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-18-
They’d done it, then. And hadn’t it just been so easy in the end? Sebastian carefully clicked his tripod into its folded position, glancing over the road to where John Watson was gazing dumbly after Holmes’ body as it was wheeled away. (checkmate) He packed his rifle and the tripod into his bag and hurried down the steps.
“Pick up, you wanker.” He cursed, hitting call for a second time, and then shoving his phone back into his pocket when he was ignored again. His fingers brushed the cold marble of the black chess piece he carried around permanently and he resisted the urge to squeeze it, leaving a knight shaped imprint in the palm of his hand as he had earlier. Instead, he grabbed the car keys and locked away his bag in the boot, steps quickening as he skirted his way around the gathered crowd and through the old double doors of the hospital. He gave in and tried to ring Jim again. No answer. What the fuck was he playing at?
There were too many steps onto the roof – surprised Jim didn’t make me carry him up here, he thought with a brief, incongruous grin, lazy fuck. Somewhere, between radiology and intensive care, his hand had slipped into his pocket, thumb smoothing over the side of his knight. (your move, Sebastian) Calming him.
And then he was on the top of the roof. And there was the reason Jim hadn’t answer his calls. Difficult, Sebastian’s rational side supposed, when you’re dead. And then he was sprinting over, the cloudy skies he’d observed earlier dropping their load. Sebastian was drenched before he even reached the body. The rain had washed the blood into a pink puddle, some kind of joke, as if it had never been a thick crimson river, Jim Moriarty leaking out onto the concrete. And this wasn’t real.
(Sebastian, it’s your move)
“Boss!” Sebastian dropped to his knees in the puddle, the pink sinking into his trousers. But that didn’t matter, this wasn’t real. “Jim!” He lifted a hand and brought it down, hard, on Moriarty’s cheeks, the wet slapping sound eclipsing the rain and the traffic for a second. His neck twisted to the side and his brown eyes continued staring, and, God, he would stare wouldn’t he? He’d stare for hours, but no longer at the angry sky. No longer at Sebastian. He shivered as rainwater trickled from his hair and down his neck.
This. This was not real. Jim had made him read those stupid fairytales. If the hero died then the villain returned to his London flat and continued to drink Darjeeling and play chess and wake up screaming. He could feel it already; that vacancy in Watson’s eyes. That some bastard had just made him sacrifice his best piece to avoid the (checkmate). It made sense, now. Everything made sense. But it didn’t, shouldn’t, (Sebastian, we don’t have all day) it wasn’t real.
Because, because he’d seen Jim. He’d seen him with Holmes up on the roof and he’d seen them get far to close and his trigger finger had itched to please, just let me shoot, don’t let him touch you and he’d seen them shake hands and he’d seen
Watson.
He’d seen Watson clambering out of his taxi and onto the street. And he hadn’t seen Jim. Everything made sense (your move, Sebastian) but it didn’t. Because, because in a second his Boss would scream and Sebastian would hold him down and shut him up and lay in the dark with him. And, if he took a little comfort in the shocked gasps for air and the sweat coating Jim’s skin
then no one would ever need to know.
-6-
Whoops. JM. X
Sebastian felt his phone vibrate and saw her eyes narrow fractionally as he reached into his pocket and breathed a curse at the identity of his texter.
“Everything alright?” She asked around one of those violently pink straws. Sebastian met her eyes with a smile that had saved him from so many beatings. She flushed. And she was young, and fit and she thought he was fit and this was going to be easy. If Jim would leave him alone.
“Yeah, fine.” As soon as his phone hit the bottom of his pocket it buzzed again.
Don’t ignore me. You might want to check the news. JM. X
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“Sorry, do you mind if I just check something?” The girl, Cherise(?), Cheryl(?) nodded. He loaded up the news app Jim had insisted he keep (he had deleted angry birds and temple run promptly) and scrolled through the headlines.
Fire In A Flat On –
Sebastian froze. That was a picture of his flat. On fire. Holy shit, Jim. “Fucking hell.” He said aloud and the girl looked at him in shock. A wave of anger passed through him at her wide-eyed look, if it wasn’t for her he would have been at home, putting a bullet through the heads of whichever idiots set his flat on fire. Shit, all his stuff. Jim was going to kill him. Sniper rifles weren’t cheap. “My flat-” He began to explain, already standing to leave, “Some bastards have set it on fire.” She gasped in horror, abandoning that drink, and following him out of the pub.
“Are you sure, it could have been an accident?” Sebastian nearly growled at her, the sound stopping as a low moan in the back of his throat, he didn’t have accidents. He hailed a taxi and see, no such thing as an accident, dear, Jefferson Hope’s voice asked him for the address.
