Sebastian knew better than most how quickly a bullet could end a life. Decades of military training, active combat tours, and mercenary life afterwards had taught him that very, very quickly. Even so, he'd never had to watch someone he cared about take one, in any capacity. He'd served over soldiers who'd turned their pistols on themselves, sure, and he'd even seen a few of his marks take the 'easy way out', rather than die by someone else's hands, but that...
Grabbed with his right hand, his offhand, to pull the pistol with his left.
He'd been ordered to keep his sights on Captain Watson, but John hadn't gotten back to the hospital yet. Bright, but gullible, when he actually puts his faith in someone, Seb had thought, forcing himself to stay steady as he watched Sherlock and Jim on the roof. He had known it was coming, Jim had said as much, but that only made it harder. You bastard. You selfish fucking bastard. I thought I was helping. I thought... I thought...
Tygre, Tygre, burning bright.
In the faint light shining through the clouds, he could see the brilliant scotch-colored eyes of his Boss looking at Sherlock with interest. They were close, so close... After the initial scare, where Sherlock hung him off the ledge, Sebastian had accepted it as inevitable- he hadn't fought. He hadn't scrambled for purchase. Jim simply didn't want to live anymore. He hadn't helped at all, and near the end, he wasn't even sure Jim even remembered he existed beyond the iron exterior of the soldier. Feelings were not his forte, which may have been why Jim took to him so quickly. He was uncomplicated, he didn't expect more than what Jim offered, and he was loyal- at first to the funds, and then to this beautiful, mad man who called him his Tiger in the darkness of the bedroom.
I tried, Boss, I really fucking tried.
And he had; when Jim went missing, he nearly tore London apart to find him. In the end, though, Mycroft had been quicker, more prepared, and Sebastian was left fuming and pacing around their flat, shouting at Jim's men over the phone as he tried to find some way to help. In the end, after the beatings, the torture, the starvation, Mycroft had let him go- and it was Sherlock's name scratched into every surface. Christ, the fucking manicure alone when he got back... nails blunt and bloodied, something dark flickering in his eyes...
And he hadn't been the same. Granted, even the damned pool changed him from the man Sebastian had gotten to know.
Don't do it, you son of a bitch. Don't you fucking dare.
Everything seemed to slow down as Jim opened his mouth and put the gun between his lips. There was a resounding roar from the barrel- even Seb could hear it- and through his scope he saw, in vivid detail, the brain and bone go flying as the Boss collapsed.
He did not scream. He did not blink. Come on, Holmes, you fucking cunt. Do it. Make his death mean something, you bastard. Always you, it was always about you, god dammit. Fucking made for each other... So just do it. Jump. Fucking jump.
A taxi pulled up across the street and John had gotten out, contacting Holmes via mobile. The look on John's face said it all, and for a few minutes he felt for the man. We served together. I know you, Watson, you're a good man. Even the Boss thinks so. We're brothers right now, losing the only things that make our lives worth living. I'm sorry that we have to share this.
Holmes hit the cement, and Watson rushed forward, and Seb had packed up his gun and left without a word. Too much, it's too fucking much. I have to get out of here. Jim had left him a car waiting and he was grateful. I'll be back, Boss. I'll be back. He called the other gunmen and met them at the drop point, passing them the payment Jim had promised. When their business was concluded, he found a good spot to wait until the police and paramedics left. It was night by the time he was able to walk up the stairs to the roof, frigid air biting through his thick jacket. There was a dark red stain on the cement. All that's left.
"Hey, Boss," he said quietly, sitting beside the blood. "It's done. He jumped. I don't have you, I don't have revenge... I've got nothing. I saw it, you know. I watched. I wished I could have told you, before... I wish you could have at least... seen me..." Sebastian hadn't noticed the tears falling from his lashes, even as they froze on his cheeks. "You... I hope you get some rest. Some peace. You... you've earned it. I'll... I can't do this, jesus, I can't do this anymore. I'm going to retire, find something else to do. I can't keep taking hits, not from any hotshot who thinks he can fill your shoes. No one can, Boss. At least I got to, to tell you, before... Fuck, your timing's terrible, you know that? God damned mastermind, waits until he plans to die to tell me..." Sebastian sniffed and looked down at the red pool. Two steady fingers dipped into the mess and came away wet. He pulled his dog tags out from beneath his coat and wiped the blood on them before tucking them back down. "I love you, Jim," he said quietly. "I always will."
He headed back to their flat and, once he was sure the door was locked, he screamed. He screamed, and screamed, and screamed some more, until his throat burned in protest. Seb was sure he must have sobbed, but he couldn't recall anything apart from the fury, the loss, the primal roaring of a tiger left alone in an unraveling web.
