Me Shillelagh I let fly.
I watched Jim from where I was lying on the alcoves over the pool. The scene was nostalgic for the so-called geniuses about to have a little shoot-out, playing a dangerous game of cops-and-robbers like a pair of five-year-olds. The pool, apparently, what first turned Jim towards Sherlock-bloody-Holmes in the first place. I had seven of my best men stationed around me, pointing at the left side of the pool, along the cubicles, where Jim planned to conduct his little interrogation. I thought poorly of him for being this reckless. He'd blown a quarter of his fortune just to get Sherlock out into the open, all of that Semtex isn't exactly cheap, and neither is my labor. He'd spent the last couple years plotting how to engage the self-proclaimed Consulting Detective in some kind of grand, Arthurian duel. I blamed that Mick blood, always a flair for the over-dramatic, teetering at the precipice of imbecilic. It never ceased to aggravate me, his complete disregard for his empire. I felt little ease when he meandered from the safety of the back, I had not expected Sherlock Holmes to come armed, and Jim's safety was a concern of mine.
He did, after all, pay the bills.
Jim, however, wasn't at all shocked to see Holmes had come with Watson's Browning. He was even keeping his brogue down in his throat, his voice coming out more high-pitched than usual as he attempted (poorly) to affect the British accent that had evaded him through the years. Never one to admit he was bad at something, Jim just altered the way he spoke so he never sounded quite the same. It could be damned disorienting being woken at three AM to a voice I'd never heard before, demanding me to rise out of bed and scurry to their aid. More than once I've told him what to do with himself and what orifice to cram it, thinking he was a stranger, and hung up on him. He always called back, sometimes boiling over at my lack of intelligence, or giggling like a madman at how 'riled' he could make me, depending on which personality he liked at the time. Bloody hell to work for, but he pays well.
Oh, there it is.
"Hi."
I pressed myself closer to my rifle, the familiar weight against my shoulder, in my palms, was a comfort. My laser pointed right over that Watson fellows chest, right where Jim wanted. He's been so picky about where I was to point, and that I had to be the one to kill Watson if push came to shove. To ensure this was the case, Jim had gone over a complicated list of code-words he would use to signal me, and what action I was meant to take depending on this code-word. I say code-word, but it's much more what lilt he has in his voice, or the certain pitch he used on certain vowels. He expects me to remember all this. I'd bloody-rather a decoder ring from a cereal box, and obscure sequences of letters as a code than trying to discern his actions from the octave on his I's. Especially with his current persona he could shout "XYZ!" and not Holmes, nor Watson, would be shocked. Fair enough, it would be out-of-character, but neither of them know him well enough to know that.
"Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like to get my hands dirty."
No, really, Jim? No one in this room ever would have guessed that you weren't a man of instant, hand-dirtying action. After all, such a man might come to his own damned showdown, without the aid of seven, Army-trained marksmen.
Oh, dear Lord, he's giving a monologue now.
He hadn't told me he'd intended on gloating, lecturing, and giving some kind of award-winning speech to Holmes.
("I'm just going to warn him, Seb," he'd said, "Nothing too dramatic at all. Have more faith in me.")
Right. Last time I fall for that line. Not that it matters, though, Jim's probably got a million lines he's already planned to feed me in the next ten years. That's how long my contract lasts, the next decade, I was a fool to renew it five years ago. Oh, he can't get much crazier. No one can be that insane. How wrong I was.
They really are like children.
Bantering back and forth about their little careers, and the genius behind it. Brilliant, they call it. Careers they both fabricated out of thin air- Consulting Detective; Consulting Criminal- jobs that only exist for two people on the entire planet, and here they are at a showdown, scripted perfectly that it rivals many films I've seen. And I've seen many films. Briefly, I look at my target, John Watson. Jim had me go through great lengths, even going under-cover once just to learn about the man.
("I'm not a damn spy, Jim!"
"Oh, Seb, it'll be fun! Like a James Bond movie!"
"You hate James Bond!")
It hadn't taken much doing, John Watson was a small legend as far as his military background went. He'd saved hundreds of men, right in the heat of battle, joined a thousand raids, did multiple tours. His history really only rivaled mine, and I am almost a decade his senior. If he'd avoided injury then he'd be working his way through the ranks, clawing to the top undoubtedly. I'd have heard about him sooner-or-later, because all military men who truly thrive in battle can't last long as civilians. That's why I found Jim. That's why I stay with Jim, and humor all of the madness he throws at me day in and day out. Working for Jim, every day is another battle, and be it getting him to stop dabbling with his medication, or be it lying low to end the life of some miserable creature he's gotten sick of, then so be it. In that way, I almost care that I'm about to snub out John Watson, because we would probably get on very nicely. I could just imagine sharing a pint with him, talking about our insane employers (or, in his case, flatmate. Sherlock does not pay him, and he is getting a raw deal, which I'd like to tell him. You always demand payment for services rendered, even if they're your friend. Jim pays me double when I save his-
"That's what people DO!"
Shit.
