With Moran it is not quite a case of the iron fist in the velvet glove. His hands - with their long, strong fingers - are frequently gloved, although in fine leather, and perhaps these gloves may hide much of the blood that he has upon his hands. However, though he may appear far more innocuous than he truly is, still there is danger wrought through his demeanour; a touch too much hardness in those blue eyes and a sense of stillness about him that speaks not of idleness or sloth but of a predator awaiting the moment to strike.
The long-awaited package arrived at Conduit Street early in the morning, brought up with the toast tray by the housekeeper.
“Oh, goody,” Moran exclaimed, rubbing his hands together with glee like a child. He abandoned his coffee and rushed to the package. Drawing his penknife he cut the strings of the brown paper and swiftly disassembled the box.
Out onto the carpet rolled a magnificent tiger pelt, head, claws and all.
Moran stood up, surveying it proudly, and addressed Moriarty.
“Well, what do you think? One of my own bag. Trapped her in a cage made of nothing but some vines and an old splintered canoe. I’ve been meaning to have it sent over from India, damn sods in the regiment claimed they’d lost it.”
Moriarty took one look and announced,
“That is not going in the living room, Moran.”
So apparently everyone and their grandmother is shipping “Mormor”. I must be one of the few fans out there who don’t ship Moran and Moriarty romantically in any incarnation.
Anyway, I wrote a fic about Moran and his relationship with Moriarty and there’s no slash in any of it. Plus it’s *GASP* BOOK-VERSE. The title is awful though, I’m so bad at coming up with good titles.
“An eye for an eye,” he muttered to himself as he aligned the sight of his air gun. The same one Moriarty had given him all that time ago. It was fitting that a bequest from his dead benefactor should be the item that would avenge him, at least in part.
He hadn’t been able to track down Holmes, the other half of the duo to blame for Moriarty’s death, but he now had Watson in the sight of his gun. Completely at his mercy. And he wouldn’t be missing this chance.
His only regret was that Watson would not know the purpose his death would serve. But he supposed the role of an assassin had always been thankless, unnoticed by rote, and why should that change now?
He took one last look to be sure of his aim.
Moran’s finger tightened on the trigger.
The drapes surrounding the window Watson stood at fluttered.
A body fell with the strike of the bullet, but when the curtain drew aside again, Watson still stood.
The doctor was shaking another figure violently, a woman who had suddenly appeared slumped against the broken window. His shaking dislodged her, leaving a smear of blood on the glass. Briefly Moran caught the profile of his unintended victim: the shapely features and blonde hair of a woman, most likely none other than Mrs. Mary Watson.
He swallowed thickly as he realized what he had done and who he had shot.
In the war, it had been different. Killing people was necessary, sometimes fun. But they were seldom women. It was always different with women.
With a little more force than was necessary Moran disassembled his gun and packed it away, leaving the rooftop he had shot from quickly. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. She had gone to her husband’s side at the wrong time, he had done nothing. Besides, this way Watson would suffer more. Wasn’t that what he had wanted to do? Cause suffering?
The guilt which had sprung up so unexpectedly and unwelcome was hard to stomach, but he forced it back down, covering it with lies like he always did with difficult truths.
This way he’ll suffer more for it, he repeated to himself. It doesn’t matter.
But she was innocent. She hadn’t deserved it. Just like Moriarty. Neither of them deserved to die, it was the doctor who should be bleeding—
Then why hadn’t he gone after him? Taken a second shot when he was off his guard?
Because in his heart of hearts, he knew he had done wrong.
And because he also knew he could always try again when he found Holmes.
Visions of the future perhaps?
A little drabble concerning our favourite colonel