“You heard about that fire on there?” Hope asked, eyeing Sebastian in the rear view mirrors. He was going to shoot that man one day. When Jim got bored.
“It’s mine.” He felt a pleasant twinge in his stomach as Hope went slack jawed. He didn’t like him anyway, proper chess has more than one move. (Sebastian, it’s your move)
“I think it’s terrible.” That girl piped up and Hope’s lips twitched. Sebastian resisted the urge to tell her she had no fucking idea and to shut up right now, thank you.
When the cab pulled up, Sebastian was out like a bullet, refusing to pay Hope himself and leaving this girl to do it. Hell, he could drive off with her now if he wanted, make a couple of thousand out of her death too. Bastard. Quite a crowd had formed, watching the flames lick the edges of his windows and the smoke billowing out the open bathroom one. He’d shut that, hadn’t he?
“Oi! Mr Moran!” The landlord, bald, aging, had a thing for watching porn during the small hours, tried to block his way into the building. Not that he was concerned about his safety, Mr Tomlinson had made it perfectly clear what he thought about ‘posh boys’ when Sebastian had bought the flat, probably because of the crowd. “You can’t go in there!” Sebastian thought he heard Tomlinson call him a rich cocksucker as he shoved past him and up the two flights of stairs.
He had to crawl down the landing to his door to avoid being knocked out by the smoke. He felt like a hunter again, crawling down a drain to kill Kali’s Kitten. The camera swivelled and focused on Sebastian’s crawling form but the sniper did not notice, too busy trying to unlock the door without breathing too much smoke in.
He almost, almost, received a face full of flames as the door swung open and he was forced to rise to his feet and just not breathe. His height put him right in the thick of the smoke, eyes stinging and lungs burning, screaming, with every step.
Blindly, he stumbled into the right corner of his bedroom and knelt, allowing himself a breath, prising the loose floorboard up so it revealed the gap where he stowed his equipment.
But
It had gone. All of it.
Horror rose in his throat like bile. Or it may have been actual bile. (checkmate) And then he saw through the smoke, like a mirage, or one of the hallucinations his old comrades used to see when they were up with the birds, a chess piece where his rifles should be. A knight. Slightly charred, but still ice cold, he confirmed as he rescued it from below the floor.
Sebastian made it out of the door before the ceiling collapsed and rubbed his eyes – regretting it immediately as it made the stinging ten times worse. The smoke wasn’t much better out here and Sebastian had to scoot through the window next to the fire escape when the door would not fucking budge.
Point made. Now where the hell do I live? SM
Sebastian took his first inhale of the night air and didn’t bother to fight the light headedness which sent him to his knees.
And laughed.
-1-
“You win again, Jimmy.” His father chuckled. But there was something off about the sound. Just as there was something off about the milky light trickling through the curtains and the shoes under his bed his parents couldn’t remember buying.
And Jim nods and thanks his father for the game and slips one of the knights into his pocket. For later. When he can use people as his pawns. (checkmate)
-11-
They’re laughing. Seb’s a smooth grumble, like a tiger purring and Jim’s higher in pitch, crazy and calculative. Nevertheless, they harmonise.
Sebastian’s not sure he’s ever seen so much money. Sure, he’s seen it in items, his family estate and the paintings and the chessboard. (your move, Sebastian) But never in pure, hard, set it on fire, stuff your mattress with it, money. And a good half of it was his.
Jim had been spectacular. They had been spectacular. Sebastian counting cards while Jim kept conversation flowing, digging around for people’s weak points and information, always. He’d also managed to get fairly wasted at the same time. And once he’d bled one table dry, they’d move onto the next, following Jim until it was time for the real part of the job.
That part was easy, a quick bullet to the head and the manager slumped to the floor like a rag doll, leaving more money for Sebastian to collect in his gun case, in the briefcases, in his pockets. The harder part was watching the clean lines formed by Jim in his suit and the slow smirk that would roll on to his face when he knew they’d won another hand.
So when they’re driving home and laughing, laughing, he does not object when Jim pulls his eyes from the road and drags him into a messy kiss – teeth and tongue and fingers twisted in his hair. They almost don’t crash.
-7-
They were both more than a little drunk, Jim’s idea (let’s go to a bar, Seb), and Sebastian fucking loved it when his boss was drunk and in this mood. Every movement increased in fluidity, hips swaying when he walked and eyes dark and half lidded. Like water. Like smoke.
And because Jim always expected the impossible of him, he decided he’d try and catch it. (your move, Sebastian) It wasn’t hard. Jim saw him coming and made a dive for his bedroom but Sebastian caught him, growling and laughing and too drunk.
