Dammit.
Sebastian knows that when the feed cuts out, something's undoubtedly gone wrong. For the blurry moments - feels like eons, honestly – between silence and static feedback, the sniper is uncertain. Uncertain if he should call it in or take action. Uncertain if it's just a minor blip in the system or if there's real danger.
Hunched behind an irritatingly small desk, hands beneath the surface, gripping tightly to the semi-automatic, the man shifts. There's a small metal bug in his ear so he's able to hear the conversation on the other end – or the lack there of. It's been the usual, really, Jim taunting Holmes, leading him on like the detective's actually figured something out. He's clueless. He doesn't know how drastic the criminal is willing to be…
"There is no key, DOOFUS!"
Jim's right… Everything just needs to be intricate and meticulous for Sherlock Holmes. It's the perfect ruse, actually, make the bastard think he's figured every little convoluted detail out and at the last moment prove it all to be false. Through the miniature earpiece, Sebastian listens to his employer recite a monologue to the clever detective, smirking every so often but still pretending to appear busy for the room full of police men.
When Jim informs Holmes of the marksmen stationed, prepared to pump lead into the heads of his precious companions, he listens for the hint of horror in the precocious man's voice. There's really no way around this… Either the detective will jump, or the only three people in the world who can tolerate him will be shot down, and those are the only two options.
At the mention of the gunmen, Sebastian's grip tightens around his handgun.
"You've got to admit that's sexier."
Impromptu laughter on Moran's end causes the policemen to cast puzzled glances his direction. He's stationed in the New Scotland Yard, at a seat peering into D. I. Lestrade's office. The sniper was not to interfere in anything concerning Sherlock Holmes, especially his little live-in doctor… Even after constant begging (and other, more interesting persuasion methods) Moriarty had made his opinion on the subject quite clear. He'd get somebody else to watch Watson.
Moran doesn't begin to worry until he hears Jim's perplexed intones.
"What? What is it? What did I miss?"
The hand around the gun tightens, Sebastian pulls it away briefly to wipe the modicum of sweat from his palm onto the uniform slacks. Calm down.
The detective approaches the criminal, close enough to the small microphone that his pretentious chuckle is audible.
"I don't have to die… if I've got you."
And Jim tries to counter it, tries desperately, but there's something off. He doesn't pause to ruminate, instead jumps straight into something far too bold for Sebastian's liking. There's that tone in Moriarty's voice that suggests he's got a plan, which makes things a little better, but not terribly so.. Holmes has the audacity to compare himself to James Moriarty, Moran scoffs, instantaneously dropping his eyes to the computer screen in front of him- blank.
But then… Jim starts to indulge the detective.
"As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out."
Sebastian knows this is comparable to saying, 'you're right.' Two words he's not heard throughout his career beneath the man. No, this is definitely wrong… So wrong. Words of this nature are not to be spoken to the fucking enemy- not to anybody, where Jim's concerned. Then again, through the entirety of this little excursion, Holmes has never been an enemy... Entertainment, chiefly, an annoyance, on occasion. An opponent, but not an enemy. Not to Jim…
A match. A benign equivalent. It's all just been a game. A tiring fucking game.
Lately, Jim's been reckless. More so than usual, that is. The man's always had a death wish, never fearing the inevitable, almost welcoming death.
Malnourishment and the job description are both proof of this.
"Well, good luck with that."
There's the sound of an unsilenced gunshot, and the sniper's heart drops. Then comes the silence, accompanied by the incredulous breaths of a startled Sherlock Holmes. Sebastian can tell they're not Jim's, no, he'd not be so baffled... In addition, Jim's breathless gasps are short and small and rare (saved for prolonged touches and rough squeezes and stolen moments).
And those breaths aren't there...
Shit. Shit. Fuck
Abruptly, the weapon is tucked into the waistband of Sebastian's trousers, 'safety' clicked on so a bullet isn't discharged into his thigh while running. Of course, he's not expecting to be stopped, with his identical police getup and purposeful expression, and is quite relieved when he makes it out of the building and onto the busy pavement without a fuss.
The next few minutes are a blur. Both of the other marksmen are desperately muttering into their own microphones, frantically trying to figure out what in the bloody hell is going on. McHenry, the other hit man assigned to John Watson, closest to the hospital, is droning on about how the first minute he was watching Watson, the next Holmes, then back to the boss only to find him down. Moran shouts – probably looking like a madman sprinting across the street, screaming to no one – for the other sniper to stay where he is, watch Holmes, make sure he jumps and doesn't try anything.
He's gotta jump, right… That's what's fair, isn't it? An eye for an eye? Your life for his! Shit. Anyway, if the man doesn't off himself, Sebastian'll take care of it.
