When Sebastian continued to hesitate, Jim suddenly started to rethink the decisions for the past eight years. The decision to choose Sebastian, to take him in, to make his sniper. The sex, the dinners, the fights, the blood… all of it. Was it really all boiling down to a pathetic man who couldn’t follow an order?
“Bastard.” Jim said, pressing his forehead into the gun. “Pull the fucking trigger, Sebastian. Do it!” He shouted and then glared at him, his nostrils flaring slightly. “Kill me.” There was a seriousness in his voice, challenging the other to even think about defying him. “It’s an order, you worthless coward. Pull the trigger. Now!”
His voice suddenly got loud as he looked at Sebastian, still hesitating. “Didn’t you hear me?” He let out a trail of slurs in numerous languages, all attacking Sebastian and his cowardess. Jim shook slightly, his eyes tearing, but not from sadness, from frustration. “J-just do it.”
The hitch in his voice was small, but apparent. “Sebastian… pull the trigger… the last thing I ask of you… pull the fucking trigger.”
Even though he knew this was what Jim wanted, it didn’t make it any easier. He had dedicated his every waking moment for the better part of a decade to this man, and here Jim was, pressing his head into the business end of the gun and telling Sebastian to pull the trigger.
What would he do without Jim? What would he be able to do? He could join the French foreign legion, he could go back to India, or he could start up as a body guard in Italy or someplace in a spanish-speaking country. He could still do something dangerous and risky, but without Jim… .
Without Jim Moriarty it would be torture. Sebastian was staring at the man who was getting slightly red in the face, who was yelling at him, raging. It would be the worst sort of feeling in the world, living without Jim. He’d grow old, and, even worse, comfortable. And then he’d probably start forgetting things.
Jim began to curse in Gaelic and Sebastian only caught about half of the other languages the man used. He’d forget those first; and be stuck with just English and Spanish. He’d quickly forget his military training and wouldn’t be able to tell a pistol from a rifle, much less be able to shoot either. He’d forget the war, and wouldn’t miss it. Next would be the jungle, and the feel of mud on his legs and blood on his hands. And then, like his father had done to him, so many years ago, asking for Jasper and not this scarred stranger, Sebastian would forget his name.
The man was starting to tear up and Sebastian knew it wasn’t because he was sad. Jim was just angry. Angry at him.
He would forget Jim too, and that realization hit him harder than anything else. He couldn’t do that to Jim, whose biggest fear was being forgotten. Couldn’t live knowing that slowly, surely, his Alzheimer’s would eat at his brain, steal away his memories and leave him a shell, empty and complacent in a world that would provide him anything he wanted, and in the end all Sebastian would remember was that there was something terrible about living so comfortably. A man is only truly dead when his name is said for the last time.
Sebastian looked, really looked at this man in front of him, and he understood something awful about himself; he was a coward, he was weak, and most of all, he couldn’t live without James Moriarty.
He took a deep breath and in a second he had stepped forwards, pulled Jim to him, held the other man close, Jims head tucked neatly under his. He shut his eyes, swallowed, pushed the barrel cruelly underneath Jims jaw, his other hand holding Jim tightly to his body as he pulled the trigger, releasing the bullet that tore through Jims and then his brain.
The last thing he thought of in that infinity of a second as the gun seared through his shattered skull was flashes of the jungle. The tight knit trees were large and imposing, dark and inviting and warm, dangerous and enticing and echoing with a need that said to Sebastian, you are mine, and you belong to me.
And then, Sebastians mind went dark, and he became only a memory that would surely be forgotten, as the only one who would have bothered to remember Sebastian Moran was dead by his own hand.
As Jim looked at Sebastian and the gun, he smiled some. This wasn’t how he wanted to go out. He wanted it to be a special death, in triumph, knowing that he’d been the one to kill Sherlock Holmes. He could pretend. Pretend that it was him who poisoned him, or something… but pretending was for children and Jim Moriarty was no child.
His eyes trained on Sebastian’s and he could see the way the other hesitated to pull the trigger. Stepping forward, Jim reached up and touched the barrel of the gun. Cool dark metal. How he loved watching Sebastian shoot; the sound that the gun made when it went off would ring in his ears for hours, but he always loved it, because of who was shooting it.
Though, any sentiment that Jim had held onto, was gone now. Jim pressed his forehead to the barrel of the gun, feeling the cool metal, and looked at Sebastian. “Go ahead, pull the trigger. You’re the only person who can do this for me, Sebastian Leander Moran. I just wish you could come with me… I’ll save a place for you in Hell.”
