Chapter Text
It wasn’t raining.
That was a bonus at least.
The sky was still grey. Dark clouds shielding the sun, killing any light before it had a chance to hit the ground.
Not like that day.
Sebastian recalled the way the sun had shone in through the bedroom window. How he had relished in the warm comfort of their shared bed, keeping his eyes closed for as long as he could bear so he didn’t have to face that blinding light. Then he’d turned to find an empty bed; woke to find James had…
He didn’t want to think about it.
Despite the overcast sky casting a grey hue over the graveyard, Sebastian still wore sunglasses. He’d drunk heavily the night before. In fact, he’d drunk heavily every night since James had abandoned him. He was drinking now. A steel flask clutched in a tight fist; the smell of whiskey hiding the fact that he hadn’t showered in days.
He didn’t see the point in showering anymore.
His free hand was buried in the pocket of his trench coat, fiddling with his car keys. He wasn’t sure why he’d brought them with him, it wasn’t like he’d be driving anywhere. They wouldn't let him.
His gaze flicked over them all; the other mourners. Standing beside a grave that shouldn’t exist. The funeral was long since over. The coffin had been lowered into the pit; empty - James wouldn’t have wanted to be stuck in there. Cremation had seemed a better option at the time, but Sebastian regretted it now. If James had been in that box then perhaps there was a chance; Sebastian could’ve crawled in with him, curled up beside him for the last time, stayed there until he ran out of oxygen and faded into a peaceful sleep.
But he didn’t want that.
James hadn’t gone peacefully. It had been messy. Blood everywhere, the stress of the chase being the last thing on his mind.
Sebastian shivered at the thought, drawing his coat tighter around him and taking a long drink from his flask. The burn of the whiskey was too familiar now, not warming him at all.
No, it wouldn’t be fair for Sebastian to choose an easy way out now. If he wanted to join his lover, then he’d do so in a similarly dramatic manner.
His empty eyes, shielded by the necessity of his sunglasses, landed on Sam and Ewen; huddled together, Ewen’s arm tight around her shoulders as she tried to hide her tears in his side. She was three months pregnant now, just starting to show.
Sebastian should’ve been happy for them. He should’ve been congratulating her and expressing his excitement at the idea of being a pseudo-uncle to the little tyke. Instead, he felt nothing but anger. Anger that they were happy. Their tears and grieving expressions were a facade. They weren’t as distraught as he was. They had a future, a family. Something Sebastian would never have now. James had stolen his chance for that.
Beside the happy couple, Bobby was doing a much better job of acting the part. Ewen’s face was ashen. Sam’s was tear-stricken. But Bobby? His bottom lip wobbled; his blue eyes swam with tears; his cheeks were downright raw against his porcelain face. He looked like he’d never experienced such grief before. Perhaps he hadn’t. Sebastian knew Bobby had begun to think of the team as family. He spent more time at work than he did at home.
James had liked him; Sebastian had grown to. That would change now, no doubt. The boy had to grow up, and do it fast. Sebastian wasn’t going to mollycoddle him, and he certainly wasn’t going to let any slip ups pass.
He was running the network now.
Molly was walking away; a hand to her mouth as she bit back sobs.
‘Alright for some.’ Sebastian mused, a snarling smirk drawing across his face. He wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. Not unless he was forcibly dragged from the grave.
He didn’t blame her, of course. She’d known James for a long time, it must’ve been hard for her. Perhaps the only one who felt it as strongly as Sebastian did; she hadn’t even been able to do the autopsy, too wrapped in her own grief - and she’d lost Sherlock too.
The next long drag of whiskey buried the bile that climbed up Sebastian’s throat at the thought of the detective. If it wasn’t for him, none of this would’ve happened.
Sebastian dragged his eyes away from Molly, slowly fading into obscurity as she hurried from the graveyard.
He turned his attention to Irene. Aside from Molly, she had known James the longest. She should’ve been beside herself with grief…so why wasn’t she? She’d been crying, sure. But in the moments when she thought no one was watching, her face was blank. No anger, no sadness, just…complacency. Like she was forcing her grief. Sebastian knew it couldn’t be true. She’d feel how he did. She was just better at hiding it than him, better at putting on a smile and behaving civilly in the face of others.
Something Sebastian had long since forgotten how to do.
He felt a hand on his shoulder as he went to take another drink, staring at the grave beneath him. The coffin was hidden now, the dirt piling up on top of it at a snail’s pace. He glanced to his side, to where Charlie and his fiancé were standing.
