Chapter Text
That their supper appointment is not proceeding as planned is to put it mildly. Moran has arrived early at the restaurant, full of enthusiasm for a prototype of a semi-automatic pistol, smuggled recently from the Continent and into the hands of the Professor. The Professor has, understandably, passed the somewhat intricate schematic diagrams of the operation of the new weapon to his chief of staff to peruse, analyse, and report back on.
Having studied the diagrams carefully and compared the structure of the new weapon to existing revolvers, Moran is actually rather excited about having something about which, for a change, he can enthuse and expand on to Moriarty, and has already started formulating a plan for production of a similar weapon in one of the Professor's German factories. He takes his place at their usual, private, table cheerfully, deciding that he will treat himself to a few amuse-bouches and a decanter of red wine whilst waiting for Moriarty. Generally speaking, Moran is not a big eater, having always been somewhat disinterested and even abstemious when it comes to food (although the same cannot be said for alcohol), but being in a good temper always whets his appetite.
However, after some thirty minutes or so of sitting waiting, the little balls of steak tartare eaten and the decanter three-quarters empty, his mood is beginning to turn. It is most unlike the Professor to be late; he is normally prompt to the point of fastidiousness, and Moran's initial good mood and excitement is waning and beginning to tip over into irritation and anti-climax.
Just as he reaches for the decanter again, Moriarty sweeps into the room, virtually throwing his hat and coat to the attendant and slamming down into his seat in a most out of character way. He looks sourly at Moran's hand on the decanter. "Drinking alone, Colonel? Could you not at least wait for me to arrive before swallowing the whole decanter, for God's sake?"
Moran feels another ripple of irritation trickling under his skin. "I've been sitting here over half an hour waiting for you. You're late."
"A decanter of vin rouge emptied in thirty minutes? I see. It would appear then that I am employing drunkards as well as turncoats and tittle-tattlers these days. My judgment must be slipping."
Moran lets the jibe pass, for now. "What d'ya mean, turncoats and tittle-tattlers? What's happened, Sir?"
Moriarty scowls, his hand curled into the table cloth, knuckles white with tension. "Are you familiar with the poetry of Coleridge, Moran?"
"Sir?"
"No, of course not. For a supposedly educated man, you are quite the philistine, Colonel. I would have expected even a gun for hire, a twopenny thug indeed, to have at least a passing acquaintance with the poet but, no matter."
Sebastian bridles again at the slur, but holds his temper. "I am familiar with Coleridge's works, Sir. I was just unsure in what context you was referring to them."
"I have a man in my organisation who thinks himself quite the comedian. Who considers it not enough simply to pass on details of my work to Sherlock Holmes, of all people, but has to compound the insult by throwing in humourous literary allusions. Allusions to unwanted intruders who disrupt one's inspired creativity, no less. And now the insufferable Holmes has thwarted this scheme and is, no doubt, as we speak, celebrating with his lapdog of a doctor or his smug, fat, brother, thinking himself so very clever and so very superior."
The Professor spits out the last word with a snarl and an expression of such violence that Moran almost refrains from speaking, yet his irritation at Moriarty's earlier jibes makes him somewhat reckless. And swallowing down the remainder of the wine as Moriarty watches is, he knows, being deliberately provocative, yet he cannot help himself.
"But you still ain't explained what any of this has to do with poetry, Sir. And, I may not be as clever as you at mathematics and studying the planets and planning things the way you do, but I know my way 'round a revolver. So after you've told me what this Holmes hullabaloo is all about, I've got those gun blueprints ready to explain to you."
On reflection, Moran realises that he probably could not have said anything more guaranteed to provoke Moriarty's reaction.
"Explain to me, Colonel? You explain to me? How dare you, sir? You sit there, drinking yourself insensible, not understanding that the informant, who styles himself Porlock, is our own man and has been communicating confidential information to Holmes under our very noses. Or, should I say, under your nose, Moran, for you are my chief of staff, are you not? Or have you forgotten that, too, in your cups, as you have forgotten how to supervise the men you are supposed to be managing for me?"
"Dear God, when I took you in, reeking of drink and poverty and desperation, more a fleabitten feral cur than a man, I thought that you had it in you to become my right hand, with your superb riflemanship and your flair for getting what needs to be done, done. But now, alas, I see that I was totally mistaken, and that what you are, Colonel, is a bloody good for nothing drunkard whom I should have left wallowing in the gutter where you belong!"
During Moriarty's diatribe, Moran's face has become tighter and whiter until he is now ashen, rising abruptly and standing shaking beside the table, the decanter and glass lying tipped over, broken, the wine dregs staining the table linen, and cutlery and crockery scattered on the floor. Taking up the broken decanter, Moran steps towards the Professor, raising it as if to strike the other man. "No! I shall not have it, Sir! You shall not speak to me so!"
Just at the point that it appears inevitable that Moran will bring the heavy, jagged glass down on Moriaty's head, he seems to check himself and stop in mid-action, panting and trembling with suppressed passion. Then, without another word, he throws the broken bottle to the floor with a crash and stalks from the room, slamming the door violently behind him.