Reaching up, Jim pulled the hammer back on the gun and then nodded slightly. “Do it.”
This was ridiculous. It was absurd that this was happening to him. Sebastian wanted to ask why, wanted more of an explanation than; ‘I would be so bored!’ That wasn’t an explanation, but he had seen the way Jim looked, any semblance of feeling had long since left his face, and he recalled the way that animals looked once they were on the earth, just after the gun rang out. It was a look that said there is nothing left.
One of Sebs feet slipped backwards as Jim came right up and pushed against his gun. Sebastians eyes widened a little as Jim reached up to his gun (shaking, only a little bit, for the first time in his life) and pulled back on the hammer. This was it. Safety off, Gun cocked. All it would take was a little bit of pressure from his index finger and goodbye Jim.
He couldn’t put this off. If he was going to do it he would have to do it now. He knew Jim was serious - Jim would flirt with danger but he’d never actively court death like this, he would never beg to die unless it was what he well and truly wanted. This was it. This was going to be the end of Jim Moriarty, and Sebastian knew that if he didn’t kill him someone else would and Sebastian couldn’t handle that, didn’t want to think about anyone else being responsible for Jim but him, because this man had been his life for the past eight years.
His scar was less purple and his hand wasn’t shaking as much as he stared at Jims dead eyes. How could Jim ask this of him? It was his last act, and, so like Jim, god damn it, it was completely selfish of him.
“You son of a bitch.” Sebastian muttered, swallowing despite his dry throat.
Jim leaned up, pulling Sebastian’s head down and then pressed their lips together lightly. It would probably be their last kiss. He knew that once he spoke again, Sebastian would see that he was serious, would see that he meant what he’d said.
Pulling back, he smoothed his thumbs over the other’s cheek. “Certain. More certain than death or taxes.” He said and then pulled back. Walking over to the table, he picked up the newspaper and flipped it, showing the headline and picture to Sebastian. “It’s over. All of it is over. All of our plans.” He set the paper back down and then sighed some.
“If I keep this up, this living thing… I’ll just be bored. There’s no one around that could even come close to as amusing as that sarcastic, pompous idiot.” Shaking his head, he walked off a bit. “Not even you, Sebastian. You’re special. You’re so, so special… but you’re not worth it.”
Turning back around, Jim moved over to Sebastian and placed his hands on the other’s chest. “You’re not worth it… no one is worth. Hell, he wasn’t even worth it… just a good distraction. Now he’s gone. Poof. Do it, Sebastian. You’re the only person, ever, that I could want… need to do this for me. Put a bullet in my skull and end my boredom… then… do whatever you want.”
Sebastian let himself be moved down to kiss Jim and it felt out of place. His hands moved and he didn’t want this he thought, his hand behind Jims neck, but as he tried to deepen the kiss, trying to feel something, Jim pulled back.
The blood rushed in the back of Sebs throat, and he tried to swallow his heart back down to it’s normal position, letting Jim slip away from him. His eyes scanned the paper on the table (Deducing Detective Dead) and suddenly he understood how serious Jim was. Sherlock dead meant the end of everything Jim had ever worked for, the end of his games and his entertainment. There wouldn’t be another like Sherlock for another decade, and Mycroft? No. There was nothing left for Jim to giggle over, delight in, nobodies death he wanted more than to take Sherlocks.
“You’re special-” But it wasn’t enough, was it? Sebastian swallowed hard, mouth in a hard line as he watched Jim pace the floor. Nothing was enough any more, nothing would ever be enough.
As if it was only instinct driving him, Sebastian pulled out his Sig, sliding the safety off and raising the gun at Jim. His eyes were narrowed, nostrils flared, the long scar on his jaw a livid purple. Then his hand shook and he fought for control. His jaw clenched, making his scar stand out, ropy and angry on his face, his lips pursed as he aimed his gun at Jim Moriarty, knowing that if he cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger right now there was no way that the mans brains wouldn’t paint the wall brown and red.
When Sebastian entered, Jim still hadn’t moved. He simply sat where he was. There was a lot on his mind. He wondered who would take over, after this… if anyone would take over at all. He wondered if he’d be remembered, or if they would simply forget who Jim Moriarty was. He could only hope not.
After Sebastian spoke, Jim finally turned to him. It looked as though he’d been crying for hours, but there wasn’t a trace of tears anywhere. He just looked worn. Standing, Jim walked over to Sebastian and then paused, before reaching up and taking the other’s cheeks in his hands.
