A/N: This is definitely not my best piece. Forgive the choppy 1st person POV.
I watch him lean forward off of the building, coat billowing, hair whipping around. An impact. That's the cue. I pack up quickly, slinging my disassembled rifle over my shoulder in its dufflebag, grabbing the small backpack that's set next to it in one hand. My shoes make a muffled clattering noise as I speed down them and out into the street.
Dodging past the people surging towards the fresh corpse of the fallen detective, I slip inside Bart's, enjoying the way that people's eyes slide right over me. You'd be surprised the wonders that jeans, a dark jacket, and a blue t-shirt can do when it comes to disappearing in a crowd.
The building is silent as the grave, perhaps as tribute to the man dashed upon the cement outside. I stride down the corridor, the sound of the duffelbag shifting against me making a rather loud rustling, making me hurry onwards in the hopes of avoiding attention.
The stairwell echoes loudly as I ascend to the rooftop, making my ears ring with the rhythm of my own footsteps. The metallic sound of the door's mechanism is deafening as I push it, revealing the cold gray of the overcast sky and a sight that sends my heart jolting for a moment.
Jim is still, the dark ooze of blood extending outward from his head. The gun is still lightly clasped in his hand, loosely, as though he'd fallen asleep holding it. I stomp over to stand next to him, leaning over so as to look directly into the open eyes that stare upwards. I raise an eyebrow. The corner of Jim's mouth twitches.
"Jim, you're terrible at playing dead. I don't know how the hell you managed to fool Holmes with that shit. We need to go." I drop the backpack onto Jim's stomach and turn away, smiling smugly when I hear him grunt with the impact.
"But it worked, Sebastian. That's what counts. Everyone believes I'm dead, and a rather meddlesome detective is out of the picture. I'd say that's an overall success, Seb." Jim's voice is self-congratulatory.
I turn to him, watching him sit up and zip open the backpack, pulling out the cloth that I packed, wiping it over his hair to remove the worst of the fake blood. I grunt in response, picking up the gun, flicking the safety on and tucking it into the deep inside pocket of my jacket. I watch him toss his heavy coat to the floor, pulling off his shoes, the noise of the soles of his shoes thumping to the rooftop as he strips down to change into the clothes that I brought him.
"You really are taking your time, aren't you? The police'll be here soon, Jim. We need to speed this up." My tone is urgent. I can hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance. Jim unbuttons his shirt, standing bare-chested for a moment, looking defiant before he reaches to grab the dark green v-neck that he chose for himself.
"Relax, Sebby. We've got time." He pulls the shirt on, moving to unbutton his pants, stepping out of them, his socks still on. I smother a laugh. He looks so ridiculous wearing only a shirt, boxers and long socks.
"Getting a good look, are you? I don't pay you to ogle, Sebastian." He pulls on some rather fitted jeans, reaching into the bag again for a pair of expensively hideous shoes. He slips them on, stands up straight, and makes his way towards the door to the stairs without me.
"You don't pay me for half the stuff you have me do," I call to him as I stuff his suit into the backpack, managing to run over and catch the door before it slams loud enough to wake the dead behind him. Bad choice of words? Well, there's no waking Holmes.
He patters down ahead of me, his footsteps so much lighter than my own. He waits for me at the bottom of the stairs with a smirk on his face, walking beside me when I catch up. We exit the building together, and I pull out his sunglasses from my other pocket for him to put on as we walk for a few blocks, ducking into a small sandwich shop as the first police car screams past. He buys himself something with roast beef in it as I tap my foot impatiently by the door.
Three more blocks brings us to the alley where our transportation is parked. A rickety old car with peeling paint and bumper-stickers. We drive in silence until Jim decides to turn on the radio, and I growl when he starts to sing along with some shrill boy-band. I tear out the dials when we stop to fill the tank with petrol. I hate radio.
"Sebastian I'm bored." We've only been driving for four hours, yet I already have to resist the urge to strangle him with his earphone cord.
"Nothing that I can do about that, Jim. We're nearly there." For the next hour I ignore his increasingly childish complaining, praying for patience as the miles go by.
By the time we reach the runway Jim is asleep in the seat next to me, his earphones buzzing slightly with the volume of the music. He doesn't open his eyes when I shake him, groaning and batting at my hands as he tries to settle back into sleep. I step out of the car and walk around the car, Jim's arms flailing as I open his door and he tumbles to the dirt.
"Fucking prick. Thanks for the bruises." He aims a kick at my shins when he finally gets to his feet, but I pick him up around his waist in retaliation and tuck him under my arm as I carry him and my rifle towards the small plane that awaits us. He struggles, pinching me. He stops when I threaten to drop him. I let him climb the stairs himself, ignoring the odd look that the pilot gives me as I board.
Jim seats himself, putting his heels on the back of the chair in front of him, swearing at me a bit more as I throw the backpack onto his lap again. The plane finally takes to the air, and Jim laughs out loud.
"And we're off! We fooled them, Seb." I smile at him, letting a small laugh exit my lips as the realization sinks in.
"We fooled them, Jim." London fades into the distance.
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