Discussion Between An Employer and His Right-Hand

Your name is Colonel Sebastian Moran.

You are, or were , the second most dangerous man in all of London.

And you really, really do not like Sherlock Holmes.

Even thinking about that damnable detective sparked a fire in your heart and anger in your gut, but there was something else there, too. Something foreign to you- a small but persistent sense of uneasiness.

You said as much quite suddenly one day while in the Chaldean quarters that you shared with one Professor James Moriarty.

“I don’t trust Holmes.”

You both sat opposite each other in overstuffed armchairs, not unlike you had in life in the unassuming London flat that the Napoleon of Crime claimed as a base of operations. You were puffing away at a cigar, until your outburst having been silently stewing in your thoughts with a furrowed blond brow. James Moriarty was engrossed in a hefty book, occasionally picking up a fountain pen and scribbling some words and formulae on a notepad sitting on the mahogany side-table to his right without breaking his gaze from the pages.

Your employer glanced over the top of his book and wordlessly quirked an eyebrow at you, moreso at the abruptness of your statement than the actual content of it.

Now having broken the peaceful silence like a pane of glass, you continued with a huff, anxiously and unconsciously rolling your cigar between your fingers as you did so. “How in the bloody hell does he get to manifest on his own, without a Master? There ain’t a Grail War goin’ on- at least not a real one- and that’s the only way Rulers pop up.” You shook your head and grit your teeth. “But that’s not what boggles me the most. The hoppin’ from Singularity to Singularity, showin’ up in Camelot and Shinjuku. It… It just doesn’t sit right with me, boss.”

You had a habit of flip-flopping between calling the mastermind ‘Professor’ and ‘boss’ , but unbeknownst to you, Moriarty had made silent note of the fact that you more heavily used the latter when angry or otherwise stressed. He sighed, and quietly closed his book after placing a slip of paper between its pages as a marker, setting it on the side-table. He then folded his gloved hands in front of him atop his crossed legs, seemingly focusing his full attention now on you. This action, being the center of Moriarty’s scrutiny, more often than not made you feel like a piece of cornered prey being toyed with. It was a feeling that, having spent so long hunting the most dangerous game in India, you were quite familiar with. It was not a feeling you liked at all . A shiver involuntary ran up your spine.

A few moments passed slowly before Moriarty finally spoke. “Between you and I, dear Sebastian…” His voice then dipped low and he leaned forward in his chair, as you instinctively did the same. “... I do not believe our Master trusts him, either.”

This, frankly enough, surprised you.

The last Master of Chaldea, Ritsuka Fujimaru, was often of the mindset that you would describe as ‘exceedingly foolish’. In your educated and realistic opinion- one grounded in years of experience killing and trying not to be killed- they tended to trust far, far too easily. The fact that they trusted Moriarty of all people was honestly proof enough of that, even when not taking into account the large extent to which they trusted him- sometimes it seemed completely so. They seemed to trust every single servant summoned to Chaldea to at least some unsmall degree, even a shady man such as yourself. Therefore, it was your assumption rather than expectation that they would, in turn, trust Sherlock Holmes.

You voiced these thoughts to your employer.

He hmm’d, and thought for a brief second. “Perhaps that is giving him too much credit. Let me rephrase- they do trust Sherlock. But… not entirely. Much less than they trust either of us, which is saying something,” he smirked. “They used to trust him more, especially after Shinjuku. But ever since then, numerous events and happenings have little by little stirred questions within their mind. Questions which have led to... doubts.”

“And were any of these doubts perhaps sown by you, Professor?”

Moriarty simply chuckled, thankfully more lighthearted than sinister. “Surprisingly enough it may seem to us both, but no. No, our dear Master has come upon and fed these distrusts entirely by themselves.”

He stood then, hands on the armrests as he easily pushed himself out of the chair, and strolled over to his desk. He opened a side drawer and reached in, pulling out a neatly bundled stack of papers, heavily written on and tied together with a single piece of pale blue ribbon. The man idly thumbed through the stack as turned and leaned back against the desk, and began the explanation that you were about to ask for. “A collection of all my notes and observations regarding the dear detective over the years, including those here at Chaldea. His weaknesses, his strengths, what stumbled him, etcetera etcetera. Compiled for our Master… Just in case.”

Moriarty sighed deeply, and glanced up at you. His brilliant blue eyes, full of genius and cunning, seemed to pierce right through you. “Sebastian.” You instinctively straightened in your seat. “As much as you know I detest that accursed man, and how happy I would be to see him dead, or worse, I…” He pursed his lips and seemed to choose his next words carefully. “I hope that our distrusts are unfounded. For Chaldea’s sake, for our Master’s sake, and, I suppose, for humanity’s sake as well.”

Now it was your turn to silently and quizzically raise your eyebrows, but Moriarty did not answer, instead turning away and placing the papers back where they belonged before setting himself to task tidying up his workspace. You sighed, knowing that apparently that would be all you would be getting out of your superior in regards to the subject. You had more than an inkling of what he was talking about, however, with all the good Holmes had apparently done for Chaldea in the wake of the sudden death of the acting director at the time- a man named Romani Archaman. You had never met him, having been summoned to Chaldea long after the storied battle at the Temple of Time, although you had heard quite a bit about the man, especially from the other Servants who had been contracted with the resident Master far longer than you or Moriarty had. Either way, his passing had left a hole in the structure of Chaldea’s workings that Miss da Vinci could not fill herself- a hole that Sherlock Holmes’s newfound presence after the Shinjuku incident would slowly but surely patch. Though, that was giving the detective far more credit that he deserved. James Moriarty was summoned not long after Holmes’ arrival, and the Professor’s genius and mathematical skill helped Chaldea just as much as Holmes’ own mind and grail-given skills did. If anything else, the Master worked significantly better with Moriarty than the arrogant Holmes, for reasons relating to the events of Shinjuku that you had yet to be entirely privy to. Then again, you had never asked the right person, you supposed. The Master had a much looser tongue than your employer or his nemesis.

You tucked that away in your mind as something to inquire about during the next mission, and thusly turned your attention to retrieving your rifle leaning, always close at hand, against the corner of the armchair.

As Moriarty worked at his desk with his own weapons of numbers and formulae, you worked at your own much more physical instrument.

You called it ‘Prometheus’- a custom-made German air-rifle gifted to you by Moriarty back when you were both still alive, being the only birthday present you could really ever remember receiving. Your calloused fingers ran over its surface, pulling at and adjusting its workings. Frankly, you had no idea why you did- serving as your weapon and Noble Phantasm, magecraft always seemed to keep it in the perfect condition you required. It was little more than muscle memory, you assumed, but it was also oddly comforting. It was just like how it was back in London, with Professor James Moriarty at his desk in his elegant study, and you, his loyal right-hand and chief of staff, idly cleaning your trusted gun in preparation for the next poor sap you needed to kill.

You are Colonel Sebastian Moran, once the second most dangerous man in London, now a simple summoned Servant of the Assassin class. You do not like Sherlock Holmes, and you certainly don’t trust him. But that’s alright, because you trust your Master, and most importantly, you trust James Moriarty- and that? That was more than enough for a man like you.