He had over a head’s height on Jim, which he knew the man secretly liked, and he could smell the rich, tangy aroma floating off him in waves. It made him salivate, primal and predatory. He bent his head to get a proper lungful and was not expecting Jim to arch his neck and stand on his tip toes so they were face to face, noses touching. Eyes locked. He could smell whiskey on his boss’s breath and leant in closer, even closer, until they were sharing the intoxicated air.
Jim whispered what Sebastian presumed was his name and he closed the distance between them, lips coming to rest somewhere on Jim’s cheek. They felt like they were on fire. His fingers clenched tight around Jim’s waist where the man had been caught.
He opened his mouth to inhale deeply and fancied he could taste the tangy something he had smelt. He let his top lip drag down Jim’s cheek as he went to claim those lips. The ones he’d been seeing in his dreams for months, smirking and wet.
Jim soon took control. Pulling Sebastian’s head down with his fingers twisted painfully in his hair provided a much better angle for him to take what he wanted. And it seemed to Sebastian that he wanted everything. He could have it too. Tongue. Teeth. Blood. It all felt fucking marvellous.
He let out a yelp as he was pushed backwards across the room with a sharp nip to his bottom lip and his legs gave way as he collided with the sofa, landing on it with as much grace as a man that drunk could manage. Jim stood in front of him, smirking, oh, like the dreams, and Sebastian noticed the prominent bulge ruining the line of Jim’s trousers and managed a grin himself.
“We gonna fuck on the sofa, Boss?”
One pale finger reached out under his chin and smoothed along the line of his jaw. Sebastian shivered.
“Oh, yes, Sebby.”
Sebastian swore loudly as Jim removed his shirt and trousers, gesturing for him to do the same and then straddled his lap, the friction against his cock too much and not enough at the same time. Jim tutted and kissed him messily, beginning to grind his hips with slow circles, maddening through the two thin layers of cotton.
“So beautiful.” Jim ducked and licked a long stripe up one of Sebastian’s scars. His fingers dipped below the waistband of Sebastian’s boxers and the man whined. “Mm,” He paused to bite a smooth patch of skin, “Eager.” He climbed off suddenly, air moving in and making the wet, swollen patches on Sebastian’s neck and chest prickle with cold, and removed his pants. His cock was red at the tip and already beading with precome. Sebastian went to remove his own. “No, Sebastian.” Jim smiled like a snake and Sebastian swallowed, his hand freezing automatically. “You haven’t asked my permission.”
Sebastian swallowed again, too drunk to know anything but the fact that this possession was new. And that he liked it. When Jim ordered him to lie down on the sofa he did so automatically. Jim smirked, “Good boy.”, and then disappeared through the door to his bedroom, returning with a bottle of lube.
“Can I-?” Sebastian choked as he was straddled again, watching Jim spread his legs as far as the sofa would allow and lower one slick finger down past his cock and to the crease of his arse. He saw the flicker of discomfort as Jim breached himself and then the brown eyes shut, his head falling back in pleasure. A low hum seemed to be coming from Jim’s throat and Sebastian took that as assent, slipping his boxers down and gasping as his erection sprung free.
Jim was now rocking on two fingers, each moan making Sebastian’s cock twitch. Carefully, he wrapped a hand around Jim, revelling in the resulting hiss and the way Jim’s pupils seemed to grow impossibly larger. After two wet pulls his hand was slapped away.
Jim removed his fingers and held them out for Sebastian, they both moaned as he took a long lick of the digits before sucking them into his mouth. The taste was sweaty with an undercurrent of something dark Sebastian couldn’t place.
“I’ll have your cock now.”
“Condom.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Seb. I know you’re clean. I’m clean. And if you’re going to fuck me, you’re going to do it properly.” Jim’s voice was low and Sebastian moaned as finally, finally, his boss wrapped a hand around his dick, guiding it into his hole.
The heat was incredible, wet and tight, and Jim cried out and bit into Sebastian’s shoulder, hard, as he sunk low enough for Sebastian to hit his prostate. Sebastian wrapped his hands around Jim’s waist and grabbed a handful of his arse. He guided him into a less than gentle grind and swore loudly, thrusting upwards at Jim’s cries.
“Such –ah – language.” Jim tutted and bit lazily into Sebastian’s exposed neck, his nails raking scratches down Sebastian’s chest. The pain and pleasure mixed into something quite exquisite and Sebastian wondered why they hadn’t done this sooner, his drink addled mind providing no answer. “Uh. God, Sebby! One day,” He paused and groaned deeply, “I’m going to get a knife and carve my name into your chest and then everyone with know – ah – that you’re mine.”
“Yes. Oh, God. James!”
Jim’s eyes flew open, Sebastian had never called him that before, and he ground down faster, deeper, harder. Sebastian felt the familiar knot tightening at the base of his spine. He wasn’t going to last much longer.