David had stepped back a little, giving Charlie the space to comfort his friend. He and Sebastian had never really gotten on. Sebastian thought David was a wimp, dragging Charlie down with him. David thought Sebastian was dangerous, taking too much of Charlie’s time and giving nothing back.
Sebastian didn’t care either way anymore.
He looked now at the tight line Charlie’s lips had drawn across his face, clocked the pity in his eyes, and drew his gaze away before his emotions overwhelmed him. His chest already felt tight. He didn’t need to feel everyone’s pity as well; he knew they were all watching him, and that was enough.
He took his drink. Charlie wasn’t going to stop him.
“I’m fine.” He growled. Not even sure if he really said it out loud. It sounded loud in his head, but Charlie’s hand didn’t leave his shoulder.
They stood like that for a while. The cold started to set its teeth into their bones before anyone moved.
Ewen was first; taking a deep breath as he cast a sunken glance around the group. He shifted, turning to Sam at his side and beginning to guide her away. That’s when Sebastian saw him:
Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Fucking Holmes.
It was unmistakable.
The trenchcoat down to his calfs; the collar pulled up obnoxiously high; the scarf tied like a noose around his neck; and those fucking curls that Sebastian saw in his nightmares.
Rage came quick. Quicker that Sebastian thought possible.
That man was supposed to be dead. He was supposed to be with James. Burning somewhere in hell. Of course, James wouldn’t be burning…he’d be the cause of the fire.
Sebastian was certain of that.
He moved fast. Faster than he’d moved in days. Practically leaping across the pit between them and sprinting at Sherlock. His flask lay forgotten in the mud.
The others were too slow. Before they’d even clocked what had happened, Sebastian had curled his fists into the lapels of that fucking trenchcoat, tight enough to ensure him it wasn’t a torturous vision, and dragged Sherlock across the grass, away from the grave, away from James.
He threw the detective to the ground. The fire that burned in his eyes may have been hidden by his glasses, but it still tore through his slurred words. “How fucking dare you?!” He yelled, staring down at Sherlock’s smug smirk. “You have no right. No fucking right.”
He wanted to hit, to kick, to shoot. His hand reached for his pistol automatically, fingers closing around the cool metal as he tugged it from his waistband.
A hand closed around his elbow before he had a chance to fully draw the weapon.
He turned fast, ready to throw his anger into this new threat.
He was met with Charlie’s pitiful eyes.
“There’s no point, Sebby.” Charlie muttered, his voice surprisingly stable. “He’s not worth it. Just leave it.”
Sebastian wasn’t sure why it worked. Maybe it was the pity. Maybe it was the grounding sound of a familiar voice, or the warm hand on his arm. Maybe it was the alcohol confusing his senses and making him more susceptible to the manipulation.
Or maybe, more likely, was the fact that Sebastian didn’t care.
It was Sherlock’s fault. All of this. He was supposed to be dead, too. Not here. Not gloating at James’ funeral, like he’d won.
He had won. Sebastian knew it. So, Charlie was right, as usual: there was no point in fighting.
Sebastian kept his eyes on Charlie, only half aware of Irene helping Sherlock up and sending him away. He didn’t care. Not really. That burst of rageful energy had tired him out. He just wanted to go home now. Back to his flat. Not to James’ house - he’d never set foot there again. No. He wanted to go home. He wanted to curl up on the sofa, close his eyes, and never open them again. He couldn’t live one more day without James.
‘You have to.’ A voice rang through his head. James’ lilting accent clear as the day he’d last heard it.
He had to. For the network. For James’ legacy. He had to carry on.
It was effortless for Charlie to steer him towards the waiting car, to seat him inside, between himself and Irene. The drive felt faster leaving than it had going there, and yet, it seemed to drag on for eternity at the same time.
His legs were lead as he trudged up the stairs to his flat. His head spinning as Charlie opened the door. His eyes starting to sting with exhaustion…
‘Or not.’ Sebastian thought as he lifted his thumb to dry the singular tear running a track down his cheek. He couldn’t recall starting to cry, but he realised now that his cheek was wet; more than the dregs of a single tear.
He shuffled into his flat, Irene and Charlie’s voices merging together into a low hum of sorrowful nonsense behind him. The static of their conversation was momentarily drowned out as Sebastian dragged the half empty bottle of whiskey from the kitchen island with a scraping clink on his way to collapse into the sofa.