What the fuck are they going on about now? I've seen Jim scream at subordinates, exactly like that, his entire face contorting in that blind, uncontrollable rage that's simmering just under the surface. All the time. Most people flinch, some of my men who are hear to protect the little madman have; but Holmes doesn't, and neither does Watson. They aren't concerned by his mood swings. Either, they don't realize he'd just let loose, unraveled miles of himself, and lain their vulnerable as the word echoed in the empty pool. Or, they don't care. I suspect it's the latter.
Just like that. He's reeled himself back in on that short leash, and the sing-song has come back. That agitating little lilt in his voice, prancing around our code-noises, or whatever the fuck they were.
"You can talk, Johnny-boy, go ahead."
His brogue slipped a moment there. Not completely wound back up into character, but he will be soon. He'll be fine. Probably. He's gotten very close to Holmes who's got that damned pistol pointed right at Jim's head. Too close for comfort, if you ask me, but the little Mick bastard never realizes when something's hot you don't touch.
"I could have got them anywhere-"
"Sherlock! Run!"
This is why you don't dance around, and turn your back on, your enemies!
I readjust myself, trying to find an open spot on Watson's grip, to kill the little Hobbit before he can hurt Jim. A dead boss means no paycheck. That really isn't an option. Jim's a bit nervous, I can tell, by the way he's wriggling, and trying to open his eyes wider than necessary. Watson's good at this, he's done it before, he immobilizes Jim better than anyone has ever managed to do before. The restraint hold is perfect, pressing into Jim's windpipe, and twisting his arm at exactly the wrong angle where, if Jim tries to get away, Watson could snap the bones at the elbow.
"OOPS!"
I recognize the signal, and turn off my laser. Across the room, one of my men turns on his, and points it at Holmes' big head. Watson lets Jim go.
"Gotcha!"
My man turns off his laser, and settles back into the shadows to await another signal. I turn back on my own laser, and point it at the doctor. This doesn't help Jim, though, he's a bit shaken still, and even though Holmes and Watson think he's slipped right back into character, I can hear the crackle of his brogue seep to the top, and bubble into his next lecture. Then, all at once, it's gone as Holmes speaks and it's alarmingly stupid for a man who claims to be a genius. Of course Jim isn't going to kill him right away, he's having fun. Jim doesn't destroy his play things that quickly, oh, soon enough Holmes will be dead, and Jim will have to move onto a new fascination, but he's had this one for years. A creature of habit, he won't be keen on abandoning it yet. Not that quickly. Not that predictably. Jim's probably got some insane plan for their final battle, like a scene in an over-budgeted action film, the perfect last fight for the protagonist and antagonist, of course Jim's probably already foreshadowing us with his plans tonight. Ten quid it's going to involve water.
"I will burn the heart out of you."
It slipped again. His composure. What's going on in that mad little mind of his? It isn't like him to mix himself in with his persona so quickly. It isn't like him, at all, to lose his patience and come snarling, biting, swiping, to the surface with pure murderous intent written on his face. Jim isn't like that. He keeps his cool, and if he chooses to play the psychopath- like he has tonight- then the facade never slips. How many times has it slipped now? Five?
More than five.
The entire conclusion of his speech is littered with little chips of his brogue. His voice is cracking, crumbling, and betraying him entirely. Holmes doesn't know, I'm sure, even though his little sociopath mask hasn't slipped once.
Oh.
I see.
He's out-done Jim, then, well.
Tonight is going to be fun after all.
"Catch. You. Later..."
"No you won't~"
The doors swing close as Jim takes his leave. I lower my rifle, and signal for my men to all stand down as well, by clicking twice on our radio. Then, my mobile vibrates, and I have to shimmy backwards, and whisper to answer it. I know it's Jim, no one else is obnoxious enough to call a man at midnight. No one else has a reason to call me while I'm at work.
"Did you see that, Seb?" he asks, not masking his Irish accent now, and speaking in a hushed tone as well.
"I did."
"Did you see what he did to me?" he snarls as he speaks, and I can see his face pinched and angry, eyes too-wide, and sinister.
"I saw."
"I'm going to kill them, Sebastian, I'm going to kill them!"
"What's the word?"
There's nothing but ragged breathing on the other end.
"Jim?"
But he hangs up, and, without any contemplation on my employers less-than-average behavior, I slip back to my position. Three clicks on the radio alert my men to turn on their lasers and point them at out little hostages. A quick, shocked, 'Oh, hell' dies on Watson's lips. Jim comes sweeping back into the room, the persona he'd used at the beginning of the meeting firmly back in place, this time with buckles, and restraints, to keep it there. To keep it still. Holmes is shocked, I can see it on his smug face, and Watson is contemplating a way to kill Jim with his bare hands.
Can't say I blame him.
"Everything I have to say has already crossed you miii-iii-nd~"
Shit.
"Probably, my answer has crossed yours."
Shit.
.End.
One-shot, drabble, of Moran during TGG. I own nothing.
Props go to Hanna-lore Grace for her marvelous fics and inspiration.