His hand found Jim’s cock and gave it a few pulls; thumb teasing the head which was leaking steadily. His thrusting grew erratic, and soon Jim was coming, shouting Sebastian’s name and screwing that face up in pleasure.
His come landed on Sebastian’s stomach, hot and sticky and the sight was enough to tip Sebastian over the edge, his vision going white as he emptied his load inside his boss with another hoarse cry of “James!”.
The next morning he’ll stand in front of the mirror examining the purpling bruises and deep scratches and the next night they’ll do exactly the same thing.
-12-
He can’t see it. Personally. Of course, he understands how other people might see it – he’s good at that. And it’s why he decided to take her case.
It’s in the way she holds herself, head high and hips swaying slowly when she walks and the tight clothing, the lipstick. If he were to give his honest opinion, which he doesn’t, he’d say she was trying too hard.
She’s not stupid though, which is perhaps the only redeeming quality she has. And necessary, oh yes, if she wants to give the Holmes boys a run for their money. So, Jim supposes he shouldn’t be too surprised that she notices. When Sebastian enters the room, hair ruffled from the wind and cheeks slightly flushed because he’s just made a nice kill shot and it still excites him. Adorable, really.
“And who’s this?” Adler asks; voice like honey, like poison. Sebastian lopes over to the table and Jim allows him one sharp grin before snapping his fingers and watching his sniper straighten up. Really, adorable.
They share a glance, it’s confirmation about the job (well done, the remaining wrinkle at the corner of his lip states), a reinforcement that Jim wants the talking left to him (and don’t get any ideas, Sebastian raises an eyebrow and Jim blinks slowly) and oh, he wants a takeaway.
“Sebastian Moran, a colleague.” Jim ignores the flare of anger, the desire to throw his glass so it smashes again the wall, or at Sebastian, adding to the litany of scars already criss-crossing his chest, as Irene Adler offers her hand and Sebastian kisses it lightly.
“Pleasure to meet you, Sebastian Moran.”
They’re going to need to have a little chat about this.
Adler’s body language has changed completely. She’s a predator now and if they’re not very careful, there’s going to be a very nasty fight over who gets to hunt. Ironic, though, that she should become a Tigress and if she makes one wrong move Sebastian will be hunting her. Several clients have received beautiful rugs courtesy of Seb – he vaguely wonders who would appreciate Adler’s hide.
Maybe Fatty Holmes after all this is done.
Jim suddenly notices that they’re both watching him.
“Sebastian, why don’t you go get a drink?” It’s not a request and immediately his sniper is pushing back his chair and leaving towards the bar. One hand is raking through his hair and the other is in his pocket, fiddling with that chess piece again.
Adler looks back at him politely, she had been watching Sebastian’s arse retreat, and Jim glares.
“Mmm, how much would I have to pay you to keep him for a night?”
“I’m sure we could negotiate something.”
“I didn’t think you’d want to share.”
“I don’t have any intention of sharing, Ms Adler.”
Sebastian returns with a lager and another glass of wine for their guest. Jim watches the way she gently brushes Sebastian’s hand as she takes the glass.
“What have I missed?”
“Oh, not much, Ms Adler would like to have sex with you.”
Sebastian’s smirk is the most exciting thing Jim’s seen all day. For a moment he’s startled when he feels a foot pressing against the inside of his leg but then he realises it’s Sebastian and he’s managed to read him like one of those bloody rifle magazines again. Relax, Boss, the gentle pressure on his ankle says.
“It’s OK,” Seb gives Adler a sympathetic look; “You’re only human.”
(you win again, Jimmy.)
-2-
Sebastian’s mother taught him how to play chess. He was quite old when they started. Old enough to notice how her hands shook when his father entered the room. Too young to do more than guess at what it meant.
They used to play by the lake. They’d sit at the little table, Sebastian’s legs getting far too long to fit underneath anymore, and play the game until one or both of them were called back into the house. For Sebastian, algebra, or a talk with his father because he hadn’t put his gun back exactly where he found it or because someone had noticed one of the ducks was gone. For his mother, it was always to prepare for something. A party, or for dinner. Or for a talk with Sebastian’s father about what the hell they were going to do with that boy.
“It’s your move, Sebastian.” His mother nodded towards the board, the summer wind lifting her blonde hair slightly. He had been day dreaming about his friends back at boarding school, whether any of them had ever played chess and whether Jack Naylor was going to make good of his promise to bring his father’s pistol next term.
He pushed a pawn forward half heartedly. His whole life seemed to consist of a long and boring series of moves. Like if he and his mother were playing and wouldn’t take the other’s pieces or sacrifice any of their own. He’d do his time at school and he’d maybe be persuaded to go to university but then, and this he knew with a scary certainty, he’s be enrolled in the army. His father would use his influence to boost him up the ranks and he’d gamble his army pension on cards and dice the same way his father does.