Nothing really computes until he finally reaches the building. There's a swarm of people and an ambulance. But one of that matters now. People will be outside to see what's happened, so there's no risk in running into a crowded building. Upon entering, Moran dashes to the nearest lift, jabbing a finger against the button to call the machine. His mouth is dry from the run. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, pumping in the back of his head.
When the lift takes too long to reach the floor, the man takes off in the direction of the stairs. With each step, his feet feel more and more like lead, cementing him to the surface. There's the sound of his own breath and the sound of his heavy foot falls, of course, but all Sebastian can hear is the goddamn bang of a weapon being discharged.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
And suddenly he's pushing through the door at the top of the steps. There are no signs of a quarrel, because both criminal and detective are too proud to get physical about things, but… there's blood. A lot.
Sebastian Moran has seen his share of gore. The military, and thereafter. He's shot enough blokes in the head to know what happens. Bullets tear at tissue, push through bones, disfigure, most of the time. The blood doesn't faze him, the brain matter doesn't faze him, but still he can feel something tear through himself.
"Boss?" The sniper's voice is a mere croak, barely breaking the surface of the air, but then again, maybe he's still startled by the gunshot ricocheting through his mind. There's no response... He's not expecting there to be one… Just hoping.
Moriarty's black hair is accented red in the daylight, and there's bits of scalp and horrendous chunks of Jim splayed across the gravel.
"Boss?"
It's useless, utterly useless, but still he persists in trying to get the dead man's attention. Like they're back at the flat and Jim's in a daze, pondering one thing or another, altogether ignoring Sebastian. He's not noticed it, but the assassin has now approached his dead employer, and he's crouched to his side, trying to avoid looking above the neck at the gruesome sight, although there are flecks of crimson on the man's lapel that are difficult to avoid.
"For Christ's sake," he murmurs, reaching out to take Jim's limp arm, locating the wrist to press his middle and forefinger against the cold skin to see if he can make out a pulse. This, too, is a foolish thing to hope for, but he waits moments for any semblance of a beat. There's nothing. Absolutely nothing.
The dead arm is again dropped to the ground, beside the gun. The blasted gun that did this.
Sebastian breathes out shakily. "For fuck's sake, talk to me, Jim." He reaches out a nearly vibrating hand to prod at the man's side, only to be greeted with the rustling of gravel beneath dead weight. "Say something. Talk to me!"
Again, nothing. Those pale lips, still surprisingly intact, don't move from the little smile that's somehow managed to form. Always the masochist.
There's no way to atone this. No possible way. Jim is dead… In a way, it's fitting. The man's done everything else in his life melodramatically. Only the best for James Moriarty. Only the greatest and the most drastic for him. Really, he has outdone himself now. Puts the phrase 'going out with a bang' to good use, especially since Moran can't get the sound of the blasted thing out of his head.
Sebastian's lifted a hand now, placed it at the side of the man's somewhat disfigured face. And then he's slapped him across the piece of skin resembling the cheek. He's never stooped as low to inflict harm on cadavers, but he just wants that goddamn haunting smirk away.
"It's not funny, Jim!" The man screams, again connecting his rough palm to the cheek. This causes more blood to flow from the gaping wound, the hot, thick liquid coating a few of his fingers now. "It's never funny! This isn't a goddamn joke!"
Finally, after numerous blows to the face, he retracts his hand, wiping the crimson on the black police slacks, sits back. "Say something."
"He's dead."
For a moment, there's hope. The desperate man's heart is flooded with relief and frustration simultaneously, but with the drop of his eyes, he can see the lips haven't moved from their amused little smile.
"Moran?"
The English – not Irish - grunt comes from his earpiece, and Sebastian's eyes are lifted again.
"McHenry," the sniper acknowledges, finally pushing himself up, drawing a hand across his face.
"He's dead. Holmes. They just carted off his body. The pay'll be good this time round, won't it?"
For the longest time, nothing is said.
"Yes. I'm sure it will be." There's a melancholy chuckle thrown in at the break of his sentence, and with one last glance back at the dead man, he pivots and heads back toward the door.
"Hey, McHenry, send a clean-up crew round, will you?"
"For Holmes? Shouldn't the-"
"No. Not for Holmes."
The silence on the other end communicates confusion.
"He's dead, McHenry." With the utterance of the words, the whole thing solidifies. It all comes crashing down on him like a cold wave, all at once. It's terrible, and his heart has the audacity to skip a beat.
"He's… dead?"
"Yeah. Just found him. It's quite a sight… You ought to send a few extras to deal with the mess."
With that, he pulls the piece from his ear and the minuscule microphone from its place tucked beneath his collar, begins to descend the stairs, blood stained and wrecked, just a shell.
Turns out he's not invincible after all.