Short MorMor. Characters not mine blah blah blah, hope you enjoy!

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Sebastian Moran was used to silence.

There was a strange calm when it came to the noiseless space, when not even the sounds of the birds could be heard. In the calm he could sort his thoughts, decide whether it would be best to shoot someone through the head or the heart. He could concentrate on when to pull that trigger in the silence, have a steady hand and a perfect aim. He could take on huge cats in the jungle, the silence only breaking once he'd plunged his knife into its chest and the dying yowl echoed out among the trees. Silence didn't bother Sebastian, if anything he welcomed it.

He was a man of actions rather than words. He'd rather show his loyalty by taking a bullet instead of making some god awful speech declaring where he stood.

Of course, he did still speak. There was nothing wrong with saying something, as long as it was something that needed to be said. He didn't see the point in filling the silence with pointless rambling. Jim on the other hand, hardly shut up. He'd go on and on about all the people he was going to skin or debate which colour suit he should wear in the morning or who he'd set Seb on next. Sebastian didn't really mind. He knew when Jim really required his attention so when he chattered away Seb let his mind drift and Jim's voice become a pleasant buzz. The ramblings were welcomed; they became more comforting that the silence had ever been, he found he could concentrate even better with Jim's voice humming away.

Even when he took aim upon the rooftops Jim's voice was better than the silence. He could lay on that floor with Jim resting on his back – god forbid he lay in the dirt with his Westwood suit on – and have the perfect aim while his boss commented on every little thing going on in the building opposite.

So it was strange as he sat on the dark staircase with the silence wrapping around him. He was watching that Sherlock Holmes through his scope, watching as Jim played his game. Sebastian found he missed the hum of that accent and the weight of the other man pressed against him as they sought out their target. He'd grown accustom to company and noise, the silent loneliness felt wrong. He steadied himself, he knew that it would only be a matter of minutes until Sherlock Holmes fell and Jim Moriarty wins his game again. Once he'd won the buzz would be back and Sebastian wouldn't have to sit alone in the dark.

When the shot rang out, Sebastian decided he hated silence.

He hated the fact he was alone, that his boss had gone and left him over a stupid game between the detective and the criminal. He hated the emptiness of the flats and rooftops, the quiet stillness taunting him; there was no Jim to fill the space with insane rambles.

He hated the fact that Jim was gone.