But, shooting people has to be better than shooting ducks.
“Sebastian, it’s your move.”
-9-
This is going to make one hell of a mess.
But he’s only following orders and if Jim has a bitch about it then Sebastian is going to walk out of the flat and buy his own goddamn celebratory Chinese. He can’t stand his Boss when he’s like this anyway. Won’t let him touch, or doing any touching himself. He’s obsessed with the little CCTV set up where the telly used to be and won’t talk unless it’s through a phone and Sebastian is on top of a skyscraper a few miles away.
He squeezes the trigger gently and the whole left side of the block of flats explodes, along with that blind woman who still insisted he was her son come to visit her even when he was wrapping her up in semtex. He imagines the phone line Holmes is linked up to is quite dead. Quite, quite, quite.
Fucking Holmes. He’ll be glad when this is over.
-3-
“Timothy! Have you been keeping up with the latest army news?”
Jim is bored. These people are boring. He’s spent the last two hours wishing them into custom made coffins. But, he has to be here, with these posh, fat bastards, and listening into their conversations has done him a great lot of good before. Nobody suspects the waiter. It’s too easy. Boring.
“Not as much as I should, why?”
“Apparently, Colonel Moran has received a dishonourable discharge.”
“What?” The pompous gasp made Jim want to bury his head in his hands and slit a few throats. He really couldn’t care about some wealthy sod who’d got caught shooting up rather than shooting terrorists. “Augustus’ son? Why, I knew him as a lad at Eton! Wonderful boy.”
“Who, Sebastian Moran?” Another decided to join the conversation. Seemed like this Sebastian Moran had made quite a name for himself.
“Yes, the one who won all those sporting awards.”
“Ah, of course! He was in the rowing team – a Colonel now isn’t he?”
“Not anymore, he received a dishonourable discharge just last week.”
Oh, more gasping. Jim was going to kill one of them.
“Really? I wondered why I hadn’t seen Augustus here. But Sebastian was a crack shot! I heard he could kill a man from 2000m in a cross wind.”
That.
That was more interesting.
“Yes, but the word is he got a little rough with one of his men. One of them is coming home in a box, anyway.”
Much more interesting.
“What’s he doing now?”
“Well, Augustus won’t have him back. He used to beat the boy black and blue for shooting the ducks when he was a lad but I bet he wouldn’t dare lay a hand on him now. It’s all a disgrace for him, either way.”
“Suppose he’s slumming it in Brixton. Waste of a trigger finger if you ask me.”
Jim supposed he should probably check up on this Sebastian Moran.
He was still going to kill one of them.
-8-
Sebastian whistled as he walked back into the flat, rifle in its bag and slung over his shoulder. Another job well done, he would definitely say. The fat bastard had come down like a lead weight.
He caught his boss staring at him in the reflection of the big French doors and ventured a grin. The line’s around Jim’s eyes, the little crow’s feet that Sebastian had once been locked out for mentioning, tightened. Well that wasn’t exactly a good sign. (your move, Sebastian.)
“Alright, Boss?” Sebastian didn’t get a reply which usually meant that he didn’t really want one. Several possibilities ran through his head but as far as he knew China still had a population in the billions and the Taliban weren’t having a tea party on the fucking moon. Probably fine then.
He called for a Chinese and ordered Jim what he really wanted and himself what Jim preferred. It was always much easier to bait him into eating if the food he wanted was on Sebastian’s plate. Or maybe he just liked to try to push Sebastian until he snapped, the alien fork stabbing at bits of his food usually driving him mad.
“The job went fine.” He murmured into Jim’s ear later that night as the man replied to emails on his laptop in the newly developed prize spot between Sebastian’s legs. Because he was leaning back against Sebastian’s chest, the sniper could feel when he tensed up; hear his fingers pausing on the keys for half a second before the rapid clicking continued.
“Good.” Came the reply. Jim normally rewarded him with a dirty, knowing smirk at least. Tonight it seemed the lights were on but the person at home was trying their damndest to lock everyone out. Slowly, so Jim wouldn’t bolt or slap his hands away, he let his fingers inch around the smaller man’s hips until they met, forming a seatbelt around Moriarty’s waist.
This worked for them. Sometimes Sebastian needed to touch something and sometimes Jim needed to be touched. It wasn’t gentle or loving, there wasn’t any love. But it worked. And that was fine.
“What is it?” Jim seized up again, fingers pausing once again as Sebastian landed a small kiss on the pale flesh at the back of his neck. Right where he’d shot whoever it was he’d shot today. “Was it the job? I know him or something?”
