Jim & Sebastian

The night before Jim ended the final problem, he looked Sebastian calmly in the eye and told him what he intended to do. Seb just laughed out loud, took Jim in his arms and took him to bed.

For such a changeable man, their routine was pretty straightforward. They would wake together, Sebastian would make coffee, sometimes cook bacon. Jim would sit and read the paper, telling Seb news stories he didnt really care about. Still he listened and smiled, and Jim smiled back. They would 'work' all day, whatever it was, they always had some sort of job to do. Jim would always text Seb to tell him off for something ridiculous around 2pm. Seb thought really, it was just Jims way of checking up on his safety. Unless something serious came up, they were both home at 7pm on the dot. Seb always brought food home with him, Jim was always sat on the sofa waiting. Sometimes Jim was distant and dark, and Seb had to feed him. Sometimes though, he was happy and animated, and they talked forever about nonsense. And every night without fail, they went to bed together. It didn't matter who initiated it, but they both always ended up naked in each others arms. There may have been fire and scathing insults and burns and scars, but these little details hardly ever changed.

So Seb had ignored Jims crazy statement, he never made much sense when he talked about work anyway. He ignored him and took him to bed, kissing him all over, declaring his love. He was painfully sentimental when in bed with Jim, it all vanished in the morning, but for those few waking hours, he devoted himself entirely to the man. That night was no different, and he made sure to replace Jim's crazy words with moans and whimpers.

Jim didn't want any bacon the next morning, didn't even read Seb the paper. Said the job had to be done earlier than expected, gave Sebastian the details and then left, a french cigarette dangling from his mouth, a cigarette stolen from Sebs packet.

Hours later, Sebastian Moran stood over the lifeless body, his left eye twitching as he watched the blood flow across the roof, out of his brilliant brain. He hadn't taken Jim seriously, he had laughed off his intentions, and it was all real, none of it was really a game. He picked up his gun from Jims cold dead hands, it felt heavy to him. Trust Jim to steal his favourite gun, the bastard. He held the revolver firmly in his hand and took a step closer to Jim, the toes of his shoes touching the mans ribs. He slowly and steadily brought the gun to his mouth, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

Later on, the body of Richard Brook and an unknown man were found on the roof of St Barts. They were assumed to be lovers, they looked the type. Probably driven insane by Sherlock Holmes mad games, took their own lives together, wanted to be at peace, together.

Burning

The last thing Sebastian Moran said to his boss, was 'I hate you'. And he really, really meant it. Staring at the inferno in front of him, he still muttered it under his breath. They had done this in India, stuck the body on fire and set it alight. James always loved when things burned, so Seb thought it was only right he went out this way. He had even lit the fire with Jim's own lighter, he chuckled at how poetic it all seemed.

He hated Jim so much it fucking hurt. What was worse though, was that despite the burning hatred for the criminal, he still loved him. Jim never loved him back, laughed at him when he said it out loud, teased him for his feelings. But when Jim was high, Jim tried to say it too, he never managed it, but Seb appreciated his efforts.

Seb hated more than he loved. The fire was fun, but it caused more burns that enjoyment. Jim was obsessed, got obsessed with everything, let the fire consume him. Sherlock Holmes was so unhealthy for him, to Seb he was just another man, just another genius. But Jim couldn't, wouldn't leave him alone. He hated the bruises and broken bones that Jim left him with when he challenged him. He hated when Jim spent days in dark moods, setting fire to the flat, hurting himself. He hated that he had allowed himself to love such a fucking unhinged psychopath.

He could feel the heat from the fire surging through his body. Every inch of him wanted to jump into the flames. Moriarty liked to watch things burn. He would want everything to burn after he was gone.Everything.

Love

To Jim, love wasn't a weakness, it was a strength. But you had to understand how it works, not just read about it in books, recognise chemical reactions. He knew Sherlock was not as good as him because Sherlock Holmes couldn't love. While love to Jim had been a perilous journey, his last stop was one he welcomed. It came in the form of an angry and hungry tiger, one in need of a master. He didn't love like normal people, couldn't quite bring himself to do that. His type of love was full of passion and anger, jealousy and rage. But he knew Seb didn't mind, he knew that Seb felt the same.

