So, essentially the ring wasn’t running at all. Or it had dissolved into horrific chaos and petty crime. Or just a bunch of morons attempting to show off.
This really created a problem. A problem that could potentially only be solved by having everyone involved and everyone who wanted to think they were involved hunted down and killed in the least obvious way possible. Aside from Sebastian and himself, of course.
Jim shuddered. What lurked ahead might as well have been a termite infestation.
“No use for you in it?” Jim snapped his fingers right in front of Sebastian’s eyes, “Then this ring might as well not even exist. Wake up, Seb! You should have known better!”
“Fuck off,” he waved aside Jim’s snapping fingers, the sound ringing in his ears. “I’m not the criminal mastermind here.”
No, he was the trigger on a loaded sniper rifle, the bullet piercing soft tissue, the bat swinging against brittle bones—he may be smart enough to write books and hunt tigers, but he didn’t have Moriarty’s flair.
And without Moriarty, there was no use for Sebastian—the weapon, the brute force, and hit man. He was a soldier. He took orders and sometimes gave them if that was what he was assigned to do.
“This is your doing. You couldn’t have left a suicide note?” He scoffed at the idea.
“Oh? And I never thought you were the type to pine away by the windows!” Jim stated, because he knew it was fact, as he nodded in the direction of the sofa. “Should I even inquire about the state of things around here? Shoot anyone interesting lately?”
Jim stepped even closer and straightened out his robe, which was still existing in a haphazard state on Sebastian.
“Probably not, am I right?”
Jim didn’t have to ask. One look and he could see how deep Sebastian dug his own grave. It was messy, careless, and he hadn’t shaved and probably didn’t smell too good either. With Jim, everything had to be pristine and finely pressed like one of his designer suits. Everything Sebastian owned was a gift from Jim: his clothes, his shoes, his guns, his cologne—it was another way of exerting his control over him and he took it like a good soldier until there was no more boss to give him orders.
He never thought to stop and ask himself why he was behaving like this. He just existed, day in and day out as he just existed after he got discharged from the army.
His whole body tensed up when Jim touched him, but he didn’t look away. Sebastian could face a tiger down in a gutter, fear gripping his heart and feeding his adrenaline. Looking, really looking into Jim’s cold dark eyes was like being with that tiger all over again.
He had to give an answer. He didn’t want to—didn’t really have anything more to say other than fuck you and you bastard and why didn’t you tell me.
“No,” he cleared his throat. “The ring is still running, but you probably know that. No use for me in it though.”
“That’s why I came back today, yes,” Jim frowned slightly. Sebastian was being a bit too stubborn for his own good. The signs were everywhere, literally EVERYWHERE, that pointed to the fact that he was completely and utterly lost without Jim.
Oh, if only Jim was sure the video surveillance was left on! It would provide him with some entertainment to watch Sebastian pacing around the flat like a lost puppy. In fact, the mental image of this particular Sebastian looked much like the one right in front of Jim. Wearing Jim’s robe. Putting an obvious dent in the couch from waiting and watching (or moping) for Jim’s arrival.
“Oh, Seb! You’re really not fooling me! I know you’re just fighting back your urge to just break out dancing with joy and welcome me back!” Okay, now Jim was really rubbing it in.
It was like another one of his boss’s schemes and Sebastian was the last one to know it, strong curses under his breath and a brief admiration for Moriarty’s brilliant mind.
With all due respect, sir, I’m trying not to punch that smug smile off your face.
“Never figured you for a romantic,” he responded tersely with his jaw clenched tight. His knuckles were white from gripping his phone, the date in big bold letters on the screen.
Moriarty wasn’t completely wrong either which just made it worse. Sebastian wasn’t a dancer, but he also knew relief settling underneath his anger. The anger was as good as dancing for joy any ways. He had only been pissed at card players the past several months rather than anything substantial and he missed the violence that followed in Moriarty’s wake like an old lover.
Jim blinked and looked at Sebastian, a little surprised. It’s not like he expected him to be an avid celebrator of Valentine’s Day, but he thought that for sure, an occasional pass by a card shop or the like would be enough to clue him in.
Or the dwindling use of paper calendars was seriously taking its toll.
“If I knew you needed it to be so obvious, I could always turn right around in search of a stolen bouquet? Perhaps with the arm still attached to it?” Jim offered. “How much spelling out do I have to do?”
To be fair, Sebastian rarely celebrated the holidays if Jim wasn’t there to remind him whenever the mood struck; and ever since his boss left, Sebastian took the back alleys and dark streets to bars and strip clubs rather than through the shopping centers. Maybe he just hoped he’d get into a fight and bleed out from a stab in the gut before the ambulance arrived.