Jim turned to face him, the laptop’s fall muffled by the rug. His face. Oh, God. Sebastian had seen it when Jim’s eyes went dark, when you could almost see the twisted soul that made the man. Hell, Sebastian allowed Jim to crawl into bed with him wearing that face. Had shot with those eyes watching over his shoulder. But he hadn’t seen this before.
His boss looked like a fucking kid. Like a kid who was about to get hit. It made him feel sick.
“What have you done?” He growled and hated himself a little more when the last of the colour drained out of Jim’s face. He hadn’t realised his hands had slipped back to Jim’s hips, likely leaving bruises wherever he was gripping.
He barely caught the way Jim’s eyes flickered back to the laptop screen.
“No.” Jim’s voice was low and dangerous and frantic as Sebastian leant down to scoop up the machine, dislodging Jim to the other side of the sofa as he did so.
“What have you done?” He batted away Jim’s hands (glancing over to check he wasn’t pulling out a knife anyway) and began scrolling through the open word document. “Who did I shoot?” There was nothing in there, lines of computer code that meant nothing to anyone but him, so Sebastian clicked onto the constantly open news webpage.
Colonel Augustus Moran Shot Dead at Charity Meeting
What?
“Seb.” Those hands were back. Too hot against his skin. Branding him. Jim’s eyes no longer looked childlike. No, Sebastian thought he could see too much.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Sebastian!”
Jim was shoved onto the floor as Sebastian rose, landing with much less force than Sebastian wanted. Because he wanted to hurt him.
He had killed his father. His goddamn fucking father. This was over the fine moral line he had. And Jim knew that. He knew.
The night’s Chinese rose in his throat, burning, and he only just got to the bathroom before it spilled out into the toilet bowl. He vaguely heard Jim approaching and slammed the door shut with his foot. Ramming the lock until it clicked and shaking against the invisible creatures that were crawling over his skin.
“Sebastian.” God, that voice. He could persuade an angel to fall with that voice. Sebastian bit his lip to stop from screaming. Tears welled up. But that was surely due to the pain of his teeth tearing into his lip.
Sebastian flinched, slipping down so he was resting his head against the toilet seat, as fists slammed against the outside of the door.
“Sebastian!”
“Fuck off!” The banging started again. The idiot was probably bruising himself with the amount of force he was slamming into the wood.
“NO!”
“FUCK OFF!”
The noise suddenly ceased. A stray shiver ran down Sebastian’s spine in its absence.
“Do you think I don’t know?” Jim’s voice was low and soft. Sebastian hated himself even more for shifting closer to the door, wrinkling his nose at the thick smell of chow mein and stomach acid.
“Know what?”
“What he did to you.” Sebastian froze. “He used to hurt you. DON’T.” A crash against the door. “THINK.” Another. “I. DON’T. KNOW.” For fuck’s sake, he was going to snap the hinge.
Sebastian felt a strange stirring in his stomach. A painful twisting that caused the tears in his eyes to double. (your move, Sebastian) He didn’t think about that. He remembered the chess by the lake. (Sebastian, it’s your move) And the wind lifting his mother’s hair. (your move) And the ducks. (move) And- There was another slam at the door, like he’d thrown his body it at and slipped to the floor.
“You can’t go back there now. You have to stay here.” Sebastian choked.
“I was disowned! I couldn’t go back to my parents even if I wanted to!”
“Got to stay with Jimmy.” Fuck. He was going insane and Sebastian had locked himself in the bathroom without Moriarty proofing the house.
“Boss-”
“Do you hate me, Sebastian? Do you hate me because I made you kill your father? But he hurt you, I won’t,” The sound of a deep, shuddery breath whistled through the gap under the door. “Hurt you. Even when I want to.”
And squatting on the tiles of their bathroom, eyes sore and throat like sandpaper, Sebastian wonders if he escaped one mad bastard to be caged by another. And he wonders why he doesn’t mind.
-5-
“Turn around.”
“Why? So you can stare at my arse again?”
Jim tuts but doesn’t deny anything and Sebastian smirks at him in the mirror.
It’s not a nasty suit, by any means, but Seb doesn’t like it. His boss makes a thoughtful noise and Sebastian whirls back around.
“Oh please, it’s like if Fatty Holmes’ and Noel Edmonds’ suits had an illicit affair!” Jim surprises him by laughing at that, a shrill giggle which makes the hairs on the back of Sebastian’s neck stand to attention. The assistant left them an hour ago, obviously uncomfortable with the avid staring from Jim. Don’t worry mate, you get used to it.
“Go try the blue one. And don’t pout! This is for your own good, I’m not having you looking like a rat all the time.” Sebastian huffs and goes to collect the blue suit.