It was a good job he was a fantastic actor, brilliant at putting on a mask. He delivered his speech to Sherlock Holmes fantastically, he deserved an award for it. Inside, he wanted to cry. He wanted to call Sebastian and say sorry, say goodbye. He hadn't told Seb what he wanted to do, how the final problem would be solved. He couldnt bring himself to, because he knew his tiger would find a way to persuade him otherwise.

He fought back the tears as he pulled the trigger and fell to the floor. The bang echoed in his ears and the blood packets strapped to his neck exploded and trickled along the ground. He waited until Sherlock had jumped. Stupid Sherlock, didn't even think to check, too concerned with poor John Watson and his stupid little phone-call. Jim waited until he heard the crack on the pavement, crawled up in a ball, and wept. He couldn't return to Sebastian, that was his plan, his plan all along. He would be a dead man now, a ghost, living in a different city.

He would come back for his tiger eventually. In a year, heck maybe in three. But until then, he would live his life alone. In love, but alone.

The Devil

Sebastian Moran didn't grieve Jim's death. Would've been pointless, he killed himself, he wanted it, so there was no point in crying over him. Seb just carried on. It wasn't long before his money ran out, he refused to leave Jim's flat and the bills mounted up. He made a bit cheating at cards in Mayfair, but he still needed more. Two years after Jim died, he sold all his papers. His plans, his diary, everything. He compiled it all into a book, leaving notes and explanations and sold it to the first publisher he went to. If Jim were alive he would have broken Seb's nose for giving his secrets to the world. But Jim was gone, the business was long dead, and Seb needed the cash to live. He didn't quite live, he existed; just carrying on without real purpose. He had a reason to live before, he had Jim and the games and the violence. Now he had nothing. He still didn't mourn, he still thought it was pointless.

He kept watch on Doctor Watson, the mans grief brought him comfort. He liked knowing he wasnt the only person who lost someone that day. Watson coped even worse than Seb, he moved out of Baker Street and spent his spare time crying at Sherlock's grave. Seb never gave Jim one, didn't think the bastard deserved a mourning site. If he wanted that, he shouldn't have killed himself. Seb watched, happy that he could control himself, happy that he could almost convince himself he didn't care, he never cared.

Three years after Jim's death, He came back. Sherlock Holmes rose from the dead and Sebastian snapped. How was that fair, why did he get to live? It was almost like Jim was back there, hissing orders in his ear, telling him about the game, telling him that everyone had to play fair apart from him. So on a freezing night in November, he sat across from 221b Baker Street, his rifle pointed directly at Sherlock Holmes' head. John fucking Watson has to save the day, has to live up to Sherlock's expectations, has to try and be a hero. Seb was so focused on his sight he didn't even hear John creep up on him, hardly even felt the punch that knocked him unconscious.

He sat silently in his police cell, internally cursing himself for being caught. They had offered him a bribe, turned up with a plate of food and said if he talked, told them all of Jims last secrets, every single job, he would be a rich man. Of course he would do it, Seb was a man without morals, a man who wanted his pockets filled. Jim was dead, he wasnt allowed to care what Seb did with his secrets.

He woke up in the hospital long enough for the nurse to tell him he had been poisoned. After that he welcomed the unconsciousness to soothe his head.

He woke up back at his flat. He woke up with a sort little bastard of a man looming over him in a perfect suit, grinning like the devil. Seb couldn't even bring himself to say a word, couldn't even bring himself to use his fists. He just lay there staring the devil in the face, watching its mouth twist words in disbelief. The devil lived, it stood in front of him and Sebastian Moran silently thanked God for giving him his purpose back.

