Sebastian inhaled long and slow, taking the last drag from the fag before flicking it on the ground beneath him, smashing it with the tip of his shoe. He squinted up at the sky; brows pressed firmly together, mouth set in a thin line as he exhaled the smoke through his nose. His eyes returned to the scene in front of him: Moriarty and Sherlock stalking around each other on the rooftop like predators; their long coats catching the wind, eyes glinting, mouths twisted into smirks and snarls.
Moriarty had ignored his call. He let it ring out - looked like he even taunted Sherlock with it before ignoring the call altogether. Seb had known better than to call when he was on one of his missions, but damned if he didn't try to talk the man out of it.
Then again, even if Moriarty did answer, he knew it wouldn't make a lick of difference. He'd been planning this whole confrontation for months now; barely a day went by when he didn't mention Sherlock and The Fall. Didn't even bother to ask him what he thought about all this, but why should he? Not like Moriarty would ask an employee his opinion. Even if Seb thought of himself as more than that.
Moriarty didn't know Seb had followed him to the roof. Another roof - across the street - obviously, but a roof nonetheless. He'd been instructed to return to the safe-house and await further orders, but Seb had a feeling pulling at him from his gut all week and couldn't very well leave the matter alone. So here he was; a half a pack of crushed fags in one pocket, handgun in the other, and a lighter flipping around in his fingers. The shadows of the nearby buildings all but concealed his presence.
Seb pulled in the edges of his jacket, shoulders bowing in to shrug off the cold morning air. His boss had just left Sherlock to his business on the ledge, and he couldn't help but breathe out a sigh of relief. Looked like the plan was falling together like he said it would. Good thing, too. Breakfast hours were coming to a close.
But then Moriarty turned back, swiveled on his heel, and Sherlock grinned – all teeth – and popped down. Seb sat up a bit straighter, confusion writ all over his face. Sherlock approached Moriarty, and the two closed in on each other like before, but something was different this time. Something had changed.
Moriarty looked tense, on alert. His shoulders squared more than usual. Seb could already see the knots forming there, under his many layers, and the sight set him on red alert. He patted down his side and stilled when he found one pocket empty. Void of the gun he always kept on him.
That's when a glint of metal came from Moriarty's own pocket, his and Sherlock's hands fused together. Time slowed, the gun came up, and though he knew there was a gunshot, Seb couldn't hear it. He pressed a hand to his mouth to stop a shout from escaping, his fingers shaking for the first time in over fifteen years.
"Fuckin' Christ, Jim." He spat, surging to his feet and knocking over the deck chair he had sat in. He made for the stairs, wrenching the door open and stomping down, taking the steps two at a time, eyes stinging. He flung the lighter against a wall on the way out, flimsy plastic shattering against the old concrete, though it didn't serve to make him feel any better.
He grit his teeth. "Oh, you bloody bastard," He growled out, making his way to the safe-house. Sebastian didn't have time for this. There was so much to do still, so many messes to clean up, lives to end, loose ends to sever. Of course Jim wouldn't have the fucking decency to give him time to mourn his death.
Seb laughed bitterly. How so very like him.