The thought of Moran setting himself up on Watson terrifies Holmes more than the thought of taking on Moran himself. It isn't that he doubts Watson's abilities; it's that Moran has snaked his way into Holmes's psyche to the point where he can't quite believe that he managed to capture the Colonel after all.
He can't show that he's shaken; he can't show a weakness in front of him, not now, but Holmes is shaken, feels weak, and so he has to appeal to performance. He has to appeal to the theater to carry him through.
That's the only reason he can come up with to justify what he says.
"Ah, Colonel!" says Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar; "'journeys end in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says."
Moran's face darkens, and Holmes grins as brightly as he can, to appear as unaffected as possible.
"I don't think I've had the pleasure of seeing you for -- what is it -- a year or so now? I see you found my second faked death as convincing as everyone else found my first."
He turns to Lestrade and Watson. "Gentlemen, may I introduce to to Colonel Sebastian Moran, late of Professor Moriarty's clan of criminals, and even later of Her Majesty's Indian Army, where he developed those shooting skills Moriarty would find useful. Your bag of tigers remains unrivaled, does it not, Colonel?"
Moran only sneers, and Holmes imagines that if he were an animal, he'd be snorting and stomping; the image helps him, and he clings to it.
"I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a shikari. It must be very familiar to you. Have you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with your rifle, and waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This empty house is my tree and you are my tiger. You have possibly had other guns in reserve in case there should be several tigers, or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing you. These," he points around, "are my other guns. The parallel is exact."
It feels delightful to be able to throw all of this in Moran's face, and soon enough his smile isn't plastered on, but fairly genuine.
no subject
He can't show that he's shaken; he can't show a weakness in front of him, not now, but Holmes is shaken, feels weak, and so he has to appeal to performance. He has to appeal to the theater to carry him through.
That's the only reason he can come up with to justify what he says.
"Ah, Colonel!" says Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar; "'journeys end in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says."
Moran's face darkens, and Holmes grins as brightly as he can, to appear as unaffected as possible.
"I don't think I've had the pleasure of seeing you for -- what is it -- a year or so now? I see you found my second faked death as convincing as everyone else found my first."
He turns to Lestrade and Watson. "Gentlemen, may I introduce to to Colonel Sebastian Moran, late of Professor Moriarty's clan of criminals, and even later of Her Majesty's Indian Army, where he developed those shooting skills Moriarty would find useful. Your bag of tigers remains unrivaled, does it not, Colonel?"
Moran only sneers, and Holmes imagines that if he were an animal, he'd be snorting and stomping; the image helps him, and he clings to it.
"I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a shikari. It must be very familiar to you. Have you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with your rifle, and waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This empty house is my tree and you are my tiger. You have possibly had other guns in reserve in case there should be several tigers, or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing you. These," he points around, "are my other guns. The parallel is exact."
It feels delightful to be able to throw all of this in Moran's face, and soon enough his smile isn't plastered on, but fairly genuine.