He wasn’t dense either. He just didn’t care.
There was an awkward pause in which Sebastian played back what happened: Jim coming out of nowhere, a misplaced bullet, a dent in the wall, a gun digging into his back, and fucking ice cream. There was hint in what he said. Flowers. Ice cream. The date.
Oh.
The ridiculousness of it just made him more angry.
“That’s why you came back?”
Sebastian Moran: theoneandonlymistersex: “Last I checked, I was allowed to show up at…
“Last I checked, I was allowed to show up at my flat without warning anyone at all!” Jim called out from in the kitchen, where he had quickly run off to in order to obtain two spoons, one of which he presented to Sebastian with a flourish.
The gun wasn’t…
“Check your calendar, dear,” Jim remarked offhandedly, digging in to the ice cream and savoring the taste. Really, there was no occasion where coconut ice cream wasn’t appropriate.
Celebrating a momentous kill? Coconut ice cream!
Removing a particularly obnoxious tea stain from an article of clothing? Coconut ice cream!
Plans falling into place just so? Coconut ice cream!
And so on.
“If you don’t catch on from looking at your calendar, I’m afraid I’m going to have to deem you hopeless! Also, I know how much you love coconut ice cream. Really, Sebastian, I do. And to think I’d leave you out? I’m a little insulted!” Now he was just asking for it. Or just giving the man some time to perhaps catch on. It wasn’t always so hard to figure out, but Sebastian would act as if it was. It was like watching an ill-tempered man have at it with the daily crossword, flinging pen and paper around with frustration.
Amusing, yes. But such phases had to end at some point.
Sebastian didn’t know the date let alone the occasion. He had been on the sofa the past few days, wasting away on reality shows from America and eating dry cereal. If this day was supposed to hold any significance, Sebastian knew shit.
“You can have mine,” he offered, not sounding generous and more annoyed that he wasn’t getting a straight answer out of his boss—like he should even be expecting any.
He breathed deeply through gritted teeth as he searched his wasting away zone for his phone. He found it tucked in between two cushions and pulled it out.
“February 14,” he told, thinking maybe saying the date out loud would trigger something.
It didn’t.
“What the fuck is this?” Sebastian looked up at Jim, brow furrowed and one hand waving his phone. “It sure as shit isn’t my birthday.” Like he even celebrated.
“Last I checked, I was allowed to show up at my flat without warning anyone at all!” Jim called out from in the kitchen, where he had quickly run off to in order to obtain two spoons, one of which he presented to Sebastian with a flourish.
The gun wasn’t necessarily forgotten. It was merely just being ignored in favour of ice cream. For now, at least!
He was also purposefully ignoring Sebastian’s other question. He wasn’t sure whether or not he’d pick up on that bit, but there was now a spoonful of coconut ice cream making its way towards Sebastian, as Jim decided at the last possible second to snatch Sebastian’s spoon away and dig into the ice cream with it.
While Jim was ignoring the gun, Sebastian was ignoring the ice cream. He was giving him a hard look, mouth open like he wanted to say all the expletives and accusations that were springing to mind, but he already went too far with calling his resurrected boss a fucking cunt. Sure, on any other day—several months back—he’d occasionally bite, because no one fucking owned Colonel Sebastian Moran. He just knew how to maneuver around Moriarty in a way that won’t get his throat cut. Most times he just got a stinging slap across the face instead.
“I don’t want your fucking ice cream,” he finally settled on. It was the calmest he could manage, so you couldn’t accuse him of not trying.
His hands shook as he placed the bowl on the coffee table instead of smashing it against the wall.
“Why tonight?” Because it was going to keep nagging him. It didn’t make sense (but nothing Moriarty did made sense until just seconds before the big reveal). His boss could have gone to the Eastern countries, the Americas, Africa, fucking Australia to rebuild a criminal empire, but he comes back to their flat that’s been falling apart since that fucking suicide. And he comes back with coconut ice cream.
Sebastian hates coconut ice cream.
“You know,” Jim whispered slowly, throwing the gun across the room not even giving a damn whether or not it would go off and wake the neighbors, “You’re just so delightful when you surrender. Ice cream?”
If there even were neighbors. The last ones Jim was aware of had met a rather.. unfortunate accident.
“Besides,” Jim shifted the tone in his voice to be just the slightest bit disappointed, “Where’s the welcoming party? I’ve been gone this long and all you can do is worry over tiny little details!”