That seemed like ages ago now, and fuck, it was. Three years. Three god damned years, and Holmes was alive. Alive, and had been tracking him. If he was younger, he may have fought, may have set a trap for the detective, but he was just so tired. So bloody tired, of everything. He'd been hustling, essentially, earning his way with gambling and small-arms sales in the years after Jim's death. Moran was a shadow of his former self, more withdrawn, easier to push to a violent breaking point. He traveled with what he earned, eager to get as far away from London and the life he'd led as possible. Still, every night when he closed his eyes...
'Bang, Tiger'. Jim pointed his fingers at Seb in a mock gun pose. From the front, he looked just as Seb remembered- handsome, all clever grins and arched brows, but the one blood-filled brown eye let him know... the back of his skull was gone. He'd seen it enough in Afghanistan, he'd been the cause of hundreds of similar wounds. When he touched the jagged bone, Jim grabbed his face and yanked him down to his level. 'Gotcha, Tiger. You're mine now.' He tried to scream, tried to pull out of his grip, but it was preternaturally strong. 'Going to give Daddy a kiss? Oh, how I've missed you... come to me, Seb. Come back to bed.' His hands were red, stained with Jim's blood and little bits of gray muscle. 'No,' Seb said. 'No, Boss, I can't, I can't go back, I can't follow you. You've gone where I can't look out for you.' Jim cackled and wiped a trail of blood from his eye. 'We both know that's not quite true. I'll be waiting, Seb. Don't let me down.' He released him and turned to leave, and Moran could see everything. Every nerve, the back of his eyes, his teeth... And his eyes rolled back, fully back, to look at him. 'I'm waiting.'
It started like that, simple dreams with Jim beckoning him to follow- he ignored them, but his clients could see the extra coffees, the sleepless nights, the worn look to his blue-gray eyes. He continued to work, to drag himself forward like the soldier he was, but his heart wasn't in it. He started drinking, something he hadn't done since his short-lived uni days (excluding a few nights with Jim, which always ended with him naked and tied to the bed)- it was taking his toll. Men tried to move in, to fill the void left with Jim's death, but Seb kept careful eyes on them and their plans. You fucks will never be the man he was, he would think, as his bullets tore through their throats. That was a big shift in his routine: no more headshots. He had tried, the first few times, but it was always Jim he saw slumping to the ground. He couldn't take it.
Finally, around the third marker of the day of Jim's death, Sebastian forced himself back to London. Three years of nightmares, of running, of trying to move on... I'm fucking sick of this. The apartment was exactly as the man had left it- after his initial outburst he'd packed and stormed out, and since Jim had tied up his loose ends before coming home that night... no one had entered. It was almost eerie, how only the dust marked the passage of time.
The first thing he did was walk to the bedroom. His throat tightened as he stood staring at the bed, sheets still rumpled as if they'd just gotten up. I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. I could only go through the motions, putting on a brave face for him, but he knew, he fucking knew how much it hurt. Sebastian stripped off his clothes and climbed beneath the blanket, still able to smell Jim's scent- a bit like apples, fresh leather, gunpowder... Boss... He pulled Jim's pillow close to his chest and curled around it. It was pathetic, he knew. He was an adult. He was above this, wasn't he? A hardened killer, quietly sobbing into the bedding over a three-year-old death? "I loved you," he whispered, "you selfish bastard. I loved you, and it wasn't enough. And now I have to be alone, I have to soldier on, because that's what you expect, that's what everyone fucking expects... Holmes is alive, everything you built is falling apart... what's the fucking point?!"
There was no answer. Of course not, there never was.
Sebastian fell asleep like that, and for once, there were no nightmares- just memories, memories of that last night, of soft arms and whispered praises, the one night they got to be normal, the one night they were a couple.
He woke alone and bleary-eyed, skull pounding from the previous night's binge. His duffle bag was full of nothing but whiskey and his two guns (rifle and pistol)- he had left enough clothes behind when he moved away. Just in case, he'd said back then. Just in case I need to.
And he needed to now.
He ignored the liquor and sat down at Jim's desk, one of his needlessly fancy pens in hand as he stared down at a sheaf of paper.
Boss, I can't take it anymore. Drinking myself to death isn't working quick enough. I'm ending it here and now to come see you, and don't you dare be angry with me. You left me first, left me here alone…Well, I'm coming to you. Be there for me when I get there. Don't wanna get lost in Hell. I love you. –Your Tiger
When he was satisfied, Sebastian placed his dog tags over the note before he showered and got dressed. Might as well look presentable, not that anyone will be seeing me. He even took the time to shave, something he'd been foregoing of late. He cast one last look around the flat before walking to Saint Bart's, a slight bulge barely visible beneath his tight jacket. The wind was cold and unforgiving when he reached the familiar roof. This place is damned, he thought, despite his lack of religious beliefs. He knelt beside the spot, the spot, though every trace of Jim was long gone. In the mouth, pressed against the roof, left side. It was awkward for the right-handed mercenary, but he knew it would be quick, and... And we'll match. He kept his grayish-blue eyes locked on the cement where Jim had collapsed as he pulled the trigger.
Bang, Tiger.