"Now, don't go making this difficult, Billy." The criminal murmured as he drew closer, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Just give me those names, and I might decide not to set the Colonel on you."
Jim paused a hair's breadth from the other man, relishing his shiver of fear.
"I think you remember how skilled he is, don't you, Mr. Wesson?" He whispered with a serpentine smirk.
"All too well, Moriarty." The man echoed Jim's own grin, prompting it to twist into a perturbed frown. "And that's why he'll never hurt anyone. Ever. Again."
"I'm sorry? I don't-" But then he saw the moonlight glint through the rain off the polished barrel of the gun on the roof. Then he heard the gunshot. Then he watched the gun fall from his sniper's hands.
He was already running as the blonde man began to fall, heedless of the man he was threatening not two minutes before fleeing the scene.
"Sebby!"Jim screamed. "Sebastian! No - please- Seb - talk to me - please, I-"
Jim Moriarty didn't remember falling to his knees, couldn't recall pulling Moran into his arms. Tears fell down his face, mixing with the rain, as his broken pleas fall on unconscious ears. This was his fault, all his fault. Why didn't he predict that? Wesson never hired gunmen. Why? Why now? Why?
"Why?" He yelled into the suffocating night.
He pressed shaking fingers to the man's neck, searching desperately for a sign of life. Shivering and sobbing as he was, Jim almost missed the faint throb of blood in Sebastian's jugular.
Jim Moriarty wasn't a very strong man – that was why he hired people like Colonel Moran. Now he regretted every time he refused his sniper's offers to train together as he attempted to lift the six foot two dead weight – not dead yet, his numb mind supplied – of bodyguard. Through sheer force of desperate will Jim lifted the sniper into his arms, weak with cold, making him stagger a few paces across the deserted alleyway.
It was now that he truly saw the blood spreading across the man's chest.
Jim looked around him, bewildered, his mind deserting him entirely until there was just one place his mind could think of. One last hope of saving Sebastian.
John groaned. He had been awoken by a loud, frantic thudding on the door of 221b Baker Street.
Sherlock wasn't lying beside him, so he assumed he must be awake, theorising. Does he ever sleep, John thought, as the banging became even louder. He also began to grumble at Sherlock's apparent inability to open the door.
His bed was soft, and so comfortingly warm, that John almost considered not leaving it. But if someone was calling at… Good God, twelve past midnight, John groaned to himself – it had to be important.
Dr. Watson dragged himself out of bed, fumbling for his dressing gown, and shuffled towards the living room with a yawn.
Predictably, he saw Sherlock lying stretched out upon the onyx black sofa, his eyes closed, and his palms pressed together beneath his chin.
"Oh, don't mind me, Sherlock. It's not like I was asleep, or have work in the morning, or anything. No you just lie there three feet from the bloody door, I don't mind answering it." John grumbled at the almost comatose figure.
Sherlock Holmes gave a noncommittal grunt in response.
John rolled his eyes, and pulled the door open anyway. He froze.
"Please, Doctor Watson, you've gotta help me." James Moriarty was standing on his doorstep, tailored suit soaked through with rain and his usually pristine black hair plastered to his forehead which was wrinkled with frantic worry.
"Please, I can't take him to a hospital; he's been shot - I -he-" Moriarty started babbling in panic, fresh tears falling down his face.
John couldn't move, so shocked was he by the sight of the criminal mastermind so distraught and helpless. Sherlock, however, was not so inactive. At the first sound of the Irishman's voice he had shot up from the sofa, towering in the doorway beside John.
"Did you really think we'd fall for your tricks that easily, Moriarty?" He sneered. "What is it this time? Have us invite you in, only for your pet sniper to whip out a pistol and blow our heads off?"
He laughed derisively, "we weren't born yesterday, Moriarty, we can see through your pitiful attempt at deception."
Jim was shaking harder now, but Sherlock seemed not to have noticed. "Please," he said again, "I swear, I'm not - No tricks, I just…"
He sobbed again, and John looked helplessly up at his boyfriend.
Sherlock caught his gaze. "You can't seriously believe him, John? This is just an elaborate ruse to catch us with our guard down."
He looked more disconcerted as John's expression hardened defiantly.
"John, you're not seriously-" Sherlock began, astonished.
"Bring him in here." John commanded, swinging the door back to allow the criminal access. "He can go on the sofa."
"No, he can't, John-"
"Shut up, Sherlock." John yelled as he grabbed what few medical instruments he kept at the flat from the kitchen table.
"Thank you, oh thank you, Doctor Watson." Moriarty panted, laying the sniper out tenderly on the cushions before collapsing from the force of his terror.
John tore the man's shirt open, revealing the bullet wound above his heart.
"What was the trajectory?" He asked, as he pressed bandages against the bleeding flesh.
"I – what?" Jim said, flustered.
"Where was he shot from? Quickly, tell me." John ordered, checking the sniper's pulse.
"I - I don't know. I don't remember, just heal him. Heal him now!" The criminal yelled in panic.
John slapped him. He would have laughed at Moriarty's expression of shock if the situation hadn't been so dire. "If you want him to live, I need you to calm down and tell me - where was the killer?"
Jim breathed out, training his eyes on Sebastian's face, drained of all its usual vivid colour.
"The roof." He replied, his voice steady now. "The killer was on the roof."