A STUDY IN BLOOD

Beginnings

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, you are hereby discharged from Her Majesty's Armed Forces, effective immediately."

There was a loud thud as the seal was slammed into the wax, and the dismissal papers were sealed.

The meeting was over, their decision was made. Sebastian Moran was standing in the center of a large room, with a jury of men and officers seated around him. Sebastian glanced up from his feet as one of the men stood, but instead of thanking him for his service, the man showed him the door.

Three years in Afghanistan, several near death encounters, more injuries than he could count, and exactly 513 kills. And all he got for it was a stale piece of paper informing "to whom it may concern," that Sebastian Moran was a disgrace to his uniform and the Crown.

A soldier was waiting outside the door-- a young one, going off of his boyish face and easy smile. He led Sebastian out of the building, ensured he had a cab waiting, and left him standing outside.

It was raining. The water spilled out over the eves of the building Sebastian was huddled underneath, hitting the ground in heavy drops and sending spatters of mud up into the air. Sebastian pulled his coat tighter around himself and flicked the collar up in a futile attempt to prepare himself for the onslaught.

He sprinted across the lot, holding the coat over the back of his neck, but was drenched in seconds. He reached the gatehouse in a few more seconds, pausing underneath the building to settle himself before continuing in his zig zag pattern across the lot.

As he pulled his coat completely over his head, still standing against the gatehouse, the folded papers he had been holding floated down and landed in the mud. Clenching his jaw, Sebastian Moran stomped his foot on the paper, pressing the dishonorable discharge papers into the mud. He watched as the sludge was pushed over the edges of the paper, almost blending in with the dark red seal. He ground it further down by twisting his toe back and forth, let out a string of curses under his breath, and ran out across the lot again.

There was a bridge just outside the gate of the military building; he had seen it from the car window on his way here, when he was escorted from the officer lodgings. He couldn't find it now, but kept moving, walking aimlessly along the side of the road in search of shelter.

He had nowhere to go, no one that could bail him out. All his friends, his income, his home-- his entire life had revolved around his service. And now it was gone, ripped away by people more powerful than him.

It had all happened so fast; one move, one split second action, and he had been tossed out on the street, kicked out of service with nothing except the clothes he had on and a burning, seething anger.

Eventually, the rain eased up a bit, switching from a heavy downpour to a light drizzling. Sebastian lowered his coat back onto his shoulders and shoved his hands into his pockets, head bent as he continued up the sidewalk. Several cars passed by him, their tires sending up sprays of water and mud from the street. He was filthy now; covered from feet to waist in mud and drenched in sweat that mixed with the rain.

Then he spotted the bridge, or a bridge, looming in the distance. The moving lights of several headlights flashed over the top of it, like a beacon shining through the cloudy sky.

Sebastian walked towards it, not bothering to go any faster. He was tired, his legs ached, and his head spun.

Finally reaching it, Sebastian walked underneath and lowered himself onto the ground, leaning his back against the side of the wall and pulling his legs close to him.

There was no way he would dry off tonight, and a post-rain chill gripped the air-- it would be a miracle if he survived the night, drenched to the bone and freezing beneath a bridge. It wouldn't be the worst way to go, Sebastian thought. His hand clenched on the blade in his pocket, fingers automatically fitting around the grooves of the handle.

"No," he said aloud. HIs voice echoed strangely off the empty walls of the bridge. "Not tonight."

~

There were two heavy clicking sounds, followed by a short, low chuckle. Then bang. A high pitched tinkling sound of steel on concrete.

Jim Moriarty kicked the empty cartridge with a swift motion of his foot, scattering it across the room. He tossed the gun to the ground with a flourish of his hand, spinning around dramatically.

"Don't make me do that again," he said.

The men before him all trembled slightly, but no one spoke or moved in their seats. Jim straightened the end of his jacket and stalked forward, skipping his seat at the head of the table and beginning to move slowly around the room. His men turned their heads to watch him.

Eventually, Jim reached the newly vacant chair and placed his hands on either side of the leather back. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder, at the body slumped in the corner, blood still seeping out of the hole in his head. A huge spray of blood had covered the corner of the wall behind him, creating a twisted halo of red spatters that arched over the man's limp form.

"No one's gonna disrespect me again, right?"

The men stayed silent.

"I hate getting blood on my walls." Jim clasped his hands together and began popping each of his knuckles.

"I suppose I need a new bodyguard," he said absently, pressing down on his thumb joint. "Find me a replacement, Dawes. You know my requirements already."

The man opposite the empty chair nodded briskly.

"And please, make sure he's not annoying." Jim cocked his head in the direction of the body propped up in the corner. "This one..." he shuddered slightly. "Well-- he got on my nerves."

"In the meantime, boys--" he glanced down the table at the men listening intently-- "continue your research on Sherlock Holmes."