Coward

Jim Moriarty is dead. Sebastian knows this because he was there. Jim Moriarty however, is a fucking coward. He had told Seb of his plan the night before, and the sniper had to force himself not to vomit when he heard. He loved the man, didn't even think someone like him was capable of that, but he really did. And he knew despite the punches and the scathing insults, Jim loved him too. If he didn't they wouldn't be living together, sleeping in the same bed, spending every waking minute together. If Seb took too long on a job he would text him, making sure he wasn't dead, asking if he was okay in the most nonchalant way possible Seb found his worry absolutely adorable, although he would never dare say that to his face.

Jim Moriarty was a fucking coward, would never do anything himself, always got everyone to do it for him. But orders are orders, and Seb has never said no to Jim, never will. He sends Jim off with a fake gun and a kiss so hard it leaves them both breathless.

Jim Moriarty is dead. Sebastian knows this because he sat and watched Jim taunt Sherlock, sat and watched Jim pull out a gun, and with military precision, he sat and shot Jim, shot the fucking idiot dead. Because Jim wanted it to be real, and Seb would never say no to him, never could, never will. Not that he would be able to say anything at all to him now. Dead men don't talk.

Jim is Dead

Jim Moriarty sat in his hotel room and stared at the wall blankly. Italy was a beautiful place, yet all he saw was decay and disgust. He knew exactly what was making him feel so bitter, but he refused to be weak and admit it. Instead he just stared at those walls, day in, day out.

He had a member of his staff pick up his body from the roof and take him away. He made the guy take photographs and post them to Moran. He knew it was a cruel thing to do, but he did it anyway, because thats how his brain worked.

He didn't fake his death just for Sherlock, he faked it for a more selfish reason. When he visited Sherlock all those months ago he had joked with him, laughed about 'getting a live-in one'. He was desperately trying to laugh off his own mistake. Moran had moved in months ago, and months ago Moriarty had developed, feelings. So he took a gun and supposedly blew his own brains out, and send Moran the pictures.

He was dead. He would stay dead. Because being dead was a whole lot easier and simpler than loving your sniper.

Fire

Sebastian had received the letter three days after he burnt the body.

Don't worry Sebby I left you the business. Wasn't it so much fun? Sorry for making you watch. Jimmy xx

He had ripped the note into a hundred pieces. It wasn't enough though, it still angered him. He took the little pieces of the paper and threw them in the hearth, lighting a match and throwing it in. He watched as they turned black and disintegrated into nothing, but it still wasn't enough. He tore into the bedroom of the consulting criminal and filled his arm with the wardrobes contents, Westwood suits, McQueen Ties, Louis Vuitton shirts. He grabbed as much as he could carry, throwing it into the fire, roaring as he did so. James Moriarty liked fire so much, he would enjoy watching his precious designer clothes burn.

Seb wished they had a bigger fireplace. If they did, he would have undoubtably thrown himself into the flames. The bastard shouldn't get to enjoy afterlife without him, shouldn't be allowed to leave Sebastian Moran empty, and alone.

Moran

It wasn't even that he loved the man. He was a fucking psychopath, a criminal, insane until the end. No it wasn't that he loved Jim Moriarty, it was simply the fact he had managed to worm his way into every corner of his life. They started off so separate, employer and employee. He didn't know why it changed, he guessed Jim had just snapped, his obsession with owning everything had finally reached Seb. He remembered watching as his flat, all his possessions burned to the ground and Jim, smiling like a madman, pressed a cold key into his palm and then stalked off, humming some unknown song. He remembered the time when they had first fucked, Jim hadn't even asked, he just pounced on seb, taken him violently and viciously. Seb didn't object, because he wanted it just as bad, he just never admitted to his desires. He remembered watching Jim get his hands dirty for the first and only time. It was like watching a fox dance, it was fucking beautiful.

No he didn't love the man. He had just wormed his way into Sebastians life too much, had made it harder for Moran to dig him out. He slept in Jim's bed that night, and woke up screaming for the psychopath to come back. He missed the pay, he would keep telling himself that. Stupid Jim, didn't even forge him a stupid job reference, selfish psychopath.