Fear was creeping up on him as the gun dug into his back. It was foolish not to be afraid around Moriarty. Usually it was a lull—a feeling at the back of his mind that had grown used to his boss’s methods. Then Jim would get bored or angry or any of those other feelings that warranted threatening his life and everyone around him and that fear would race to the forefront.
Not that it was a terrible feeling. Sebastian was fueled by fear.
The gun was gone (too soon) and just like him, just like Moriarty to change the subject—to come back after several months, because he wanted to share his ice cream.
“You could have warned me in advance, boss,” he grumbled, putting his arms down and turning again, eyes locked on Moriarty. “Why tonight?”
The logic behind Sebastian’s reaction was just so simple and linear that it wasn’t even worth getting angry in response. That would just be so typical, wouldn’t it? From point A to B to C - the assumed “deception” of sorts leads to anger when the truth comes out and then what? An argument? Apologies?
Please. Jim might as well pick Sebastian’s now-forgotten gun off the floor and do a proper job of it this time.
With his back now turned, Jim took the opportunity to snatch up Sebastian’s gun, and in seconds he had the barrel pressed directly against Sebastian’s back. “You just don’t know the questions to ask, do you? It’s not even a matter of how DID I. It’s how DIDN’T I? And maybe, just maybe, it’s because I”m just not as good a shot as you are, ever think of that one?”
Okay, so he was just toying with him some more. Really, was he to blame for that?
His back stiffened, arms instinctively raised in surrender. It wasn’t the first time he had a gun at his back and it wasn’t going to be the last if he lived through this. Normally, Sebastian might even make a joke, but he was too overcome with fury to even crack a smile.
“If you botched it, your jaw would have been blown off,” he responded through gritted teeth. He should have inspected the wound more closely instead of running off, cursing under his breath with the feeling of a knife down his throat. When he got the nerve to go to the roof later, the body wasn’t there, but the stain still was. It could have been the cops. Sebastian should have dug deeper.
This whole scene right before him was quite possibly one of the most hilarious things Jim had seen in quite some time now.
Not wanting to lose the moment, Jim whips his phone out and snaps a quick picture of Sebastian in his disheveled state of disbelief. It was next to impossible to contain his laughter. Never mind the fact that under ordinary circumstances, Sebastian would not have missed the shot.
“You know, Sebastian,” Jim smirked to himself as he proceeded to send the picture to Sebastian’s phone, “I don’t even need to pull one on you when you seem to be doing a good enough job of that to yourself.”
Somewhere lost in the cushions of the couch, his phone alerted him. It was like an alarm, bringing him to his senses until he saw red.
“You—” No one else had that dark soulless look in his eyes or that devilish smirk. He wore many faces and spoke many dialects, but this was what he always came back to, in their flat.
Sebastian’s heart was pounding with fury now instead of shock.
“You fucking cunt,” he made a fist and instead of punching that smug look off his boss’s face, he punched the wall instead. His knuckles cracked, but the pain was good, riling him up. He was going to pay for calling Moriarty a cunt to his face (and what did that say about him to already be reverting back to that role).
“I saw you,” and he somehow fooled him. “On the roof. Clear shot through the head. How the fucking Hell did you—”
He couldn’t look at him anymore and turned his back—not a smart move, but he was thrown off-kilter.
Aha! Sebastian.
The ever-faithful Sebastian. Although Jim wasn’t sure whether it was remaining faithful to a dead man’s legacy or the notion that he, Jim Moriarty, was capable of winning against even death itself.
Jim stepped back from the door, more for effect than anything else, so Sebastian could get take it all in when he were to open the door. In fact, Jim was sort of looking forward to seeing his right-hand man taken aback with complete and utter shock!
“Really, Sebastian? You brought your gun to the door? What hospitality!”
Sebastian turned, gun raised—
“FUCK—” The gun went off, but Sebastian at least had enough sense to aim for the wall behind his deceased boss instead of right through him. The vibrations still rankled through him and he threw the gun aside before he started blasting more holes into the plaster.
Sebastian’s heart was pounding fiercely, almost straight out of his chest. He probably looked comical: eyes wide, breathing heavy, hands close to tearing out his hair.
He’s killed men, drawn out their deaths, and tortured them, but he couldn’t say he ever saw one come back from the dead.
This wasn’t right. It had be some smug bastard thinking he could play mind games with the second in command of Moriarty’s criminal web. His boss pulled the same trick with those kids—made them think Sebastian all dressed up was the great Sherlock Holmes himself going on a killing spree.
If only he didn’t just disarm himself.
“Don’t start thinking you can pull one on me. I’m not an idiot,” he backed up, fingers itching for the nearest item he could use as a weapon or shield. The longer he dared to look into his old boss’s eyes, the less sure he was of himself.