He yanked his sunglasses off and tossed them to the coffee table, staring at the black television screen before him. His vision had turned to a blurred vignette as he blinked away the tears. There was nothing he could do to stop them now, might as well accept it.
In the near distance he heard the click of his front door closing before Charlie swam into view, crossing in front of him and prising the bottle from his iron grip.
“Irene’s gone home.”
Charlie didn’t elaborate on that matter of fact statement. He didn’t know what to say. Sebastian knew it, and that was okay; words wouldn’t bring James back. No matter how lovely they sounded.
Sebastian let his head crash onto Charlie’s shoulder, curling into his best friend as he felt arms wrap around his back. He drew his knees close to his chest, folded uncomfortably on himself in order to get as close as he could to the solace Charlie’s warmth was offering him. He wanted to stay like that forever.
The tears came fast now. Hot, salty water spilling over his eyelids, racing down his cheeks, dancing through the stubble on his jaw, and landing in a fast forming puddle on Charlie’s blazer. There was snot too, Sebastian could taste it every time he opened his mouth to draw in a ragged breath. His sobs echoed through the silence of his flat, like the cries of a wounded animal trapped in the desert.
Sebastian would quite like to be in the desert now. Roasting under the scorching sun. Memories all around him.
At least those memories didn’t hurt as much as the ones he had now. War was easy. This was not.
Charlie stayed with Sebastian long past nightfall, slowly unravelling himself from Sebastian’s hold once the grieving man had fallen into worn-out slumber, and creeping out of the pitch black flat.
—————————————————————————
Irene, of course, had gone home hours earlier; as soon as she was certain Sebastian would be alright with Charlie. She’d gotten into the same car and made it home whilst the sun was still fighting to break through the steely wall of clouds.
She’d stepped in through her front door, hung her coat and kicked off her heels, then strode purposefully towards her study. The same study where her and Sebastian had finally become friends all those months ago. Her house was in darkness as the natural light oozing through the windows dwindled rapidly; her only source as she marched down the hall was the flickering firelight spilling out of the open study door.
She made sure to slam that door shut behind her as she stepped into the overwhelming heat of the room.
“He’s wrecked. I hope you’re proud of yourself.” She snapped at the back of an armchair that had been dragged in front of the fire.
James’ pale face peered at her from the side of it, expression bored and uncaring as he poured his lips and shrugged.
“Good. I’d hoped he’d be.”
“Good?! Good?! I’m sorry, Jim, but what about this is good? He nearly killed Sherlock this afternoon - “
“- Sherlock was there?”
“What would that’ve done to your ‘grand plan’?” She waved her hands above her head at those last two words, before snatching a large glass of red wine from the table that James had oh-so-kindly poured ready for her. She sat on the chaise longue, legs crossed over each other and took a hefty gulp of her wine. It, along with a deep breath and a silent prayer, helped her to compose herself, so when she looked up to catch James’ intense stare, she had resorted back to the calm she was so well known for. “He’ll be fine, Jim. He’s got Charlie, and the others, they’ll look after him.”
“I know he’ll be fine.” Came the snapped response as James turned back to the fire.
“Okay then.”
Silence stretched between the two friends for a long time; James staring into the fire, and Irene watching him in anticipation of a more human reaction that she wasn’t sure she was going to get. She wasn’t sure until she heard him sigh and watched him rise to his feet.
“He doesn’t suspect anything then? None of them do? Sherlock?”
Perhaps not quite the emotional revelation she’d hoped for, but James had a habit of forever evading her expectations.
“No. Like I said, Seb’s a wreck. He was drunk, think that’s half of why he went for Sherlock, and entirely why he stopped.” She sighed and leant forward, clutching her glass in front of her. “Sherlock doesn’t know anything either. He plans to dismantle the network, just like you planned.”
“Perfect. Then I’ll be off in the morning. Best I get to Russia before Sherlock has a chance. Yankovskiy’s flaky enough as it is.” James made towards the study door, but stopped in his tracks with his hand hovering over the door handle. “Please keep an eye on him anyway. I’d hate for something to happen before I can come back to him.”
“What makes you think he’d let you just ‘come back’?”
“He will. He cares too much for his own good.”
“A lot can change in a year, Jim.”
There was a pause before James spoke again, as though he were considering Irene’s insinuation.
“He’s loyal. He’ll fall in line anyway.”
His tone cooled the room despite the roaring fire in the centre, causing chills to run down Irene’s spine once he’d disappeared into the shadows of the hall.
She knew he was right, but she hoped Sebastian would prove him wrong.