Author's note: This will be graphic. Just a warning. Read on if depictions of torture, violence, blood, knife, and gun play, m/m slash, non-con and forced oral rape appeal to you. If not, turn back now.

Sebastian placed the now cleaned and oiled rifle on the coffee table, scooting back on the sofa with a sigh. Hadn't been able to use it, as plans had changed in an instant with Jim's ill-timed phone call. While he had to admit he was not pleased with the thought of Holmes' death being taken from him with the trill of the Bee Gees ringtone, he was even more upset that she had denied Jim the pleasure of watching it happen. Bitch.

He'd been gone from the flat, from their little "sex nest" as Jim liked to put it (because the notion of love was as foreign a concept to the Irishman as mercy), for several hours now, leaving Sebastian to wonder what sort of havoc his lover was wreaking in his fit of pique.

Pique. He had to laugh. Only here, in this world he shared with Jim, could a bit of tweak to the ego have dangerous implications for all parties involved. An irritated Jim was infinitely more dangerous than a rageful Jim. Especially to the innocent. The call interrupting his fun had irritated the little man beyond measure and pricked holes in his façade of keeping his hands clean. Yes, somewhere tonight in the dark alleys of London, someone was bleeding. And Jim Moriarty was smiling gleefully on the other end of the knife.

Sebastian fleetingly contemplated leaving the flat for destinations unknown, but knew Jim would ultimately find him and drag him back. Given the instability of his moods and the now twinged ego, it just wasn't worth the effort. Perhaps he would pay a personal call to the bitch and illuminate her to her folly. His lips quirked. Perhaps.

The clock on the wall ticked again and he picked up the pistol lying next to the rifle on the table and began to disassemble the weapon. He was meticulous about his guns, as he was about most things, a leftover habit from his army days. A good soldier was never without a cleaned weapon at the ready and a dry pair of socks, two items essential to survival in the ranks.

His dog tags clinked against his bare chest and instinctively his hand came up to touch them. He turned them over in the light, inspecting them with thought, as always.

O-

657422

Moran. S.

Catholic

His entire existence reduced to four lines on a scrap of metal. He both loved and cursed them; after all, they were what had brought him here to this point in his life. Even though, technically, they no longer mattered (a decidedly less than dishonorable discharge from Her Majesty's service had seen to that), he could not part with them. In the back of his mind, he wondered if the Holmes pet still wore his as well.

The Captain and the Colonel. Again with the smile. Sounded like a bit of bad telly. Part of him believed that was one of the reasons Jim had sought him out. He knew from experience there were others out there on par, performance wise, with himself, with no military training. Street criminals, just as cold, just as calculating, just as deadly. All of them willing (and most definitely eager) to do Jim's bidding for a price. It was all part of Jim's game. The Watson to his Holmes.

Holmes. Now if ever there was someone to give him pause for irritation, it was the consulting detective. Jim had more than a passing interest in the man and his companion, a fascination Sebastian was not keen on indulging. He made it his personal mission to keep Holmes as far from Jim as possible, but it seemed the tall, dramatic man was forever imposing himself into their lives. And Jim seemed to want it that way.

So he kept watching. He knew Jim watched him watch Holmes, and he also knew that gave Jim an inordinate amount of satisfaction. The hunter watching the hunter watching the hunted. A dizzying circle of predator and prey, and Sebastian never knew from moment to moment exactly which one he was. That was a thrill all on its own. Which was why he continued. Such a good pet he was. He would have laughed if it weren't so enduringly pathetic.

There were numerous complexities between him and the Irishman (sex notwithstanding, or was it?), all of them weaving together a pattern he could neither discern nor protest. Protest, he was sure, would have instigated a bullet to the back of the head. But, he was a soldier at the center of his black heart, and the need for a mission, for orders, to set his life into balance again, outweighed the need to dwell on trivial things such as legality, morality, and sexuality. It was what it was, a practically perfect arrangement between two hopelessly broken people.

Maybe they were Holmes and Watson, albeit on a darker, bloodier scale. As much as he hated to admit that particular bit, he was immensely gratified by the amount of dark and blood Jim was so insistent to provide. And so he played. And God, did they play well together.

The irritation at the thought of Holmes turned sour in his stomach. That he was out there, loose among the city, running himself ragged to play Jim's little game. He reassembled the nine and stared at it, thinking long and hard about the next offensive in this war. The ability to make split second decisions was always one of his best attributes, so he shrugged on his clothes, packed the gun in his back of tricks and set off, leaving the flat in a hurry. He didn't believe in waiting for the enemy. You bring the battle to them. Time for maneuvers, chaps.

In the back of the cab, Sebastian's fingers moved lightly over the screen of his mobile. He captioned a photo of John Watson and sent the text.

IF YOU WANT HIM TO KEEP WHOLE, YOU WILL COME ALONE. ADDRESS TO FOLLOW. DISOBEY AND I WILL SEND HIM BACK IN PIECES.

Sebastian texted the address and tucked the phone away. He sat back against the cushion, humming.