, "And if you believed him sincere, then you, sir, are as brainless as your murdering henchman!" If only he could feel as certain as he sounded...

Moriarty's eyes glinted. "I did not say that I believed him, Doctor. You may be certain that there will be a price to pay for every lie he tells me." He smiled slowly at Watson's horrified expression, realising his mistake far too late. "I told you that you would be useful, my dear Doctor." The Professor studied his fingernails. "Holmes still has a bit too much of a heart for his own good... but you see, Watson, even if I do fail to entirely deconstruct the Great Detective, I can just easily spend eternity making his existence a living hell."

Watson glared murderously. "Gloat all you want, you sadistic bastard, it won't make any difference in the end."

Moriarty looked up, arching an indifferent eyebrow. "It made all the difference to young Elizabeth, did it not?"

"Be silent!" Watson snarled, teeth bared. "You aren't worthy even to speak her name!" That blessed girl, so compassionate and brave... Moriarty had taken nothing from her that she hadn't willingly given!

Moriarty's eyes blazed, giving a single sharp nod to his men. Watson fought as best he could, but was quickly overpowered... and couldn't quite choke back a scream at the sharp crack and flood of white-hot pain in his right forearm.

Struggling to draw breath, he dimly heard Moriarty hiss above him through the ringing in his ears, "It would seem you still have not learnt your own lessons, Doctor."

"Go...to... hell..." Watson choked, limp and shaking in his captors' hold, vision swiftly clouding over.

Just before blacking out, he thought he heard the Professor murmuring in his ear, "Yet another lesson you seem to have forgotten, Watson… we are already there. Thank you so much."

Over the last few weeks, Holmes's method for getting adequate sleep had been to work himself to exhaustion, couches being thoughtfully provided in the labs for that very contingency, then divert briefly to his unused suite on waking to refresh himself and change clothes. However much he might dislike the circumstances, finishing the Time enclosures was essential to the survival of the remaining population, giving Holmes a purpose and drive he had hitherto lacked – Moriarty's intention, no doubt.

The Professor's announcement, however, had made returning to work impossible, Holmes was still too overwrought, what he wouldn't give for a cigarette right now... yes, a cigarette, that was what he needed... a good, long smoke would help steady his nerves, he just needed to get back to his rooms... ah, the hell with it.

Since lung cancer was no longer a concern in Frozen Time, smoking was not only permitted at Torchwood, it was encouraged, although forbidden in the corridors. Still, being reprimanded over a minor breach of regulations would only serve as a welcome distraction right now. Holmes fumbled in his pocket for his cigarette case, eventually managing to extract one, then went through half a dozen matches before he finally succeeded in lighting the damn thing, taking a long drag and sagging wearily against the wall.

It was all he had time for before being interrupted by the very last person he wanted to see coming around the nearest corner.

Moran raised an eyebrow at the sight of the smoking detective, then chuckled. "Forget the rules, Holmes? Oh, don't worry, I won't tell a soul." He took a cigar out of his own pocket and lit it with a conspiratorial grin that turned Holmes's stomach.

He straightened, giving the Colonel a chilly stare, although without as much venom behind it as he'd intended. At least his hands weren't shaking so obviously now, the smoke was starting to do its work.

"Haven't seen you since you first came in, come to think of it," Moran went on in a conversational tone. "How's tutoring with the old man coming along? He's not going off on tangents and putting you to sleep, I hope, he has a habit of doing that sometimes."

Holmes's lip curled slightly. "Is that why it took you so long to track me down, falling asleep in class?"

Moran's answering smile had a decidedly baleful edge to it. "No, I hear you have your Time Lord to thank for that. After Tibet, I came home—knew you couldn't stay away forever."

Holmes shrugged, doing his best to ignore the sinking feeling triggered by Moran's mention of the Doctor. It had occurred to him since his capture that it could well have been the Doctor's reassurance that he and Watson would reunite which had caused him to let his guard down too soon. He should have known that the murder charge against Moran wouldn't hold up without his testimony, there'd been too little solid evidence! "And the hapless Adair was the bait... Moriarty's notion, I gather?" he asked, innocent tone belying the unspoken implication: small wonder the Professor's trusted lieutenant was still only the brawn of the outfit.

Moran's eyes narrowed. "His choice of victim, certainly. You really have a lot to thank him for—my own plans, carried out, would not have been half as pleasant."

Holmes couldn't quite suppress a shiver; up until now, he'd managed not to think about what Moran might actually have done to obtain Beth's locket. "My condolences."

Moran shrugged lightly, clearly enjoying the detective's reaction. "Oh, I don't mind too much. It's been fun to watch, even from a distance. And I managed to find other... outlets... for any frustration you caused me."

