Prompt: A masterful cheat, from Michael JG Meathook
A/N: A little less about cheating, more about hunting. I do love writing Moran...
It was humiliating, chasing any kind of quarry across the world with nothing to show for it; even more so when it turned out the quarry had been leading him on and finally thrown him off.
Colonel Sebastian Moran did not get thrown off the trail of a hunt. But after weeks of trying to pick up that blasted detective's trail in Tibet, he had to admit he had lost the scent. Sherlock Holmes was a formidable opponent, but then, anyone who could best the Professor had to be.
Well, tracking was not a hunter's only skill. Moran hadn't wanted to return to London, knowing that eventually Holmes must follow him, and there was nowhere the man was so dangerous as in his own home territory, but Moran was not without a few tricks of his own.
First, he had to disguise himself. In the wild, this was easily done - some camouflaged clothing and he would be invisible to all. In London, this meant acting the part. There were few things Moran hated more than pretending to be a gentleman, but hunting skill did not pay the bills, not in London.
Luckily, Moran was as skilled at cards as he was at hunting. He left nothing to luck; he had no compunction against cheating, and should soon have a tidy sum set up for himself.
The thing would have to be done carefully, though. The social rules of card clubs were as difficult to read as an animal's tracks, and he would stick out sorely should he pick the wrong one - too aristocratic, and everyone would know he was a mere pretender, too low-class and he would be an intruder.
Moran found a suitable club, at least to start. Once he had some more funds, he would be able to set himself at a better one. Social climbing by way of cheating at funds. Some would call that illegal, but in the class-ridden society of England, some might say social climbing at all was tantamount to illegality. It amused Moran to fool all the nitwits in the clubs into thinking he was one of them.
He never stayed long enough to be found out, save once when a particularly sharp-eyed and mathematically skilled banker noticed his winnings and losses formed a pattern (the first rule of cheating was that winning every game was suspicious; one must lose enough to make winning plausible). But he had got what he wanted from that place, and moved on to the next after…convincing the others not to ruin his reputation. It wouldn't be gentlemanly.
These fools would do anything to uphold their absurd codes of honor. It was their fault, then, if Moran simply took advantage of it for his own purposes.
Still, he now had to find another club which deep-pocketed members to fleece while he waited for his true objective. So far, he had done little to prepare for Holmes's return, sure that if the detective was on his way to London he would hear of it, but no true hunter remained unprepared. Especially if he meant to spring a trap. Best to keep an eye out, and there were several places to start.
Moran immediately added 221 Baker Street to his route as he drove seemingly aimlessly through London. Mrs. Hudson was no threat at all, but surely Holmes would return there first. But so far, the house remained quiet and stately, no different than any other house belonging to a middle-class widow.
Moran knew better than to try to monitor the elder Holmes brother, Mycroft. Undoubtedly, the man the Professor had called the British government was already monitoring him (he quietly removed any clubs known to cater to government worker from his list. Best not to make it too easy). And monitoring Holmes's Scotland Yard allies would bring him into too close contact with the police.
There was, however, Dr. Watson, and Moran smiled. Every prey had a weakness, and Holmes's was certainly this unassuming, mild-mannered army doctor. For whatever reason; even the Professor had never understood it. Moran didn't need to understand it, merely to use it.
It was child's play to find and gain admittance to Dr. Watson's club - a club populated mostly by former soldiers and officers, no less. He waited a mere three days before the man himself appeared.
"Colonel Hammersmith," Moran introduced himself. It was unlikely Holmes had told his friend his name, but better not to risk it.
"Dr. Watson," his quarry answered. "Shall we?" He gestured to the card table, and Moran was surprised to find that mild-mannered Dr. Watson was as fiendish for cards as he was himself.
Moran did not have the sickness himself, but he had spent enough time at table to recognize a true gambling addict. Interesting. That was a fact even the Professor had not known. This Dr. Watson had hidden depths.
Some four games later, and much skillful, subtle cheating on Moran's part, and Dr. Watson was quietly losing much of what must have been his pay for the month, though he allowed not a hint of worry to show, and simply kept playing.
Determined. Optimistic. Reckless. Oh, but Dr. Watson was interesting. The Professor might have discarded him as unimportant, but he had not a hunter's instincts. A good hunter needed every bit of the deductive skill the Professor had turned to crime.
"I do not understand it," Dr. Watson finally said, nearing midnight, as he handed over yet another wad of cash. "You have the devil's luck, sir."
Moran smiled. Naive. Trusting. Dr. Watson had an unfortunate assortment of characteristics which contradicted each other beautifully. "We all have good nights and bad ones," he said. "I'm sorry tonight is one of your bad ones."
Dr. Watson waved a hand. "I haven't had much else these last three years since..." he trailed off.
Loyal. Lonely. Devoted. Few of the other men had given him more than a cursory greeting as he arrived. Interesting, that his mind went first to Holmes's demise before his wife's, which must be more recent judging by the black cufflinks at his wrist; worn only during the first year of mourning.
An interesting fellow. It would do Moran well to keep an eye on him, for as long as he could get away with his cardsharp act at this club. Though he would have to be careful - not that he would be recognized, but that he would deplete Dr. Watson of so much money that he would be unable to continue to play.
Counterintuitive, that would be. A hunter could not give in to his instincts every time; that was what intellect was for. The marriage of instincts and intellect was what made a hunter, and Moran would need to use both if he was to trap Holmes in his own domain.
It was very lucky, then, that Dr. Watson was right where he wanted him to be.
Every trap needed a spring.