Just a lil thing that popped into my mind yesterday. Don't shoot me.

Disclaimer: I don't own nothing. Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Crimson and Clover to Tommy James and the Shondells. I believe.

Warnings: Implied Slash and love and torture and death. Spoilers for Reichenbach.

Crimson and Clover

Yeah… my mind's such a sweet thing… I wanna do everything…. what a beautiful feeling….
Crimson and clover

Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty couldn't have been more different from each other. Jim was relatively small compared to his gunman, with deep brown eyes and jet black hair, slender in built and often prancing like a cat. Sebastian was tall, 6 ft 4 inches. He usually wore his hair close-cropped, but if he wore it longer, it was of this particular shade of blonde his mother had liked to call "liquid honey". She had been devastated when he had to cut his hair for the military. Then there were Sebastian's eyes. Green. Big, green eyes that could be cold as ice one second and in the next one so warm it felt as if he were caressing you with them. And, boy, he was fit! Wherever he went, he got girls to drool over him. When he and Jim went out together, for shopping or anything, girls regularly tried to hit on Sebastian, going sometimes so far as just pushing Jim out of their way. Or he would go totally unnoticed. Jim never mentioned it to Seb; after all, he knew Seb was his and he didn't have to worry about the women. Sebastian, however, could not understand them. If anything, he felt they should be after Jim. He had never seen somebody quite like Jim; to Sebastian, Jim Moriarty was the most perfect human being that walked this planet. Okay, he was a total psycho, but nevertheless, perfect for him. At nights, when Sebastian was awake, smoking near the open window, he would watch Jim, lying on his stomach, hugging his pillow, looking so peaceful. And it would churn Sebastian's guts to only imagine how fast this could be over. Then he would go back into bed, cuddle to Jim and breathe in the scent of the crazy madman. Sometimes, he would caress the scars Mycroft Holmes's men had left on Jim's body, cursing those brutish bastards. And his boss for not telling him what he had been up to. Then Jim would wake up, noticing where he was being caressed, turn to Sebastian, run the back of his hand over Seb's cheek and murmur something sweet. And when Seb then would wrap his arm around Jim's fragile and scarred body, they were like ying and yang.

Also when it came to their clothes, Jim and Sebastian were different. Jim loved suits. The fancier, the better. Designer suits, with the matching shirts and shoes. Always tailored to embrace this perfect body of Jim. Sebastian wasn't into suits. He wore them on business meetings, just because he knew how intimidating he looked in a suit, especially when he was standing right behind Jim, the difference in height more than obvious. When he was alone on the job, just he and his beloved rifle, he usually just wore jeans that could be washed at high temperatures and a black t-shirt. At home, however, he mostly just wore wifebeaters and jeans, just because he knew he looked good in them, and how much Jim loved it. But most recently, Seb had sometimes changed the wifebeaters for dress shirts. Mostly when Jim was staying for the night in his flat. Why? Because Sebastian remembered something from his youth. When he was 17, shortly before he had signed up for the military, he had this girlfriend, Caitríona. He had loved her to bits back then. And then, one morning, after a particular romantic night that had turned into particular good sex, Sebastian had been standing by the window, smoking as usual. She had gotten out of bed, naked, had grabbed the shirt he had been wearing the night before and put it on, and then had walked over to him and hugged him. He had remembered that scene one morning, when Jim had crawled out of his bed and had to put his own shirt back on. The next time, Sebastian had worn a white dress shirt, and, as luck would have it, Jim had put that one on the next morning. It had been much too big, but oh, Jim had looked so good in it. So comfy. So at ease. So, back from that day on, Sebastian usually wore dress shirts when Jim came over.

Then there was the difference in their working habits. Jim liked it loud. The more noise, the better. He hated silencers, and he loved bombs. On the rare occasions that Jim went out, doing business on his own without sending one of his snipers, he acted a bit like Lara Croft: many bullets, one would surely hit the target. And oh, Jim loved bombs. To see how a building that had taken years to be finished could be destroyed in a matter of seconds, by his hands, was something that got Jim excited like nothing else. Sebastian loved the quietness that came with his job. Alone at nights, firing one single bullet and watch the target drop down without so much as a whimper and be dead, that was what excited Sebastian. He didn't like bombs. Bombs were loud, made a lot of dirt and were always likely to kill more people than intended. When he had fired his bullet at the old lady in Glasgow and seen the house explode, he had loathed it. He didn't believe in people's innocence, but hell, there were probably dead children, dead cats, dead parrots, innocent beings who didn't deserve being blown up because the old hag had decided to tell Sherlock what Jim's voice was like. And God, she hadn't even been lying. A soft voice with a preference for loud noises. Sebastian thought it was very ironic.

And then of course one lonely summer night, Sebastian realized what the biggest difference between him and Jim was. As he sat on the roof of St Bart's, watching the sun set over the city, the difference was apparent. Sebastian was alive. Jim was dead. It should have been the other way round, what with Sebastian being the one out on the streets doing the dirty work, and Jim mostly sitting comfortable in his office, directing things. With Sebastian being the soldier, Jim the leader. Sebastian, the knight, Jim, the king. It had gone horribly wrong. And now, Sebastian was alone. No more cuddling to Jim, no more caressing him, no more Jim wearing his shirt, no more bombings. The only thing that remained was silence. The silence Seb had loved, but now loathed with a passion. He would give the world if the building opposite him would just explode right now. How was he supposed to live without Jim? The only man he'd ever loved, the person who had meant the world to him. Gone. He took a drag of his cigarette and closed his eyes. He didn't even have a body to bury; lord knew what they had done with Jim's perfect body. Where should he go mourn? Nobody knew about him, so nobody would call him. If he didn't do anything, they would probably put him in some cheap grave, under the name of Richard Brook. Rich Brook. Jim Moriarty. The two names sounded so different from each other. Just like Rich Brook had been different from Jim. And now, Jim was probably buried under the name that didn't fit him in the least, and Sebastian, if he ever found that grave, would have to look at the gravestone bearing that false name. Oh how ironic. But Jim had wanted it that way, apparently, and all Sebastian could do now was to make sure that people would believe in this "Sherlock was a fraud" shit. Sebastian would have to make sure that no one ever found out the true story of Jim Moriarty, that he had existed, and that he had made all the difference in Sebastian Moran's life.

Crimson and clover, over and over

Sad sad sad. Hope you liked it, though. And if anyone wonders, I want Kris Marshall to play Sebastian, so, my Seb looks more or less like Kris.