“A very handsome rat.”
He could have just got changed in front of Jim but the consulting criminal gets possessive and likes to touch his scars and can’t be persuaded out of taking what he wants very easily.
“No.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Moran!”
“N- oi! Get out!” Jim pushes back the curtain and Sebastian sees it, the flicker of his eyes when he thinks he has a great idea.
“Yes.”
“I can’t breathe, no.”
“Breathing is booooring, Sebastian.” The sniper still isn’t quite used to the way his name sounds when rolled about in that way. He lifts his chin as Jim steps even closer.
“I want it.”
“I look ridiculous.”
And he does, he’s sure. The shirt is so tight it may as well be a second skin. Sebastian has real admiration for the buttons, resilient buggers. The trousers too, hug his thighs and arse in a way completely unsuitable for crouching on the rooftops or in dingy, abandoned buildings. “I can’t work in this.”
Jim shakes his head sadly. Like he isn’t the mad one. “Oh Sebastian, you won’t work in it. You can sit around the flat and look pretty.”
Jim’s hands seem to be everywhere, smoothing down his chest and slipping round to grab at his butt.
He smirks and it’s not surprising how quickly Sebastian caves after that. (checkmate)
-4-
And just who did they think they were?
Granted, there was a planned mix up with the exchange, ten million pounds had gone for a gay little jaunt into a Swedish back account, but these things happen. And these lowlifes were lucky he considered their case at all, much less that he agreed to meet up with them. Okay, he was behind a screen and they couldn’t see his face because his new sniper was so funny, but they should still be highly grateful.
Jim Moriarty does not think that trying to shoot your helper shows gratefulness. AT ALL. It’s a good job he wasn’t hiring guns – oh, he could imagine Moran’s face – because the shots were firing everywhere and missing him completely.
Then there were three clean pops and the sound of hurried footsteps and one of the fire doors slamming shut. Jim steps out from the screen in time to watch Moran snap the neck of one of the men who tried to run. The satisfying click makes his palms itch and Moran’s eyes are steely when he looks over, dropping the body to the floor with a thump. Moran growls a little, the sound mentally saved for later, when Jim screws up his mouth and shrugs.
These things happen.
“I hired a sniper, not a bodyguard.” He dares to accuse, half hoping Moran will make that sound again. He does not disappoint.
“Good job, too. Bodyguards are idiots.”
But there’s a tilt to his lips, a fascinating tilt. Jim sighs and heads over to the double doors, smirking tightly when he hears those same footsteps behind him. (you win again, Jimmy)
-13-
Jim was staring again, fingers drumming against the side of the chair and making it incredibly difficult for Sebastian to concentrate on this report he was supposed to understand. He ran a hand through his hair, brushing his fringe out of his eyes. Jim followed the movement with his eyes, unnerving Sebastian a little.
An order would come if there was an order to give.
“Your hair is too long.” Jim’s voce was a low growl. Sebastian looked up.
“I’ll get it cut tomorrow.” It was late now. Too late for barbers. And too late for Sebastian to want to go anywhere but the bedroom, for sex and then to sleep.
“No.” Jim stood up and strutted over. Sebastian had forgotten how glorious his boss looked when he lost the suit jacket and loosened his tie just slightly. The report was plucked from his grasp and he was pulled from his chair with frightening ease. “Bathroom, now.”
With a barely perceptible groan, sex and sleep would be fine, Sebastian allowed himself to be pushed in the direction of the bathroom, the same bathroom had locked himself inside that lifetime ago. He perched on the toilet and stared at his refection in the mirror. His hair wasn’t that long, not really.
Then Jim was back, shadow falling onto the tiles, the pair of scissors clutched in his hand making it look very horror-esque. Sebastian nearly smirked. He was shaking, Jim, just slightly, and when Sebastian looked up he saw Jim’s pupils were dark and full.
“Just the hair, Jim.” He warned, but it wouldn’t be much use if his boss didn’t get a hold of himself. And really, what choices had brought him here, (your move, Sebastian) to one of the most expensive bathrooms in London, where he was about to let a psychopath approach his head with scissors? He’d allow it, too. Jim had already carved his own web of scars into Sebastian’s skin, crisscrossing and parodying those left by Kali’s Kitten. It wasn’t a matter of trust. It was a matter of knowing who’s in command.
Jim nodded and the heels of his shoes clicked disturbingly on the tiles as he came forward. Sebastian watched as Jim shifted so he was as centrally behind him as he could manage and had the odd sensation of being able to see and feel Jim burying a hand in his hair, nails scratching lightly over his scalp. Mm. He always liked that.