Holmes's lips tightened. "I don't doubt it," he replied coldly.

"The girl, for instance. What was her name... Beth?" Moran smiled as if in fond remembrance. "Such a pretty little thing... and such a lovely scream..."

Once more, Holmes had to forcibly remind himself to breathe. Could it be true? The gleam in the Colonel's eye was only too believable... and if it was true... Then he realised that Moran was looking faintly amused, and saw with chagrin that he had been unconsciously crushing the remains of his cigarette between his fingers.

Moran studied his cigar, going on casually, "She would have given you everything she had, did you know that? Now, I understand, the Professor's a persuasive man, but... you threw it all away. Even her."

Holmes could hardly disagree, but he'd be damned if he would give Moran any more satisfaction than he could help! "Is there a point to this diatribe, Colonel," he said acidly, "or do you just enjoy the sound of your own voice?"

Moran arched an eyebrow. "The old man hasn't damaged you so much that you can't mourn her. You should see yourself: you're paler than a ghost right now."

Holmes stared, anger swiftly being replaced by confusion and growing suspicion. Was this... a test? And if it was... The detective's eyes narrowed as he suddenly worked it out. "I see... Dr. Watson." If he mourned for Beth, Watson would go free... and Moran would have the pleasure of seeing Holmes fail his mentor. If he did not... nothing would change... except that he'd have proved himself worthy of being Moriarty's heir.

"Well, I don't think the Professor's going to get much more use out of the good doctor, and I must say I wouldn't be sorry to see him in a better situation myself. Besides, the girl cried for you when she was... misinformed... as to your well-being." Moran gave another shrug. "It'd only be decent to return the favour."

Holmes nearly choked at that, shooting Moran a look of icy contempt – how did an assassin have the audacity to lecture Holmes on the subject of decency?

Both Moran's eyebrows were lifting. "You won't do it, will you?" He stubbed out his cigar and turned to walk away, shaking his head. "For shame, Holmes, for shame."

The detective sighed, suddenly feeling very weary. "If you're expecting me to argue, Colonel, you'll be waiting a long time." Moran didn't seem to realise... even if Holmes believed the man's claims, even if he'd been prepared to conquer his pride... he no longer had any tears left to shed. He'd learnt from his mentor only too well.

Moran snorted, starting to walk off. "God, you're worthless like this if that's the best comeback you can manage—less the Professor's heir and more his spoiled brat."

Holmes resisted the urge to snort – did Moran honestly think Holmes was here for his amusement? "Be sure to mention that in your report," he drawled sardonically.

"Oh, I shall. I'd have so much more fun if the old man would finally agree with me. Au revoir, cher garçon."

Holmes didn't bother to respond, but as Moran strolled back around the corner, he couldn't escape the whispering thought: If only... Looking back on how he'd spent the last two months, the mere thought of going back to work suddenly made Holmes feel ill. He couldn't even remember why being a part of the enclosure project had seemed so damned important at the time. Was there really a point to any of this? Had there ever been? Beth was most likely dead... the Doctor trapped in the Rift... and even if Watson were released, he wouldn't come back for Holmes now. The detective hadn't even heard a single whisper about Mycroft since his capture... and his older brother would never knowingly abandon him, the man would move heaven and earth to find him if he thought there was a chance... which meant that Mycroft probably believed him dead already, and Watson, too.

He was alone... trapped in this stagnant, stinking pool of Frozen Time, no hope of escape... for if Moriarty had been correct, Beth's existence was all that could have ended this Reality... or was it? Holmes inhaled sharply at the sudden, blinding thought. Moriarty would hardly have been inclined to tell Holmes that... that his or Watson's death... Was it possible? Well, surely, if he and Watson had been the catalyst at the beginning... And even if it didn't work... taking himself out of the picture now could make no real difference to anyone, except for Moriarty... and wouldn't that be all to the good?

Holmes looked down with a sigh at the ruined cigarette stub he was still holding, dropped it on the floor and stepped on it, then walked slowly back to his room, deep in thought. He still had a great deal to ponder, especially the timing... not that he'd made any final decisions, of course, but it didn't hurt to consider all his options... and whatever he eventually decided, at least he couldn't be any worse off than he was already.

Ria: *hugs our boys* The last scene was yet another last-minute addition – sort of. While writing out this latest draft of the finale, we noticed that almost all of our original interactions between Holmes and Moran had been cut – and no, you really don't want to know what those scenes were like! *shiver*

In any case, we decided that the season climax would be incomplete without having at least one proper tête-à-tête between the Professor's student and second-in-command. The spirit of their original scenes is still there, at least, particularly the pair's mutual loathing – which is going to make for some nail-biting action in later episodes!

Stay tuned for next chapter, and a certain long-awaited arrival... ;)