Fuck You (An Ode To No One) - Smashing Pumpkins.
Through sacred alleys, the living wrecks
Wreak their havoc upon this world
The disenchanted, the romantics
The body and face and soul of you
Is gone down that deep black hole
Destroy the mind
Destroy the body
But you cannot destroy the heart
And you, you make me so I need to disconnect
And you make it so real
I don't need your love to disconnect
Post-Reichenbach fic, Sebastian's POV.
I hate you, and I hate what you've done to me. Once upon a time, I considered myself an independent person, but you came right along and fucked it up, didn't you Jim? You forced me to my knees, metaphorically, then literally. You took away my identity, you even took my dog tags. Then you reconstructed the person I once was, and twisted it around your little games. I became your right hand man. Closer than that even. Your right hand itself, an extension of you. Where I was going, I didn't need an identity.
I may have protested in the beginning, but you even took my will to do that. It took some time, but I accepted it. I began to love it. I loved you. I thought I knew you. I thought you trusted me as I trusted you. I could feel that there was something boiling under the surface, but I never thought it would end like this. I didn't know how deep this hateful streak could run inside you, that you could kill yourself to ruin someone else.
You always told me the most crucial factor of any plot was self-preservation. No job was worth my life. The distance between the end of my gun and the target was the only reason why you let me out of your sight, job after job. I guess the self-preservation rule didn't apply to you, did it? The distance between the end of my gun and the target was the only reason why you were able to put a bullet in your own brain, because you know fucking well that if I was there, I would have stopped you. Instead, I realize what you've done after it's too late. Holmes jumped, my job was done. I left my spot and went home to await my next instructions from you. You never came home. I found out your plan that night through a note you left under my pillow. It took every fibre of my being to not go up to that rooftop, the second I read it. You told me over and over, no matter what happened, don't go up there. I didn't. It was part of the plan, you told me in that letter. One part of me never went to the roof because I always follow your orders. Another part of me never went to the rooftop because I didn't know what I would do when I found the brains of my boss, my lover, my best friend, smeared across the rooftop. Add my own brains to it, most likely. Or I may have even just laid there with you, and waited to die by starvation, fatigue, or maybe just heartbreak. I don't know.
But your letter told me to never go to the rooftop. After six months, I still haven't. After six months, your death still hasn't been reported. Has it been covered up? Have I missed something? I've heard whispers from the old associates, there are rumours going around. No solid leads, believe me, I checked. I haven't even told your contacts that it's official. If it's not public knowledge, they don't need to know what's happened. I've been running the empire all by myself. You used to laugh at the idea of me running the "family business", but look at me now. All on my own, just the way you wanted.
But I'm not so sure I am alone. There's no record of your death. Surely there would have been a media parade, unless the older Holmes paid off the newspapers. I can't help but wonder. As much as I want to tell myself that you wouldn't abandon me like this, that we loved each other too much for you to run off, I can't shake the feeling that you have. I hate that.