They hated each other just as much as they loved each other, maybe sometimes even more so. They teased, and stole from one another, and their arguments were always violent. They would shout and hit and sometimes claw and bite at each other if their anger had gotten the better of them. They'd walk away bruised and disheveled and still furious with each other. Then, after they both calmed down, amends would be made. Sheets would be twisted as they fell in to passion together; exclamations of twisted love and names echoing off the walls. There was rarely any tenderness during or after sex for them, but that was fine. Neither expected, nor demanded, a soft touch or kindness from the other. Where one had fallen asleep the night before, the other would often find it cold in the morning.
Now, however, the bed was always cold.
There was only one left to warm it, end even then, he did not want to sleep. For whenever Sebastian tried, his dreams were filled with images of the curious life he had lived with James Moriarty.
He would remember the fights and angry sex. He remembered all the times Jim stole his cigarettes and had almost the entire pack smoked before Sebastian caught on. He remembered being bossed about at home and killing people for Jim and the praise he received for being Jim's "best." But what did being best get him now? Nothing but loneliness and an unsatisfied anger at the selfish man that had taken his own life for the sake of a game that Sebastian didn't understand.
The worst for Sebastian, still being a fairly sentimental man himself, was that he had no grave to visit; no place to properly mourn without it just looking like self-pity. Jim's body had vanished from Bart's rooftop after he'd shot himself. There had been no body to hold a funeral for or bury. Sebastian had held out hope that perhaps this meant Jim would return-that he'd wake up in the middle of the night with the smaller man standing over him with a mischievous smirk on his face. After months of waiting, Sebastian's hope dwindled, and he gave up on Jim's return altogether.
That did not stop Sebastian from continuing his work for Jim. He kept a constant vigil for any signs that Sherlock was still alive; watching over 221B and New Scotland Yard for any signs of the dead detective. His connections with the rest of Jim's web had faded. He worked alone now; carrying with him a maelstrom of hate and betrayal deep in his heart.
There came a day when his loneliness and internal storm had driven him to the disgusting pub where he had first met Jim as a retired soldier down on his luck. Upon first spying Jim, he had considered mugging the well-dressed, unassuming man. After an hour of sitting alone at the bar, the man that Sebastian planned to mug behind the pub approached; sitting himself on the stool next to Sebastian and ordering himself a pint like he was out with a friend. They had sat in complete silence, though, even after Jim's drink arrived.
"I know who you are, and I know what you do," Jim had said at last, low and calm, as he traced a finger around the rim of his glass, "A colonel and a first-class sniper, now with little money and nowhere to go. Very useful. And I've come to make use of your skills."
Sebastian had sat up straighter, wiped the look of shock from his face, and answered just as calmly, "What would you have me do?"
At that, Jim had grinned, "You're going to kill people for me, Sebastian Moran. I'll pay you well, give you a home, and all I ask in return is that you eliminate a few...problems, for me."
Sebastian had considered refusing. He thought of just walking away, and putting the entire conversation behind him. But he needed the money and was sick of living on the streets. So he accepted, and thus his life with Jim began.
Now, sitting in the very same spot where he had agreed to work for Jim, he stared down into his drink and let the memories come and go. He didn't know how long he sat there before he hauled himself up, paid his tab, and slipped around back to lean against the cool brick wall. Rain misted against his face and threatened to put out his cigarette, and the wind was bitterly cold. Yet Sebastian stood there, staring up at the sky as he allowed his contained storm to break free. He threw his cigarette down, stomped it into the asphalt and punched the wall he'd been leaning against. Sucking in deep breaths through his nose, he looked down at his bloodied knuckles; curling and uncurling his fingers and watching his hand shake. He glared up at the sky, bit his lip and blinked back the tears that had suddenly welled in his eyes.
His voice shook when he finally spoke, "You stupid, selfish bastard. You've left me with nothing."