Staying Alive

Sebastian's phone rang loud in his pockets. Fucking Bee Gees. He didn't get why Jim had changed both their phones to such a stupid song. Jim never even picked up the phone when Seb called, the idiot was probably running about dancing and singing. He had called Jims phone less than half an hour ago, wanting to tell him to watch himself, to play the game right. Jim hadn't picked up. Jim had cancelled the call. So seb had gone back to his rifle, back to the game, back to watching Doctor Watson.

He stood on the rooftop of St Barts, the wind bitter against his exposed neck, a half burned cigarette hanging from his mouth. He hadn't inhaled once, it just hung there, burning out. And his phone just sat in his pockets, ringing off. He didn't give a shit. It wasn't Jim calling, Jim wouldn't call him again, the selfish bastard.

He couldn't even touch the body without being sick, running to vomit over the roof. He had to move quick, had to get Jim home. But it wasn't Jim anymore, just a cold lifeless corpse smiling up at him. Fucking Jim, trust him to go down grinning

Basher

Sebastian 'Basher' Moran was a fucking wild man. Emphasis on the fucking, one of his favourite pastimes. For all he knew he had seven bloody kids running around the middle-east, he had trouble controlling himself. His control with everything was the main reason why he was 'asked' to leave the army. He spent too much time fucking the locals and running off into the wilderness to empty his bullets in any large animal he could find. Then there was the fact that despite being an officer, he spent half his time on the front-line shooting his arse off when everyone else was too much of a pussy to hold a gun straight. He didn't mind all that much, the feeling of a cold weapon between his hands made him excited, made him want to go out and fuck all over again.

London brought all kinds of different. Moran never fucked anymore, he only got fucked. He could've easily had a good life, he was Eton educated, and he knew that opened plenty of doors. He could have even made a not so honest living just playing cards. But along comes an Irishman, a sort, snobbishly dressed cunt if he ever saw one. If someone had told him eight hours later he would be covered in another man's blood, being fucked against the wall by the little Irish bastard, he would've probably shot them in the face. Yet there he was, and that's how the routine carried on for over a year. It was only ever after he had killed a man that Jim wanted to fuck him, all the other times; he just wanted to own him. He didn't even waste any time forcing Moran to move in, anything to gain another bit of control.

'Basher' Moran thought love was fucking stupid. Why on earth would you love someone, devote your attention to another human being. But he was once told that love was a violent and unpredictable sort of thing, and he sort of guessed, if it really was, if he cared enough to do such a thing, he would love Jim Moriarty. But love was pointless, boring, not for someone as blackened and cold as he was. But instead he just lets Jim fuck him; lets Jim bite and scratch him, taunt him and order him the fuck around. Because love is for fucking losers, and Basher thinks the game is much more fun anyway.

Music.

Jim is poetry. He is sing song lullabies and elegant words. He is taste and talent and beauty. He is fluid and grace, passion and love.

Sebastian is instrumental. He is the raw beat and fingers scraping on a guitar string. He is power and honesty, he is upfront and brutal. He is hot and fast.

Jim and Sebastian look and sound like two different pieces of music. But they fit together like the most beautiful symphony imaginable. Jim's poetic words wrap tightly around Sebastian's unforgiving notes, the sound so beautiful, yet so deadly. The music, the words, are like nothing that ever was or ever will be. It sounds dangerous and still beautiful, soft yet tinged with so much power. Its addictive, impossible to stop listening to, impossible to be torn away from.

When Jim speaks, his tongue dances, his eyes tell sing-song stories beautiful enough to reduce anyone, beautiful enough to bring down kings.

When Sebastian speaks his voice is rough and hot, his eyes blaze with an unforgiving fire, enough to make any man tremble with pure fear.

Nobody gets to hear Jim and Sebastians song except themselves. They wrap around each other perfectly, they fit together so wonderfully, clash so well it still sounds decadent. Those sounds would destroy a sane man, make his knees give way and his heart crumble. But Jim and Sebastian can handle the music they make, they can drink it until they are giddy with lust, notes floating around their head, already insane, too insane to ever care, but just sane enough to appreciate the music.