“Not too short.” Jim seemed to be giving himself instructions so Sebastian kept quiet. He heard Jim inhale and then tufts of his hair were being lifted from his head and cut. Cleanly, quickly, Moriarty could have been a surgeon, Sebastian supposed, then cringed.
They proceeded in silence. Strands of hair fell to the floor in an almost constant shower. Sebastian watched Jim in the mirror like a hawk, freezing once, twice, when his new barber paused, the blade pressing firmly into the back of his neck. Another deep exhalation made the snipped bits of hair on Sebastian’s neck and down the back of his t-shirt wave and itch.
Then it passed and Jim went on chopping again, his erection occasionally bumping Sebastian in the side.
Slowly, after what felt like a hot, quiet lifetime, Jim stepped away. The breeze that filled the space was cool and made Sebastian shiver. Their eyes met in the mirror. The scissors were placed on the side of the bath wordlessly with a small ceramic clink and Jim’s hands found Sebastian’s (shorter) hair.
“Thank you.”
-14-
“I need to talk to you.”
“Ugh, boring. Talk.”
“I think I’m in l-”
“SHUT UP!”
“Jim-!”
-10-
It didn’t hurt for three seconds.
The first second was spent firing his last shot of the day. The second, was watching Watson go haring after Holmes, mouth open and just, just, missing Sebastian’s bullet. The third was filled with a not uncommon thought of, ‘shit, Jim.’
He woke up in bed. It still hurt, the bullet graze, but he’ll live. He always lives. What he didn’t expect was a sharp slap across the left cheek.
“You bastard!” Jim had never called him a bastard before. Sebastian wondered briefly whether he should lay back and enjoy it. Then another ringing slap made him cry out in pain.
“Ah, fuck, God. Watch it!”
Jim crawled up the bed, straddling him and putting pressure on the wound. He snarled at Sebastian’s whimper and pressed down directly on the bandage until tears formed in Sebastian’s eyes. The sniper felt a moment of panic as he realised his chess piece, his knight, could have been destroyed in the shot. It was on the bedside table.
“You weren’t following my orders.”
“Your orders were bullshit.” He expected the slap this time so it didn’t hurt as much.
“My orders were designed to prevent this.”
Jim’s face was barely an inch away from his. Eyes locked. Sebastian thought he could see that dancing insanity around the edge of his pupil. He could touch it. But there’s something else . . . Lips were crushed together, biting and sucking but the pleasure just about counteracts the pain. (Sebastian, it’s your move)
“You got scared.”
-15-
“Seb.”
“Hm?”
“I love you.”
“No you don’t.”
“No, but it’s nice of me to pretend to.”
-16-
Sebastian will wake up soon.
Not that Jim is worried about this knowledge. It must be nicer than the way he was woken up in the early hours of the morning. By one of Jimmy’s bad dreams. He shudders and keeps writing.
The act is very soothing, black marker sliding across Sebastian’s skin, leaving perfect curves and lines behind. Jim thinks he could do the same with a knife, all that skin and all that blood. Sebastian’s life would pour out around the numbers, the music. And it would be glorious.
He jerks a little as Jim smooths a hand down his stomach and ignores his questioning stare as he wakes, returning to the music and the writing. Sebastian mumbles something about Doctor Who and falls back asleep.
-17-
They had been sat staring at each other for the last half an hour. Possibly an unnatural length of time but Sebastian had said something and Jim had snapped a reply and oh, it didn’t even matter. There was silence now.
(your move, Sebastian)
Sebastian was watching the tiny bit of un-gelled hair Jim had missed, sway in the hospital air conditioning out of the corner of his eye. He was turning the knight over in his pocket, smooth marble welcome and cold against his fingers. Jim was staring blandly at him, a trick that he used to use so Sebastian would lose attention – then he’d pounce. It wasn’t working, Jim was wound as tightly as a drum and Sebastian wasn’t leaving him. Not just now.
(Sebastian, it’s your move)
Jim’s phone beeped and a hot feeling spread in Sebastian’s stomach as Jim’s eyes slipped slowly off his face on to the phone in his hand. A sly curve formed on his lips and Sebastian had never hated anything about his boss, his James Moriarty, more than that last smirk.
Jim stood. Sebastian stood.
“It’s showtime.”
(your move)
“I know the plan.” Sebastian said because it was something to say. Because he felt like he was running out of time to say these things.
“Good boy.”
The hand that wasn’t still in his pocket, gripping the chess piece so hard it left a sharp red groove, stretched out to slick down that stray hair. Jim reached up to stop him. Eyes locked. And that was fine. He could still get lost in those eyes, could still see that speck of insanity which kept him around. He caught Jim’s wrist. The pulse beat wildly under his fingers.
(your move)
∞
If he’d have known he wouldn’t have let go.
Because life is a game of chess and this is losing.
(checkmate.)