“You’ve always been loyal to me, Sebastian. No matter how badly I beat you, no matter what I said to you, no matter how much I refused to be kind to you…” Jim started and then smiled weakly at Sebastian. “You’re the only person I could ever ask this of…”
Swallowing, Jim looked down to gather his thoughts. Should he pretend he had feelings for the man? No, probably not, that would be silly. He hated Sebastian Moran almost as much as he hated himself. It was quite uncanny. Looking up, Jim finally spoke again.
“Put a bullet in my head.”
There was a strange mood in the air as Sebastian watched Jim Moriarty. Sebastian chewed on the inside of his cheek but let his eyes wander. He had unconsciously situated himself so that he was standing at the ready, hands clasped behind a straight back. The only thing deviating from his training was the fact that he was looking anywhere but straight ahead, because that was where Jim was standing.
The look on Jims face was, and there was no other way to say this; disturbing. He seemed as if something had been sucked out of his eyes, they were dull, not oynx but coal. There was something wrong with the way he was walking, there was a stiffness in his limbs. Sebastian’s eyes were forced to meet Jims as the man pulled his face down towards his. He couldn’t read any of Jims tics right now because Jims face was simply absent of any emotion at all.
Sebastian had no idea what was going on. What was this? What was Jim trying to tell him? Sebastian frowning deeply, dark furrows in between his lines spelled out his confusion.
“Sir? What? . . ” He trailed off as Jim looked down.
“Put a bullet in my hand.”
Sebastian would have laughed but the thought died in his brain and the idea, that Jim was not joking with him, trickled icily down his spine, into his gut, and through his legs. He was staring into Jims face as the other man spoke and he opened his mouth. He wouldn’t ask why. That wasn’t his place, but god he wanted an explanation, at the very least.
“Sir, I… ” He closed his eyes, keeping his hands behind his back, but his knuckles were white. He opened them again.
“Are you serious about this, Jim?”
How could this have possibly happened? This… ridiculous turn of events? All of the planning, all of the work, all of the people he broke and ruined just for him to find out that the person he had centered nearly all of his work on… was dead.
Jim couldn’t believe it. He gaped at the newspaper and shook his head, uttering ‘No’ under his breath, over and over. The headline read as such;
Sherlock Holmes -REALLY- dead this time.
There was a picture of his body, his real body, and everything. It had been an accident. Some sort of experiment gone wrong. Jim did warn him, ‘You shouldn’t play with chemicals’, but the Detective hadn’t listened. Why would he? Listen to Jim Moriarty, his arch enemy? No. Never. He never listened, that stupid, daft, idiotic-
Jim put the paper down and ran his hands over his face, before it hit him. The nothing. There was nothing now. Sherlock Holmes was dead and now there was no one to fight against, no one to play his little games with, no one to destroy. Jim’s hands started to shake and he suddenly felt sick. Shoving out of the chair, he rushed to the toilet. Emptying the contents of his stomach, he groaned and then leaned against the tub. Pulling out his phone, he sent a simple text to Sebastian;
I need you. Bring your favourite gun. -JM
He stood and brushed his teeth, fixed his hair, went to his room, put on his favourite suit, and then went to the den to wait. His hands were folded in his lap as Jim waited. The only thought on his mind was that, despite all of this, he still felt nothing. Sure, he was angry, upset, furious, but soon… soon…
It was not unusual for Sebastian to get demanding text messages from Jim at odd hours. So when he stepped out of the shower after returning from a mission he assumed that Jim needed an immediate report or something simple along those lines. He toweled off his hair, glancing at his phone. It wasn’t too unusual except for the request to bring his favorite gun. Sebastian pulled on his clothing, put on a chest holster and, opening his safe, brought out his Sig Saur, tucking it neatly into the case against his chest.
45 minutes -SM
He called a cab to come pick him up and in about half an hour he was at Jims flat. He didn’t have to buzz up and he knocked gently on the door. It was more of a warning than anything else, he was not expecting Jim to come open the door for him. He opened the flat and closed the door, locking it securely before going into the living room. Jim was sitting there, unmoving. Sebastian frowned, looked at the opposite wall (just a television) and then back at Jim.
He didn’t move further into the room, but rocked on his heels, waiting for Jim to say something. There wasn’t much sound in the apartment and Sebastian coughed, as if suggesting to Jim that he was there.
“Pleasant weather we’re having this week, sir.” Sebastian said, finally noticing the paper on the table. The headline was face down but he remembered that Jim got the papers just before they went to print. Seb frowned, and wondered what had happened that made Jim need him and his gun.