He hated when Jim got like this. Nervous, frantic, pacing around the flat like he was possessed. He had snapped at Sebastian whenever he made a comment, so he had shut up and sat in his leather armchair, reading the paper. Jim walked back through the door to their living room for the hundredth time, biting his nails. Sebastian sighed.
"Jim."
Jim turned on him, whipping his head around to glare at him.
"What? What is so utterly important that I have to know right this very second, Sebastian?"
"Quit biting your nails. It's bad for your teeth."
Jim hissed and stalked back out of the room, leaving Sebastian smirking. It was ever so fun to mess with Jim, and he knew there would be repercussions, but he didn't care. There was a slam from the front of the house. Sebastian sighed again, and laid down his paper. Jim was out, and he would definitely go get himself in trouble. Slipping his handgun into his waistband, he slipped out the front door, locking it behind him.
Jim had favorite places to go when he was angry, and only Sebastian knew about them. He liked to go to bars and clubs, drink himself to oblivion, and let Sebastian clean up any fights he had started, pick up the bar tab, and carry the sorry drunk home before he threw up in their bathroom.
Sebastian wasn't dressed for anything special. Dark jeans, white shirt. It was his go-to outfit. Simple, unremarkable. No one would remember him. And Jim liked to see bloodstains on his shirt. He refused to let Sebastian clean up after a job, and instead dragged him off to their bedroom the minute he walked through the door.
The streets grew darker as the evening wore on, and Sebastian still hadn't found Jim. He was beginning to get worried, but Jim could take care of himself.
He had to resort to calling, though, because he really was worried. The phone was picked up on the third ring, and a gruff, deep voice that was definitely NOT Jim's answered.
"Hello."
"Who the fuck is this? Tell me, right now, or I swear to God I will kill you."
"Oh, silly Sebastian. You don't really believe in God, do you? You've done much too much."
"Who is this?"
"Tell me. Are you the owner of this sad little man sitting in front of me?"
A pause, then a muffled grunt. Sebastian wasn't quite as good at deduction as Jim was, and neither of them was as good as Holmes, but he had learned a few things (both from Jim and from his time in the army) and he could tell when someone was being hurt. In Jim's case, probably kicked. Maybe hit.
"Don't touch him!"
"Aw. You're worried. Cute."
There was a click, and the line disconnected. Sebastian shouted in anger. Several passerby looked at him in shock, and they hurried past him, clutching their bags more tightly. He knew he looked dangerous. When he was angry, he definitely was dangerous. And he was furious.
His phone buzzed. There was a text on the screen, from a blocked number.
429 Westerfield Street. 3rd floor. Don't come armed.
This could not be happening. This was not supposed to happen to them. This is what they were supposed to do to other people. They were the leaders, not these mystery men. He started running. Hurtling around a corner, he tripped over a broken-off piece of brick and stumbled. He caught himself before he fell, and ran on, his breath catching in his throat, lungs ragged. He was in great shape, but fear constricted his chest and made it hard to breathe.
He was abandoning his usual stealth, though, not caring who saw him. Jim would give him shit for it, he knew, but he didn't care. Watson, Holmes, Cartwright, Bellusio, Darkwitte. All their biggest rivals flew out of his mind as he pounded the pavement. Nobody mattered. Not as much as Jim.
He fell, panting, against the side of the house. If you could call it a house. The darkness didn't show much, but what he could see were boarded up windows, broken bricks, and the torn screen door swaying in the light breeze. There was a light flickering through the planks on the top floor. Jim.
He crashed through the door, taking it right off the hinges. There was a thump from upstairs. The stairs groaned under Sebastian's weight as he took them two at a time, gasping for air, pulling out his handgun.
The third floor door swung open easily, and suddenly he was falling, falling down something, it must have been a hole in the floor, and he landed with a jolt.
"Seb?" a hoarse, cracked voice whispered.
"Holy shit. Jim. Fuck."
He heard a shuffling noise. Then a hand brushed his forehead, and he gasped, dragging Jim into his arms.
"Jim, Jim, Jim, what the fuck have we gotten into?"
A harsh light was flicked on overhead, and they were thrust into bright fluorescent lighting. Sebastian looked down, Jim's head nestled just below his chin. His hair was mussed up, and his face was cut and bruised. His nose looked broken, and Sebastian felt himself tense up with undeniable anger. He was going to kill these men, these men that had dared to hurt his Jim.
A laugh came from above them.
"How sweet! Look at the lovebirds."
Jim growled beneath him. Sebastian tightened his grasp around Jim's shoulders and looked up. There seemed to be a girl standing there. Young, slim, and beautiful. The kind of girl Sebastian had dated back when he was younger, although they had never accepted his line of work, to say the least.
She had fiery red hair that shone in the lighting, and her pale skin and bright green eyes looked alien, otherworldly.
"How…?" Sebastian stopped.
"A simple voice changer, idiot," the girl said, her real voice high-pitched and reedy, but with a touch of venom running underneath. She turned and spoke to someone behind her.
"Zeptejte se jich všechno. Použijte cokoliv metody nutné."
Both Jim and Sebastian were well-versed in languages. The girl was speaking Czech, a language Sebastian had had to speak for five months on a tour in the army. He knew what was coming. The girl and one of her friends were going to torture them. And ask them for something. What had they done? What did these people want?
The girl turned back towards Jim and Sebastian, a slow smile spreading over her face.
"Now," she said, "It's time to show you who's boss."